Free The Torch of Tangier by Aileen G. Baron Page B

typewriters stilled, drawers closing.
    She opened her office. Korian stood at the desk, rifling through the top drawer.
    When she spoke, her voice was cold. “You’ll find nothing of value there.”
    He looked up, eyes alert, fingers moving. “I was looking for a paper clip.” He closed the drawer and shoved his hands in his pockets.
    What was he really looking for?
    “Ask the secretary.”
    “The secretary’s already left for the day.”
    “So should you.” Lily moved into the room.
    “I’m working late.” Korian had edged away from the desk and started out of the office.
    “So I see.”
    “I didn’t think you’d mind,” he said from the door.
    After this, Lily vowed, I’ll always lock the desk.
    ***
    The Mekraj was already at the villa, seated in the garden talking to Drury, when Lily arrived.
    “We need a new mosque, for the grandeur of Allah,” he was saying. “With a new minaret, proud as a finger, that shows Allah in his uniqueness.”
    “With a great golden door,” Drury added.
    “Not so. The door must be humble and small, to show that humans are humble and small. But inside must be large, like the glory of Allah. When you cross the line through the sacred door, you bow your head, you wash away the thoughts of the world and enter a different place.”
    “You shall have your mosque, you shall have your minaret, tall and square, reaching to the heavens, calling the faithful from every corner of the earth.”
    The Mekraj glanced at Lily and MacAlistair standing in the corner of the garden, then back to Drury.
    “It’s all right,” Drury said. “They’re working with us.”
    “Secrets, secrets,” the Mekraj said. He turned to Lily and MacAlistair. “You cannot know a city until you enter its gates, you cannot know the Moroccan house until you set foot inside, you cannot know a woman until she removes her veil.”
    The Mekraj poured the tea, arcing the amber liquid with a flourish into mint-filled glasses on the tray in front of him.
    “You see,” he said, gesturing at the tea tray that sat on a mother of pearl inlaid table, “the entire universe is here. The sinia,” he pointed to the polished copper tray, “is the earth, the teapot is the sky, and the glasses hold the rain that falls when it unites the earth with the sky.”
    He cradled the hot glass in his hand and sipped, then put it down. “Our warriors are brave.”
    “But now they must be like snakes,” Drury told him. “Strike and hide, strike and hide.”
    “After the great Moulay Yousef conquered Marrakech,” Imam Tashfin said, “he was inspired by Allah to carry his warriors across the Mediterranean, to bring Allah and make order on the Iberian continent. We can do no less for our own land.”
    “Then we can count on your help if need be?” asked MacAlistair.
    “A good man keeps his word. When I get the forty thousand francs to help build the mosque, my followers will know we must establish order. They are brave, very brave warriors, the sons of warriors, and men of peace.”
    “Forty thousand francs?” Drury said. “Zaid told me fifty thousand.”
    “Ah,” said Imam Tashfin. “Forty thousand for Allah and ten thousand for Zaid.”
    “Zaid is taking a cut? Zaid is trying to cheat me?”
    “Zaid is not an evil man. Not yet. But his soul wanders. It is caught in the twilight between the world of the Romany—what you call the western world—and the world of Islam. He tries to cure his soul with greed. Some day he may slip on the greed and fall into the abyss.”
    MacAlistair had been sitting on the low wall that encircled the garden. Now he stood up. “Not Zaid. I know him….” His voice trailed off and he looked into the distance. “I know him well, for a long time, a very long time. He’s earned my trust over and over.”
    The Mekraj looked at him and sighed. “Each man’s destiny is different. They can be next to each other, wear the same dress, eat the same food, but their destiny is not the