“On behalf of His Excellency Sidi Hassan el Ferruch, Pasha of Ksar es Souk, I welcome you to his home. You will be fed and cared for, and when it is time, you will be taken behind American lines.” He spoke in French. They seemed to accept him as a French-speaking Berber. At least he got no surprised, wary looks.
He was a little puzzled at the lack of excitement. No joy. No cries of pleasure. Then he realized that these people had expected to be taken somewhere in the desert and shot to death by the SS. They were in shock. They hadn’t quite understood yet that they would live.
One of them, a wiry, intense little man, pulled himself together enough to start questioning Fulmar.
But Fulmar turned and walked off without letting him finish. He went into the palace to the small room off the library.
There was a Berber outside the door, and another inside. The German officer was sitting awkwardly on a three-legged stool, his hands still tied behind him.
Fulmar walked over to him, took a curved blade knife from a jewel encrusted scabbard on the gold cords around his waist, and cut him free.
“Have someone bring my cognac,” Fulmar ordered. “And coffee and oranges and some meat.”
“Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” the German officer asked as he rubbed his wrists.
“Absolutely,” Fulmar said in flawless German. “I’m an Alt-Marburger, you know–an alumnus of Philips University, Marburg an der Lahn.” “You’re Fulmar?” the German asked, genuinely surprised.
“At your service, Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer,” Fulmar said. “Where the hell did that armored car come from? That could have sent this whole operation down the toilet!”
“What was I supposed to say? Thank you, I don’t need an armored car’?”
“It could have fucked things up,” Fulmar repeated, repressing a smile.
They looked at each other.
“This is a little strange, isn’t it?” Fulmar asked.
There had been a brief moment’s emotion. But as quickly as it had come up, both seemed anxious to restrain it.
“Are you going to live up to your end of the bargain?” the German asked.
“As soon as we get everybody safely out of sight, I’ll take you back to your car,” Fulmar said.
“And what happens between there and Ourzazate?”
“You’re safe between here and there,” Fulmar said. “If I were you, I’d be worried about getting from Ourzazate to Rabat.” The game was over, Fulmar thought.
And the pawns had not been swept from the board.
He wondered why he had no feeling of exultation, and the answer came immediately, A new game had already begun.
TRREE] Sh Franeo-Oorman Xrtistic Cosmission Rabal, lsorocco 10 November 1942 Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz was not in his office when Obersturmbannfuhrer SS-SD Johann Muller went there looking for him.
But Muller found him calmly packing his luggage in his apartment, a high-ceilinged well furnished suite overlooking a palm-lined boulevard in the center of town.
Von Heurten-Mitnitz was a tall, sharp-featured Pomeranian aristocrat, the younger brother of the Graf von Heurten-Mitnitz. He was the sixth generation of his family to serve his country as a diplomat.
“Good afternoon, Obersturmbannfuhrer, “von Heurten-Mitnitz said dryly as he placed a shirt in his suitcase. “You have doubtless come to tell me that our courageous French allies have driven the Americans into the sea?” Obersturmbannfuhrer Johann Muller snorted.
“In a pig’s ass they have,” he said.
“What is the situation?” von Heurten-Mitnitz asked.
Muller told him what had taken place just outside Ksar es Souk and of his meeting with Fulmar.
“Finally, face-to-face, eh?” Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz said.
“What’s he like?”
“I thought he was an Arab at first,” Muller said.
Von Heurten-Mitnitz looked at him, waiting for him to go on. “And somehow I expected him to be older,” Muller said. “Good-looking kid.
Well set up. Smart. Sure of himself.” Von Heurten-Mitnitz nodded thoughtfully. The description was more or less what he had expected.
“And what of the other Americans?” von Heurten-Mitnitz asked dryly.
“I think the Americans will be here in Rabat in twenty-four hours,” Muller said.
“Something is slowing them down? “von Heurten-Mitnitz asked.
“There’s a reliable rumor going around that they had to waste two hours sinking the invincible French North African fleet,” Muller replied.