Read Gibraltar Passage Online

Authors: T. Davis Bunn

Gibraltar Passage (16 page)

“I haven't done anything.”

“You have done more than others with a world of words.” Pierre raised his gaze. “You have given me the space to think.”

Jake sipped the steamy liquid. “Want to tell me about it?”

Pierre's gaze dropped back to the flickering flame. “I feel . . . hollow.”

The silence was captivating. Jake found himself hearing it almost as clearly as the words of his friend.

Pierre drew the blanket closer about his shoulders. “There have been moments. I am not sure if I can describe them.”

“Try,” Jake urged quietly.

“I have spent much time talking to what I am not sure is
even there. That is how desperate I have become.” Pierre hesitated, and lowered his head farther until his features were lost to shadows. “I am ashamed to tell you.”

“No need,” Jake said, his voice soft, trying hard to be there without disturbing the peace, the strength of silence.

“There have been moments when the unspoken words of my mind and heart have become alive.” Pierre stopped, as though expecting Jake to laugh. When there was no sound, he went on. “I have felt almost as though there was something unseen there, not just listening, but guiding me as well.”

Jake took another sip, his eyes steady upon his friend.

“Moments have passed when I am lost to all but the feeling of not being alone. Then the moment goes, and I am left with a greater torrent of doubts and worries than ever before.”

Pierre heaved a sigh. “More and more the only peace I can find is in searching my heart's empty spaces with these unspoken words, begging for what I cannot even name to return with this gift of peace. Yet I do not hear the answer I seek. I do not hear what I should do about Jasmyn. Still, this moment of peace is the only answer that makes sense to my fevered mind.”

Jake unbuttoned his shirt pocket and drew out his New Testament. “Here.”

Pierre raised his head, hesitated, then accepted the book.

“We'll have to share it,” Jake said. “It's the only one I have.”

“You think I should read this?”

“It's time,” he replied. “Begin with Matthew, the first book. If you like, we can talk about what you read.”

Pierre fumbled, opened the cover, lowered the volume until its pages were illuminated by the flame. Jake watched him for a moment, his heart filled to bursting. He reached over, set his hand on his friend's shoulder, and offered up a brief prayer of his own. Then he stood and walked to the neighboring stall.

Jake awoke to the sound of a cannon's thundering boom.
As he swung his feet down from the rich leather seat, a muezzin's cry rose in the chill dawn air. He flung on his clothes, washed in the outdoor trough, checked and saw that Pierre was still asleep, and decided to take his breakfast in the city's market.

He walked through gradually awakening streets, savoring the sights and sounds and smells. Old men greeted the new day seated along sun-dappled walls, hoarding the meager warmth of old bones by wrapping themselves in goat's-hair blankets and sipping loudly from steaming vases of tea.

Jake stood at a tea stall, eating cold unleavened bread and sweet honeyed dates spiced by the flavor of a new world. He was so wrapped up in the moment that when the voice spoke he very nearly cleared both feet from the ground.

“Jake,” the voice behind him said.

He spun so fast he spilled the hot liquid over his fingers, shouted his pain, and dropped the vaselike glass. The stall holder cried his outrage when the glass shattered. Immediately Jasmyn spoke soothing words and reached in her belt-purse for coppers. The man subsided under her voice and her beauty, relenting so far as to offer Jake yet another glass.

Gingerly he accepted the tea and demanded of her, “How did you get here?”

“My mother's tribe is from east of these hills,” she replied, her proud stature and her quietly spoken English garnering stares from all who passed. “When I was twelve we returned, my mother and I. She was not able to have other children, and she wanted her heritage to live in me. I spent half a year traveling the dry reaches, as long as my mother would remain apart from my father, who was too wedded to the sea ever to travel inland. So it was not hard for me to arrange transport with a hill tribe related to my own.”

Jasmyn wore sweeping robes of black, lined with royal blue and a long head scarf of the same rich azure. She accepted her own cup of tea, sipped cautiously, and asked, “How is he?”

“Better,” Jake said. “I really think he is better.”

Great jade eyes opened to reveal depths of such painful yearning that they twisted his heart. Her voice trembled as much as the hand that held her tea. “Do you think there is a chance for us?”

“I hope so,” he said with a fervor that surprised even himself. “But I don't know.”

Jasmyn was silent for a time, and when she spoke again her control had returned. “You are in danger, but how much I cannot say.”

“How do you know?”

“The Marrakesh jeweler, Herr Reich, was approached by the minions of Ibn Rashid after your departure. Herr Reich found them very willing to accept that he had made a mistake, and that the man with whom he had spoken was not Patrique. Too willing. So he made inquiries. Herr Reich is a well-connected man. It did not take him long to hear that Ibn Rashid had already received word that Patrique was being held for ransom by Sultan Musad al Rasuli.”

Jake almost spilled his tea a second time. “He's here?”

“Somewhere,” Jasmyn replied quietly, her eyes discreetly focused on the ground at her feet. “I have a relative in the sultan's service. I have sent word that I must speak with him.”

“I don't understand,” Jake muttered. “The sultan's assistant was the one who saw us into the city.”

“He saw Pierre?”

“He was as close to him as I am to you.” Worriedly Jake shook his head. “He's bound to know who's in the prison.”

“This I do not understand. But still I believe the information to be true. According to Herr Reich's sources, Ibn Rashid has been arguing for over a month about the bounty demanded by the sultan. He would not do this unless he had solid evidence that Patrique was here. And alive.”

She thought a moment. “Pierre must stay hidden as much as he possibly can. There is too much risk of him being recognized.”

“That shouldn't be difficult. The official already thinks he's sick.”

Concern swept over her features. “Pierre is ill?”

“Only for you,” Jake said quietly. “He feels torn in two.”

“But you said he was better.”

“I hope he is.”

“Tell him,” she hesitated, and her eyes opened once more to reveal those endless green depths. “Tell him that my heart is his. My heart, my love, my reason for living.”

Jake nodded. “How will I find you?”

“Come here again at midafternoon.” Slender fingers rose to adjust the folds of her scarf. She then turned and vanished into the swirling throngs.

Jake stood for a long moment, sipping lukewarm tea and marveling at the strength contained in that fragile-seeming woman.

“She said that?”

“Those exact words,” Jake confirmed. “She loves you with all her heart. All you have to do is look into her face to see that's the truth.”

“And Patrique may be here. So much to think on.” Pierre dropped his head into his hands. “I wish I knew—”

“Ah, gentlemens, excellent.” Hareesh Yohari appeared in the stable doorway. He stared disdainfully down at Pierre. “Assistant is still with illness?”

“The altitude,” Jake said, drawing himself erect. “But he's still working hard, sir.”

The little official sniffed. “You come to sultan alone. Better for assistant to stay and work. Now. You have answers to question?”

“Hope so, sir.”

“Yes, hope, for you and assistant, I so hope.” He motioned. “You come.”

Great bronze doors five times the height of a man opened
into the inner residence. Geometric mosaics tiled the walls and floors. The air was rich with the fragrance of scented water spouting from a dozen fountains. Hundreds of birds sang from gilded cages. Flowers and palms grew in rich abundance. Servants scuttled in silence along the arched colonnades.

Another set of doors, these of intricately carved sandalwood, were pushed open by a pair of dark-skinned southerners. The official straightened to his full diminutive height and motioned Jake to walk behind him. They passed through stout pillars supporting a domed portico decorated with ivory mosaics. Sharp-eyed courtiers gathered about fountains of sparkling silver grew silent and furtive at his passage. Stern warriors stood at attention, gleaming scimitars at the ready. Peacocks squawked a raucous greeting from tall cages.

A third pair of doors opened before them, these inlaid with intricate patterns of silver and ivory and semiprecious stones. Jake stepped inside, looked up, and gasped. The high dome was layered in sheets of gold.

The official murmured a salutation and bowed low. Jake decided a salute suited him better. When the sultan motioned them forward, Jake proceeded at a stiff-armed march. He approached across a sea of bright carpets, stopped before the dais, and saluted a second time.

The sultan wore an elaborately embroidered cloak of gold and black, sealed at the neck with a ruby the size of a hen's egg. His trousers and curled cloth slippers were sewn with shimmering gold thread. His be-ringed fingers grasped a staff of gold topped with an emerald half the size of Jake's fist. But nothing could disguise the flabby folds of the man's indolent body, nor the cruel glint of his hooded dark eyes.

The staff dipped in Jake's direction and the sultan spoke languidly. His official translated, “Great sultan asks, why you not bow like other mens.”

“In my country,” Jake replied, still at rigid attention, “the greatest sign of respect a soldier can give to a superior officer is the salute.”

“Superior, yes, is good answer.” The official turned and replied with a torrent of words and florid hand gestures. As the sultan listened, he gave a tiny flickering motion with one finger. Instantly a servant appeared at his side, stoked the bowl of a silver hookah, set a smoldering coal on the top, then with an elaborate bow handed the sultan the pipe. The sultan sprawled upon his dais, settled within gold-embroidered velvet cushions, and drew hard until the pipe gurgled and threw up great clouds of pungent smoke. Finally satisfied that it was drawing well, he spoke again.

“Great sultan ask, when are cars ready.”

“The first should be up and running in two days,” Jake replied. “Three at the most.”

The official risked a warning glance. “Is best not to be wrong.”

“My assistant and I are working around the clock,” Jake replied solemnly. “Can't have the great sultan kept waiting.”

“No, yes, is true.” Hesitantly the official turned back and replied.

The sultan, his face wreathed in smoke, watched Jake. Again Musad al Rasuli spoke. Hareesh translated, “And the other Rolls Royce motor vehicles?”

“A couple of weeks. Probably not more than that.”

“Great sultan say, he wait a year, more, and you fix Rolls Royce motor vehicles in days, maybe he keep you here, give you job in stable. Permanent retainer.”

“Tell the great sultan it would be an honor to serve him,” Jake replied solemnly, keeping his thoughts to himself about being made a slave. Years of dealing with superior officers had taught him that a direct refusal was the worst possible reply to an order.

“Great sultan say, what you expect for these workings.”

“The great sultan strikes me as a fair and generous man,” Jake replied straight-faced. “Why don't we let him decide what the work is worth.”

The official tossed him another uncertain glance, then
replied. The sultan contemplatively drew upon his hookah, then motioned his dismissal. Jake threw another exaggerated salute, spun about, and marched back alongside the little official. Only when the great doors had closed behind them did he permit himself a quiet little smile.

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