Unfortunately it was also the perfect place to get lost. Though it was only a twenty-minute hike from my office to the Palais de la Casbah at the upper gate, I spent the next hour like a rat in a maze. No matter how many crooked streets I headed up, I kept finding myself back at the Cemetery of Princesses—a circular loop. No matter how many people I asked about local harems, I got the same blank stares—drug-induced, no doubt—and a few outrageous insults or bum steers. At the name Mokhfi Mokhtar, people laughed.
At the end of the “siesta,” exhausted and empty-handed, I made a pass by the Poste Centrale to see Therese at her switchboard. It was unlikely my quarry would be listed in the phone directory—I hadn’t even seen phone lines in the Casbah—but Therese knew everyone in Algiers. Everyone but the one I was looking for.
“Why would anyone have so ridiculous a name?” she asked me, letting the switchboard buzzers ring as she offered me some pastel bonbons. “My girl, I am happy you came by here today! I’ve a telex for you.…” She rifled through a sheaf of papers on the shelf of her switchboard. “These Arabs,” she muttered. “With them, everything is b’ad ghedoua—‘later than tomorrow’! If I tried to send this to you at the El Riadh, you’d be lucky to get it next month.” She produced the telex and handed it to me with a flourish. Dropping her voice to a whisper, she added, “Even though this comes from a convent—I suspect it is written in code!”
Sure enough, it was from Sister Mary Magdalene, of the Convent of St. Ladislaus in New York. She’d certainly taken long enough to write. I glanced through the telex, exasperated that Nim would be so hokey:
PLEASE ASSIST WITH NY TIMES X-WORD PUZZLE STOP ALL SOLVED BUT WHAT FOLLOWS STOP WORD OF ADVICE FROM HAMLET TO HIS GIRLFRIEND STOP WHO STANDS IN POPES SHOES STOP BOUNDARY OF TAMERLANE EMPIRE STOP WHAT ELITE DO WHEN HUNGRY STOP MEDIEVAL GERMAN SINGER STOP REACTOR CORE EXPOSED STOP WORK BY TCHAIKOVSKY STOP LETTERS ARE 9-9-7-4-5-8-9
REPLY REQUESTED SISTER MARY MAGDALENE CONVENT OF ST. LADISLAUS NY NY
Wonderful—a crossword puzzle. I hated them, as Nim knew perfectly well. He’d sent this just to torture me. Just what I needed, another mindless chore from the king of trivia.
I thanked Therese for her diligence and left her at the many tentacled switchboard. In fact, my decryption quotient must have increased in the last few months, for I had figured out some of the answers just standing there in the Poste Centrale. The advice Hamlet gave Ophelia, for example, was “Get thee to a nunnery.” And what the elite did when hungry was “meet to eat.” I’d have to chop up the messages to fit the length of the letters he’d provided, but it was clearly tailored for a simple mind like mine.
But when I went back to the hotel that evening at eight there was another surprise in store for me. There in the twilight, parked at the hotel entrance, sat Lily’s powder-blue Rolls Corniche—surrounded by ogling porters, waiters, and chamber boys, all stroking the chrome and touching the soft leather dashboard.
I scurried past, trying to imagine I hadn’t seen what I’d seen. I’d sent Mordecai at least ten telegrams in the last two months, begging him not to send Lily to Algiers. But that car didn’t get here by itself.
When I went to the front desk to collect my key and notify the concierge I was moving, I got another jolt. Leaning against the marble counter and chatting with the desk clerk was the attractive but sinister Sharrif—head of the secret police. He spotted me before I could make a quick exit.
“Mademoiselle Velis!” he cried, flashing his movie star smile. “You’ve arrived just in time to assist us with a small investigation. Perhaps you noticed the car of one of your countrymen as you came in just now?”
“That’s odd—it looked British to me,” I told him casually as the desk man handed me my key.
“But with New York license plates!” said Sharrif, raising an eyebrow.
“New York is a big city.…” I began to stroll off toward my room, but Sharrif wasn’t finished.
“When it came through the Douanier this afternoon, someone had it registered to you at this address. Perhaps you can explain?”
Shit. I was going to murder Lily when I found her. She’d probably bribed her way into my room already.
“Gee, that’s great,” I told him. “An anonymous gift from a fellow New Yorker. I’ve been needing a car—and rentals are so hard to get.” I was headed for the garden, but Sharrif was on my heels.
“Interpol is checking the plates for us now,” he told me, sprinting along to keep pace with me. “I can’t believe the owner would pay duty in cash—it’s one hundred percent of the car’s value—and have it delivered to someone he didn’t even know. Only a hired lackey showed up to collect it and bring it here. Besides, no Americans are registered at this hotel but you.”
“And not even me,” I said, stepping outside and crossing the crunchy gravel of the garden. “I’m checking out in half an hour to move to Sidi-Fredj, as I’m sure your jawasis have told you.” Jawasis were spies—or stool pigeons—for the secret police. The innuendo was not lost on Sharrif. Squinting his eyes, he grabbed me by the arm, and I jerked to a stop. I looked down with disdain at the hand on my elbow and carefully pried it loose.
“My agents,” he said, always a stickler for semantics, “have already checked your quarters for visitors—as well as this week’s entry lists from Algiers and Oran. We’re waiting for the lists from the other ports of entry. As you know, we share borders with seven other countries and the coastal zone. It would make things so much simpler if you’d just tell us whose car that is.”
“What’s the big deal?” I said, moving on again. “If the duty’s paid and the papers are in order, why should I look a gift horse in the mouth? Besides, what difference does it make to you whose car that is? There isn’t any quota on imported vehicles in a country that doesn’t manufacture any—is there?”
He was at a loss to answer that one. He could hardly admit his jawasis were tailing me everywhere and reporting each time I sneezed. Actually I was just trying to make things difficult for him until I could find Lily myself—but it did seem odd. If she wasn’t in my room and hadn’t registered at the hotel, where was she? Just then, my question was answered.
At the far side of the pool was the decorative brick minaret that separated the garden from the beach. I heard a suspiciously familiar voice—the sound of little dog claws tearing at the wooden door and a slobbering growl that, once heard, was hard to forget.
In the waning light across the pool, I saw the door push open a crack—and a ferocious-looking ball of fluff burst forth. Skirting the poolside at top speed, it tore toward us. Even in the clearest light, it would be hard at first glance to recognize exactly what sort of animal Carioca was—and I saw Sharrif stare in amazement as the beast barreled into him at ankle height, sinking his pointed little teeth into Sharrif’s silk-stockinged leg. Sharrif let out a cry of horror, jumping about on his good leg and trying to shake Carioca off the other. With a grab, I plucked the little beast away, pinning him with one arm to my chest. He wriggled and licked me on the chin.
“What in God’s name is that?” cried Sharrif, glaring at the writhing angora monster.
“He’s the owner of the car,” I said with a sigh, realizing the jig was up. “Would you like to meet his better half?”
Sharrif followed me, limping and pulling up his trouser cuff to check his injured leg. “That creature might well be rabid,” he complained as we reached the minaret. “Animals like that often attack people.”
“Not rabid—just a severe critic,” I told him.
We pushed through the door that was ajar and ascended the darkened stairwell of the minaret to the second floor. It was a large room with window seats of pillows all around. Lily was ensconced amid the cushions like a pasha, her feet propped up and wads of cotton between her toes—carefully applying blood-red lacquer to her toenails. Wearing a microscopic minidress with prancing pink poodles, she glanced up at me with an icy stare, her frizzy blond hair falling into her eyes. Carioca yap
ped to be put down. I squished him into silence.
“It’s about time,” she began in indignation. “You wouldn’t believe the problems I’ve had getting here!” She looked at Sharrif behind my shoulder.
“You’ve had problems?” I said. “Permit me to introduce my escort—Sharrif, head of the secret police.”
Lily let out a big sigh.
“How many times must I tell you,” she said, “we do not need the police. We can handle this ourselves—”
“He’s not the police,” I interrupted. “I said the secret police.”
“What’s that supposed to mean—no one should know he’s a policeman? Oh, damn. I’ve smudged my polish,” said Lily, fussing with her foot. I dropped Carioca in her lap, and she glared again.
“I take it you know this woman,” Sharrif said to me. He was standing beside us and put out his hand. “May I please see your papers? There is no record of your entry into this country, you’ve registered an expensive car under an assumed name, and you own a dog that is clearly a civic hazard.”
“Oh, go take a laxative,” said Lily, pushing Carioca away and dropping her feet to stand up and face him. “I paid bloody hell to ship that car into this country, and how do you know I came here illegally? You don’t even know who I am!” She was hobbling around the room on her heels so the cotton between her toes wouldn’t smudge the polish. She extracted some papers from a pile of expensive leather bags and waved them before Sharrif’s face. He snatched them away, and Carioca barked.
“I’ve stopped in your despicable country on my way to Tunisia,” she informed him. “I happen to be a major chess master, and I’m playing an important tournament there.”
“There isn’t a chess tourney in Tunisia until September,” Sharrif said, perusing her passport. He looked up at her with suspicion. “Your name is Rad—are you by chance related to—”
“Yes,” she snapped. I remembered Sharrif was a chess nut. He’d no doubt heard of Mordecai, maybe even read his books.
“Your visa isn’t stamped for entry to Algeria,” he pointed out. “I’m taking it with me until I get to the bottom of this. Mademoiselle, you’re not to leave these premises.”
I waited until the door below slammed shut.
“You certainly make friends quickly in a new country,” I said as Lily came back to sit on the window seat. “What are you going to do now that he’s taken your passport?”
“I have another one,” she said glumly, picking the cotton from between her toes. “I was born in London to an English mother. British citizens can hold dual citizenship, you know.” I didn’t know, but I had some bigger questions.
“Why did you register your damned car to me? And how did you get in, if you didn’t come through Immigrations?”
“I chartered a sea plane in Palma,” she said. “They dropped me here near the beach. I had to have the name of a resident to register the car to, since I was shipping it ahead. Mordecai told me to arrive here as unobtrusively as possible.”
“Well, you’ve certainly done that,” I said wryly. “I doubt anyone in the country has guessed you’re here except Immigrations at every border, the secret police, and probably the president! What the hell are you supposed to be doing here, or did Mordecai forget that part?”
“He told me to come rescue you—and he told me Solarin would play Tunisia this month, the bloody liar! I’m starving. Maybe you can find me a cheeseburger or something substantial to eat. There’s no room service here—I don’t even have a phone.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I told her. “But I’m checking out of this hotel. I’ve got a new apartment at Sidi-Fredj, about half an hour’s walk down the beach. I’ll take the car to move my things and whip up some dinner for you over there in an hour. You can leave when it’s dark and slip out by the beach. The hike would do you good.”
Lily grudgingly agreed, and I went off to collect my belongings with the keys to the Rolls in my pocket. I was sure Kamel could handle her illegal entry—and while I was stuck with her, at least I’d have a car. Then, too, I hadn’t heard from Mordecai since his cryptic message about the fortune-teller and the game. I’d have to pump Lily about how much she’d learned from him in my absence.
The ministry apartment at Sidi-Fredj was wonderful—two rooms with vaulted ceilings and marble floors, fully furnished with even the linens, and a balcony overlooking the port and the Mediterranean beyond. I bribed the alfresco restaurant beneath my terrace to bring up food and wine and sat outside on a chaise to decipher Nim’s crossword puzzle while I watched for Lily to come down the beach. The message read as follows:
Advice from Hamlet to his girlfriend
(9)
Who stands in Pope’s Shoes
(9)
Boundary of Tamerlane Empire
(7)
What Elite do when Hungry
(4)
Medieval German Singer
(5)
Reactor Core Exposed.
(8)
Work by Tchaikovsky
(9)
I had no intention of spending as much time on this exercise as I’d spent on the fortune-teller’s cocktail napkin, but I had the advantage of a musical education. There were only two kinds of German troubadours: Meistersingers and Minnesingers. I also knew everything Tchaikovsky ever wrote—there weren’t that many works with nine letters.
My first attempt read: “Get thee to, Fisherman, Caspian, Meet, Minne, Meltdown, Joan of Arc.” That was close enough for shooting. Another boundary of Tamerlane’s empire was the steppes of Russia, which like the Caspian had seven letters. And a nuclear reactor that was melting down went “critical”—which had eight. So the message was “Get thee to the Fisherman Steps; Meet Minne; Critical!” Though I didn’t know what Joan of Arc had to do with it, there was a place in Algiers called Escaliers de la Pêcherie—Fisherman’s Steps. And a quick glance at my address book told me that Nim’s friend Minnie Renselaas, wife of the Dutch consul—whom he’d told me to phone if I needed help—lived at number one of these same Fisherman’s Steps. Though I didn’t need help so far as I knew, it seemed critical to him that I meet her. I tried to remember the plot of Tchaikovsky’s Joan of Arc, but all I recalled was her burning at the stake. I hoped Nim didn’t have that fate in store for me.
I knew the Fisherman’s Steps—an endless flight of stone that ran between the Boulevard of Anatole France and a street called Bab el Oued, or Rivergate. The Mosque of the Fisherman was up at the top near the entrance to the Casbah—but nothing that resembled a Dutch consulate. Au contraire, the embassies were far across town in a residential area. So I went back inside, picked up the phone, and called Therese, still on duty at nine at night.
“Of course I know Madame Renselaas!” she yelled in her gravelly voice. We were only thirty miles apart, and on dry land, but the line sounded as if it were at the bottom of the sea. “Everyone in Algiers knows her—a very charming lady. She used to bring me Dutch chocolates and those little candies from Holland with the flower in the center. She was wife of the consul from the Netherlands, you know.”
“What do you mean, she was?” I yelled back.
“Oh, this was before the revolution, my girl. Ten years, maybe fifteen, her husband has been dead. But she is still here—at least so they say. She has no telephone number, though, or I would know it.”
“How can I reach her?” I bellowed as the line got thicker with water noises. No need to bug this—our conversation could be heard across the port. “I only have the address—number one Fisherman’s Steps. But there aren’t any houses near the mosque.”
“No,” cried Therese, “there is no number one there. Are you sure you have it right?”
“I’ll read it to you,” I said. “It’s wahad, Escaliers de la Pêcherie.”
“Wahad!” Therese laughed. “That means number one all right—but it’s not an address—it’s a person. He’s the tour guide up there near the Casbah. You know that flower stall by the mosque? Ask the flower
vendor for him—fifty dinars, and he gives you a tour. The name Wahad—it’s like ‘numero uno,’ you see?”
Therese had rung off before I could ask why a tour guide was needed to find Minnie. But things were done differently in Algiers, it would seem.
I was just planning my excursion for lunchtime tomorrow when I heard the sound of doggy toenails skittering across the marble floors of the hallway outside. There was a quick knock at the door, and Lily came barging in. Both she and Carioca headed for the kitchen, from which wafted the scents of our warming dinner: grilled rouget, steamed oysters, and couscous.
“I have to be fed,” Lily called over her shoulder. When I caught up with her she was already lifting the lids from pots and poking about with her fingers. “No need for plates,” she told me, tossing scraps to Carioca, who gobbled them down.
I sighed and watched Lily stuffing herself, an experience that always put off my appetite.
“Why did Mordecai send you here, anyway? I wrote him to keep you away.”
Lily turned to look at me with wide gray eyes. A chunk of lamb from the couscous dripped between her fingers. “You ought to be thrilled,” she informed me. “It so happens we’ve solved this whole mystery in your absence.”
“Do tell,” I said, unimpressed. I went over to uncork a bottle of excellent Algerian red wine, pouring a couple of glasses as she spoke.