She began to trudge along the road in the direction of the distant spires and minarets.
It grew hotter. She took back everything she’d ever said about Boston winters. A snowdrift would have been heavenly for both cooling and drinking purposes. Her thirst was beginning to occupy all her thoughts.
Time passed — at least a couple of hours. The sun was well past its zenith in the cloudless sky. She could feel the skin on the back of her neck roasting. Dressing in black had been a good idea for sneaking through the night at the Monaco airfield. Yet here in the desert, it was practically suicide, absorbing the solar heat as it did.
Her broken wrist throbbed with the jolt of every step. Still she soldiered on, driven by a mixture of courage and stubbornness. Perhaps she had not fully understood what it meant to be a Cahill when she embarked on this adventure. But each sizzling foot of sizzling sand brought that truth home to her: There was no pain. There was no heat. There was no exhaustion. There was only the task at hand.
The sun pounded down on her unprotected head. All around her, the baking desert shimmered. She could barely make out Casablanca, although she had to be a lot closer to it now. And the smoke plume from the battle — it had moved! It was off to her right. Low and trailing across the dunes like a long snake all the way to the horizon.
Oh, no! Was she starting to lose her mind? Everyone knew about desert mirages.
She heard the growl of an engine — many engines. An army jeep appeared in the midst of the dust cloud. And another, followed by a truck. An entire convoy of military vehicles veering toward her on an intersecting road.
This was no cloud! It was an army!
The Vichy French? How would Casablanca’s defenders treat a US citizen — even a young girl — after the terrible bloodshed in the harbor and on the beach?
And then she spotted the star insignia on the side of a half-track.
Americans! The battle was over. These were the conquerors — Operation Torch’s Western Task Force — rolling triumphantly into the city.
An instant before, Grace was convinced that she had not a single ounce of energy left. She was wrong. The sight of the military column lent wings to her feet. She sprinted right into the middle of all that roaring machinery, waved her good arm, and yelled, “Stop!”
Out of the heat haze of dust and sand lumbered a Sherman tank, its gun turret pointed directly at her. The caterpillar treads clattered to a halt. The hatch opened, and a helmeted head emerged.
“Are you crazy? Get out of the way!”
“I’m an American!” Grace shouted through dry, cracked lips. “I have to see General Patton!”
The soldier laughed harshly. “I’ll check his calendar. Get out of the way!”
Grace drew herself up to her full height, which barely cleared the top of the tank tracks. “Tell the general that Grace Cahill has an urgent message for him!”
“Hold it!” came a shout.
A jeep swerved around the tank and pulled up beside Grace. A young captain jumped to the road. “Did you say your name is Cahill?”
“Grace Cahill. I’ve come a long way to see the general.”
The man looked her up and down. “I’ll say.”
He loaded her into the jeep, wheeled off the pavement, and began to plow through the sand, passing a procession of soldiers, tanks, and equipment that easily stretched back thirty miles. The BBC broadcast had estimated that the Western Task Force numbered 34,000 troops. Grace was not surprised. The jeep’s spinning tires must have kicked dust and dirt over at least that many.
After what seemed like an endless ride, they pulled back onto the road, blocking the path of a very large staff car.
The driver stuck his head out the open window. “What’s the holdup?”
The captain snapped a rigid salute. “Grace Cahill to see the general!”
“Cahill?” echoed a gruff voice.
The door opened and two shiny boots hit the tarmac.
Grace stared dumbly. The officer who stood before her radiated confidence and command, from his ramrod-straight posture to his armor-piercing gaze. Although he had just finished masterminding and directing a three-day battle, his uniform looked clean and pressed. On his helmet gleamed two stars.
It was General George S. “Blood and Guts” Patton.
Bodies littered Casablanca’s beachfront, and spilled fuel burned in the waters of the harbor.
The battle was over.
The Vichy French defenders had surrendered, so the city was peaceful. The tranquillity belied the brutal reality of a bloody invasion that had cost nearly two thousand lives, more than a quarter of them American.
Grace rode into town in the staff car next to Patton himself. Although she was champing at the bit to tell him about the Morse code message, she kept quiet. The commander was surrounded by aides and bodyguards. There was no way to be sure who — if anyone — could be trusted to hear the top secret communication that had been meant for James Cahill. Her only option was to wait until she was alone with the general.
When they reached the building that had been selected for Patton’s headquarters, Grace was attended to by his personal physician. Her broken wrist was set in a plaster cast, and she was given food, water, and a room to rest in. She slept for the first time in more than thirty hours and awoke to find fresh new clothes ready for her. On the dresser sat her briefcase. A good sign — it meant the contents of the plane had been recovered, including the body of the pilot. She popped open the lid. There was the money, every dollar, franc, and mark. The soldiers of Operation Torch were men of honor. It brought her a measure of relief. She could trust the US Army to give Drago a proper burial.
The general came in to see her at 1900. Finally, Grace had what she was looking for — a private audience with General George S. Patton. She explained who her father was and told the general of the mysterious boat that had flashed its Morse code at the villa in Monte Carlo.
“GSP — that’s you, right? You’re one of the Cahills, like Abraham Lincoln and Mozart. White house is Casablanca, and torch is the invasion.”
He nodded, amazed. “And you tracked me down in the middle of my own war! You’re just a kid!”
She bristled. “I’m thirteen.”
“Well, the fact that you made it here is better identification than a passport and a blood test,” he said with a laugh. “You’re a Cahill, all right.”
“But what does the message mean?” she asked. “Who are the Vs?”
“There’s a group called the Vespers,” he explained. “They go back as far as the Cahills. We’ve been rivals for centuries.”
Grace nodded thoughtfully. “They must be the people we have to protect the ring from. But what ring? And what’s this bull’s-eye the Vespers know about?”
The general held up his hand. “Grace, listen to me. I don’t want you to worry about it anymore. You brought me the message. No one could ask you to do anything beyond that. What you’ve accomplished is a miracle. Leave the rest to me. I’m going to get you, your sister, and your baby brother home to Boston. And it may take some doing, but I’ll find your dad as well. You’ve got George Patton’s word on that.”
Never before had Grace met anyone so totally in control, so impressive. From the powerful set of his jaw to the forest of ribbons, medals, and decorations on his chest, he was the ultimate American hero.
She didn’t mean to cry, yet once the tears began, she couldn’t hold them back — the sheer relief of having so much burden lifted from her shoulders. She wept for Drago, for her poor parents, for the very world itself suffering under this awful war. How strange that now — when she was finally safe — the emotion should pour out.
The general’s legendary efficiency was evident in his plan for her. Tomorrow morning, she would be on a six o’clock plane to Lisbon; from there, on to London, where she would be joined by her family. Beatrice was going to have a lot to say about her disappearing act. But nothing could spoil the prospect of seeing Fiske again….
br />
Yet there was something vaguely unsatisfying about the whole business. She had made an improbable journey at an impossible time; a man was dead, his aircraft destroyed. And now she was expected to walk away and forget any of it had ever happened.
That’s good news! she admonished herself. You have your life; you’re being reunited with your family; you’ve placed the message in the hands of the most competent, confidence-inspiring military man on the face of the earth. How could things possibly go any better?
Well, for starters, she reflected, the general could have been more specific about his strategy. He’d promised to handle it; what he hadn’t mentioned was how. Not that she didn’t have faith in him. But Cahill business wasn’t Patton’s top priority in Casablanca. He was the commander of a conquered city. Hundreds, maybe even thousands, of urgent matters would require his attention. What if Grace’s message just slipped his mind?
Sure enough, the general was gone all evening, assessing casualties and equipment losses after the invasion. That left Grace to stew in her doubts, wandering around headquarters under the watchful eyes of officers and sentries.
The place was really a large mansion. Patton’s aide had told her that a wealthy Casablanca family had graciously offered their home to the US Army. She couldn’t help wondering how much choice the “gracious” owners had in the matter. Then again — she thought of Father’s many residences around the globe — the rich usually had someplace else to go. So many had sacrificed during this terrible war. Her sympathies were probably wasted on a single displaced millionaire.
Besides the men in uniform, the only other sign that the mansion had become an army installation was the large city map spread out on a vast dining table. A number of locations were marked with colored tacks — headquarters itself, the officers’ billets, and troop deployments. There were pins all over town, except for a central district not far from the beach, filled with very narrow, winding streets. It was surrounded by a solid line on which someone had scribbled the word WALL.
She squinted. The area had a name, printed on the paper in paler ink:
ANCIENNE MEDINA
She recalled from Madame Fourchette’s French lessons that this meant the old Arab quarter, or casbah.
Her heart began to pound. Ancienne Medina — AM!
So it doesn’t mean morning. When the message said White House AM, it was a reference to Casablanca’s old casbah!
She had to inform the general!
“I’m sorry, Miss Grace,” said Patton’s aide. “He’s tied up with military matters. I don’t know when he’ll be available again.”
She returned to her room, growing more restless by the second. The Morse code pointed to the Ancienne Medina, but Patton didn’t know that. And by the time she had a chance to tell him, it might be too late. There could be a Vesper in town at this very moment. And the Vespers knew about the bull’s-eye, which was a lot more than Grace could say for herself. How could she be certain of what bull’s-eye might mean in the middle of a shooting war fought with weapon scopes, rifle sights, crosshairs, and targeting systems?
She was positive that the answer lay somewhere in the casbah.
But the general had said her part was over….
Well, that was then; this is now.
She could not stand idly by, giving their rivals a chance to find the bull’s-eye first while Patton was distracted by military matters. She had to help. She owed it to the general; she owed it to her family; and she especially owed it to Drago, who had lost his life getting her here. Somehow, she had to make that meaningful.
She’d never be able to explain this to the sentries stationed about the mansion. Luckily, Grace was an expert at sneaking in and out of places — training from her role as the younger sister of tattletale Beatrice.
She opened the shutters and eased herself over the windowsill, contemplating the eight-foot drop. Hanging on with her good hand, she lowered herself as far as she could and then jumped the remaining distance to the ground. Keeping to the shrubbery, she sneaked across the property and vaulted a low wall.
For a place that had just been seized by foreign invaders, Casablanca seemed very much business-as-usual. The streets were bustling with veiled women, turbaned and white-robed men, and visitors of a wide variety of nationalities. With war raging on the continent to the north, this part of Africa had been the first stop for many civilians trying to escape the conflict. People went about their business, heads down, never making eye contact. It was perfect for Grace’s purposes — nobody looked at her. But it contributed to an overall sense that something secret was going on.
She had memorized the route between headquarters and the Ancienne Medina, although she questioned her navigation skills more than once along the way. The roads did not appear to be laid out on any kind of grid. They twisted and turned, and the exotic arabesque architecture, with its elaborate designs, made it impossible to fix on any landmarks.
She was relieved when at last she arrived at the stone wall, weathered by centuries of sand and dust storms, surrounding the Ancienne Medina.
She had made it — but where to go from here?
Inside the casbah’s gates, the neighborhoods were older and more crowded. Some of the alleyways were so narrow that the upper floors of the Moorish buildings almost met above the road, creating a tunnel effect. There were no cars here, just swarms of pedestrians and a few bicycles and carts. Tiny stalls and shops sold everything from live chickens to expensive jewelry. Saloons, restaurants, and cafés lined both sides of the street as far as the eye could see.
1001 NIGHTS proclaimed a pink neon sign. Open shutters revealed tiny tables and dim flickering candles that made it nearly impossible to see the food. This, thought Grace with a shudder, might be a plus. Two men were playing darts in the back room, and money was changing hands.
Grace stared. A dartboard.
Bull’s-eye — the center circle of a dartboard!
Flattening herself against the crumbling stucco, she waited until the two gamblers finished their match and stumbled off to the bar. Then she slipped into 1001 Nights and made her way to the dartboard in the rear.
She peered at the bull’s-eye. There were just a few holes, some of which looked like they had been made by knives and not darts. She reached behind the board. Nothing but wall — rough plaster, no secret compartment.
Okay, wrong dartboard. But there had to be plenty of others in the Ancienne Medina. Too many. And the only way to find the right one was a door-to-door search.
A voice too close to her ear said, “Would the young lady care to challenge an expert?”
Grace was back out on the street before she could formulate a refusal. She wasn’t sure why she was so scared. After all, hadn’t she just crash-landed a plane in the desert? Yet it took all her resolve to get her into Scheherazade next door. Belly-dancer music spilled out from a broken window. Oh, joy.
The next three hours saw her in and out of some of the sleaziest nightspots in all of North Africa. She examined dartboards of various shapes, sizes, and degrees of disrepair, stained with food, grease, and even, she suspected, blood. The bull’s-eyes yielded nothing.
The search was making her nauseous. It was getting late. A thirteen-year-old American girl in some of these places attracted attention. It was only a matter of time before she became a curiosity or, worse, a target. Maybe General Patton was right. Her job was done. It was crazy for her to try to take this any further in such a strange and dangerous environment. Especially since she had no way of knowing which of Casablanca’s hundreds of taverns she sought.
Her eyes fell on the very last neon sign on the winding street:
Her mind raced back to the Morse code message: Torch is more than it seems.
She had always interpreted it as a reference to Operation Torch. But it could just as easily have meant: Torch is more than the name of the invasion; it marks the location of the bull’s-eye.
The Torch Singer Café seemed busier than the
others. That might have been because it was long and narrow, more like a hallway than a tavern. It had a tiny stage for a lone performer, and — she checked very carefully — no dartboard.
Disappointment. She’d been so sure.
And then she noticed the back door, partially hidden behind a trolley piled high with dishes. A fly-specked window overlooked an isolated alley. The dark courtyard was dominated by a large bronze sculpture of some kind of animal.
She strained for night sight, taking in the stout, powerful body and curved horns.
A bull.
Bull’s eye — not the kind on a dartboard but the actual eye of a bull!
She pushed the trolley out of the way and heaved at the sticking door, which came open in a shower of ancient paint chips. Examining the statue up close, she spotted it instantly. One eye was a rounded piece of green glass. The other socket was empty.
“They beat us to it,” said a deep voice from the shadows.
Grace wheeled. She didn’t recognize him at first in tan slacks and a pale blue shirt — civilian clothes. But there, out of uniform, stood George S. Patton.
“General — what are you doing here?”
Patton smiled grimly. “Same as you, my dear. You’re a true Cahill, Grace, sneaking out under the noses of my entire staff. You’ll be a great asset, even though you’re not much for doing what you’re told.”
She could not be distracted. “What happened to the bull’s eye? Who beat us to it?”
The general raised his eyebrows. “The Vespers, of course. They always seem to be a step ahead of us.”
Grace was skeptical. “We Cahills are the most powerful family in human history.”
“We are, we are,” Patton said quickly. “But the Vespers have one advantage over us. They’re not a family. They recruit only the best and the brightest — ruthless geniuses of diabolical brilliance. While we Cahills are held back by infighting among the family branches, the Vespers can be completely and perfectly united behind their goal:” — his steely eyes gleamed — “world domination. Yes, they’re our rivals, but there is much to admire about them.”