Read Online Garment of Shadows by Laurie R. King - Free Book Online
Authors: Laurie R. King
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they’re sure to turn their sights on him.”
While to the south, Holmes reflected, moving picture companies and adventurous tourists moved freely across new French roads and on new French railways. And one more or less retired English consulting detective sat before a brazier with his distant cousin, in one of the most intriguing towns he had ever laid eyes upon.
“Will the Emir Abd el-Krim win?” he asked.
“Only if he can avoid a confrontation with France.” Lyautey took out his cigar, frowning at the end of it. “The problem is, the border between the French and Spanish Protectorates was drawn in haste, with little attention paid to tribal boundaries. The Werghal River made for a convenient line, but as Spain withdraws, the Rifi move in. I have asked for reinforcements; however, Paris tells me our troops are heavily committed in the Rhineland and the Ottoman mandates. They’ll change their mind once Abd el-Krim forces the issue. His Berber are magnificent fighters—independent, ruthless, and absolutely fearless. But—to answer your question—when he does attack us, it will be the end of him. If he tries to fight a war on two fronts, with tribal warriors, he will lose.”
And when Paris does send your reinforcements , Holmes wondered, how far north will you push? It was not a question he could ask, even of a friendly cousin. Still, faced with Spain’s dangerous incompetence, any military man worth his salt would be sorely tempted to redraw the equation by—treaties be damned—simply sweeping across the mountains and tucking all of Morocco under French rule. Let the politicians sort it out.
As an Englishman, Holmes knew he should be concerned. Twenty years ago, Britain had let France have Morocco under the firm condition that the northern strip remain Spanish. It was one thing to have a moribund power like Spain in charge of land a cannon’s shot from Gibraltar; it would be quite another if France, a strong country with whom England had a not always easy history, took over the coastline.
Holmes wondered if this Abd el-Krim understood the delicate balance of power his revolt was threatening—and the danger that awaited, should he venture south of the Rif mountains. “Interesting, is it not,” he mused, “how often the fate of nations comes down to personalities? Like Colonel Lawrence: one little man who has changed the entire shape of the Middle East.”
“I have heard of Colonel Lawrence. I do not know that I would have wished him under my command.”
“Most of his superior officers would have said the same. But don’t be led astray by the Lowell Thomas portrayal. Lawrence was a singularly effective officer, for his time and place.”
“I should like to meet him,” Lyautey admitted.
“I should like to introduce you.”
“You know him?”
“We met in Jerusalem, just after the War. My … Russell and I were in Palestine for some weeks. Living as Bedouin, in fact—you’d have been amused to see it.”
Lyautey reached for the decanter and demanded the story. Holmes lifted his glass, considering. The tale concerned British espionage, some details of which were unsuitable for French ears. Too, Lawrence had been broken—in heart, and nearly in mind—by his own government’s ruthless abandonment of the Arab cause, a betrayal that had left him standing alone, a liar to his friends. But the distasteful particulars of that powerplay might be avoided, and the events themselves were five years old—there were details he could adjust to resemble a police investigation rather than an Intelligence one.
Yes, he could tell his cousin the story. If nothing else, it would offer a brief distraction from the man’s huge burden of responsibility. Small enough payment for Lyautey’s gift of this jewel of a city, where the air was a thousand years old and smelt of Arabia and Andalusia.
“In the early months of 1919, it happened that Russell—she was then my apprentice—and I needed to be out of
While to the south, Holmes reflected, moving picture companies and adventurous tourists moved freely across new French roads and on new French railways. And one more or less retired English consulting detective sat before a brazier with his distant cousin, in one of the most intriguing towns he had ever laid eyes upon.
“Will the Emir Abd el-Krim win?” he asked.
“Only if he can avoid a confrontation with France.” Lyautey took out his cigar, frowning at the end of it. “The problem is, the border between the French and Spanish Protectorates was drawn in haste, with little attention paid to tribal boundaries. The Werghal River made for a convenient line, but as Spain withdraws, the Rifi move in. I have asked for reinforcements; however, Paris tells me our troops are heavily committed in the Rhineland and the Ottoman mandates. They’ll change their mind once Abd el-Krim forces the issue. His Berber are magnificent fighters—independent, ruthless, and absolutely fearless. But—to answer your question—when he does attack us, it will be the end of him. If he tries to fight a war on two fronts, with tribal warriors, he will lose.”
And when Paris does send your reinforcements , Holmes wondered, how far north will you push? It was not a question he could ask, even of a friendly cousin. Still, faced with Spain’s dangerous incompetence, any military man worth his salt would be sorely tempted to redraw the equation by—treaties be damned—simply sweeping across the mountains and tucking all of Morocco under French rule. Let the politicians sort it out.
As an Englishman, Holmes knew he should be concerned. Twenty years ago, Britain had let France have Morocco under the firm condition that the northern strip remain Spanish. It was one thing to have a moribund power like Spain in charge of land a cannon’s shot from Gibraltar; it would be quite another if France, a strong country with whom England had a not always easy history, took over the coastline.
Holmes wondered if this Abd el-Krim understood the delicate balance of power his revolt was threatening—and the danger that awaited, should he venture south of the Rif mountains. “Interesting, is it not,” he mused, “how often the fate of nations comes down to personalities? Like Colonel Lawrence: one little man who has changed the entire shape of the Middle East.”
“I have heard of Colonel Lawrence. I do not know that I would have wished him under my command.”
“Most of his superior officers would have said the same. But don’t be led astray by the Lowell Thomas portrayal. Lawrence was a singularly effective officer, for his time and place.”
“I should like to meet him,” Lyautey admitted.
“I should like to introduce you.”
“You know him?”
“We met in Jerusalem, just after the War. My … Russell and I were in Palestine for some weeks. Living as Bedouin, in fact—you’d have been amused to see it.”
Lyautey reached for the decanter and demanded the story. Holmes lifted his glass, considering. The tale concerned British espionage, some details of which were unsuitable for French ears. Too, Lawrence had been broken—in heart, and nearly in mind—by his own government’s ruthless abandonment of the Arab cause, a betrayal that had left him standing alone, a liar to his friends. But the distasteful particulars of that powerplay might be avoided, and the events themselves were five years old—there were details he could adjust to resemble a police investigation rather than an Intelligence one.
Yes, he could tell his cousin the story. If nothing else, it would offer a brief distraction from the man’s huge burden of responsibility. Small enough payment for Lyautey’s gift of this jewel of a city, where the air was a thousand years old and smelt of Arabia and Andalusia.
“In the early months of 1919, it happened that Russell—she was then my apprentice—and I needed to be out of
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