knows?”
“You.”
“Lyautey?”
“I have met the Resident General briefly, twice. He knows me as a representative of Abd el-Krim, nothing more.”
Holmes watched the nimble hands for a moment, then: “What do you need?”
The knife peeled a paper-thin curl of wood from the small block, shaping legs. “I believe you are friends with Maréchal Lyautey?”
“He’s a distant cousin.” He explained the link to the surprised Ali. “So I have known him for years, even though my visit here earlier this month was the longest conversation we’ve had.”
“Your brother’s letter merely said that you would count yourself the man’s friend. The Maréchal has been here for twelve years, and has forged considerable respect. He is known to be a man of iron decisions. He stands firm against the wishes of Paris, yet when it comes to the voices of subordinates, Lyautey not only listens, he actively requests advice. He is an aristocrat who seems to understand the lives of working men. He is a Christian with great respect for Islam. He is often in pain, such that he must work from his bed, yet he does not permit infirmity to keep him from rising and riding into the hills when need demands.”
“I have seen no sign of infirmities,” Holmes interrupted.
“He has been to France twice this year for surgical operations. He returned from one such just last month. He would have retired by now, but for Abd el-Krim.”
Holmes said nothing. Ali glanced up from his whittling.
“He is also known as a man whose word is as iron as his will. During the War, even when he was called back to France as Minister of War, his Moroccan programs continued. The men of the Rif see Lyautey as a man who would bleed himself dry before betraying an oath.
“So, that is your Maréchal Lyautey. In the meantime, Mahmoud has become as close to Abd el-Krim as a man who is not of the Beni Urriaguel can ever be. Do I need to tell you about the Emir?”
“I have been hearing about Abd el-Krim for weeks now, mostly stories. He is Robin Hood, he is a brilliant tactician, he is a murderer, he is a power-mad tribal leader out for revenge against the Spanish, he is a greedy man aiming to control the Rif mining interests.”
Ali did not deny any of the descriptions. “Abd el-Krim is a man in his early forties, educated in the Fez madersa , whom fate gave a path, and who found the courage to step onto it. Precisely speaking, the Emir did not begin the Rif Rebellion, but he was the man who bound the rebelling tribes together, who took over a dozen small revolts and Raisuli’s self-serving brigandry and forged them into an independence movement. It is true that the Germans would give almost anything to regain their mines near Melilla—one suspects Deutschmarks behind the seven million American dollars the Spanish offered him.”
“Seven million? For what?”
“Seven million dollars—plus arms to use against the French—if the Emir would permit them to reoccupy the area around the mines.”
“He turned them down?”
“The bay is the only place along the Mediterranean coast where large numbers of troops may be gathered. Ceding it to Spain would mean holding a knife to the throat of the entire Rif.”
“Raisuli would have taken the money—and then gone back on his word.”
“You see the difference between the two men.”
“Yet Raisuli is not without his followers.”
“There are those who would die for Raisuli because of who he is, who care nothing for his sins because the blood of the Prophet runs in his veins. For them, it is a world of black and white: Compromise is weakness, victory is proof of divine approval, crimes are not crimes if they are in the service of the Most High. When religious fanaticism enters the realm of politics, the mix is extremely volatile. Spain does its best to stir the pot—they believe that Raisuli’s victory would be to their benefit.”
“Why then does Raisuli deny the rightful Sultan of Morocco? Surely
“You.”
“Lyautey?”
“I have met the Resident General briefly, twice. He knows me as a representative of Abd el-Krim, nothing more.”
Holmes watched the nimble hands for a moment, then: “What do you need?”
The knife peeled a paper-thin curl of wood from the small block, shaping legs. “I believe you are friends with Maréchal Lyautey?”
“He’s a distant cousin.” He explained the link to the surprised Ali. “So I have known him for years, even though my visit here earlier this month was the longest conversation we’ve had.”
“Your brother’s letter merely said that you would count yourself the man’s friend. The Maréchal has been here for twelve years, and has forged considerable respect. He is known to be a man of iron decisions. He stands firm against the wishes of Paris, yet when it comes to the voices of subordinates, Lyautey not only listens, he actively requests advice. He is an aristocrat who seems to understand the lives of working men. He is a Christian with great respect for Islam. He is often in pain, such that he must work from his bed, yet he does not permit infirmity to keep him from rising and riding into the hills when need demands.”
“I have seen no sign of infirmities,” Holmes interrupted.
“He has been to France twice this year for surgical operations. He returned from one such just last month. He would have retired by now, but for Abd el-Krim.”
Holmes said nothing. Ali glanced up from his whittling.
“He is also known as a man whose word is as iron as his will. During the War, even when he was called back to France as Minister of War, his Moroccan programs continued. The men of the Rif see Lyautey as a man who would bleed himself dry before betraying an oath.
“So, that is your Maréchal Lyautey. In the meantime, Mahmoud has become as close to Abd el-Krim as a man who is not of the Beni Urriaguel can ever be. Do I need to tell you about the Emir?”
“I have been hearing about Abd el-Krim for weeks now, mostly stories. He is Robin Hood, he is a brilliant tactician, he is a murderer, he is a power-mad tribal leader out for revenge against the Spanish, he is a greedy man aiming to control the Rif mining interests.”
Ali did not deny any of the descriptions. “Abd el-Krim is a man in his early forties, educated in the Fez madersa , whom fate gave a path, and who found the courage to step onto it. Precisely speaking, the Emir did not begin the Rif Rebellion, but he was the man who bound the rebelling tribes together, who took over a dozen small revolts and Raisuli’s self-serving brigandry and forged them into an independence movement. It is true that the Germans would give almost anything to regain their mines near Melilla—one suspects Deutschmarks behind the seven million American dollars the Spanish offered him.”
“Seven million? For what?”
“Seven million dollars—plus arms to use against the French—if the Emir would permit them to reoccupy the area around the mines.”
“He turned them down?”
“The bay is the only place along the Mediterranean coast where large numbers of troops may be gathered. Ceding it to Spain would mean holding a knife to the throat of the entire Rif.”
“Raisuli would have taken the money—and then gone back on his word.”
“You see the difference between the two men.”
“Yet Raisuli is not without his followers.”
“There are those who would die for Raisuli because of who he is, who care nothing for his sins because the blood of the Prophet runs in his veins. For them, it is a world of black and white: Compromise is weakness, victory is proof of divine approval, crimes are not crimes if they are in the service of the Most High. When religious fanaticism enters the realm of politics, the mix is extremely volatile. Spain does its best to stir the pot—they believe that Raisuli’s victory would be to their benefit.”
“Why then does Raisuli deny the rightful Sultan of Morocco? Surely
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