“Sorry about that,” Kate said.
“Don’t be,” Duckworth said. “It was the highlight of my week.”
“Are you sure you should be out of that bed already?” she asked.
“It’s not exactly the recovery plan my surgeon recommended,” Duckworth said. “But as long as I don’t get shot again, I should be all right.”
“This is my father,” she said. “Jake O’Hare.”
Duckworth looked Jake up and down as he shook his hand. “Former Marine, am I right?”
“Nothing former about Semper Fi,” Jake said.
“Man after my own heart. I’m glad to meet you.”
“Let’s get on that plane,” Nick said to Duckworth. “We have to get to Casablanca, and do we have a few stories to tell you on the way.”
* * *
It was a three-hour flight from Vienna to Casablanca, on a private jet that under any other circumstances would have felt like luxury. Kate stared out the window as they passed over northern Italy and then the blue water of the Mediterranean. Nick sat next to her, as Quentin told Duckworth about everything that had happened to them, and Jake bonded with Duckworth over a lifetime of military and extra-military adventures.
“We were so preoccupied with finding that gold,” Kate said to Nick. “I admit it, I got caught up in the search as much as anyone. But right now I only care about two things.”
“What’s that?” Nick asked.
“Getting the professor back,” Kate said. “And taking down Egger.”
Nick nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”
“And then we can all go home.”
Nick nodded again, thought about it, and said, “Unless that book really can lead us to where the gold is now.”
They both looked over at Quentin, who had the logbook out. The three older men were poring over each page.
“It’s just dates and amounts,” Duckworth said, wearing reading glasses and carefully examining each page. When he got to the last page, he picked up the book and read the words carefully, angling the page for better light. “My German isn’t great, and this handwriting is pretty rough. But the very first word here is Verrat. Betrayal.”
“I knew it,” Quentin said. “Göring trapped him in that tunnel.”
“The next couple of sentences,” Duckworth went on, “he’s got something here about die Karte, the map, and the überlegener Intellekt, the superior intellect, of the man who might follow it. Then what’s this?” Duckworth looked over his glasses at the faded words that came next. “Is this Tiefbrunnen? I’m not sure what that means. Brunnen is like a fountain or a well. Something that holds water. But all the rest of this, it’s basically just him feeling sorry for himself because he’s trapped in a tunnel and he’ll never get to see the Third Reich become what it’s supposed to be. Ein Land der Verheißung und Erfüllung. Land of promise and fulfillment. The usual Nazi twaddle we fought a war to bury forever.”
“Amen to that,” Jake said. “My own grandfather fought that war. His destroyer went down in the Java Sea.”
“Mine, too,” Duckworth said, looking up at him. “Shot down over Berlin. My grandmother gave birth to my father the day after she got the telegram.”
Duckworth paused a moment, looking at the handwriting in the book. “The man you’re going to see today,” he finally said, “he’s the grandson of this Nazi?”
“He is.”
“Do me a favor and kick in his teeth for me.”
* * *
The sun was still high in the afternoon sky when they landed in Casablanca. Duckworth slipped some money into one official’s waiting palm at the airport, then two more, and then they were out of the airport through the private exit, having never shown a passport to anyone.
“They may already be watching you,” Duckworth said. “I’m going to leave you on your own now. Where did they say to meet you?”
“Southeastern side of town,” Quentin said. “A place called Moulay Rachid.”
Duckworth winced. “I’ll try to watch your back, but this is a tough city to keep tabs on someone.”
They stood on the sidewalk for a minute, drawing stares. Jake raised a hand to hail a taxi and a car screeched to a sudden halt. It was too small, too loud, and the tires could barely be called round anymore. Everyone squeezed in and Quentin gave the driver the address, written down on a piece of paper. The driver gave the paper back, shaking his head and saying something emphatic that nobody could understand. Quentin returned the paper with twenty euros on top. It went back and forth like this for a few more beats until finally the money was enough and the driver pulled out into the heavy afternoon traffic.
“Just how big a favor did Captain Duckworth owe you?” Jake asked Quentin.
Quentin shrugged. “I may have saved his life once.”
The conversation was cut off when the taxi driver nearly ran over a man on a scooter. Many harsh words were exchanged in Arabic, then the driver went another hundred yards before nearly committing another vehicular homicide.
The taxi worked its way slowly through the heart of the city. Carts on crowded sidewalks sold food, clothing, and knockoff American movies. Kate started to feel a little sick, sitting in the middle of the brick-hard backseat as the car hit every pothole in the streets.
The buildings got smaller and the streets got even rougher. Finally the taxi stopped and they all piled out. Kate’s feet were barely on the ground when the taxi spun its wheels and fishtailed away from them.
They were in a small market square. It was empty, but the smell of fried fish hung thick in the air. Dogs barked. Faces looked at them through open windows and then the shutters were loudly slammed shut.
Nick looked up and down the deserted street. “This place could use a Starbucks.”
A man dressed in desert camo approached them. On his head was a classic German officer’s hat with goggles on the brim, like something Field Marshal Rommel would have worn. Standing next to him was Franz. His left eye was still hidden behind a black patch, but now he was also missing part of his right ear.
“My name is Rolf,” the first man said. “If you will all come with me, your transport is waiting.”
“Where’s Professor Lewis?” Nick asked.
“You will see him soon,” Rolf said.
“I want to see him now,” Nick said. “Or else speak to him on the phone.”
“You are wasting time, when we could already be on our way.”
Nick looked at the rest of the team. “Guess we’re taking a road trip,” he said.
Rolf gestured toward a nearby alley. The team approached it, warily. When they turned the corner, they saw a windowless panel truck with the rear door open.
“We’re not getting in that thing,” Nick said.
Rolf drew an H&K semiautomatic from his belt, put the barrel in Kate’s back.
“I believe you are.”
* * *
The outside world slipped away, replaced by the two simple elements of heat and motion. Nick, Kate, Jake, and Quentin sat on the hard metal floor, drawing breath inside a furnace as it bounced its way down the roads of Morocco. The sounds of the city grew quieter and finally faded away, the air became a slightly less punishing degree of hot, and the thin bands of light running across the imperfect seams in the metal grew dimmer.