Brazzaville

By Pablo Zaragoza

What happened to Rick Blaine, Ilsa Lund, Louis Renault, and Sam after the plane for Portugal took off, leaving moviegoers with those now famous lines that Rick uttered as he and Louis walk into the fog, "Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."? The authors have pieced together the history of our brave band of players in a world gone mad in the throes of World War II.

 

Brazzaville is the code name of Pierre Renault's group of French Resistance fighters based in Morocco. They join the foursome on the first of many missions to rescue their friends being detained by Vichy and to form the nucleus of a group fighting the Nazis. The British secret service protects Ilsa and Victor in Portugal, but the Nazis take Isla and transport her to Spain where she becomes a pawn of Franco's government. Rick, not knowing what has happened to Ilsa, marries Yvonne, his old girlfriend, and they fight the Germans in Morocco until fate intervenes. We see how Rick and his friends help in the invasion of North Africa and beyond. Our troop rides with Patton to Algiers, and the Allies drop Rick, Louis, and Sam into France to help unify the French Resistance and provide the Allies with information to make D-Day a success.

 

This historical novel looks at a world at war and the friendships and loves found and lost. It answers the 75-year-old question: What happened to these people?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pablo Zaragoza
• Release date: Mar 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393764373

Book preview

BRAZZAVILLE

A Sequel to Casablanca

Pablo Omar Zaragoza

Susan Giffin, Co-Author

To my family—my children, father, mother, brother, uncles, and

cousins—whose stories inspire me to write

Pablo Omar Zaragoza

To my parents, my brother, sister, cousins, niece, and extended

family for their support and encouragement

Susan Giffin

Table of Contents

Title Page

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY- ONE

CHAPTER FORTY- TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY- FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY- FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY- SIX

CHAPTER FORTY- SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY- EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY- NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

CHAPTER SIXTY

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

CHAPTER SEVENTY

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

ALSO BY PABLO ZARAGOZA

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

COPYRIGHT

PROLOGUE

What have you done about this tragedy, Monsieur Bousquet? René Bousquet offered a nervous smile. He was the head of the French National Police, and although Vichy ran the police, the German Army occupied Paris and most of Northern France.

Herr Sturmbannführer Griese, I’ve gotten word only this morning of your Major Strasser being murdered at the airport in Casablanca.

And what are your doing about it? The Führer himself has been informed about this and wants results.

Well, they’ve gathered multiple suspects in this matter. The sweat beaded up on Bousquet’s forehead.

This is about rounding up the usual suspects, when the two principle suspects, Richard Blaine and Captain Louis Renault, have not been detained and questioned.

As I understand it, they have disappeared.

Monsieur, this is unacceptable. It has also come to our attention that a certain terrorist—revolutionary Victor Laszlo—was in Casablanca and allowed to roam freely there. It was Major Strasser’s assignment to bring him back to Berlin to face charges of treason against the Reich, said SS-Sturmbannführer Bernhard Griese, a humorless, clean-shaven man in his fifties, showing signs of agitation.

My source tells me that Laszlo is in Lisbon, awaiting transport to America. It will be a few weeks before he’ll be allowed to leave. I have men in place in Lisbon to keep an eye on him.

I do not want Mr. Laszlo to leave Lisbon. Is that clear? And to that end, I have my own people in place. The British believe they can keep him safe, but the Reich has many ways to deal with its enemies. Bousquet extended his hand to the office communication system, a black box on his desk with a series of switches. He flipped one of them and spoke into it, Leguay, come here, please.

A disembodied voice responded, Oui, monsieur. A few moments later, a balding man in his early thirties entered the room.

Griese didn’t acknowledge his presence, although he knew the man well. Bousquet waved him to sit in the wooden chair next to Griese.

You know the SS-Sturmbannführer? Bousquet asked.

Well, yes, we are working on certain issues at present, removing unwanted elements from our societies. Marshal Petain ordered me to coordinate efforts with the SS in rounding up Jews for deportation to the East.

Yes, yes, Monsieur Leguay has been most helpful in these matters. Griese smiled fiendishly.

Leguay, I want you to go to Casablanca and find this American Richard Blaine and our errant Captain Louis Renault. I want them questioned about their involvement in the murder of Major Strasser and the escape from Casablanca of one Victor Laszlo. Is that clear, Leguay?

Yes, sir, but I have so much work compiling lists for deportation and arrest in this Jewish question.

I want you personally on this, Leguay. You can relegate your Jewish matter to your underlings. Besides, how many of these persons are there in France?

I have only a partial list at present, but there are at least thirteen thousand here in Paris alone, the little man said with a gleam in his eye. He looked forward to rounding up these people, along with the British, who had caused the decay and humiliation of his France. He wanted desperately to be the one to squeeze the life out of them. He knew that the Nazis’ euphemism about relocating them to the East was horseshit, but he played along.

Bousquet looked at him in amazement. That many here in Paris? He too knew about the Nazis’ final solution—the extermination of the Jews from the face of the earth—but he could only delay, stall, but not stop its implementation. Petain had ordered him to cooperate. He had no choice. "I know your work is important to l’état Francis, the French state, but this is a priority, also. You leave tonight."

As you wish. Leguay rose from his chair and left the room.

The German officer, satisfied, began to move. Bousquet stopped him. Herr Sturmbannführer, when we do find these men, what do you want us to do with them?

You must interrogate, torture, and then execute them. Is that clear, Bousquet? Is that perfectly clear?

Yes, sir.

René stood and extended his hand to Griese who accepted it. The two men looked each other in the eye. Griese, cold and calculating, gave away nothing, while Bousquet, all smiles, showed fear and uncertainty.

René Bousquet was in a state of confusion as to what to do. Louis Renault was family, his cousin from his mother’s side, and he couldn’t let anyone catch and execute him, but what to do? He knew Louis was clever, and, like a cat, he would land on all fours, but Leguay was a committed fool, believing all the drivel that came out of Petain’s mouth. The national assembly, now disbanded, had given him absolute power, but what was that in this country, in name only. The Germans ruled in their blue-grey uniforms and shiny leather boots. What could he do, and where the hell were Louis and this Richard Blaine? Bousquet sat back in his tan leather chair behind his mahogany desk and thought.

CHAPTER ONE

The Lockheed Electra 12A began its ascension. Victor and Ilsa held hands in silence, as the plane leveled off when it reached altitude. Victor turned to her and smiled. Ilsa, is everything okay?

She looked at him with a half-smile, tears in her eyes, and said, Yes, Victor, I’m all right.

The door to the cockpit opened, and the pilot came out. He went over to Victor’s seat. Sr. Laszlo.

Yes.

"Você fala Português? Meu inglês não é muito bom." (Do you speak Portuguese? My English isn’t very good.)

Não, eu não falo Português, mas entendo um pouco. (No, I don’t speak Portuguese, but I understand a little.)

"My name is Paulo, and I represent the Salazar government, but I am also a friend of the English. Voce entende me?" (Do you understand me?)

Yes, I think I understand you.

The government is neutral in this matter about you. The Germans have asked for your extradition to Germany, and the British want to give you political asylum. The Americans have not said one way or another as to your immigration status. Given the current conditions in Washington, it is unlikely you’ll be leaving any time soon. Lisbon is a beautiful and dangerous city. There are many Germans, English, Spanish, and Italians, all trying to outdo the other. You would be a very big prize for any one of these groups to take.

Agradeço-lhe muito esta informação. (I thank you very much for this information.)

For your safety, both of you will be the last to leave the plane. A car will be waiting to take you directly to a safe place, but understand there is no safe place in Lisbon.

How long before we can leave?

That is a good question, but I do not have the answer for it.

Obrigado. (Thanks.)

Você é bem vindo. (You’re welcome.)

Paulo smiled at Ilsa. Madame, I know that this is very upsetting for you, but I hope all this will be resolved quickly.

Ilsa nodded. I’ve become accustomed to waiting, and a little longer won’t bother me.

Paulo stepped away from Victor and returned to the cockpit. There had been turbulence during the flight, a storm through which the Lockheed navigated and reached the aerodrome in Lisbon before sunrise. The field was wet. Just as Paulo had indicated, a black sedan waited on the tarmac.

The plane touched down, and as it did, the sedan moved toward the plane. A MG TA Tickford raced to it, and a blond man with a Tommy gun opened fire on it. A passenger in the sedan rolled down the window and returned fire. The MG came closer to the sedan, the Tommy gun spraying a swarm of bullets at it. The sedan engine caught on fire and exploded, hurling the two occupants of the car. A second sedan rushed toward the plane, as it made a complete stop.

Crews brought the disembarkation ladder to the plane. The passengers, having witnessed the events on the tarmac, rushed out of the plane, not even waiting for their luggage. The MG and the sedan came closer to the plane.

The man with the Tommy gun got out of the MG and headed to the plane as the Laszlos deplaned. Frightfully sorry, old boy, but the Jerries were planning a surprise for you. Good thing we got here in time. Fletcher’s the name, British Secret Service. Or at least, that’s the name we’re using this week.

Paulo, the pilot, looked at Fletcher. "I’ll take care of the police.

Will you please take them and hide them?"

Yes, come along, folks. Fletcher hurried the couple into the car, and it sped away as a group of police cars, sirens screaming, barreled toward the plane and the wrecked sedan.

Ilsa, are you all right? Victor asked with deep concern in his voice.

Ilsa was in a daze, thinking that the nightmare would be over once they reached Lisbon, but now the reality had sunk in that there was no place in the world where they’d be safe from these blood- thirsty animals, these Nazis. She also wondered, in silence, what had happened to Rick. She had lost sight of him in the fog that swirled around the airport as she boarded the plane. He stood there, so noble, telling her that the problems of two little people didn’t matter. But on that plane, she came to the realization that the problems of two small insignificant people were reasons the world was at war. That the right to be free to make decisions was the reason Victor had fought these Nazis because they would take away the right of free men to choose. Her thoughts turned back to Rick, hoping he was safe.

***

Richard Blaine had stood there, watching the plane take off, the gun he’d just used still warm in his pocket. Louis was next to him, telling him he’d become a patriot. He didn’t feel like much of a patriot, just a man who’d given up the only thing he’d ever loved. She’d come back into his life. She had been willing to leave her husband, willing to go with Rick anywhere; yet, he put her on that plane. Strasser had come into the hangar, thinking that he wouldn’t shoot, but he had been willing to shoot Louis whom he’d known as a friend. Louis’s men had taken the body and placed it in the car. They were a bit confused about Captain Renault’s order about rounding up the usual suspects, but they had followed orders.

Louis had just thrown the bottle of Vichy water into the wastebasket when Richard Blaine, American, once owner of Rick’s, the best nightclub in North Africa, returned to his senses. In the early morning fog, he and Louis started walking toward town.

"Rick, you’ll need to disappear from Casablanca for a while.

There is a garrison called Brazzaville."

You mean you’re going to give me my letter of transit? Our letters, my friend.

You still owe me 10,000 francs. That should pay for both.

Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship, but Brazzaville is in the Congo, isn’t it?

Not quite, although we are all free French, some of the garrisons have allied themselves with DeGaulle and others with Petain.

All right, so this Brazzaville is where?

Brazzaville is the code name for the unit operating on the Spanish and French Moroccan border between Fez and Ketama. They are mostly Legionnaire cutthroats and Arabs, but they keep the Spanish out.

So, we’re going to join a band of illegal mercenaries that live somewhere in the Atlas Mountains between one set of fascists and another?

Well, my friend, they’d be the only ones who could harbor us during this storm. Besides, a man of your skill and contacts would be invaluable to them.

What do you mean?

The French government at Vichy isn’t funding them, and they need someone who can arm them and help them in the fight.

What fight?

The fight against the fascists from the North and South. Do you think the Spanish haven’t thought about taking Morocco and North Africa? Vichy is only the puppet of Berlin, and if Berlin sees that it can make a better deal with the Spanish, it will. The Germans need tungsten. Their war machine is hungry for wolframite, and the biggest deposits in Europe are not in Germany or France but in Spain. The Germans are dividing up Europe, and it won’t be long before they figure out that the southern part of France will be able to feed them but will not provide the wolframite they so desperately need.

Louis, the English are holding out by a thread. Europe is one German colony, and Vichy, Italy, and Spain are client states. Soon the world will bow down and raise its right hand and shout, ‘Sieg Heil.’

Someone will prick the eagle in the West, and once your country gets into it, then the balance will shift.

My country wants no part of this mess that you all get into every twenty years or so.

But, in the end, they do get into it. I was on the line in the First War, and your people made the difference.

They had walked all the way to the prefect’s office, and Louis in his black uniform sat behind his desk for the last time. He opened the top drawer and took out two letters of transit. He wrote his name and that of Rick’s and signed them. He stood, and, going to a closet next to his desk, he took out a white shirt and a pair of khaki pants. He took off his uniform and dressed himself as a civilian.

He turned to Rick and smiled. Well, my friend, my car is downstairs. I guess it’s time to leave Casablanca for a while.

I think you’re right, Louis.

They both headed down the stairs and entered the captain’s 1938 Delahaye Cabriolet, which he’d won in a poker game from the son of the king that had left the city.

CHAPTER TWO

Jean Leguay didn’t like the heat, he didn’t like Africa, and he certainly didn’t like this Vichy colony. He would rather be in Paris where the new world order was organizing the elimination of those rats of society, the Jews, and he would be instrumental in their elimination. The flight had taken more than three hours on a twin- engine plane provided by what remained of the French Air Force. They had been worthless in the defense of their country, decadent flyboys who thought only about satisfying their cardinal desires and not the country.

Petain was right. Democracy had destroyed the country, allowing people to move away from the church and the nation. These Nazis had the right idea: eliminate, exterminate all those who drag down the nation—the Jews, homosexuals, blacks, all those that didn’t fit into the mold of what France should be.

Leguay’s ride was bumpy. He clutched the armrests during the whole flight. He’d ordered several drinks, but the wine didn’t calm his nerves. He took out a notepad and began to write a list of the people he wanted to interview. Ilsa Lund was out of his reach, as well as her husband Victor. Richard Blaine and Captain Louis Renault were not to be found. Signor Ferrari, as he understood, had bought Rick’s place. There were Rick’s associates, the black piano player Sam, Sascha the bartender, and others.

Three hours passed, and Leguay’s stomach still hadn’t settled down, as the plane glided toward the airstrip. Peering out his window, he saw the city, pale in comparison to the City of Lights, Paris. He saw the full moon shining over the water as they approached the field. His stomach turned, as the plane came closer and closer to landing. When it touched down, he couldn’t control himself anymore. He grabbed the paper bag that the flight attendant had given to him and vomited. The other passengers stared at him in disgust but said nothing. The smell of fetid, stale bread, and brie filled the air.

The flight attendant came by. Êtes-vous bien, monsieur? (Are you all right, sir?)

Leguay handed him the bag with its contents starting to seep through the paper. Est-ce que je me sens bien, idiot? (Do I look all right, you idiot?)

The attendant took the bag from him and carried it to the back of the aircraft. Leguay sat down with his partner, as the plane made its final approach. J’espère que la vache meurt à Casablanca. (I hope that cow dies in Casablanca.)

Maintenant, maintenant, mon ami, nous ne pouvons pas souhaiter à tous ceux qui nous sont impolis. (Now, now, my friend, we can’t wish everyone that is rude to us dead.)

Je peux rêver, je ne peux pas? (I can dream, can’t I?)

The plane came to a complete stop, and the attendants opened the door. The aerodrome crew came out with a small ladder to help the passengers deplane. The other passengers greeted the attendants cordially as they left the plane, but Leguay didn’t even stop to recognize the two gentlemen who had tried to make his flight comfortable.

Henri, comme je l’ai dit, cet âne pompeux devrait mourir ici. (Like I said, that pompous ass should die here.)

A German staff car waited for Leguay, as he retrieved his luggage from the belly of the plane. A rotund German SS-captain approached Leguay. You are Herr Leguay, yes?

I am. And you are?

I am Captain Otto Weisman, SS liaison here in Casablanca.

I thought that the local police officials would have come to meet the plane.

They are busy rounding up suspects. This city is filled with the dregs of Europe—gypsies, Jews, communists, and anarchists, all enemies of the Reich, all conspiring to harm the Führer and his representatives.

I need to see some of these so-called suspects and get them to tell us what they know.

These people know only strong measures, Herr Leguay. The soft-tempered approach of talking to them, boring them to death, doesn’t work here. However, the SS has developed ways to loosen the tongues of even the most recalcitrant individuals.

I look forward to seeing some of these in action.

Then you are giving me permission to conduct these interrogations?

Yes, but under my supervision.

Weisman opened the door to his Mercedes sedan, and Leguay slid into the passenger seat. The distance to the prefect of police offices wasn’t far, only a couple of miles, but it took forever to get there. The roads into the city were congested with brown-skinned people. The animals defecated on the road, and the smell of manure perfumed the air. He felt queasy again but managed to control the urge to vomit. He couldn’t appear weak in front of the SS, now could he?

The 770K Pullman convertible had its top down, and the sand and dust of the city covered him. He hated this place. His Paris was clean. Things ran on time since the German occupation, but Casablanca was a throwback to the way it used to be. After reviewing his list of suspects, he knew what he had to do. He would make sure that the governor took charge of this place and got them into shape.

As they slowly entered the city, he heard an old man with a donkey say, "Danir, danir, khatar alkhuruj min altariq." (Danger, danger, get out of the way.)

Captain, what is that man yelling?

I do not understand their language. I understand only German and English and some of your French, but the languages of the lesser races I feel unnecessary to know.

Why is that?

They will soon be speaking German or face extinction.

The car passed the old man, as the donkey kicked its hind legs and almost hit the car.

The streets were filled with vendors selling everything—bolts of cloth, pots, pans, birds, monkeys, and anything that wasn’t tied down. They were yelling in Arabic, Albayea, lilbaye ‘afdal al’asear fi almadina! (For sale, for sale, the best price in town!)

Beau linge en provenance d’Italie au meilleur prix. (Beautiful cloth from Italy at the best price.)

Children ran about the streets, darting between the few vehicles that were there, laughing, playing. They should be in school. All of them should be collected and placed in school or a work camp, learning how to be useful to society, putting those little hands to work.

The prefect’s office was an old colonial building made of red clay. In front of the building was a fountain where the locals, men in their djellabas were watering horses and camels, as Leguay opened his door. The police sentry in front of the building paid them no attention.

As Leguay came up the steps toward the man, he stopped. What is your name, please?

I am Omar.

I am Jean Leguay. Do you know the name? No, I do not, and frankly, I do not care.

You should. I am the vice director of the National Police and your superior. You should be at attention when guarding this door, not leaning on the wall with your rifle resting nearby. Your uniform is a disgrace. I can see what you had for breakfast and dinner because it is all over you. Open this door for me and Captain Weisman before I have you disciplined in front of the entire police force of Casablanca.

The man straightened up, took his rifle, and saluted the irate man. He apologized for his rudeness but said he’d not been home in two days.

I will forgive you now. Who is in charge? Sergeant Martin has taken command, sir. Well, I suggest you take us to him.

The sentry clicked his heels and opened the door. He showed the two men up the stairs and to the office which once had belonged to Captain Renault. Omar opened the door for them, smiling nervously at the pair as they went through the portal.

The man at the desk was thin with jet black hair and an eagle-like nose. A pencil-thin mustache outlined his upper lip. Sgt. Martin rose from his chair and looked at the two men. Paris has just sent the cable that I was to expect your arrival today, Monsieur Leguay.

Well, if it wasn’t for our German friends, I would be at the Aerodrome, waiting for your unhurried arrival, sergeant.

I’m sorry, but our communications here are not as advanced as those of our German friends.

Martin was irritated but kept it under control. He couldn’t let it be known where his sympathy lay. These arrogant Germans and their buffoon leader, Adolf Hitler, may be running the show, but Martin knew deep down that it wouldn’t be for long.

Never mind. What investigation have you done about the murder of Major Strasser?

We’ve rounded up the usual suspects and have detained them, as instructed by Captain Renault.

Don’t you think it rather odd that Captain Renault and the other eyewitness, Richard Blaine, are not to be found in Casablanca? No, Captain Renault often goes out of the city on excursions without telling us, and Mr. Blaine he had sold his holdings here and was free to go.

I have my own list of people I want to see. Leguay handed his list to Sergeant Martin. Captain Weisman and I will be conducting these interrogations. We will begin with those people you have gathered here, but we expect your cooperation in collecting the others.

Monsieur Leguay, Signor Ferrari is a prominent citizen of…

He is a smuggler and a rat! Leguay shouted.

But, sir…

"These people are dangerous, hostile to l’état français and will be interrogated under extreme conditions! Is that clear, sergeant?"

The sweat poured from Martin’s brow. How could he protect these people from what Leguay and the SS had in store?

CHAPTER THREE

As the sun rose on his left, Rick saw the Atlantic Ocean. They were heading north to Rabat along the coastal road. The smell of the sea air was inviting, but they had to press onward. Louis was going at break-neck speeds in his Cabriolet, but the dirt road didn’t allow him to go more than 80mph. They had to hurry because by now Sergeant Martin would have figured out that Rick had been involved in the shooting of Major Strasser. There would be an inquiry. They’d gather suspects and find that no one there was involved. They’d start asking questions, like why did Rick sell all his holdings to Ferrari at rock- bottom prices? Why did he leave behind his childhood friend Sam, and why did Captain Renault go with him? Victor Laszlo and his wife were also gone. Could it all be tied together? A high-ranking official of the Reich had been murdered. Would they send someone to investigate it, or would they let the locals sort it out? These questions gnawed at Rick’s mind, as Louis turned on the radio.

The imam called the faithful to prayer as he did every morning at this exact time. Rick often wondered what was so magical about praying to God at 5:23 a.m. He once had asked an Arab about praying at a specific time. The Arab said that if they didn’t do it then, they would forget to do it. Rick remembered telling him, If you were truly faithful, you would have your conversations with God all the time, no matter what the hour. The Arab turned his back on him and called him an infidel, unworthy of continuing their chat.

The news that followed wasn’t good. The British had attacked the French fleet at El Kebir and killed more than a thousand men. The war had spilled into Africa, the one place Rick had wished wouldn’t see the ugliness of war. He’d seen it in Ethiopia, selling guns to King Haile Selassie. He had helped train his troops, but they were no match for Italian machine guns and tanks. His people were brave and never gave up, and neither did he.

Then, when the Spanish Civil War broke out, he sold guns and trained Republican troops. He had been in the Basque country when the phalanx swept the government troops away, and he had crossed the Pyrenees Mountains with a group of fighters. He had made his way to Paris, and there, licking his wounds, he made himself good money, trading commodities that people always needed. Guns, booze, women, and food: People always wanted them, and he made money providing them.

His mind drifted to when he’d met Ilsa and how beautiful she was, how inviting her lips were, and how warm was her touch. He remembered the first time they made love in the Hotel Eiffel. If they opened the window, they could see the structure that defended the city, the Eiffel Tower. He remembered standing in front of the window, naked, and Ilsa asking him to come back to bed. They never talked about the past, nor the future, just the here and now. He remembered standing in the rain, waiting for her at the train station and then reuniting at Casablanca.

They had reached Rabat when Louis turned and headed east to Fez. You’re wondering where we’re going, aren’t you, my friend?

A little confused.

I need to sell this car, and I know someone in Fez who’ll buy it from me.

Why do you need to sell the car, Louis?

Because, my friend, where we’re going, the car won’t take us. Where is that, Louis?

It’s in the Atlas Mountains near the border with the Spanish.

I thought we wanted to steer clear of the fascists, and Franco and his goons aren’t exactly friendly to me.

Well, in the mountains is a group of legionnaires who call themselves Brazzaville. Their colonel was stationed in the Congo and loves that name. Well, they do not take orders from Vichy; they operate independently. I believe we can trust them, since their colonel, Pierre Renault, is my brother.

The road to Fez was no less dusty and treacherous as the coastal road to Rabat. A few Bedouins herded their sheep to market. Their tents dotted the barren landscape. Their women cleaned rugs and baked flat bread, while their half-naked children enjoyed a beautiful mid-morning. The city of Fez was a closed city. Cars could not navigate the narrow streets along with donkeys, oxen, and goats.

Louis parked the car at the northern gate, Bab Sbaa. The two of them walked through the impressive gate onto the streets of the oldest medina in the world. It was a labyrinth of twists and turns with the smells of saffron, sweet oregano, and dung filling the air. A sea of humanity—black, olive, brown, and white—pressed on them as they walked. It seemed that Louis had been here before; he knew exactly where he was going. Vendors were setting up makeshift shops, hawking their wares, and bartering deals on the street.

They stopped in front of a red door with no other identifying mark, no name, no number, nothing to show who lived there. The façade had no windows, and no one could know what went on behind that door. Louis pulled on a copper chain that hung next to the door. They heard an imperceptible ring, muffled by the door. Rick could hear the footsteps of someone.

When the door opened, a thirty-something-year-old man in a long, traditional Moroccan garment—a blue-and-white djellaba— opened the door. His eyes initially looked weary, but when he saw the two men, his eyes brightened. He came outside and kissed Louis on each cheek, close but not on the mouth. Louis introduced Rick, and Jamal Bazzi asked them to enter.

The entrance of the house led to an open Arab garden surrounding a fountain. Rick looked up to the balcony and saw women and children peering down at them.

Jamal noticed. Those are my wives and children. We can have as many as we can support, but we cannot always be with the one we love.

Rick noticed that Jamal had looked longingly at Louis as he said those words.

Surrounding the fountain were many fragrant flowers, and in cages at different points of the garden were songbirds which made the garden a paradise. They passed through a set of French doors into a dark area. Jamal flipped a switch and light filled the room. A long oak table and matching chairs stood prominently in the center of the room. A china cabinet, filled with treasures from around the world, caught Rick’s eye. Jade from China, ivory from India, porcelain from Japan, and Murano glass from Italy were a few of the things he noticed.

Jamal took a tiny bell from the table and rang for his servants. Two thin boys entered the room, as Jamal invited his guests to sit. You don’t have to tell me why you’re here. I’ve had multiple phone calls from your Sergeant Martin asking if I knew where you were. I told him that I had no idea.

It is best, my love, you don’t know, Louis said.

Is it true that a German major was shot and that you might know something about it?

I may know something about it.

I don’t want to know, my pet, but what do you want from me? You know you can’t stay here. It would be my greatest joy, but it cannot be.

I’m not here to seek refuge. I want to get rid of my Cabriolet and get some horses and supplies.

Rick knew about Jamal, only by reputation. He was a businessman involved in the import and export of goods. There was nothing he couldn’t or wouldn’t handle, from guns to hashish, medicine to narcotics; he traded them all. At thirty-six, he was one of the richest men in Morocco.

I will get you two horses, supplies for a week, two Berthier bolt- action rifles, two Berettas, with ammunition. I’ll store the car in one of the warehouses until you can pick it up again.

I couldn’t possibly...

"If you’ve come this way, asking for horses, you’re on your way to see your brother. This is payment for a service I need to fulfill with your frère (brother). He made an order of some goods, and he’s paid for them, but I haven’t been able to get anyone to travel that way. You’ll be doing me a favor by taking them."

Rick felt out of place with the whole thing. Normally, he would be the one in charge, the one who knew where he was going, but this was a totally different experience. Men came into the room with coffee and breakfast: sweet rolls, dates, almonds, and rich espresso coffee. Rick was hungry. He’d not eaten since the previous day, so he ate hardily.

Noticing how eagerly Rick was eating, Jamal asked, Mr. Blaine, would you prefer a more traditional American meal?

No, sir. This is more than fine. I would, however, like more coffee.

But of course. Jamal turned to his servants and ordered them to bring more of everything.

Arabs are gracious to the point of taking off their shirt and giving it to you once you’ve crossed their threshold. Jamal, in that sense, was typical. However, his affection for Louis wasn’t. Rick had heard that homosexuality among Arabs occurred despite the Koran’s strict ban of the practice and harsh laws against sodomy.

Louis outstretched his hand, and Jamal took it with pleasure.

They looked at each other with passion, as Rick would look at Ilsa.

Was Ilsa safe? Had Ilsa and Victor arrived in Lisbon without incident? He’d asked his host. Mr. Bazzi, I need to know about someone.

You mean Miss Lund and Mr. Laszlo? Yes, but how...

Mr. Blaine, if it happens within these borders, I know about it. I have made some discrete inquiries, and as far as I know, she’s fine, as is Mr. Laszlo. However, there is a lot of chatter among several different services about their safety. It seems that there already has been one failed attempt at capturing them in Lisbon, but that will not deter them from trying again.

Would it be possible to get word to her that I’m all right and not in German hands?

I will, Mr. Blaine, but may I ask what your plans might be? Are you uncommitted as to what you are going to do next?

Let’s say I’m more likely to join any group that isn’t entangled with Vichy and the Nazis.

If you are going into the Atlas Mountains to visit Louis’s brother, it is best to be on the side against Vichy. It is now very interesting to see the two Renaults, Louis and Pierre, on the same side, working together."

The servants brought more food and coffee. Jamal ordered rooms prepared for his guests. You will stay the night, and in the morning, you can start your journey. This will give me time to find out as much as I can about what the Casablanca constabulary is doing.

They all rose from the table and walked to the rooms that Jamal had prepared. Rick had a queen-size bed with perfumed sheets. Flowers adorned the nightstand and dressers. Rick collapsed on the bed and fell asleep immediately.

CHAPTER FOUR

Victor and Ilsa climbed into the sedan, with Fletcher still holding his Tommy gun. The city is neutral, meaning we are all here. Jerries, Italians, Vichy, and those little yellow fellows are crawling all over the place. The Jerries are the more aggressive of the groups, but I won’t turn my back on any of the others.

Where are you taking us?

A safehouse in the Alfama, the old Arab quarter of the city, although there isn’t an Arab structure on the hillside.

Once there, what exactly? I’m supposed to be in New York City in three days.

That’s where it’s a little sticky. You see, Jerry is claiming that you’re a terrorist and murderer. Her Majesty’s government has said that you are freedom fighter, and the Americans are working behind the scenes to get you out of here legally. I, on the other hand, believe that we could smuggle you out in one of our submarines and have you in Liverpool in time for tea.

I appreciate your government’s help, but we want not to slink out of Portugal but to leave with our heads held high and return to America.

"Unfortunately, that route is going to be very slow and dangerous in this city. The Jerries have orders to capture you, interrogate you, and then kill you. They may just be satisfied with just killing you. Dead,