It was an exciting prospect to contemplate, but now I had other matters, ugly, dangerous matters.
Rashid the Rif, she had told me, and I headed for the little rug dealer in the medina. He would, I knew, be able to tell me where I could find this Rashid the Rif.
I searched my memory for what I knew of the Rifs. Little, long-buried facts began to sift their way up into my conscious mind.
The Rif was the fortress of Morocco, the mountainous stretch of inhospitable land in North Africa, from the tip of Morocco where it faces Spain, along the Mediterranean, to the Algerian border.
As conqueror after conqueror found out, the people of the Rif were fierce fighters, quick to anger, feeling themselves more than a little apart from the rest of their countrymen. The Romans could never conquer or subdue the Rifs in their natural stronghold. Neither could the Spaniards nor the French. The only Berber or Arab chiefs who made headway among the Rifs were those who came in peace and not to conquer.
The mountainous Rifs in 1926, under Abd-el-Krim, fought 325,000 French troops and 100,000 Spanish troops to a standstill with 20,000 men. Great horsemen, at home with their fleet stallions or the mehari, the sand-colored fast camels used on the desert ranges, the Rifs were a warrior caste, a proud, aloof people.
I wondered if that meant anything or whether this Rashid the Rif was merely a loner.
Ben Kashan didn’t give me any leads on that. When he saw me he brought out a wan, apologetic smile.
“The sellers of information have become terribly greedy,” he said, spreading his hands out wide, his eyes a mirror of concern.
I got the message.
“Tell the greedy ones that if the information they have is good, I will double what I would have paid,” I answered. “Right now I come seeking one called Rashid the Rif.”
Ben Kashan’s face clouded and his eyes grew wary.
“He will tell you nothing,” he said. “He is a bad man, a man to keep away from.”
Ben Kashan’s advice was sincere, but I knew that the Arabs in general disliked and feared the Rifs in a legendary fear going back a thousand years.
Ben Kashan saw in my eyes that I wasn’t impressed.
“If you must find him, his house is on the other side of the medina, behind the row of gift stores. It was a stable once, his house.”
“What does he do, this Rashid the Rif?” I asked.
Ben Kashan shrugged and rolled his eyes. “He is a Rif,” he said. “He tells no one anything, he speaks to no one. He came to the medina only a few months ago and, I have heard, paid to rent this old stable. More than this, I do not know.”
“Good enough,” I said, tossing an American dollar at him. The part about only arriving a few months ago was interesting.
I found my way back across the medina and located the line of semi-permanent gift shops aimed at tourist trades, full of carpets, brass and copper utensils, and general native arts and crafts. Behind the row of shops I found the old stable. A low house, it jutted out in an L-shaped form.
I entered the open door and paused to pull on a bell rope just inside the doorway.
Rashid the Rif appeared from within the house silently, suddenly standing before me, unmistakably the man I sought. Wearing a djellaba with a cartridge belt slung around one shoulder and a long, curved Moorish dagger hanging from his belt, he regarded me with the eyes of a falcon, cold, piercing, predatory, deadly.
His face itself was hawk-like, sharp-nosed, with tightly drawn skin and a glance that skewered me as though I were a piece of mutton on a spit. The man fairly stank of evil and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck go up. He outwaited me as I spoke first.
“I seek a man called Karminian,” I said. “I was told he visited you recently.”
“I know of no such man, foreigner,” he spat out, each word distinct in heavily accented Arabic.
“I was told he had business dealings with you,” I tried again.
“If so, it was his business and mine, not yours,” Rashid the Rif growled. “But I told you I know no such man.”
I felt certain, without a shred of evidence, that he was lying. Besides, my own stubbornness was coming to the fore.
“I was told that he came to you only a week ago,” I persisted. I watched, my eyes narrowing, as his hand went to the hilt of the long, curved Moorish dagger in its jewel-encrusted sheath.
“You say Rashid lies?” he muttered darkly.
“I say what I was told,” I answered. I could feel myself getting mean, hoping the ugly bastard would try to use that curved pig-sticker on me. But he didn’t, though I had the strong feeling that he wasn’t putting aside the thought but merely deferring it.
“Too many questions is the way to lose one’s tongue,” he growled.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll have that tattooed on my chest.”
I turned and strode out, knowing any further attempts at information would be futile. I felt the Rif’s eyes following me until I was lost in the throng and when I emerged from the medina I took a deep breath.
It was becoming clearer that so far I had but two avenues to Karminian, both female. And I felt that both could be of greater help. I didn’t think they were deliberately holding back, not any longer, but they could know little things which seemed unimportant to them but might be really important as hell to me.
I decided to go over that scene again, starting this time with Aggie Foster.
She had just gotten up a few minutes before I arrived and greeted me wearing bright-green, halter-top, bare-midriffed pajamas. She quickly covered the flash of pleasure in her eyes with a half-pout. Without make-up, she looked surprisingly little-girl, the hard, jaded lines of her face softened by the natural glow of her complexion.
“I was wondering what happened to you,” she said, her lips thrust out in a pout. “I guess you’re not that interested in finding Anton.”
“Oh, but I am,” I said, grinning at her. “I’ve been busy looking for him.”
“I thought I’d hear from you yesterday,” she said. “How do you know I didn’t think of something?”
This time I grinned inwardly. It was a transparent ploy to see me but I wasn’t going to stomp on it.
“Have you thought of something?” I asked quickly. “Let’s hear it.”
“No matter,” she said, brightening up suddenly. “I wanted to see you on something else anyway. I’ve been thinking. A painting of me might be great publicity, something different from the usual glossy photos. Could you do something real sexy?”
“I don’t know,” I answered with a slow smile. “An artist can’t just make up sexiness. It’s something that has to come from his subject.”
“It’ll come,” she said grimly. “Especially these days.”
“Why especially these days?” I asked innocently. “You miss Karminian that much?”
Her eyes narrowed and she grew stiff, defensive. “What if I do?” she said, flouncing down on the small sofa, resting her arms on the back so that her breasts thrust forward, round, high mounds of inviting loveliness. Her foot moved back and forth, twitching restlessly, like a cat’s tail.
I was here to get more on Karminian from her, but I suddenly saw a better route to what I wanted, certainly one that might be more fun.
“What did you think of that was important about Karminian?” I asked. “Apparently you’ve been thinking a lot about him.”
She got the dig. “Maybe I don’t feel like talking about it now,” she answered quickly. “Maybe I forgot again.”
“Like hell you did,” I said, moving to stand in front of her.
She was being surly again, her restless eyes moving across my face.