43

Allah’s Gratitude

June 1874

At Malta they saw HMS Lord Warden and Wake was pleased to learn he and Rork would make the passage to Genoa aboard her, for she was still flying Admiral Drummond’s pennant and Pete Allen might be aboard. His hope was justified when he climbed through the entry port and heard the Royal Marine exclaim.

“Well, the Devil couldn’t kill him and God doesn’t want him, just yet. You consistently amaze me, Peter Wake. I’ve been hearing outlandish tales about you and Rork. We must immediately repair below so I can ply you with spirits and get to the absolute truth of the matter, which, knowing you, will be more farfetched than the rumors.” He gave Wake a hearty handshake. “Damned glad to see you, old son.”

It was an easy passage with nothing to do except think as he lay in his berth. Wake spent most of the time thinking about Linda and his children, going over in his mind again and again her letters and his replies and wondering what the fleet mail would have for him when he arrived. Would she tell him it was over, practically if not legally? She was strong-willed and had already endured ostracism during the war, he knew she could handle the kind associated with an estranged marriage.

Would she understand his need—which even he couldn’t justify but knew it was part of his soul—for the sea and for the navy? Would they keep what they had started during those dark days of the war, when everything, and everyone, was against them?

He grew more fearful and withdrawn the closer they came to Genoa and the certainty of his finding out her decision.

***

Unlike his first arrival, it was sunny when they glided up the bay into Genoa. Colors he hadn’t noticed before, red roofs, flowers, the green hills, gaily welcomed him, complemented by saluting guns echoing off the hills. A heartfelt goodbye to the officers and men of the ship culminated with Allen’s farewell. The Royal Marine knew of Wake’s fears for his marriage.

“It’ll be all right, Peter,” he said with concern. “It will get better, my friend. She’ll still want you.” Then he laughed. “But God knows why, for you really are bloody daft!”

The farewell to the Lord Warden was more emotional than their welcome back aboard the Franklin, anchored three hundred yards away. They came up the entry port and reported in to a drowsy officer of the watch, who advised Wake that the admiral was busy but left word that he would see him later. Rork allowed a grunt of disdain at that, excused himself, and went forward to the petty officers’ mess. Wake went aft to the cabin he hadn’t seen in months. After the initial reception he wondered if he even had a cabin assigned anymore.

It was still the smelly domain of the surgeon, who grudgingly allowed him in. Filled with dread, Wake went to the purser and asked for his mail but was told there wasn’t any. Depressed, for that surely wasn’t a good sign, he returned to the cabin and listened as the blowhard surgeon waxed on about the privations of naval medicine, each breath reeking of medicinal brandy.

That evening at the wardroom mess it got no better. Wake felt all eyes on him, but no one asked any details of his assignment, the purser saying he heard it turned out fine and the executive officer remarking that independent duty was just the ticket for escaping the boredom of flagship billets. The surgeon opined that it “must’ve been damned tough in a Mohammedan country, what with the lack of decent rum, or even any rum at all.” That got a round of guffaws. By the time dinner was over Wake was disgusted by the company and not in the mood to remain. He asked the executive officer for permission to leave and took a walk on deck.

***

In the three days since his return Wake had only spoken once for any appreciable time with Captain Staunton, the squadron staff captain. Staunton was noncommittal about Wake’s staff work, saying he should recuperate and that they’d done without him for three months so they could do without him a few days longer. He warned Wake about bothering the admiral, who was busy with Spanish chaos, wounded Greek pride, German machinations, and whining Ottoman Turks, “not to mention our damned American diplos ashore. They think we serve them. God help us.”

Frustrated and worried, Wake went forward and found Rork. Normally he wouldn’t have asked his friend about the situation—it was a breach of custom and would put Rork ill at ease—but Wake was at the point of real worry. Something was very wrong.

“Have you heard anything about me or you in Morocco, Rork? Nobody’s talking to me and it’s as if they’re ignoring me because they think we’ve done something wrong. Damned if I can figure out why they’re acting this way. And no letters from Linda. There is something wrong here, Rork. Good God, I can’t even get in to see the admiral, my boss!”

Rork’s reply had a serious tone, which didn’t ease Wake. “I think it’ll be jes’ fine, sir. Ye’ve nary a thing to be sorry for or worried about. They’re probably jes’ restin’ ya, sir. They’ve gone light on me ownself too. You know how the bloody navy goes, sir. Hurry up an’ wait. Then they’ll bash ya for bein’ so damned lazy. Part o’ the job.”

Rork put a hand on Wake’s shoulder. “Steady on, sir. Your good lady will do you fine. She’s a bright girl an’ a fine lady. Ain’t none better that I’ve seen, an’ I’ve seen plenty.”

***

Wake knocked three times on the door, then entered Admiral Case’s great cabin after the Marine guard announced him from the passageway. After a week of nervous waiting, he’d had a summons from the admiral on this Sunday morning, just before church services on the main deck were about to commence.

“Lieutenant Wake, reporting for duty as flag lieutenant, sir.”

Case, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, spun his swivel chair around and calmly studied the officer standing tall in the prescribed manner, three feet in front of the desk. Staunton got up from the chart table against the bulkhead, nodded quickly at Wake, and departed silently.

“Stand easy, Lieutenant,” Case said tiredly. “I have read your report of the events in Morocco with interest. I’m also told that you seem to be healing well from your wounds. You’ve been back now for what, a week? When will you be ready for full duty?”

“Right now, sir.”

“Hmm. And your bosun?”

“Right now, also, sir.”

“Hmm. So by five days from now you’ll both be ready for an assignment? I have a job for you and I don’t want it fouled up.”

Wake expected some questions about Morocco, possibly a compliment or a concern. Something. But Case was acting as if Wake had just come back from a bar fight ashore in Genoa. Scrutinizing the man’s eyes revealed nothing. They were ice blue and unblinking.

“Fully ready, sir,” Wake replied, evenly.

“Very good, Lieutenant. On next Friday evening I want you to be my personal aide at a big soirée at the French Consulate. Everyone of import will be attending and there will be no room for mistakes or failure. This is a social event of the highest occasion and I want everything done right. Bosun Rork will be in charge of transport. Understood?”

“Yes, sir. Are we guests or hosts, sir?”

“Guests. I want my senior staff and all ship captains there, on time, in full dress uniform, sober and ready to converse and impress the diplomatic corps of Europe. You will be in charge of making sure that they all get there, behave, and depart without untoward incident. I’ll repeat that, Lieutenant—without untoward incident. You have a reputation for somehow getting involved with, or creating, unusual incidents. I’ll have none of that at this function. Welcome back to the fleet, Lieutenant Wake, and your staff duties. Your wild adventures are over.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. Make it so. You are dismissed.”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

Wake paced the quarterdeck for an hour afterward, watching the bumboats and coastal cargo boats making their way in and out of the docks while analyzing the brief one-sided conversation with his commander. Did Case disapprove of his actions? Was he jealous of Wake’s “adventures?” Was the admiral in trouble because of Wake’s decisions?

He grew angrier as he paced. Wake decided he had no idea what the admiral thought of his actions in Morocco, but it was apparent the man wasn’t enthusiastic about them. He had, in some unfathomable way, made the admiral uneasy by his actions in Morocco, but couldn’t figure out how or why.

He stretched, his abdominal and chest muscles throbbing, and grimaced. Amazing, he thought cynically. Amazing how what seemed like a victory in Morocco could be viewed ambivalently in the genteel ambiance of Europe. And now he had to ride herd on American naval officers like some sort of school chaperone. Case appeared to have glee in his eye when he talked about that. What the hell has our navy come to? Wake asked himself. And me? I’ve become a nursemaid for grown men.

Then he saw the surgeon waddle up on deck and start toward him. The sight of his foul cabin mate made him groan again. It was going to be a very long tour of duty.

***

The French were doing this up right, Wake thought as he shepherded his charges—all of whom outranked him—through the gilded doorway into the grand salon of the French Consulate, where a line of plume-hatted dignitaries stood waiting to be fawned over. He had made sure the American naval officers were all in full cocked-hat and sword, heavy dress uniform, precisely on time and, especially in the case of the surgeon, clean and sober.

Rork’s transport, by launch and landau, went without mishap, and now there were nineteen American naval officers arriving resplendently to represent their country amidst the colorful arrogance of Europe. Strom was there with his lovely wife Christine, the American consul general acting surprisingly pleased that Wake had returned.

“Glad you’re back, Peter Wake. Been dull around here without you!”

Wake had been worried about Strom’s reception and was relieved. The consul general’s brow furrowed. “Seriously, son, I’m glad you got through that mess in Africa and are recovering. Relax and enjoy yourself this evening.”

Davis the assistant consul came over right afterward, one eyebrow raised, and wagged a finger. “See, Peter, I told you he liked you. In some ways you remind him of himself in his younger days. He was worried as hell when he heard what happened to you in Morocco.”

Over the string quartet in the corner, Wake heard a staff pound onto the polished marble floor three times, then an imperious French voice call out something unintelligible. Wake did catch the “etats unis” part though.

“Rear Admiral Augustus Ludlow Case! Commander-in-Chief of the European Squadron, United States Navy . . . and his officers . . .” repeated the major-domo in English.

Case moved along the reception line, smiling and nodding while blissfully mangling their language, which made even Wake, with his rudimentary grasp of French, wince. As the mere flag lieutenant, Wake didn’t even join the procession—he had read the protocol rules the day before and junior officers never were introduced to the upper classes at such affairs. But after the senior Americans had gone through, a gold-bedecked French admiral beckoned him over. It was Admiral Geaugeard, head of the Conseil d’Marine and a senior officer in the French Navy.

Wake glanced nervously at his boss who had seen the gesture. The admiral eyed him with a bemused expression and nodded to go ahead. With that tacit approval, Wake greeted the Frenchman using his own atrocious French, “S’il-vous-plait, excusez-moi, mon excelencie, pour mon frances c’est très mauvais.”

Admiral Geaugeard laughed uproariously, saying in very good English, “Lieutenant Wake, it doesn’t much matter if a naval man speaks the language of these,” he disdainfully looked about, “diplomats very well, as long as he can and will do his duty—killing his country’s enemies. And from what I have heard, Lieutenant—” He looked at the Lion of the Atlas medal on Wake’s chest, “that is something you can do very well.”

Wake stammered for a second, then blurted out, “Ah, merci beaucoup, sir. I just do my duty as best I can.”

Geaugeard put a hand on Wake’s shoulder. “Enjoy the evening, Lieutenant. We are delighted you are here. I think you will have a good time.”

That confused Wake, who wasn’t used to any, let alone foreign, admirals being so hospitable to him. He said thank you again and went off to the foyer to make sure all was well.

As Wake asked the servants to take out some finger food to Rork and the American bluejackets waiting in the street, Captain Staunton summoned him from across the crowded room. To his consternation, he saw Rork standing next to the captain, looking uncomfortable. Enlisted men, even senior enlisted men like Rork, were not customarily allowed inside officers’ soirées, and Wake knew instantly that something was up. A myriad of potential problems, topped by something the shore party had done, probably to or with a French female, entered his mind. But no, Staunton was smiling, so it couldn’t be that bad. Wake had never seen Staunton smile.

“Lieutenant, I’ll need you in a moment,” said the captain as he turned toward the entry. Wake was about to ask the bosun what had happened, when Rork also faced the doorway. The major-domo’s staff pounded once, followed by a deep bass announcement.

“Consul General et Madame Henri Faber, du Consulat de France avec le Sultan du Maroc.”

Henri Faber, with Catherine looking exquisite in yellow silk, swept into the reception line, greeting familiar faces, all of whom had gossiped about them months earlier when Faber had been dismissed from the post in Genoa. Wake had no idea they were in Genoa. He felt an odd sense of relief when he saw Catherine so obviously happy on her husband’s arm. A moment later they both embraced Wake and Rork.

“We have been recalled to France temporarily, Peter,” explained Faber. “Then we go to another posting. This time as chargé d’affaires at the embassy in America, of all places. Can you believe it, my friend? Such good fortune!”

“What wonderful news, Henri. Then your leaders are . . .” Wake didn’t know how to phrase it delicately.

“Still angry with me?” offered Faber, who shrugged. “Oh, maybe just a little. But we French, even the weak-willed ones in charge, don’t like those arrogant Germans. My outburst has mostly been forgiven. Besides, the situation in Morocco came out well and they think more kindly of me now. Another chance at my career, it would seem.”

His eyes went to his wife. “And with my personal life also, Peter. The past is, as you say in English, long gone.”

Wake was happy for them, but there was certainly more to the story and he wanted to hear about it. “Congratulations to you both. Tell me—”

Rork interrupted with a harrumph and inclined his head toward the entry again. The major-domo was banging his staff again as Wake muttered, “All right, Rork, one minute. I was just—”

“Sir, look at the doorway. Now.”

Wake was suddenly aware that the ballroom had gone quiet. No music, no chatter, even the clattering of champagne glasses had stopped. A huge grin was spreading across Rork’s face but his eyes were misty. Wake glanced around. He saw Bishop Ferro there in the corner, waving to him, grinning like a maniac. Everyone in the room was grinning.

At him . . .

“Madame Linda Wake, l’ épouse de Lieutenant Peter Wake, de la Marine Americaine,” the major-domo boomed out, then repeated it in English.

Wake wasn’t listening anymore, for there was his Linda, more beautiful than he had ever seen her, like a queen in a gown of navy blue, with sapphires set in gold across her chest, on the arm of a French naval officer. The crowded drew apart, opening a path for him as Wake, eyes filling, covered the sixty feet in a trance, his mouth opening but no words emerging. It wasn’t a dream. It was really Linda.

Just as he reached her, a deafening crescendo of applause rose. The two of them held a kiss, folding into each other, caressing each other’s face, crying in disbelief and joy.

“How did you . . . ?” he choked but couldn’t finish. It had been so long, so very long. Linda anxiously touched his chest.

“We’ll talk later, Peter. There’s a lot to tell you. But first let me tell you I love you. I always have and I always will.”

The applause was fading. Someone was approaching them. Wake didn’t care.

“I love you, too, Linda. I was so scared that—”

“Don’t be scared. We’re good, dear. We’re very good.”

It was quiet again in the ballroom. Several people were next to him, but Wake only saw Linda.

“The children? Oh, God, our children?”

“They’re fine. I brought them with me. You’ll see them tonight. Later.”

“No, we’ll leave now. I want to see them.”

Linda gently caressed his cheek. “No, not now, dear. There is something we need to do here first. The admiral will explain.”

Wake turned to see Admiral Case standing with the French admiral. Rork came forward and hugged Linda, the two sharing a conspiratorial wink. Wake suddenly realized it was all planned. Everyone knew. Case was beaming at him. The crowd was pointing and smiling. Catherine and Henri’s faces crinkled in delight.

Admiral Geaugeard walked to the center of the ballroom and held up his hands. He spoke in French, then translated his words into English. “My dear friends, distinguished guests, colleagues, welcome to this honored occasion. It would appear that our guest of honor has been deceived completely—though benevolently, I can assure him. I now call upon Rear Admiral Case of the United States Navy to introduce our guest of honor.”

As the applause began again, Wake felt his knees go wobbly. He looked around him. Linda was shining with admiration. Rork was laughing. Case was calling him forward. The Royal Navy contingent, spurred on by none other than Wake’s friend Jackie Fisher who had arrived unnoticed, was cheering. The American officers were whooping and hollering. Wake walked unsteadily forward toward the French admiral.

Case bowed. “Admiral Geaugeard, we of the American Navy are honored to be here, guests of the Republic of France, humbled by our magnificent surroundings, and enchanted by your hospitality. And now, may I present Lieutenant Commander Peter Wake, of the United States Navy!”

Pandemonium broke out one more time. Wake stood there, confused over Case’s mistake on his rank, until he saw Linda walking forward with new epaulets. They were promoting him? He didn’t know why. This was a promotion party? A surprise promotion party put on by the French? That wasn’t logical.

But it was true. He was promoted. After all those years. Case, assisted by Rork, undid the pin clasps of his decade-old epaulets, tarnished from salt air and rough wear, and removed them from his shoulders. Linda handed the admiral the new ones with the golden oak leaf in the center. A moment later they were secured—Wake could have sworn they were heavier than a lieutenant’s—and Linda reached up and kissed him.

But he still wondered why all this was taking place at the French consulate? Nothing was making sense. Admiral Case whispered for Wake to close his mouth and stand up straight—he wasn’t a junior officer anymore. Geaugeard spread his arms and called for silence.

“And now that Lieutenant Commander Wake is properly attired, we may proceed with the most important—” he bowed toward the Americans, “from the French point of view—aspect of our gathering here this evening. Lieutenant Commander Peter Wake, please step forward.”

A nudge from Admiral Case got him started, and Wake stepped two paces into the center of the room. Admiral Geaugeard’s tone deepened.

“Innocent citizens of the Republic of France, Christian missionaries who had ventured forth into the wilderness to bring healing medicine and knowledge to the world, recently found themselves victims of terror by merciless brigands in the wastelands of northern Africa. . . .”

As the admiral went on images appeared in Wake’s mind—that initial audience with Sultan Hassan, the whirling dance of Sokhoor in the firelight on the mountain, trudging across that empty shimmering desert, the eyes of that cobra during its dance of death, the suffocating heat of the slave crates, and the red-hot pain in his chest as he was shot by Falah’s men. He knew his hand was shaking and hoped it didn’t show, that Linda couldn’t tell. The French admiral mentioned his name.

“ . . . and when Lieutenant Peter Wake offered his services to assist in the search, little did he know what it would eventually cost him in blood, horror, and pain. He received grievous wounds while leading the captives’ escape and fight against the Devil-worshiping fiends that were transporting them into slavery. But the result was most certainly worth his sacrifices and travails. For most of the hostages, including two Americans, were rescued, and one of them, the lovely Madame Catherine Faber, is here today.”

Catherine came forward and kissed him on both cheeks, the guests gushing and clapping. Wake gritted his jaw, for he knew he was losing control, as he almost had at the goodbye at Rabat. Here were the two women of his life, one his love and the other his dear friend. It was almost too much for him. Henri came up with Rork, who put a steadying hand on his shoulder.

Geaugeard continued. “So, by the authority of the President of France, I have the privilege of bestowing on a son of America—the republic which showed the people of France that liberty and equality were indeed the rights of man—the highest honor that France can bestow. This is the honor first established by that most sainted son of France, Napoleon Bonaparte, on the nineteenth of May, in the year eighteen-oh-two, and it is still the award to which many aspire and all respect.”

He paused for effect. “And now . . . I hereby proclaim that Lieutenant Commander Peter Wake, of the United States Navy, is awarded the La Légion d’Honneur, rank of Chevalier!”

An honor guard of French naval officers marched out to the beat of drummers, wheeled right and stamped to a stop before Wake and the admiral. With a clicking of heels and a flourishing salute, the senior officer of the guard presented Geaugeard with a blue-satin-lined shadow box, then carried it for him as they both stood before Wake.

The admiral held up the medal for all to see, eliciting a hush from the crowd. The white-enameled cluster star, on the center of which was embossed Honneur et Patrie, was below a blue-enameled oak wreath, the entire medal suspended by a red ribbon. Linda held her breath at the sight and Catherine cried. Wake was speechless.

“This medal, long known for its value among brave men, hereby welcomes another to its brotherhood of honor.” Geaugeard pinned it on the left side of Wake’s uniform, above his medal from the sultan of Morocco.

The crowd thundered its approval. Wake knew he had to say something, but he wasn’t prepared, couldn’t even think straight. Besides, he felt that he didn’t deserve it. Sokhoor and Faber and Rork, yes, but not him. All he did was get shot.

He managed to get out, “Merci beaucoup. Merci.”

The musicians struck up an old French army marching song, La Marseillaise, since the Franco-Prussian War the new anthem of the republic, and the French in the ballroom sang it lustily as people closed in around Wake, shaking his hand, offering congratulations, patting his shoulders, asking questions in half a dozen tongues. Wake tried to be polite and answer, but there were too many people and his wounds began to ache, then throb. He became separated from Linda and the others, finally seeing her in the distance talking with Catherine. They were standing closely, speaking intimately.

Someone shuffled Wake over to a flag display where he was presented to a new dignitary and a photograph was taken. A moment later a champagne flute was put in his hand and he was expected to give a toast, but only said “Merci” again, to wild applause. Music started and a woman asked Wake to dance, a man asked him to dance with his wife, but he just wanted Linda. He needed to have her close. Then Admiral Case asked him to come to a quiet corner, for there was another matter they needed to cover.

Rork cleared the way with his body toward an alcove, where Wake and Case sat on a couch. The admiral was concise. “Your work is done with this squadron, Peter. You and your family are going back home to America. You’ve been overdue for shore duty for sometime. That’s being rectified by the powers that be in Washington. In fact, that’s where you’re heading, Commander—Washington Naval Yard. Seems that you’re wanted there.”

“Sir, all of this. I don’t know what to say, Admiral, except thank you.”

“No, son, it’s I who gets to thank you. You went into a terrible situation, endured unspeakable experiences, and came out with victory, making our country smell like a rose. You gained us prestige with those Moroccan Arabs, and gratitude with the French—not an easy outcome in the very best of times. Hell, Wake, you even made me look good on this.”

“Admiral, I thought maybe I’d done something wrong. And now all this. And Linda. Did you know she was coming, sir?

Case grinned. “Of course I did! Why do you think we had to delay this shindig? She was late in getting here and that set us back. She’s been heading here for two months, since we got word you survived and were coming out of the desert. Hell, half the naval know-it-alls of France came here tonight, just to see the grand surprise. We did get you, though, didn’t we, son?”

“That you did, sir. That you did. I had no idea.” Wake abruptly remembered the snickering in the wardroom, Rork’s odd expressions. “Rork! The bosun knew too?”

“That he did, the old rascal. The Irish make great conspirators. I’m one too, you know. It’s in our bones.”

***

Linda’s arm was wrapped around his waist as they climbed up to the seat in the open carriage for the ride to her hotel. Wake had no clue as to how she had paid the way to Europe for herself and the two children, and he didn’t ask. That could come later. He just wanted to revel in the magic of her being there with him, on the other side of the world.

“Happy birthday, dear.”

Wake shook himself out of his reverie. “What?”

“Peter, it’s June twenty-sixth, your thirty-fifth birthday. Good Lord, you can’t have forgotten that!”

He had forgotten completely. “Thinking about everything else, dear. But it’s been a great birthday. Incredible.”

They rode along the bay front, dimmed gaslights across the city allowing the stars to show in the moonless night. The warm summer breeze and night sounds of the city accompanied by the horse’s lazy hoof beat. Linda snuggled close to him and was so soft. He breathed in her perfume, caressed her hair and let the awful memories of the ShaaTaan Taalib and its terror mastermind fade away.

“She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?”

“Who?” he asked, but he understood her question.

“The lady you rescued, Peter. Your friend Catherine. Who else would I be talking about, silly? She’s very nice. We talked and she told me you met her in the West Indies, then she and her husband in Italy, and then you helped to track her down and rescue her in Africa. An amazing story, Peter. She’s quite an admirer of yours. Said I was lucky to have a gentleman like you. Described what you went through, but stayed sane and decent throughout it all. She called it ‘an affair of honor,’ but I got the feeling she meant more than the part in Africa.”

His mind went to that New Year’s Eve on Martinique. Was it only six months ago? It felt like a lifetime ago.

“Catherine’s a good person and a friend, and yes, she’s beautiful. We were lucky to be able to save her and most of the others. Her husband saved my life.” He saw Linda still looking at him quizzically. “And yes, our friendship was, and is, an affair of honor. No problem there, dear.”

She held him tighter, neither saying anything further. It was such a wonderful evening he didn’t want the drive to end, so when they reached the hotel he promised the driver an extra hundred lira to take a slow drive into the hills so they could overlook the city lights below, telling Linda that the children were surely asleep anyway and that he’d kiss them in the morning.

As they crested the top of one of the hills surrounding the city to the north, Linda pointed to the northwest sky. “Oh Peter, just look at that! Have you ever seen anything like that?”

Wake was awestruck. “No. I’m not sure anyone has, Linda.”

Low above the Maritime Alps in the distance, across the inky black void just to the right of Cassiopeia and the constellation Camelopardalis, was a brilliant blaze of amber fire covering fully sixty degrees of sky across the northern horizon. It was the most incredible comet Wake had witnessed or heard about—so bright and huge as to be unreal.

Then Sokhoor’s final words came to him. “Peter, you’re shaking, shaking badly. Darling, are you all right? What is it?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Just remembering what a friend told me when I left Africa. He said that Allah would soon show me a cosmic celebration in gratitude and that everything would be better for me. Somehow he knew.”

Linda held his trembling hands and saw tears in his eyes as he stood and looked away to the southern horizon, over the dark Mediterranean—toward Africa.

“Shukran bezzef, Sokhoor. As-salaamu alaikum,” he murmured.

Wake sat back down and told the driver to take them to their hotel. Pulling her closer, he kissed Linda slowly, savoring her taste, her scent, the feel of her body.

“What was that you said, Peter?”

“Just a thank-you to my friend Sokhoor. I asked that peace be upon him.”

Wake decided then that Linda never needed to know the horrors he had seen and been through—she’d been through enough herself, trying to raise a family alone, wondering where her husband was and if he was even alive. He thought of Sokhoor again—Porro et Sursum. It was time to look forward.

Under the light of the comet Peter and Linda’s bodies molded to each other under the carriage blanket. There was so much he wanted to ask, to say, but it wasn’t the right moment. Stroking Linda’s soft auburn hair, holding her in his arms, he knew everything was all right now. They were going to make it.

Words weren’t needed anymore.