He moved awkwardly, not because of her question but because his cloak scraped against his scarred skin. He would never get used to this feeling of being sewn into a suit that was too small for him. He pushed one of the wooden beads. It glided silently along the wire and crashed against the frame.
He was tormented by more than his deformities. The horrific images of the bombardment haunted him as clearly and vividly as if he had escaped the inferno yesterday and not many years ago. He could still hear the earsplitting crash of the cannonballs, the impact of the incendiary projectile that swallowed his screams of fear. He could still feel the sand and dust, mortars and small rocks raining down on him, and he still had to force himself not to fall on his knees and whimper, covering his head with his arms whenever the air around him shimmered with heat or smelled of gunpowder and sulfur.
His fingers clenched the wooden frame of the abacus.
“Where have you been all these years?” Sibylla asked. “Why did you never get in touch or come back?”
“Be quiet!” He spun around, making his cloak fly, and she flinched. “Do you want to make me believe that you’ve missed me? Don’t bother. I know that you let that Frenchman kiss away your tears before even the first month of mourning had passed. I know that and then some!”
She clutched the edge of her desk and shuddered to think that Emily might enter at any moment to find out what was taking so long. She did not even want to imagine what Benjamin might do if he discovered Emily and began asking questions.
But for now, Benjamin was not asking anything. He was absorbed in memories. Almost a whole year of darkness lay between his old life as the respected businessman Benjamin Hopkins and his new existence as a nobody disfigured by fire. This new life had begun with unspeakable pain in the naval hospital in Gibraltar. Military doctors and nurses had told him what he no longer remembered: that French soldiers had found him lying on the beach after the bombardment. Unconscious, naked, and covered in terrible burns, he was found between two dead French soldiers. The French had taken him for one of theirs, carried him on board one of their warships, and transported him with other casualties to Gibraltar. He had been expected to die, but—to the great astonishment of all—he had grimly clung to the little bit of life left in him.
By the time he was finally better and the physicians cautiously began speaking of survival, he knew that he would have to start a completely new life. If he returned to Morocco, he would surely be arrested again. So he caught a ship headed to London, went underground in the large city, and built a small import-and-export business. His talent as a businessman was all he had left. He did well in his business and could have lived undisturbed until the end of his days. But thoughts of the fortune hidden away under a sundial in Mogador ate at him. Only after twenty years had he finally summoned the strength and courage to retrieve it.
“You could have come back, Benjamin.” Sibylla’s voice intruded into his reminiscences. “I had gone to see Abd al-Rahman, don’t you remember? He pardoned you. You were free!”
The ground under his feet swayed as Benjamin realized that he had been living in hiding for nothing.
“Is that true?” he asked flatly. “You really convinced the sultan all by yourself?”
“Well, I had help.” She thought of André.
“Yes, right!” he sneered. “You went with Rouston to see the sultan. And I’m quite sure you compensated him generously for his support.”
“How dare you?”
“Why so virtuous all of a sudden, my dear?” The hem of his djellaba undulated through the air as he took a quick step toward her. “You mean it’s not true, what everyone in Mogador is saying?”
Sibylla was speechless as he went on. “That you squandered my gold by giving it to these good-for-nothing Moors? That you had houses, schools, and even a water-supply system built for those who had me arrested? I wouldn’t have thought that you were so stupid and sentimental.”
Benjamin struck the desk angrily with his fists. Oh, how he had dug, first with a shovel, then with his bare hands, only to discover that everything was gone, that not a single gold sovereign was left under his sundial! Afterward, he had returned to the tiny room he had rented in the fondouk and sat and brooded until he realized that only Sibylla could have found his gold. He himself had given her a clue during her visit to his cell on the Island of Mogador when he had asked her how much money Qaid Hash-Hash’s soldiers had found and where they had searched. The bitch must have turned the whole house upside down until she had finally found it.
“You were the intruder in my house!” she whispered. “You wanted to retrieve your bloody slave gold.”
He gave her a hateful look. “Enough talk! Let’s get down to business: How do you plan to compensate me for my loss?”
Sibylla desperately searched for an answer, an escape from this nightmare. Then she recalled the weapon in the desk drawer: André’s old service revolver that he had given her for protection in a warehouse chockful of valuable merchandise. If she could get ahold of it, she would be able to keep Benjamin at bay and yell for Emily to summon help. It was risky, but it was her only chance. Her fingers felt for the drawer handle. When she pulled it, the wood creaked. She froze, but Benjamin, still basking in his triumph, had apparently heard nothing.
“I want 16,625 English gold sovereigns! And not one penny less. Consider yourself lucky that I’m not charging interest. Borrow the money from the Toledanos or one of the other moneylenders in town. You have until tomorrow morning.”
Sibylla carefully slipped her right hand into the drawer until her fingers made contact with cold metal.
“Why only until tomorrow morning?” she asked to stall him.
“That’s when my ship leaves.”
“Your ship?” She almost let go of the revolver in surprise.
“If everything had gone according to plan, I would be long gone. I’m stuck here only because you had to give away my gold. But at least I learned a few interesting things while I waited.” He shook his head slowly to mock her. “Tsk, tsk, tsk, Sibylla, who knew you were so wanton! You let that Frenchman knock you up and then had people believe the bastard was mine.” He gloated over her shocked expression. “Surprised, are you, Sibylla? For a few dirham, people will tell you all kinds of things. For example, that Rouston had trouble with some Berbers. In exchange for some weapons, they were happy to attack his estate and shoot your brat. I’m sure you can understand I couldn’t have you passing her off as my child with all of Mogador—from the qaid to the beggars by the city gate—laughing about how I was cuckolded!” He smirked. He had waited so long for his revenge, had imagined it a thousand times, but now the reality of it was even sweeter than he had hoped.