by James R Benn
"I gotta be honest, sir. It has absolutely nothing to do with it. I think Kaz is in danger here and that Villard is behind the killings and theft. I say Bône is our best bet."
I must've really been tired. I gave away the lie by saying I was going to be honest. But Harding hadn't sat through as many police interrogations as I had, and he didn't know that was usually the big tip-off. If you're honest, there's no need to announce the fact.
* * *
Chapter Thirteen
HARDING BOUGHT IT, because half an hour later we had Kaz bundled into the jeep, with a supply of penicillin for the next five days, strict instructions for him to see a medic every day for his shot and to get his dressing changed, and a story ready for Colonel Walton about following up promising leads. Dunbar had checked Kaz out and pronounced him fit to travel. Rita had kissed Kaz goodbye and told him to come back and see her in four days to have the stitches removed. I'd seen Harding and Gloria Morgan whispering about something, maybe catching up on changes to the Army field manual since they last parted company. We were headed back to the St. George Hotel and now all I had to do was find a way to get to Bône from there. I reminded myself that Bône was still beyond our front lines, and might be defended by Vichy troops or even Germans, if they had already reached the town. Or both. I thought it might be time to inquire as to the progress of the war.
"Are we still shooting at the Vichies, Major?" I asked as I drove as carefully as I could to keep Kaz from bumping his arm. The road outside the hospital was rough hard packed gravel and sand that sent jolts through the jeep even at twenty miles an hour. A hot breeze blew dust at our backs and the sand hitting the back of my neck felt like sandpaper on soft pine.
"Not around here," Harding said, turning up his collar. "Darlan surrendered all French forces in the Algiers area; the French troops are in their barracks under orders not to resist. It's a mixed bag outside of Algiers. First, Darlan ordered all French forces in North Africa not to resist us. Then Petain overruled him, but before Darlan could countermand his orders we arrested him. Right now everything's quiet in and around Algiers. There's some fighting in Oran and we don't know what to expect when we move east toward Tunisia. Reports are in that the Germans are landing there and the French are not opposing them."
"They fired on us when we came to liberate them from the Germans, but they let the Germans in to fight us?"
Harding nodded. "It's a crazy war so far. A lot of civilian rebels were freed when the fighting in Algiers stopped, but others still haven't been released. I heard that Colonel Baril has been arrested," Harding said, his jaw clenching.
"I'm sorry, Major. He seemed like a good guy."
"The best. We need to get this mess straightened out, fast. There's no time to play politics here while the Germans are forming up against us."
"I'm afraid you may find politics are not that easy to get away from," said Kaz from the back seat. "There are the Vichy politicians, the French army, the Arabs, all wanting something. General Eisenhower will have to accommodate them if he wishes to move against the Germans rapidly." He grimaced as we hit a pothole.
"Why?" I asked, downshifting to take a corner as slowly as I could.
"He can either garrison this country with his army…" Kaz stopped and hung on as we rounded the bend.
"… or keep the Vichy structure in place to govern it for him so the army can fight," he finished.
"What about de Gaulle and the Free French? Why don't we let them take over?"
"You saw how most French officers here feel about following orders," Harding explained. "To them de Gaulle is an opportunist who disobeyed the lawful orders of his government when he kept on fighting. Darlan hates him, Giraud thinks de Gaulle should report to him… There'd be a civil war if we brought the Free French in."
"And then there are the Arabs," Kaz added, with a sharp gasp as I hit another bump.
"Sorry, Kaz. What about them?"
"You may have noticed that there are quite a few of them here," Kaz said.
"You're a funny guy. So, what, are the natives restless?"
"Some want independence, but most want stability. They are conservative, and for the most part go along with the right-wing Vichy policies. Like repression of the Jews. The Vichy government has stripped Jews in North Africa of their French citizenship. That made many friends for them among the Arabs."
"Isn't that the kind of thing we're supposed to be fighting against?" I asked, knowing that I sounded like a naive schoolkid as soon as I spoke.
"We're supposed to be fighting, and defeating, the Axis powers. That's Germany and Italy in Europe," Harding said. "If we stop along the way to make everything right in North Africa we might never get to Berlin. We may need to leave the Vichy structure in place so we can move through Algeria quickly and take Tunisia before Rommel gets there."
"Wait a minute! The Vichies are the bad guys, remember? The collaborators, the ones shooting at us. Are we going to leave a bunch of junior-league fascists like them in power?" I was almost yelling, and had to relax my grip on the steering wheel as the road curved slightly and we entered a residential area, palm trees and green bushes casting welcome lines of shade in front of us.
"It may come to that, or face a civil war in our rear areas. Or an Arab revolt, which the Germans would be only too glad to foment," Kaz said. "Welcome to the world of European politics, Billy."
"Major, he can't be right, can he?" I asked. Harding didn't say a word. I wanted to be reassured that we were the good guys, not pawns in some power play that let killers and thieves stay on top while guys like Colonel Baril rotted in jail and Georgie and Jerome did the same in the ground. I drove as slowly as I could toward the setting sun as we passed a column of trucks heading out of Algiers. Dust choked the road as the deuce and a halfs, crammed with GIs, headed for the front. I hoped none of them had someone along explaining the intricacies of French politics. It would confuse things when the bullets started flying.
The last truck rolled by and we drove out of the dust, into the city.
A cool breeze came off the water as I turned down a side street toward the hotel. I slowed at a curve and glanced back at Kaz to be sure he was all right. The windscreen cracked in front of me as I heard a sharp noise and felt something tug at my sleeve. Harding was pulling out his automatic and saying something I couldn't understand. I tried to take in what was happening. I heard the noise again, a shot. I swerved hard to the right, driving down an alley between two buildings. At the end of a driveway I saw a wooden gate between two houses and I floored it. I had no plans to be caught in a dead-end ambush. Hot steam was gushing from the engine and pouring over the shattered windshield as we headed for the gate.
"Hang on!" I yelled as we hit the gate with a thud and it toppled off its hinges. The jeep went over it with a jolt that made Kaz yell, so I knew he was still alive. I drove like a maniac until we reached the next street with two solid rows of houses between the shooter and us. Steam and water hissed out of the engine and there were shards of glass all over the floorboards.
"Kaz, are you all right?" I asked.
"Yes, Billy," he said, grasping his bad arm and gritting his teeth. He looked around as Harding jumped out, holstered his automatic, and pulled a Thompson from under the seat. I was still gripping the steering wheel. I felt the blood drain from my face. The evening was cool but I started to sweat. I looked at the windscreen. A bullet had struck the metal frame where it joined the window, leaving a half-moon hole in the frame and shattered glass inside the jeep. I got up slowly, making sure I wouldn't fall flat on my face. My hands were shaking and my legs felt like jelly.
"Billy," Kaz said, "look at your right shoulder."
There was a neat hole in my Parsons jacket, beneath my lieutenant's bar. Two neat holes, actually, one in and one out, right where the fabric was bunched up at the seam. I stuck my finger in one and wiggled it out the other.
"Damn close," Harding said. "The second shot hit the engine, so he could pick us
off when the jeep stopped. Good thinking, Boyle, to take that turn."
A nod was about all I could manage. Someone had tried to kill me. Me, not just any dogface, but me in particular. Me.
"Let's go," Harding said. "We can hoof it to the hotel. We're not hanging around here." He grabbed his gear and I took the keys. I helped Kaz out of the back seat and we followed Harding down the road. I looked back to see a bunch of Arab kids appear from behind houses and doors and gather around the jeep, which was still leaking steam and water. I should've taken the jack. Those tires would be history as soon as we turned the corner. It was kind of comforting, sort of like being back home, in the wrong neighborhood.
As we took a left and came to the next intersection, Harding held up his hand. We stopped. Across the street, the same street we had been driving down, there was a low stone wall encircling a small park. Inside was a water fountain, palm trees, and a bunch of green, shady plants, with nice chalk-white benches to sit on. Very peaceful. At the corner, the wall made a right angle and then there was an entrance from the street. We followed Harding at a trot as he made for it. In the distance I could hear someone laying on the jeep's horn. Kids will be kids. Kaz and I caught up as Harding pointed the Thompson over the wall, glancing in each direction.
"No one home," he said. "This was where he hid. Look at this." He pointed to some branches that had recently been snapped. I looked down on the other side of the wall and could see where the ground had been scuffed up.
"Yep," I said. "He had a clear line of fire once he got those branches out of the way. He had us in his sights as soon as we turned the corner. He should have waited a few seconds longer for a better shot."
"Billy," Kaz said, "please do not offer these hints to anyone. I have no wish to give this renegade Vichy a second chance."
"This was no fascist renegade, Kaz," I said as I ran my hand over the ground.
"How do you know that?" he asked. "There are still many Vichy French who do not wish to fight for the Allies."
"We did expect some trouble when we agreed to the cease-fire,'' Harding said. "The French troops still have weapons. One of them with a grudge could have slipped out, taken a potshot, and then gone back to his barracks."
"How many times has that happened?"
"None that I know of," admitted Harding. "But with thousands of
French soldiers in this city who were shooting at us a day ago, any- thing's possible."
"Well," I said, "how many soldiers in this war take away their shell casings after a firefight?" I could see Kaz's eyes widen. Harding looked at the bare ground where the shooter had been, still puzzled.
"It's a professional habit. Not of soldiers but of hired killers," I said. "Hit men don't leave anything behind to link them to the murder."
"Murder? In the middle of a war?" Harding asked.
"Best time for it," I said. "Now let's get some food."
* * *
Chapter Fourteen
WE ATE IN A mess tent outside the hotel as the sun set and breezes coming off the Mediterranean cooled the evening air. I wolfed down beef stew and rye bread until I had caught up with my two missed meals. Looking up at the palm fronds swaying in the slight wind I remembered how they had looked from the roof of the hotel. Was that only last night? Last night Joe Casselli and Jerome Dupree had both been alive. Had either of them realized it would be their final night on earth? Had they felt the cool breezes before they died?
Most murders are unfair and unequal struggles. A few you can make sense of, but usually it's greed or brutality that causes someone to kill another human being, whether out of sudden rage or studied calculation. There was something much more than unfair about Joe and Jerome's murders. Something was very wrong, upside down, as if the rules had suddenly changed and no one had bothered to tell them. In a war, there's enough chance for a guy to get killed, even a supply sergeant or a college kid caught up in the thrill of plots and revolts. But to be murdered for what? A notebook? Drugs? In a hospital, where they had the right to feel safe and secure? It wasn't right. If they had been killed in the air raid, it would have part of the deal, part of the war. But they had lived through that, only to become victims of some two-bit drug racketeers.
A gust of wind kicked up and the palm trees swished loudly for a few seconds before the fronds dropped silently back in place. I started to wonder how I would know if this were my last night alive, and what I would do differently if I did. Lots of thoughts passed through my mind, but they all seemed petty and childish. Not to say lewd. Maybe it's better not to know, and to go on doing whatever seems important.
That was all the deep thinking I had time for. Harding had organized a room for the three of us, on account of Kaz's wound and the fact that we'd be sitting ducks sleeping in a hallway, even inside the headquarters hotel. Kaz got the bed, Harding took the couch, and I fell asleep in my boots on top of a sleeping bag on the floor, in front of the door. Like a good guard dog.
I woke up with a groan, and twisted around to get more comfortable. The floor was as unforgiving as a nun with a ruler. Kaz was sitting up in bed, sunlight streaming in through the open bay windows. Harding was gone. He would've had to step over me and open the door right in my face. I guess this sleeping dog had been best left to lie.
"Where's Harding?" I asked. I yawned and grimaced at the same time I tried to straighten up.
"He left near dawn. He ordered me to rest, and I decided it was an order worth following. He said he'd be back by nine o'clock with something for you to do."
"Great. Let me get washed up and I'll get some breakfast for us from the mess tent."
"No need, Billy," Kaz said with a smile as he gestured toward the old-fashioned ornate telephone on the bedstand. "The hotel is still operating and room service is quite dependable. I ordered breakfast which should be here any moment."
"Room service?"
"Billy, just because one is wounded on the African continent in the midst of a war, there is no justification for eating powdered eggs when there are more civilized alternatives. I did have to promise a substantial tip, nearly a bribe, really, but it should be worth it."
"Room service," I mumbled to myself as I unlaced my boots and shuffled off to the bathroom. "What a war."
When I returned, a room service cart had been rolled up to the edge of Kaz's bed. Shiny silverware and real china was laid out for us and we ate eggs benedict, hot rolls, figs, and grapes washed down with sweet black coffee. Or I should say I did. Kaz picked at his food, worked at keeping up chatter about everything and nothing. He was going through the motions of being himself without putting his head into it. That didn't stop me from gobbling up everything on my plate including the figs, which I had never seen before. I was just starting to feel human again when Harding walked in.
"Why am I not surprised?" he said, looking at the room service cart as he helped himself to coffee.
"You said I should rest, Major," Kaz said with a faint smile.
"I'm glad to see my subordinates are following orders," Harding said, gulping his coffee from a china cup. "Now, Lieutenant Kazimierz, a British doctor will come this morning to check your wound and give you your shot. If he says you're up to it, tomorrow I want you to see whatyou can find out about organized crime here in Algiers. Find out if Villard: and Bessette are involved. Ask who's working the black market. Don't strain yourself, just talk to people, especially your Agency Africa contacts."
"Shouldn't I take that assignment, Major?" I said. "The Vichy cops are more likely to talk to another cop, even if he's an American. Kaz could come along to translate for me."
"I've got another job for you, Boyle. First, we go back to the 21st General Hospital and you question everyone who might be involved in the murders and the drug heist. Lean on them, see if you can shake things up. They won't expect that after we beat feet out of there, so maybe someone will become nervous and run to the smugglers."
"What do we do second?"
"Second, you take a boat t
rip. To Bône."
"When?" I nearly shouted, quickly remembering to add "sir" in a normal voice.
"You'll leave late tonight, from a Motor Torpedo Boat base about twenty kilometers east of here. British MTBs are going into the harbor at Bône with two destroyers to land the 6th Commando. A battalion of paratroopers will be dropped over the airfield later in the day to capture it. We don't think there are any Vichy combat units in the area, but we can't be sure and don't know if they'll fight if they're there. You go in on one of the MTBs, with a two-man shore escort-a translator and someone to protect you."
"Do we know where the Vichy supply depot is?"
Harding pulled out a map of the Algerian coast around Bône, and spread it out on the bed, covering Kaz's legs. It had a city street map in one corner and just off the dock area was a gray square marked "Le Dépot de Provision."
"Looks like less than a kilometer from where you'll land," said I larding, pointing to a spot just above Kaz's knee.
"Major, I need the Commandos to seal off that area. If Villard's still there-"
"Whoa, hold your horses, Lieutenant," Harding cut in. He poured some more coffee and walked to the open bay window, looking out over the rooftops. "Do you have any idea what it took to get permission for you to go along on this mission? It's a British show, not ours. I had to call in a few chips just to get you on that boat, so forget about anything else. The Commandos are tasked to take the harbor and ensure none of the facilities are destroyed. The paratroops are taking the airfield for an advanced fighter base, which we need very badly."
"Yessir. Understood." What I understood was that I was going into Vichy territory with two other guys to find a renegade smuggler who had enough troops to hold Diana and twenty-four others hostage. Great.
"Good. Do you have the address of that bar? We can mark it on the map."
I picked up my Parsons jacket, feeling the scorched holes near the collar, and rummaged through the pockets until I found the match- book. I flipped it over, opened it up, but no address. Just the name and phone number. I shook my head. I held it in my hand and looked at the matches. I thought back to the last time I'd used one, to light Gloria's cigarette. Casselli and I had been racing to give her a light. Then I felt those holes again.