The First Wave

by James R Benn

  I had seen honor among thieves, so I knew it existed. But not today, not here, not with this guy. I told Willoughby to give Dunbar half a dozen syrettes and tell him he'd get a lot more tomorrow. Dunbar could take the six samples with him and find a buyer. I was betting that he already had the buyer and was working Willoughby, hooking him with the idea of a one-time heist with no intention of stopping at that. If I was right, I had the connection I needed. If not, then I had a couple of small-time punks.

  It sounded like a plan. Just what I liked, a plan, a suspect, clues, the works. The only problem was that I wasn't any closer to finding Diana.

  I had to be sure to get back here and meet Harding at four o'clock to get to the MTB base in time for my little jaunt. If this lead didn't pan out by mid-afternoon, I'd leave Dunbar with his six syrettes and take off. Willoughby, I had other plans for.

  * * *

  Chapter Sixteen

  A PHONE CALL AND a jeep ride later I was standing in a narrows dusty passageway near the entrance to the Kasbah, the Arab marketplace in the center of Algiers. As we neared the market, French shops had begun to give way to Arab shops and the streets narrowed, with an ancient feel to them, as if the centuries were looking down on us. Kaz stood beside me, looking chipper in a khaki sling that matched his tropical British battledress. I looked like a rumpled colonial country cousin in comparison. Arabs swirled around us, their robes and turbans dazzling in all sorts of bright colors. They looked exotic and colorful, until they got close. A glance and a whiff revealed the robes to be filthy and smelly. Flies buzzed around my head and then I figured out what the turbans were for.

  A civilian in a dark suit approached us.

  "This could be him," Kaz whispered to me. He had set up a meeting with one of the Agency Africa agents that the Polish government-in-exile operated. Kaz, with his sling, was easy to spot and his contact had given him a recognition code to exchange. The guy in the suit stopped in front of us. He had a black mustache, a couple of day's growth of beard, and blue eyes that darted everywhere, checking doorways and exits. He and Kaz exchanged some French I didn't catch, then shook hands and spoke quietly in Polish for a few seconds.

  "Billy," Kaz said, "this is Vincent. He's lived in Algiers ten years, and knows where certain commodities are bought and sold in the Kasbah."

  "Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant. I am glad to be of service."

  His English was good, very precise but spoken slowly, as if he was thinking about how to say the next few words.

  "Vincent, thanks for coming. The guy we're watching for is another American lieutenant, a doctor. He has a small amount of morphine to sell, with the promise of more to follow. He may or may not have a buyer lined up. Any idea where he'd start?"

  "There are a few obvious places. He is in great danger though, if he asks openly about buying or selling drugs. One must be introduced by the right people."

  "Who are the right people?"

  "There are several. The Sicilians are represented in the Algiers underworld. There are two major French crime families, as well. The Grimauds have connections with the nomadic Arabs and deal in smuggling and caravans from the interior. The Bessettes run the docks and-"

  "Bessettes? As in Captain Henri Bessette?" I asked.

  "Yes, he is part of that family. He used to be a colonel in France, they say, but was demoted and sent back here in disgrace after killing a man. It could not be proved, but the army was not pleased. It is rumored he bribed his way to a staff position here."

  "Well, it seems he may be working on his retirement plan. He hasn't stopped killing people either. I saw him bash a French officer's head in a couple of nights ago."

  "Bessette's family owns a carpet business. It is his trademark. We know about Captain Pierre Labaule's death. He made the mistake of being an honest man, and reporting the corruption he found. Follow me."

  Vincent took us to a seedy little bar on a side street just off the main marketplace. There were a few tables outside, shaded by a covering arcade. It was cool, and we had a good view of the square. Vincent spoke to the Arab waiter and in a few minutes three glasses of hot mint tea appeared.

  "The Arabs believe hot sweet tea will cool you on a hot day," Vincent explained. "I've come to agree with them. Try it; it is very refreshing."

  "Look, Vincent, I'm sure the tea's great, but shouldn't we be looking for Dunbar?"

  "We are," he answered, keeping his eyes on the square as he sipped his tea. "Watch that stall, the one with the red awning at the end of the row. They sell Arab knives and metalwork, but their main business is distributing drugs."

  "Do you think Dunbar will show up there?"

  "It is very possible. This is a small-time operation, run by Arabs, the Tabriz brothers. They do business with all the organized crime gangs, including the Bessettes. If your doctor asks around in the Kasbah, this is where he would be sent."

  "Why?"

  "Because if he is with the military police, then no one will care if the Tabriz brothers are arrested. It won't make trouble for the Sicilians or for the French mob. Also, one of them speaks English. It is my best guess. In any event, if Doctor Dunbar has a meeting set up with any of the main crime families, then we would not be able to follow him. Not if we are concerned with staying alive."

  "It's a big concern of mine, Vincent, but I don't have a lot of time."

  "You are speaking to a man who has lived the last ten years of his life in Algiers, Lieutenant Boyle. I have learned here that we all have the same amount of time." He smiled thinly and sipped his tea, eyes darting across the square. I decided not to debate the nature of time with Vincent and drank my tea. It was pretty good, but it didn't cool me off. I guess it took a few years here to achieve that effect. I wondered how long the war was going to last and if I'd still be in North Africa in a couple of years, an old hand with strange acquired habits, still very far from home.

  I tried to not keep looking at my watch, but I couldn't help it. After about the twentieth time, I looked up to see a U.S. Army officer walking among the stalls. He had blond hair like Dunbar's under his fore and aft cap, but I couldn't make out his face or rank. He was wearing a khaki uniform jacket with big pockets, just right for carrying half a dozen small cardboard boxes.

  "That could be him," Kaz said before I could.

  "If he comes this way, Vincent, we'll duck into the bar and you keep an eye on him," I said as I strained to see between the stalls and awnings in the marketplace. He turned toward us and I could see his face clearly. It was Dunbar, and he was looking over his shoulder, like a guy carrying stolen drugs in a bad part of town.

  "It's him," I said as Kaz threw some francs down on the table and we got up to follow at a distance.

  "Wait," Vincent said, holding up his hand to keep us back. "He is being followed, see there?" Two bull-necked guys in dark, dusty suits were trailing Dunbar, stopping to look at a stall full of dates or nuts or grapes every time Dunbar looked around. I couldn't tell if they were French or Arab, but one thing was for certain, they weren't there for the fruit.

  An Arab kid ran up to Dunbar and said something, pointing to an alleyway at the end of the square. He nodded and dropped some coins into the kid's palm. He went off toward the alley with the two goons in his wake. It's amazing how a guy smart enough to be a doctor can be dumb enough to get in a fix like this.

  "He's being hustled," I said, "let's go."

  "I must leave you now," Vincent said. "I cannot be involved any further. Your friend Doctor Dunbar is not a very clever drug dealer."

  "He's neither. Thanks, Vincent." I heard Kaz say goodbye-or who knows what-in Polish as I trotted across the square, trying not to be noticed by the two big guys whose backs were just disappearing into the dark alleyway.

  The sound of a big meaty fist smashing into a ribcage is really unpleasant, but I knew I'd rather hear it than feel it. It came from inside a doorway in the alley, and was followed by a loud thud, a groan, and a yell. I made it to the alley in time for
someone to throw Dunbar onto the ground. I could hear the door slam as he fell against me, knocking me down, too. I had my hand on my.45, but there was no one else around except Kaz, a few paces behind me. He pulled Dunbar off me and leaned him up against the wall. The doctor's eye was puffing up and he held his ribs, wincing every time he drew a breath.

  "Boyle… what are you…" That was all he could manage. I gave him the once-over. No broken bones. He had gotten a nice professional beating. No blood on the bad guy's hands, lots of close-in work to the torso. He'd have cracked ribs at the least. No syrettes in his pockets, and no wallet. No shoes, either. That made me laugh.

  "Doc, you are one goddamn dumb Barney."

  Dunbar moaned.

  "Barney?" Kaz asked. "Is that American slang for a doctor?"

  "No, it's strictly a Boston term. We call the Harvard boys Barneys, because of the trolley barns that used to be near the university. And this chowderhead is the dumbest Barney I've ever come across."

  "The Arab boy… he was supposed to…" Dunbar stopped to wince again.

  "He was supposed to take you to meet someone who would buy your drugs," I said, trying to finish the sentence for him.

  "Oh God," Dunbar wailed, "what have I done?" He started crying.

  "For starters, stolen U.S. Army property and conspired to sell it for personal profit."

  His face went white. Tears were still streaming out of the corners of his eyes, but he seemed too stunned to take notice. Before I could say anything else, he doubled over and vomited.

  "Good thing you don't have those nice leather dress shoes to worry about anymore," I said as I jumped back to dodge the splatter. I grabbed an arm and dragged him back across the marketplace, where the Arabs who didn't ignore us looked at each other and laughed. The whole place seemed to know what had happened. We walked under the arched entrance to the Kasbah and back to the jeep. Dunbar was still out of breath, rubbing his nose with his sleeve, and trying not to blubber.

  "It was… just supposed to be… a one-time thing," Dunbar said, gasping for air as I helped him into the jeep, barefoot, dribbled stains on his tie and shirt, his cover gone. He was definitely out of uniform, which was the least of his problems right now.

  "Sure, sure. Now just sit there and lean out the side if you feel sick again." I turned to Kaz, who was surveying the situation with that slightly amused look that usually seemed to be on his face. Around me, anyway.

  "Big waste of time, huh?" I said.

  "Well, Billy, I think you can eliminate the good doctor from suspicion of being the brains of a smuggling ring."

  "Maybe that's what he wants us to think?"

  "If so, then I am very impressed by his ability to vomit on command just to convince us he is a frightened incompetent."

  We both managed a laugh. I heard Dunbar moan a bit as he tried to find a comfortable position and that made me feel better too. I plopped myself down behind the wheel as Kaz pulled himself into the passenger's seat.

  "Okay, let's get back on track, Kaz. How's your arm feeling?"

  "It hurts, but I'm fine. The doctor said I could have the stitches out the day after tomorrow."

  "If you're up to it, can you work on the Blackpool connection?"

  "Yes, I was just about to start when you called. Vincent is inquiring quietly about smuggling connections into Tunisia, assuming that Villard and Bessette are selling to the Germans. He also knows dock- workers who may have information about a smuggling route, through neutral vessels in the harbor. He said he's heard of refugees being smuggled into Portugal in the holds of merchant ships flying neutral flags."

  "That fits with the Bessette family's control of the docks."

  "Yes, but they will have to find an alternate route for the Germans or Italians now that Algiers is in Allied hands. We will search the vessels more thoroughly than the Vichy did, when they weren't bribed to look the other way."

  Something in the conversation clicked in my mind. I had no idea what, but something Kaz said started the wheels turning. What was it? Bribes, Portugal, dockworkers…? I had the feeling that somehow he had given me the answer to a big question, but all I could think of was a million little ones.

  "Billy, are you listening to me?"

  "Yeah, Kaz, yeah, I am. Sorry. What were you saying?"

  "I will use the radio link at Headquarters to contact the base at Blackpool and the Provost Marshal's office. Call the hotel and ask for me anytime. The staff will know how to find me."

  "I'll bet. In the bar or the dining room, if I know you."

  "Are you going to turn me in?" whined Dunbar from the back of the jeep.

  "Shut up," I said over my shoulder. "Kaz, I have to get back, unload this bozo, and meet Harding. I'll drop you at the hotel and be in touch as soon as I can."

  I started the jeep and gunned the engine as I drove down the narrow street. I was rewarded with a grunt and a groan from Dunbar as he was thrown back against his hard seat. Kaz was laughing as I pulled in front of the hotel and hit the brakes just enough to throw Dunbar around some more.

  "Good luck, Billy," Kaz said as the smile disappeared from his face. "Stay alive and find Diana."

  He put his good hand out and we shook. There was a lump in my throat. I watched the emotion sweep over his face as he wished for me what he could never again have for himself. I nodded my head, and watched him walk up the steps to the hotel, whistling a tune.

  "Can we get the hell out of here now?" Dunbar said. "I need medical care in case you haven't noticed."

  How do people turn out so differently? Kaz had lost his family, his country, his true love, was scarred for life, almost killed, and could still wish me luck and whistle as he went up the steps. Dunbar lost his shoes and took a few lumps, had blubbered like a baby, and now was acting like one. Time he grew up.

  * * *

  Chapter Seventeen

  "IT'S NOT JUST WALTON." Dunbar said in between bumps and potholes in the road as we drove to the hospital. "I'm in hock to a couple of other guys too. About a thousand, all told. I had a string of bad luck. Kept making stupid bets to try to win it back."

  "And then you hit on this really good idea to break even? Selling morphine meant for the front?"

  "Boyle, you should see all the stuff that comes through the supply depot. There's enough for an army!"

  I was about to explain to Dunbar how that was exactly the point, but if he didn't understand now he never would. He was one of those guys who put their own problems, no matter how small, in front of everyone else's, no matter how large. That meant I had to make it a big problem in order to get his attention. I downshifted to take a corner, and looked around for a place to pull over. We were on the outskirts of the city where palm trees lined the road and peddlers pulling donkeys plodded along on the shady side of the street.

  "Do you want me to shoot you right now, Dunbar, or would you rather wait for the firing squad?" I had to turn my head and yell at Dunbar, to be heard over the sound of the engine and tires in the open jeep.

  "That's not funny, Boyle," Dunbar said. He spoke in gasps, as if talking emptied his lungs of air. Broken rib, maybe a couple.

  "I think it's hilarious. Nice Harvard boy gets mixed up with gambling and drugs, ruins promising career, disgraces his family. Just the story to amuse an Irish kid from Southie."

  "You can't prove a thing, anyway."

  "You don't actually trust that rat Willoughby, do you? How do you think I got to you so fast?"

  "Jesus," he said, again in that whining, airless voice. "I thought… What am I supposed to do?"

  "I couldn't care less. Why should I help you figure that out? What can you do for me anyway, give me free poker lessons?"

  "Will you help me if I help you?"

  That's what I wanted to hear. But I shrugged. As if I were indifferent.

  "Maybe you wandered into the wrong part of town and I happened by at the right time. Or not. It all depends on what you can tell me."

  "What about Willoughby
?"

  "Leave him to me."

  "Aw, Christ. What do you want to know?"

  "Anything about drug thefts, Vichy officers coming by the hospital, anything suspicious, or even just odd."

  "This was the first time I took anything, honest…"

  "I'm talking about penicillin, the wonder drug, remember? Not your pathetic little pilfering. A real heist. Did you see anybody casing the joint before Casselli got killed? Any other drugs gone missing?"

  "Oh. No. I was pretty busy getting things organized. I picked the location for the medical supplies when we first got here, then left it to Casselli."

  "So you walked the grounds and chose that spot by yourself?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  That did it. I pulled the jeep over to the side of the road. We h cleared the city and they hadn't bothered to plant nice rows of shad palms out here. Just sand and a gravelly gully leading to more sand,rocks, and boulders. No Frenchies, donkeys or Arabs. I took my.45 out of the holster and ran a round into the chamber. That sound always had a nice, threatening ring to it, a metallic snick click that meant business. I held it in my left hand, pointing at Dunbar.

  "Now listen up, you worthless piece of dog meat. This isn't a social conversation. I ask, you answer. If you answer right, maybe I'll save your bacon. Piss me off again and I'll shoot you and leave you for the Arabs to strip."

  "You wouldn't…"

  I clicked the hammer back. Another snick.

  "Okay, okay, okay!" He put his hands up in cross in front of his face, palms toward me. I had found a small-time drug dealer once, with holes in both palms and another where his left eye had been. He was flat on his back, arms outstretched, a Jesus on the pavement. Funny the things you think about at the oddest times. I waited for Dunbar to drop his hands and lowered the.45, but kept it pointed in his general direction and waved it as an invitation for him to keep talking.