Outside, Lewis said ‘You damned fool. That's exactly what the C.O. told you to avoid. Good job I'm here to keep an eye on you.’
Cassola laughed. ‘I'd have enjoyed flattening that big oaf. Hell, Tony, I'm randy as a bull I want a woman. Seeing all these skirts loose in this town makes it unbearable. I've got to find an outlet for my energy. If I can't have a woman, I want to hit somebody.’
‘You'll feel better when we've eaten.’
The woman behind the counter smiled a welcome. A pretty girl of about 18 was talking to her.
‘Go and sit at that table in the corner. This is my daughter, Giulia, who earns pocketmoney by serving at table every lunch time. She'll take good care of you.’
Walking to the table, Cassola whispered ‘I'd like to take good care of her.’
They ate a huge meal, for which they were brought a ludicrously small bill.
Giulia said ‘Mother says she's sorry she has to charge you at all: but she only works here; the place belongs to a cousin. But if you'd like to come to supper this evening, we'd love to entertain you at home.’
Cassola, who had been plying her with banter and compliments and making jokes that had kept her laughing, asked quickly ‘Have you got a sister? For my friend.’
‘As a matter of fact, I have.’
‘As pretty as you?’ Lewis asked.
‘Much prettier.’
‘And older?’
‘A year.’
‘Can we take you both to the cinema this afternoon?’
‘Why don't you ask her? She's at the university, too. She helps in the kitchen: she's the expert at pastries.’
‘The beauty I saw peeping through the service door, a couple of times?’
Giulia giggled. ‘Yes. She... she thinks you're rather cute.’
‘Well, go and tell her I think she's a knockout and I'd like to take her to the movies; with you and Aldo, of course: you can chaperone each other. And we'll deliver you safely home to your mother at supper time.’
Giulia and her sister were amiable companions who had a proper appreciation of the opportunities afforded by the darkness and seats in the back row. Buttons and hooks were opened, kisses were frequently long enough to lose the four of them the thread of the screen plot. They were a sporting pair with plump breasts and eager mouths: the standard wartime female product of a lack of available young men, at an age when their passionate natures urgently demanded male attentions.
On the ride in a horse-drawn cab to their home, Cassola asked, ‘Is there somewhere we can take you dancing this evening?’
‘Can you dance with one arm?’ Giulia asked. ‘Not that it appeared to be any handicap to you in the cinema.’
‘Don't know until I've tried.’
The cab stopped outside a neat whitewashed villa in a well-tended garden.
The girls' mother came into the hall to meet them, smiling.
‘Did you enjoy the film? Good. Come along, boys, my husband is so looking forward to a chat with you. He longs for first-hand news from the Front: he's sick of being tied to a desk all these months.’
The man seated in an armchair in the drawing-room did not rise when he greeted them. He wore the shoulder insignia of General Headquarters.
No one in corporal's uniform would have expected a regimental sergeant major to pay him such a compliment.
***
Kulick felt secure and comfortable in his assumed identity. He was not merely pretending to be a Lebanese merchant, he was one. The only falsity, his claim to have been recently in Algeria and Tunisia, was not hard to sustain.
Since the French Government in Vichy had sovereignty over these colonies, and was not at war with Germany and Italy, travel between them and Libya was unrestricted. There was thus no flaw in his cover story. He had chosen not to represent himself as based in Tripoli, for that would have meant having an office and local knowledge, as well as friends and acquaintances: all of which he lacked.
He was looking forward to sloughing off his military persona and returning briefly to his true one. He was astute in business and had the innate Levantine love of negotiating, bargaining, deception and evasiveness. He enjoyed sitting in hotel bars in expensive Western suits, silk shirts and ties and glossy shoes, weaving webs of commercial intrigue with others of the same ilk. He enjoyed long diplomatic conversational manoeuvring over leisurely meals and in cabarets. He equally enjoyed putting on Arab clothes and haggling in small offices in bazaars and back streets, over tea or coffee served in small cups, playing with his amber worry beads and smoking a nargileh. Oriental business was fraught with bribery and chicanery, commercial espionage and patronage. He was eager to return to it, even though, geographically, this was a different arena. This brief opportunity to exercise his inherent and acquired expertise was balm to a keen mind which found most aspects of Army life irksome.
When he got off the bus he made for the bazaars and an Arab coffeeshop, where he sat reading an Arabic newspaper while he drank three cups of coffee and smoked a local brand of cigarette. Half his attention was on the conversation around him. As usual, it was about money and people; coloured, now, by the war and prospects of an Allied conquest of Libya. He heard little that was of use: when men had things to say of the kind that he wanted to learn, they put their heads together and lowered their voices: suspicious of spies in the pay of their Italian rulers. He gathered, however, an impression of general uneasiness, of fear of possible air raids and naval bombardment, of apprehension that the value of the coinage would fall disastrously: altogether a lack of confidence.
He wandered awhile in this environment, before going into the Via Vittorio Emanuele to seek a good men's outfitter. It was difficult to find a suit that fitted a man of his height and breadth of shoulder, but he equipped himself well enough; and good quality cloth and smart cut made up for any imperfection. He went to another shop to buy a shirt, tie and underwear. Elsewhere, he bought shoes.
He enjoyed the hammam, then a luxurious shave and hair trim. He felt as though he were home in Beirut when he walked into the Albergo Imperiale with a new suitcase, left it in the cloakroom and strolled into the lounge for a glass of vermouth. It was the hour when businessmen gathered and he looked around, savouring the atmosphere. He had bought a French language newspaper published in Algiers, which he laid on the table. The waiter looked at him with interest when he ordered his drink in an Arabic that was not commonly spoken here.
When the man brought it, he nodded at the paper and ventured ‘Your Honour is from Syria?’
‘Lebanon. I know Syria well. You have friends there? Relations?’
‘Alas, no. If I had, that is where I would go now.’
‘You think it is time to go?’
The waiter looked nervous. ‘I did not wish to imply that, Your Honour. I meant that business is a little difficult these days and a job like mine is insecure. That is all I meant, sir.’ He hurried away.
Poor devil, terrified of Graziani's secret police, Kulick thought.
He drank slowly, beckoned to the waiter to pay, and asked ‘Where is the favourite meeting place for men of affairs like myself? I am an import merchant, I have just come from Algiers, and I have no introductions here.’ He pushed a large tip across the table.
‘The bar here, sir. That is where the commercial gentlemen like to meet. But the evenings are better. At this time of day, they keep appointments. Later, when work is finished, they come to relax.’
‘Good.’
Kulick crossed the lounge to the cocktail bar: an intimate room where a middle-aged Italian was in charge. He took a stool, ordered a negroni and a packet of expensive cigarettes, and began glancing at his paper.
The barman set his drink before him, with a dish of pistachio nuts.
‘You are a newcomer?’ He spoke in French.
‘I have just arrived from Algiers.’
‘How is business there?’
‘So good, that I can leave it to my staff while I come here to seek further o
pportunities.’
‘May I ask what line you are in?’
‘I import machinery and electrical equipment, air conditioning units, ventilation systems. I am an engineer as well as a merchant.’
‘There are many gentlemen among my regular customers who would be interested in meeting you. If I can help in any way?’
‘I shall certainly see that you don't lose by it, my friend.’
‘Then if I might suggest: the time to find the kind of contacts you need, is after six-o'clock. Most matters can be arranged in this bar of an evening.’
‘Excellent. That leaves me with time to spare after lunch.’
The barman wrote on a bill pad, tore off the page and gave it to Kulick.
‘A very discreet establishment. Show this as your bona fides. Madame is very discriminating. It is an exclusive place.’
And it'll ensure you get your cut, you pimp. With the scornful thought went a generous tip.
While he ate, Kulick pictured with amusement the reaction of the sleek and prosperous civilians and senior officers, with their smart women, around him in the dining-room, if they knew that his lunch tomorrow would consist of dry biscuits and a hunk of cheese, and he would be in enemy uniform.
His ample appetite sated, his sensuality sharpened by a bottle of Barolo, he climbed aboard a cab, showed the driver the address of the house to which the barman had recommended him; and was presently in an ornately furnished villa in the company of half a dozen beautiful girls: making his choice among them was the most difficult task so far that day.
When he returned to the hotel bar at a quarter past six, amused by the thought of the envy of his comrades if they knew how he had spent the last three hours, there was a good muster of opulent-looking men with rolls of fat bulging over the backs of their collars, manicured hands and an odour, far from sanctity, of pomade and after-shave lotion, rose-scented soap and cigars.
At the counter, the barman introduced him to a group of three: one of whom he judged, by his colour and features, to be half-Italian, the others obviously pure Arab.
It was a profitable meeting. He fenced enjoyably with them, dined at the expense of the half-caste, excused himself on the grounds of tiredness from accompanying them to a night club. He explained where he had spent his afternoon, and they laughed in masculine complicity and understanding. He arranged to see them the next day, then went to the hotel to retrieve his suitcase.
He returned to the hammam to change his clothes. I must be the cleanest spy in North Africa, he thought with amusement. He would have to stay an hour in the bath, or arouse suspicion. He left his luggage in the care of the manager, with the explanation that he was about to spend the night with a woman whose husband was away, and did not want to draw attention to himself by carrying it. The manager grinned enviously.
He kept to side streets and alleys as much as he could, but without hurrying; again, to avoid arousing curiosity. He had had to follow, for 50 yards, one which was better lit than he liked, and had just turned into a narrower, darker road, when a whistle blew and he heard a peremptory shout in Arabic: ‘You! Wait a moment.’ Two policemen were advancing on him. He walked around the corner as though he had not heard.
The whistle blew again, the voice shouted: boots pounded on the pavement in pursuit.
Kulick had no identity papers. If he gave an address, the odds were that the policemen would take him to the police station while it was verified.
If I run, he thought, they'll shoot: all they need do is fire along this pavement, and they're bound to hit. Anyway, running will cause a scene and some bastard might trip me up or a dozen people might block my way.
The street was almost deserted, however: so he took to his heels.
The blast of four shots fired in quick succession echoed after him. A bullet ricocheted off the wall close behind him: another whanged off the pavement and ripped a hole in his long outer garment.
He had had his eye on a dark patch which was either a deeply recessed doorway or an alley. Two more strides took him to it and as he turned into it he saw that it was a narrow lane. He crouched back against the wall, his Commando fighting knife in his hand.
He heard the thud of booted feet, running, draw closer. The two policemen paused momentarily in the mouth of the lane. One switched on a flashlight and its beam just caught Kulick.
The men shouted at him in unison: a personal obscenity, an exclamation of triumph and an angry command to stand still.
The knifeblade glinted in the torchlight. The man nearer to Kulick fell with a sharp, brief cry. The other man fired, but Kulick was no longer where he had been a split second before. His huge hands closed around the policeman's neck and tightened. The policeman's knees sagged and by the time Kulick had lowered him to the ground he was dead.
Kulick took the torch, both pistols and, quickly, a loaded clip of bullets from the pouch on his second victim's belt. He ran towards the far end of the lane, but turned right or left into each alleyway or lane that he came to. Keeping his sense of direction, he made his way steadily towards the outskirts of the city.
He reached a main road that he must cross. Looking cautiously around a corner to survey its length, he saw the blue light of a police car moving slowly along it.
***
Lewis's intelligence and quick Cockney wits, and Cassola's Neapolitan-Mancunian astuteness enabled them to negotiate the hazards offered by the girls' father. The regimental sergeant major was not distinguished for sharpness of intellect; and was, anyway, more interested in talking — largely about himself — than in listening to two mere corporals. At the same time, mindful of the fact that he had two nubile daughters, he took notice enough of them to learn that Lewis's family owned a chain of garages and Cassola's an exporting business. Both fabrications impressed him with their respectability, and when they asked permission to take the girls dancing, neither parent demurred or was at all uneasy. Were not these two pleasant young men not only from substantial commercial families, but also desert heroes like their own dear sons? It even brought tears to Mama's eyes; abetted by strong red wine and strega.
The first half hour at the dance hall established the two corporals, from distinguished fighting regiments, one with his arm in a sling, and their two outstandingly attractive partners, as objects of interest. The girls, always vivacious, were excited by the unusual personalities of their escorts, captivated by Lewis's handsome features and Cassola's romantic eyes and the thrilling tenor in which he quietly sang to the music while dancing or sitting at their table.
There was plain jealousy in many of the looks cast at the foursome. Two or three soldiers came, grinning self-consciously, to ask for dances and were politely refused. Two brawny sergeants who had been at the bar, with their eyes on the two good-looking couples, walked across to them purposefully. Both gave the men challenging, contemptuous looks and bowed to the girls.
‘May I have the pleasure of this dance, Signorina? You are Regimental Sergeant Major Calvino's daughter, aren't you?’
Both sergeants spoke at the same time and used identical words. The approach had obviously been discussed and planned.
Both added ‘I know him well.’
The girls smilingly made their excuses: ‘We're with these friends who have been fighting in the desert alongside our two brothers... They have to return to the Front soon... If you don't mind... Another time, perhaps...’
‘Heroes, eh?’
‘Suppose we do mind?’
‘Can't you heroes spare the ladies for just one dance?’
‘Who says they're heroes, anyway, just because they say they've been at the Front?’
‘There's been a lot more running backwards than going forward, lately. Heroes? My foot!’
It was all said with sneers.
The taller and heavier of the two sergeants put a hand on the back of Giulia's chair and the other on her arm. ‘Come on, young lady...’
Cassola and Lewis both stood up.
‘Take yo
ur hands off her.’ Cassola was glowering murderously.
The big sergeant released the girl and took a step towards Cassola, put both hands on his shoulders and tried to push him back into his chair.
There was a flurry of movement. Cassola's bandaged arm withdrew from its sling. There was a crash as chairs and the table went over. The girls screamed. Men and girls at tables around them shouted and screeched.
The second sergeant, who stood a head taller than Lewis and must have weighed two stone more, leered at him and had also tried to force him back into his seat, simultaneously with his companion's assault on Cassola. Lewis had moved as swiftly and disastrously as his friend.
‘Come on!’ In the heat of the moment, Cassola spoke the two urgent words in English.
Through the pandemonium, the shouting and the shrill female screams, the two Commandos thrust their way through the crowd, towards the door.
Just before they reached it, knocking men down right and left, there was a bellow from the place where the girls they had left were screeching hysterically.
A loud, commanding voice: ‘Stop them... the smaller one has killed... broke his neck...’
Among the crowd of Italian soldiery — mostly line-of-communication troops, storemen and clerks from General Headquarters — the order had the opposite to the desired effect. The two Commandos turned at bay, crouching and ready to defend themselves, their faces expressive of ferocity and hatred. The throng parted to let them through.
As they burst out of the door, they heard voices shouting ‘Police!’ and heard the doorman's whistle blowing while he still lay on the pavement, where they had dumped him when he stuck out a foot to bar their way.
They tore down the wide street, hearing a patrol car's engine roar into life 50 yards away, where a Military Police patrol had been waiting while its four occupants kept a watch on the behaviour of passing troops and on the entrances to places of entertainment.
The car's siren was wailing stridently: and growing louder. The two fugitives pelted along a side street, turned into a lane, and then dodged down another.
Lewis panted ‘We'll pinch the car.’
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