‘Hey, what have we here,’ Rojas called to the others. ‘It is the French whore – or is she a spy?’ She spat out the words jeeringly but Evangeline had only the notion of its hostility, not of what had been said; Rojas chose to speak only Catalan.
Evangeline tried to pass but two more women joined Rojas and they formed a half circle blocking her way. She stopped and glanced at each one in turn. They were not strongly built woman, other than Rojas, but they looked hard and mean, toughened by poverty and a rough life. Each one was dressed in the black weeds of grief and she guessed they had all been widowed by the Civil War.
Rojas took a step forward and with a blunt, fat finger prodded Evangeline hard in the shoulder. The woman opened her mouth wide, letting go a torrent of abuse. Evangeline stepped back. She looked over her shoulder for a way to retreat but tripped on the uneven paving. She lost her balance and fell heavily to the ground, the fish spilling out of her bag. As she scrambled to her feet a woman stepped forward. She stamped down hard on one of the fish and crushed it. The others laughed and began chanting puta, puta, puta Francesa. That she understood, as she did the hatred in their eyes. She was, she knew, going to get beaten by these women and for no better reason than she was a foreigner.
A small crowd of men had drifted out from the bar, some old, some young. They stood there, rough cigarettes and pipes lodged in crooked mouths and leering faces, waiting in the expectation of some entertainment. Evangeline looked at them pleadingly, but they were indifferent.
Fired up by the moment and spurred on by her cronies, Rojas came at Evangeline with another tirade, this time hitting her shoulder with a clenched fist. She stood there legs akimbo, hands on hips and a thick scowling leer on her face. The women were chanting and now some of the men began to clap in time to the rhythm of the chant.
From behind the half circle of tormentors a woman pushed her way through. She took three paces to where Rojas was standing, said something firmly to her in Catalan then delivered her a solid blow with the palm of her hand. Señora Rojas spun round under the force of what was effectively a punch to the side of her head and, losing her balance, sat down heavily. Evangeline immediately recognised the new woman who had come to her aid; it was her servant, Tamaya.
Tamaya then turned on the other women. ‘This is my mistress and I will kill any of you who dares to lay a hand upon her.’ Tamaya turned back to Rojas. ‘My mistress is the friend of Don Carlos. You will regret this day.’ In the face of those few words the women shuffled moodily away and the crowd of men dissolved.
Tamaya picked up what was left of the fish and put it back into the bag. ‘I think it would be good if we went home, mademoiselle.’
The day’s event had left her feeling exposed and angry. If only Richard had been there; he could protect her from these things. The train of thought led her to the hope that perhaps the report could be wrong – or that José had misunderstood the message from the Americans and that he was simply missing, and not dead. It was the dim light of hope. She grasped at the idea and clung to it. That decided her; she would go to La Vajol and speak with Major Harper. If anyone could find out it would be him.
Getting to La Vajol would not be easy. There was a bus that went twice daily to Figueres and Girona, but beyond that she was not sure.
‘Do you know?’ she asked Tamaya.
‘There will be buses, mademoiselle – I am sure, but I do not know when they might go, or how often. I will go to the office of the mayor and ask. If anyone knows it will be someone there.’
When Tamaya came into the salon it was with a smile on her face. ‘Don Carlos is here again, mademoiselle. He has some news for you concerning the way to La Vajol.’
Evangeline put down the book she was reading. ‘Of course,’ she said brightly, as the sparks of hope popped in her mind. Naturally, she thought, of all people he was bound to know.
‘I have heard you wish to go to the village of La Vajol,’ he said after politely kissing her hand.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘In that case I will be honoured if you allow me to drive you there. It is not so far and I have a comfortable car in which to take you. Now, when would you like to go?’
‘Oh, Carlos, you are so kind. How can I ever thank you for all these things you have done for me?’
‘It is enough that you are my friend and you allow me to call upon you.’
‘I am always pleased to see you, you should know that.’
His face brightened at that and he gave her a pleasant smile. ‘Will tomorrow be convenient?’
*
The road to Figueres was good and well maintained. Leaving that town they turned north in the direction of La Jonquera and the frontier with France. They had been on the road for two hours by the time they reached the village of L’Estrada where they turned away to the west. As they left the village the paved surface gave way to a rough shingled track with just enough width for two cars to pass. Trailing a plume of dust behind them, they began to ascend the low foothills of the Pyrenean mountains. The road twisted and turned as they climbed the slopes until finally they saw the first of the buildings. A scattering of barns further on, and Carlos pulled up in the village square.
‘Do you wish me to come with you?’ Carlos asked her.
‘No,’ she replied calmly. ‘If you will stay here I shall not be long.’
Walking to the house where the Americans were staying she could feel the beat of her heart rise. By the time she reached the front door it was pounding in her chest and in her head, and she was breathing heavily, adrenalin flooding her senses. She raised the brass knocker and let it fall with a heavy bang. A few breaths later and it was opened. Standing in the doorway a large-framed man with a friendly face beamed down at her. ‘Hi, there miss. Come on in.’
‘Sergeant McAndrew, you are still here then?’
McAndrew cast rapid glances up and down the street then pulled the door shut. ‘Sure am, miss. Guess I’m kinda part of the furniture.’
He led her along the hallway and into the salon. It was less than two months since she had last been in that room. Then there had been another woman standing there. She, too, had been waiting for news, hoping against hope that it would be good, only to be disappointed by death.
Now it was her turn. The moment Major Harper walked into the room she knew there would be tears. This is how war was. It always took away the best young men to destroy them, leaving the women behind to be crushed by the emptiness of time and grief.
He led her to a leather settee and they sat down together. ‘I am awfully sorry, miss.’ The words sounded hollow in her head, remote and far distant, as though spoken in a dark empty room from a great way off. She struggled to get her words out.
‘Is there no hope? Is it certain he is dead?’
The major drew a deep breath. ‘I’m afraid not, miss. When you called to say you were coming to see me I guessed it would be for news of Richard. I spoke with London and our people in Tangier. I’m afraid they confirmed it. We lost one of our own men at the same time. I’m sorry, I wish I could give you better news.’ He waited for her to cry but no tears came. ‘Can I get you a cup of coffee or a drink perhaps?’
Evangeline shook her head. She was too numb to speak. She just wanted to get out of that room and out of that house, to be in the wide, bright open air where she could breathe. She was suffocating.
McAndrew took her to the door. ‘Goodbye, miss,’ was all he said, but she could see the sympathy in his face. He waited by the open door until she had disappeared from the street.
When she got back to Carlos and the car, the tears were flowing. They rolled down her cheeks. They streaked her make-up and smudged her eyes, until she looked like a very sad Pagliacci, a clown with no more laughter to give. She didn’t have to tell him her news; he already knew it. It was there in her face. Carlos put a hand on hers and patted it.
‘I will take you home,’ he said gently.
Sergeant McAndrew tapped on the door of Ha
rper’s office and walked in.
‘That, major sir, if you don’t mind me saying, was one goddam lousy sonofabitch thing they got you to do there.’
Harper looked up from his desk. ‘I know, Mac, and I feel bad about it, but what the hell. The whole of Torch hangs on this thing. Better one woman cries for a lie than thousands of our guys get wiped out coming ashore. It’s all about security, Mac – you know that.’
‘Do we have any news of Grainger and Jordan?’
‘Not a lot. They’ve gone off the radar – but that could mean anything.’
Chapter 11
The road to Casablanca
‘You wait, mister. Jamil get you free.’
The face disappeared before Grainger could get a word out. He was not sure what the boy had in mind or even how he’d got there, but it raised his hopes. He dropped down off the bed and went over to the door where he pressed his ear hard up against it and listened. Nothing, the house was silent. Then an almost imperceptible sound, like a soft brush sweeping across the floor. There was the clatter and grinding of a key in the lock and the door swung open.
‘Hello, mister. Jamil is here.’
Grainger stared in disbelief at the ragged-looking boy who stood there grinning at him. ‘How the hell did you manage that?’ he said in a hushed voice.
‘Don’t worry, mister, no need we be quiet,’ the boy replied without bothering to lower his voice. ‘Big bastard gone to mosque. Servants they go too.’ He gave another wide grin followed by a loud shout. ‘Hello.’ He held one finger up in the air. ‘See, house is empty, dogs sleeping in garden. You want we go?’
‘Shit, yes, you bet we go.’
As they crossed the courtyard the boy dug into the folds of his djellaba. ‘Here, mister, you want?’ He held out what Grainger recognised as his FN .32 automatic.
‘You bet I want. Where the hell did you get that?’
‘In bureau.’ The boy gave him a cocky look and puffed out his chest. ‘Best things kept there, mister. All thief knows that. Jamil is top thief in all Tangier.’
He walked confidently along the passage that led to the front of the house, not bothering to take any care of what or who might appear. As he pulled on the handle of the heavy front door they heard the sound of a car draw up at the main gate. One of the dogs stirred, half stood, then sank back down again making no more sound than a soft growl.
‘This way. Come quick, mister.’ The boy broke into a run heading for the silhouette of a large fig tree planted tight up to the wall. From the front gate came the sound of someone banging and calling out. The boy shinned up the branches, clambered onto the top of the wall then, with no more sound than a ripe pear falling from its tree, he dropped to the ground. Seconds later and with much more noise, Grainger followed him.
Hugging tight to the wall, they worked their way round to the front of the building. At the gates a car had stopped, lights on and the engine purring, a gentle throb in the stillness of the night air. In the pale yellow beam of its headlights Grainger could see two men standing at the gate. They were banging and calling out for someone to open up and let them in. Nothing happened. After a few seconds the driver got out of the car and joined them in the chorus of shouts and hammering. Then two more men got out of the back.
‘Time to leave,’ Grainger said under his breath. He jerked his head towards the darkness of the street. This would be simple. All they had to do was slink away and dissolve into the dark, but then he stopped. He turned to the boy, held up a finger and pressed it to his lips. The two men who had just left the car passed into the beam of the headlights and it was clear one was being led. He had his hands on top of his head like a prisoner. His face was caught momentarily in the lights.
‘Fuck.’ Grainger had to suppress the word as the shock almost jerked it out of his mouth. The face in the light was Tom Jordan. That closed down the options. Grainger leaned close to the boy. ‘I need you to do something. You go to the man at the front of the car. Not the one with his hands on his head, the other one. I need you to distract him. When you do it you must stand between him and the men banging on the gate. You understand?’
The boy grinned. ‘How much you pay, mister?’ Grainger raised his eyes to the stars. ‘Do it right and you get five francs.’
‘Okay, I go.’ Without a further word the boy stepped confidently out into the open and straight to his target. ‘Baksheesh, sayidi. No father, no mother, sister is sick. You give baksheesh.’ His voice was whiney and he stood with a hand held out.
The man looked angrily at the boy begging in front of him. ‘Allez!’ He snapped the word out in French. At the gate the other two looked round. One of them shouted at the boy in German. ‘Verpiss dich kleiner trottel.’
The boy ignored them and began goading his target. ‘Bastard French. Your mother is a whore, she fucks with dogs. Your father was a mongrel. Give me baksheesh, bastard.’
The man swung an arm at the beggar boy who stood there taunting him. The boy knew well what was coming. He ducked under the fist that had been aimed at his head and took two quick steps backwards. The men at the gate laughed and shouted something to the man who was being pestered; they went back to their work of banging and shouting.
The boy picked up a stone and flicked it at his victim. ‘Come on bastard, give me baksheesh.’
‘The back of my hand is all you will get from me.’
‘Oh, pimp of the souks, you are too feeble to catch me. Did your mother sell you as a eunuch?’ At that the man lost his temper and lunged at the boy, who dodged him and ran. The man gave chase.
It was the moment Grainger had been waiting for. He ran for the back of the car, ducking down behind it until he was close by the open driver’s door. He was about to shout at Jordan to get in but before he could do it, Jordan, seizing his chance, took off running. There was a shout from the men at the gate. The one being taunted stopped chasing the boy and headed for the car; he was too late. Grainger had already dived inside it, pushed it into gear and, as it skidded into action, the man took a face full of dust and gravel thrown up by the tyres.
A hundred yards along the road the car caught up with Jordan, his legs going like pistons. As the car drew level Jordan veered off into the scrub. Grainger slammed the vehicle to a halt and jumped out. ‘Tommy, it’s me, Richard,’ he yelled.
Jordan stopped abruptly and seeing Grainger turned and ran back. Closing on them they could hear the shouts of their pursuers, but it was too late, they were clear away. For a moment they drove in silence.
‘So, what kept you buddy?’ Jordan eventually drawled.
Grainger gave a chuckle of relief. ‘I was going to ask you the same thing.’
When they were close to the hotel Grainger pulled the car to a halt in a side street. ‘We should dump it here.’
Jordan nodded agreement. ‘Yup, and we have to get the hell out’a that hotel before those goons come calling.’
As they walked away from the abandoned vehicle there was a shout. ‘Hey, mister, now you give Jamil five francs?’
Grainger stared incredulously. ‘Where the hell have you come from? How did you get here?’
‘Easy,’ the boy beamed. ‘I stand on back bumper and hold on trunk handle. Nice ride. Now you give five francs.’
‘Worth ten,’ Grainger chuckled and gave the boy two silver five franc coins. The boy kissed them, put them inside his loose djellaba, saluted, and melted away into the night.
Grainger looked at his watch. ‘I could murder a beer. There’s got to be a bar round here somewhere.’
They did not go back to the hotel; it was too risky. Instead they dozed away the night in the Packard; Jordan stretched out across the back seat and Grainger lying on the floor.
At first light Jordan hauled himself out of the Packard, stretching the stiffness of the night out of his limbs. ‘Right, let’s see what that sonofabitch concierge has to say for himself.’
The receptionist looked surprised to see them. There was a hint of wor
ry on his face. The concierge was not in the hotel. ‘It is his day off, sir,’ the man on the reception explained.
Jordan waived it aside. He wasn’t surprised. ‘Forget it, chum.’ He put a ticket stub down on the desk. You’re holding a package for me in the safe. I’d like it.’
The receptionist fingered the ticket nervously. ‘Just a moment, sir.’ He picked up the phone on his desk, dialled an internal number and waited. ‘There is a Mr Jordan here, sir. He says he wishes to claim his property.’ The receptionist gave them both a nervous smile. ‘The manager is coming, sir,’
A tall man with Anglo-Saxon features and greying hair, wearing a dark pin-striped suit, came out of the lift. He walked over to them and when he reached their side offered a polite bow. ‘Mr Jordan?’ The voice was very English.
Jordan gave him a hard stare. He sensed something was not as it should be. ‘That’s me.’
‘How can we help, sir.’
‘I’d like the package I put into your safe.’ He pressed a finger on the ticket lying on the reception counter and pushed towards the manager.
The manager picked it up and examined it. ‘Can I ask you to come into my office while we deal with this, sir.’ He cast a doubting glance at the receptionist, then turned to go. ‘Please follow me, gentlemen.’
Jordan looked at Grainger and shrugged. ‘I don’t know what the hell this is about.’
‘Please take a seat.’ The manager addressed himself directly to Jordan. ‘Tell me, sir, other than the ticket do you have any proof of your ownership? You see, I’m afraid another person has already claimed that package. An Arab gentleman came in yesterday afternoon.’
Jordan kicked his chair back. His face tightened. ‘And you let him have it?’
‘He had a ticket, sir. What could I do? I’m new in the post here. I only arrived from London a week ago. I have to rely upon my staff – the concierge brought me the ticket and I handed the package to the gentleman.’
THE BOY FROM THE TANGIER SOUK Page 9