‘I regret, señora, this is already sold to another client. Is there any other that interests you?’
Her spirits fell like a shower of ashes as she saw her route to salvation dissolve in front of her. ‘How much was the price? I will offer you more than was paid if you will sell it to me.’
The salesman’s face crumbled into a look of resignation, a frown over raised eyebrows. ‘I regret, señora, that is not possible. The sale has already been registered and the car is to be delivered to the new owner tomorrow in the morning.’
‘Who is the new owner? I will put my offer to him.’ In her desperation Evangeline was clutching at straws.
The salesman was sympathetic but refused to tell her, only saying that it was a person of status who had given the strict instruction that no one should be told of his identity.
‘Then at least ask, they can only refuse. Please speak to that person for me.’
The salesman relented. ‘If you would wait a moment, señora, there is a number I can call.’
He returned with a smile on his face. ‘I have spoken with the person who has bought the car, señora. I am pleased to tell you that they will transfer it to you for a further premium, over the addition of the garage’s profit.’
‘How much is this premium?’
‘Twenty five thousand pesetas, señora.’
‘It is outrageous.’
The salesman tried to look sympathetic. He was clearly unhappy with the demand he had been instructed to communicate to her. ‘The client is immovable I am afraid, señora.’
She felt a wave of deep resentment. Even with the money from Mendel this would clean her out. It would swallow all the hard won gains they had managed with their enterprise. She was caught; there was nothing she could do. Yet again she had been cornered by these perfidious men, all of whom seemed determined on her exploitation. She took the cheque book from her bag. ‘To whom shall I make this payable?’
‘I am instructed that is confidential, señora. Please just write the amount, I will add the name afterwards.’
She stared directly at him. ‘Is it to the account of de Lorca?’
The salesman looked about him furtively. He said nothing but there was the slightest nod of confirmation.
When she got back into the van Evangeline slammed the door so hard in frustration that Maria physically jumped. ‘It is that swine de Lorca,’ she hissed through clenched teeth. ‘That is what Cortez was about.’ She banged a clenched fist heavily on the dashboard. ‘He knew full well Don Ferdinand had bought that car. It was deliberate, done just to torture me. Well, I will not put up with it.’ She banged again on the dashboard. ‘Take me to my home, Maria.'
She was not shouting, but there was murder in her voice. It came out through clenched teeth. The language she used on Cortez was coarse – words she had picked up from Maria that added bite to her now quite fluent Spanish. ‘De Lorca put you up to this.’ Evangeline ground the words out in suppressed anger.
It did little good other than to let out her pent up rage.
Cortez flatly denied any knowledge of the transaction, but agreed it sounded like the actions of Don Ferdinand. He offered no more than to enquire of his client if it were indeed true that he had done this thing.
Cortez did not make the telephone call to Don Ferdinand. He did not have to; his client called him. Like Evangeline before him, his mood was explosive. Even more so than hers, though his tone was measured.
‘The French harlot has had that car delivered to my door. Get rid of it, Cortez. I want it out of my sight. It offends me and I will not accept it. I want her broken. Find another way. I hope I have made myself clear.’
Chapter 28
Loss and disappointment
The trap at the port had worked; Bonny had caught one of those for whom he had come to Casablanca. In his car he followed behind the gendarmerie van as it made its way out along the coastal road. It was headed for the prison at Oukacha. He smiled to himself. It had been a coup. In the van ahead of him, Klaus von Meyer and his associate, Sophie Romero, sat in a secure cage; their hands cuffed and their legs chained. On the motor yacht in the harbour, Émile Xicluna was secure for the time being, locked in the boat’s storeroom. He was under the capable hands of Edouard and Lucas, both von Meyer’s men who had been easily bought by Bonny for no more than a handful of cash and the prospect of a job with the Carlingue. Now, they owed him their loyalty, and with von Meyer out of the way they would do his bidding.
He had half of what he wanted and he had spent virtually no money at all. That gave him great satisfaction and the warm certainty of a reward when he handed them over to his Gestapo masters. Now all he needed was for the gendarmerie to round up the British agent, Grainger. It was a mild source of irritation to him that the spy had twice narrowly evaded detention by the gendarmes, the second time thanks to a bungled attempt by von Meyer that ended in a gunfight at the American villa. But for that, he would have him by now. He consoled himself that Grainger would not escape a third time. Hamiot’s men were watching the American Consulate, and they had his passport. The net was closing and they were slowly shutting down his means and options.
The prison would be a short formality. Custody of von Meyer and Romero at Oukacha would be brief. All Bonny needed was the paperwork transferring them into his charge, paperwork which the Prefect, Gabriel Hamiot, would provide. After that he would be on his way, the prize in his hands.
He pulled up at the heavy wooden gates of the prison and waited. The van had already disappeared inside. Two legionnaire sentries stood guard, one either side of the gate. One came over to his car. Bonny wound down the window and showed his warrant: a disc with the imprint of the German eagle and the legend ‘Gestapo Police de France’. The legionnaire saluted and shouted for the gate to be opened.
Inside the compound Bonny parked his car and made his way to the governor’s office, escorted by a warder. ‘I have come for the new intakes: the German and his woman.’
The governor asked him to sit for a moment while he called to the secretariat to see if the papers had been prepared. After a brief conversation he told Bonny there was a problem with the paperwork; he would have to wait. Tea was brought and for a while they made small talk. When this dried up both men fell into silence. The governor excused himself while he reviewed a number of files which, he said, could not wait.
Two hours later and the delay had not been resolved. Bonny was becoming impatient. He was not used to hanging around waiting on the convenience of others. The phone on the governor’s desk finally broke the silence as it jangled into life. The governor listened, then threw a quick glance at Bonny. He put the phone down.
‘There has been a change, inspector. That was the Prefecture. You must go there to discuss your paperwork.’ Bonny got to his feet and without the courtesy of a word to the governor pulled open the door and left. His mood was not good as he made the drive back to the city centre.
Gabriel Hamiot was sitting at his desk and when Bonny came raging into his office he did not get up. He knew there was going to be offensive language flying around.
‘Where are my fucking prisoners?’ They were the first words from Bonny’s mouth and he spat them out like bad food.
Hamiot was not moved. ‘Sit down, Pierre. There are no prisoners; at least, not for you. They are to be released.’
Bonny went red in the face. ‘Explain yourself, Gabriel!’ he yelled. ‘Are you fucking crazy?’
‘We cannot hold them; there are problems. We have no authority.’
Bonny dumped his Gestapo disc noisily down in front of Hamiot, then slammed his open palm on top of it. ‘This is all the authority you need. My say so and this warrant. Now what the fuck is all this shit about!’
Hamiot gave a very Gallic shrug of his shoulders. ‘They have committed no offence in my jurisdiction.’
‘They don’t need to!’ Bonny was near to screaming. ‘It is a Gestapo order. You refuse it at your peril!’
‘
There is a complication. Von Meyer is an American citizen. He is holding an American passport. The woman is a Spanish neutral. There is nothing to be done. My hands are tied.’
Bonny ignored him. ‘We are at war with the Americans, for fuck’s sake.’
‘Germany is at war with America, Vichy is not. This is Vichy territory and I am instructed to stay on good terms with the Americans – as I am with Spain. My answer to your request has to be no.’
Bonny got up, grabbed his warrant disc and crammed his dark hat down hard onto his head. ‘You will regret this, Gabriel,’ he growled. ‘Don’t suppose Vichy can protect you. That old fool Pétain is no more than a marionette. Berlin will soon cut his strings.’ He slammed the door hard as he left.
Hamiot waited a short while, then picked up the phone. ‘Release von Meyer – and the woman.’
Chapter 29
A grand act of larceny
Grainger was looking at the Lady Agrippina through binoculars when Abass tugged on his shoulder. ‘You have visitors.’ He pointed into the distance at a small boat. It was coming away from the area of the wharves and cutting a fast path towards Lady Agrippina.
‘You should go down into the fish hold,’ Abass grunted. ‘If they come too close they will see you – and you do not look like a man who belongs on a boat such as this.’ The hold was wet. It stank of fish and diesel fuel but there was nothing for it; better he sit it out there than blow the whole operation.
‘That small boat,’ Abass called down into the hold. ‘It has gone directly to the ship you are watching.’
‘Can you see who is going aboard it?’
‘No, it has gone alongside but the tide is turning away from us.’
‘Damn,’ he muttered from the depths of the hold, ‘the more people on board that yacht the more difficult it’s going to be. If they stand watches it’ll be near bloody impossible.’
As the ebb of the tide picked up, the yacht swung further on her mooring and the tender was lost from sight. Grainger came up from the hold and squeezed himself into the tiny wheelhouse alongside Abass.
‘What do you want to do now?’ he asked Grainger.
‘Just sit it out till night – then hope they bed down without setting a watch.’
‘It is good if you stay in here. I go outside.’
Less than ten minutes had passed when Abass slid open the wheelhouse door. ‘It is coming this way, that small speedboat. There are three in it. What do you wish I should do?’ Grainger knelt down and unstrapped the case. He pulled the trench gun from it and pumped a shell up into the breech. ‘I think it’s probably your turn to get into the fish hold. Keep your head down; there may be some shooting.’
Through the binoculars Grainger could just make out the two men in the stern of the boat. There was a short swell which made it difficult to hold the image in the lenses. It was definitely coming their way. He was not certain but he had the idea this might be a boarding party, and it crossed mind that they had caught the boy and forced him to tell what was planned.
When it was no more than twenty metres from them the look on Grainger’s face changed. He recognised the person at the wheel of the boat.
‘Abass,’ he shouted. ‘Do we have a boarding ladder?’
‘Yes, a rope ladder.’
‘Good. Come out of the hold and get it. If our visitors ask to come aboard, throw it over the side.’
Abass emerged from the hold, went to the rope locker and pulled out a bundle, then he went and stood on the starboard side of his boat, leaning over to look at the approaching tender.
As it came alongside he let the ladder unfurl down the side of the boat. One at a time, the three occupants of the tender climbed up the rope rungs until they were standing on the deck.
Grainger emerged from the wheelhouse grinning, the trench gun levelled at the visitors. Two of them were strangers. They shot questioning glances at each other, unsure of what was happening. Uncertainly they raised their arms above their heads. The third was unconcerned; it was the boy.
‘Hey, boss,’ he said, a satisfied smile on his face. ‘What you want we do with these no good guys?
Once again Grainger found himself shaking his head in disbelief. ‘How did you get them to come with you?’
‘Easy boss, I tell them big bastard German on this boat and want see them.’
Grainger looked across to Abass. ‘Where do we put them?’
Abass jumped down into the fish hold and went aft to the net locker. ‘Here.’ He unlatched the door and began hauling out nets which he laid out across the hold. He motioned for the men to sit in the middle, then shouted something in Arabic to the boy. Together they picked up the nets and, folding them over the heads of the men, wrapped them in the mesh. When they were fully enveloped, Abass took a rope warp and tied it loosely around them. He looked up at Grainger. ‘This will hold them where we can see them.’
Grainger looked on with approval. ‘Right, let’s get out of here before anyone else turns up.’
Abass lifted anchor and, with the speedboat in tow, covered the 500-metre distance to the motor yacht. As he manoeuvred them into position to pick up the anchor chain of Lady Agrippina, the sheer size of the other vessel became apparent. At 35 metres she was almost twice the size of Abass’s chalutier. Abass showed concern. ‘I think that anchor may be too heavy for my winch to lift. I will try but I think you will have to go aboard and lift it from there.’
Abass was right; the winch was no match for the weight of the yacht’s anchor and when he started the lift it dragged down the stern of the chalutier alarmingly.
Grainger looked at the difference in height of the two decks, both of which were rolling slightly from the gentle motion of the sea. It would not be easy.
In the end it was the boy who came up with the solution. He went over the side of the chalutier and, like a Barbary macaque, swarmed up the anchor chain of the yacht and onto the deck. From there he hauled the yacht’s passerelle into position and swung it out onto the gunwale of the fishing boat. The boy was earning his wage.
They went cautiously through the yacht, cabin by cabin, the boy pushing doors open, Grainer ready with the trench gun.
They found Émile Xicluna in the yacht’s store room. It was secured from the outside but not locked. Xicluna, however, was handcuffed to a fixed metal shelf and it wasn’t until Grainger went back aboard the fishing boat and got the bolt cutters that he was freed. He was in poor shape. They had tortured him for his information on Torch, but he had told them nothing, since he know nothing of the secret operation. All he knew was that the Americans wanted his help to contact the Algerian resistance. Grainger carried him to the boat’s stateroom where they left him on the bed.
The wheelhouse was in an enclosed bridge with all the control switches laid out on a dash, neatly labelled in English with their functions. At the same time he noted there were no keys in the engine ignition locks. He hoped the rest of the circuits were not linked, otherwise nothing was going to work. Grainger flicked the switch marked ‘Anchor’. There was a whirring noise and the yacht lurched slightly as the winch took up the slack. He stopped it. ‘We have to get a line onto Abass before we lift the anchor; otherwise we’ll drift. Can you do it?’
The boy clucked his tongue and gave a short jerk of his head – his way of saying, ‘Easy, boss.’
‘Wave when it’s secure and stay with it until the anchor is up, just to be sure the line holds.’
With the anchor up and the line secured they fetched the Riva speedboat around to the stern and lifted it on the davits. They were as ready as they could be. It was time to go.
The engine on the chalutier managed well enough. There was a following sea and the ebbing tide was with them. Casablanca slipped below the horizon.
It had all been easier than he had hoped and he realised that the original plan had been flawed: they would not have been able to lift the yacht’s anchor and they would have had no option but to storm aboard with stun and smoke grenades
. As much as the boy had shown himself capable in a firefight, the prospect would have been daunting, even with just the two who were on board. The chances of failure and their resultant deaths could have been high.
Three hours later, with adjustments to their course, they had lost most of the tidal advantage and the sea was beating on the port beam; the chalutier’s engine began to labour. The wind was still no more than a breeze but it had veered to a northerly and if it picked up it would lift the sea more aggressively. They were making no progress and there was a new worry.
If the wind did indeed stiffen, the heavier sea would bring further strain and the tow line could part. Grainger signalled to Abass to bring the tow to a halt and come alongside. Instead of a tow they would lash the boats together, side by side. It would be safer that way.
An hour later they were in crisis. The wind and the tide were forcing them onshore. If they could not stop it, they would go aground. They were approaching Tangier, and the mouth of the Straits; the coastal shallows were rock-strewn. It could be a disaster.
Abass disengaged the engine and left it to idle. The propeller ceased to turn and without the struggle against the tide the energy went out of the vessels; they ceased to buffet and instead slopped gently on the swell. Abass came out of his wheelhouse and clambered onto the deck of the Lady Agrippina.
‘I cannot go further with this, monsieur. It is useless. You should drop anchor here and abandon this boat. There is an estuary back at Oued Ghrifa. I can put you ashore there.’
Grainger thought on it briefly but he knew the risk. They would be back in Vichy territory with no means of getting out except on foot or by public transport. He had no passport and the gendarmes would be looking for him. They were almost in reach of Gibraltar. If he could start the engines on the yacht then he could make it. He had never helmed a boat of that size; the biggest he had experienced was a 10 metre pinnace – but the principles were the same. However, first he would need to bypass the starter switches, and there was a problem: the dashboard was sealed and the panels were metal.
THE BOY FROM THE TANGIER SOUK Page 23