THE BOY FROM THE TANGIER SOUK

by Richard Savin

  There was one more chance. The Lady Agrippina was a leisure yacht; she had a flying bridge on the top. It would be more open and he would have a better chance of getting at the wiring loom.

  He climbed the companionway steps to the bridge. ‘Well, well, well.’ His first piece of luck had come up. Hooked onto the side of a small compass binnacle was a pair of keys. Holding his breath, he tried fitting them into the locks. They slipped in without resistance and when he pressed each of the buttons he felt the whirr of the starters followed by the progressive rumble of the two diesel engines. He left them idling and went below to the wheelhouse.

  Abass, having heard the engines, looked more cheerful. ‘I will leave you then.’ He held out an open hand. ‘Now you give five more pieces of sovereign coins. What you want to do with those men in my nets? They cannot stay in that place.’

  They locked the two men in the same storeroom that had held Xicluna. Abass unlashed the chalutier and shoved off. They were on their own.

  Grainger went, together with the boy, up onto the flying bridge. He pushed both levers forward and brought the boat round onto a northerly course. They were making 18 knots. In two hours they would be in the Straits; another two and they would make Gibraltar. All they had to do was avoid German U-boats and stay out of Vichy waters. If he could alert the navy he could probably get an escort.

  He looked at the boy and thought how surprisingly competent he had been and doubted it would have gone any better even with Jordan aboard. ‘You think you can steer this thing for a bit while I get on the radio?’

  ‘Sure, boss. Easy,’

  ‘Okay, just keep the compass heading north.’ As he clattered down the steps he caught a glimpse of the boy and laughed to himself. The boy could hardly see over the top of the wheel. It was like putting a kid in charge of an ocean liner.

  The Lady Agrippina was only fitted with a Morse cut wave transmitter. He put out his call sign and hoped that London would pick it up. They had not foreseen his using Morse so there was no pre-arranged time. He just hoped someone listening out would recognise him.

  He had no code so it would be an open channel message. The danger was that someone hostile might pick it up and come looking for them. He decided to set up a pattern. He would transmit in five-minute slots every half hour. This way he could update his position.

  They had been at sea all day. As they rounded the point just north of Cap Spartel the chronometer next to the compass showed 18.00 hours – six o’clock. It was the end of September and the nights were drawing in. It would be dark in two hours. With luck they would make Gib by sunset.

  ‘Hey, boss.’ The boy was pointing anxiously out in the direction of Tangier. ‘One boat is coming, boss.’

  Grainger lifted the binoculars that he’d hung on the strap around his neck. ‘Vichy destroyer, blast it.’ He pushed the control levers to their maximum setting. The bow lifted and the hull shuddered as it struggled to pick up speed. They had a maximum performance of 22 knots. The Vichy destroyer would manage 37. At the distance he estimated, they would be on them in an hour, when they would still be 15 miles off Gibraltar and safety. He reset the course, handed over to the boy and went below to send another Morse transmission. There was still no response. There was only one thing left for them. The Riva could outrun the destroyer by a good 5 knots, but only if the sea remained calm – and even then its range was limited. He had no idea how much fuel was left in its tank. It would be a desperate last resort. Xicluna was in a poor state and it was not certain that he would survive the experience. He went back topside and looked again through the glasses. It was clear from the bow wash that the destroyer was piling on the steam. There was no doubt this was a pursuit. The only thing in their favour was that the sea was relatively calm with nothing more than a long, rolling swell. If it had to, the Riva could run in that.

  Half an hour later he no longer needed the binoculars to see the Vichy destroyer. It sat large and menacing in the middle ground. It was probably time to get Xicluna up and into the Riva.

  ‘Right, Jamil, this is how we do it. We get Xicluna and you into the Riva. I will let down the davit lines and just before you’re in the water I will cut the engines. Clear?’

  ‘Is clear. OK, boss.’

  ‘When I judge that the boat has slowed enough I’ll turn bow-on to the destroyer so they can’t see what we’re up to.’

  The boy was nodding furiously. ‘You one smart man, boss. Jamil like this one job.’

  ‘Then I’ll drop you in. You release the clips as soon as you hit the water, start the engine and stand off a few metres, just enough room for me to ditch. I’ll go in over the stern. Have the boat hook ready and fish me out. Then we go hell for leather to Gib and hope we have enough fuel.’

  Grainger locked the helm and they went below. ‘That’s a piece of luck.’ At the bottom of the companionway stairs, next to a fire extinguisher, a stretcher was strapped to the bulkhead. Xicluna was barely conscious. They laid the stretcher on the bed next to him and rolled him onto it.

  It was a struggle to get up the narrow stairs of the companionway with the stretcher. With the steepness of the treads, Xicluna’s body pulled against the straps holding him to it and he cried out in pain. It was slow and difficult and by the time they had made it to the main deck level and walked the stretcher along to the stern Xicluna had passed into unconsciousness. Grainger was beginning to doubt that the Algerian could survive what would be a rough ride in the small Riva.

  Just before they made it out of the covered companionway and into the open area of the afterdeck they heard the raucous sound of the destroyer’s claxon. ‘Whoop, whoop, whoop, whoooop.’

  It was so close they both froze. There was not going to be time to get the Riva away. The destroyer was on top of them. They put the stretcher down on the floor. ‘Stay with him. I’ll go and see what’s to be done.’

  Resigned to their fate, Grainger made ready to parley whatever terms he could, though he knew he really had nothing in his hand. As he climbed the steps to the bridge he could see the Rock ahead. So close and yet too bloody far, he silently cursed. Damn bad luck. He stepped directly to the helm, shut down both engines to idle, and turned to face the destroyer that was now just ahead of him off his port quarter. It was then that he saw the White Ensign rippling from the starboard yardarm and an overwhelming relief washed through his senses. They had made it – they had bloody well made it.

  The Frenchman had gone; they were under the escort protection of a Royal Navy light cruiser. The relief in his brain was palpable. He re-engaged the engines to the drive shafts and brought the Lady Agrippina back up to a comfortable 18 knots.

  ‘Stay with him, Jamil,’ he called down to the boy, who was watching over Xicluna. ‘Almost there.’

  He did not attempt to bring the Lady Agrippina onto a dock. He felt it was beyond his skills and instead dropped an anchor as soon as they were in the lee of the harbour. A party of ratings came out to meet them, led by a fresh-faced lieutenant. He saluted Grainger, even though he was merely a civilian. ‘Good show, sir. A bit tight but we saw off that Frenchy. Cheeky bugger, coming into our waters. They’ve been a bit of a nuisance ever since the business at Mers-el-Kébir, you know. Funny to think they were once our ally.’

  On the dock they were met by an officer with the shoulder flashes of a commander.

  ‘Wilson, naval intelligence, sir. Pleased to see you made it. Well done.’

  Grainger put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Not just me. I couldn’t have done it without this lad. Quick as a whippet and sharp as a razor. I think you could do worse than make use of him. Now, I need to get in touch with London.’

  Wilson raised a finger. ‘Already sorted, old chap. We’ve fixed you up in the Bristol hotel for tonight. Debrief tomorrow. Load of American top brass. Your chief is due in tomorrow as well. We’ve taken the Algerian chappie to the military hospital.’

  The prospect of seeing Charlie was good. He wanted to beg some leave. During
the sea passage he’d had time to think and, every time, she was there; it was always about Evangeline and how it might be if they met again. He was not sure how it would go or what he should say. He was not good at these things, but he was determined to go and look for her. She would be out there somewhere, waiting, and he could not let go without at least one more try.

  He looked back at the Lady Agrippina swinging on her anchor and suddenly remembered. ‘Oh, by the way, there are a couple of goons locked up on board that yacht. You’ll find them in the store cupboard. They were Xicluna’s jailers so probably worth seeing what they know.’

  ‘Will do,’ Wilson said cheerily. ‘Now I’ve got someone who’s kindly agreed to run you over to the Bristol. See that car over there. Pop over and get in; I’ll let the chap know you’re there.’

  ‘Braiden,’ Grainger said, somewhat surprised, when the driver turned up. ‘Wasn’t expecting to see you again. How’s your war going?’

  ‘Oh, mustn’t grumble. Vichy’s still being a nuisance. How was Tangier? I heard you did some good stuff. Pity about Tommy Jordan; Yanks aren’t too pleased with that.’

  He saw the boy in the mirror and gave him a wink of his eye in salutation. ‘I gather the nipper in the back was a bit useful too. Heard good things about him.’

  ‘Yeh, he was an asset. It’s decent of you to run us over to the hotel, by the way.’

  ‘Not a problem, old chap; happy to do it. I’m on my way over to the hospital to see if I can have a chin wag with our Algerian guest. See what he knows.’

  When they got out of the car the boy stood watching as it drove away. ‘George fifth.’ He turned to Grainger, a puzzled look on his face. ‘You know George fifth? That George fifth man.’

  ‘Ha,’ Grainger choked back a laugh. ‘He does look a bit like George the fifth. It’s the beard that does it.’

  ‘No, no, boss. He George fifth.’

  ‘Fraid not; George the fifth is dead. He was king of England, you know.’

  ‘No, boss. That one George fifth. Jamil see him at warehouse. He go in boat with big bastard German and big bastard France man. I see him, boss. He have one tattoo. Snake on one arm.’

  Grainger stood in silence for a moment, trying to string past events together. ‘Oh shit!’ He looked about him frantically. A taxi had just pulled up at the Bristol. As the passengers got out he barged his way in, followed by the boy.

  ‘Hospital,’ he barked at the driver. ‘It’s an emergency.’

  He sprinted up the steps in twos and into the building. A man in a white coat whom he took to be a doctor was standing talking to a group of nurses. He didn’t wait on ceremony. ‘Grainger,’ he butted in, ‘British Intelligence. An Algerian man was admitted less than half an hour ago. Émile Xicluna. Where is he?’

  The doctor looked surprised. ‘You’re the second man who’s asked that in the last five minutes. Down to the end of the corridor, turn left, you want Admiral Codrington Ward, it’s three along on the right.’ Grainger ran, the boy padding behind him.

  ‘You can’t go in there, sir.’ A nursing sister at a desk jumped up and put out a hand to stop him. ‘Only one visitor at a time. There is someone already in there.’

  Grainger ignored her and pushed past. ‘Call the police,’ he shouted over his shoulder. The sister stood there in shock. She turned and looked at the boy. The boy shrugged his shoulders. ‘My boss.’

  Braiden was sitting on a chair by the bed. When he saw Grainger he got up. He forced an unconvincing smile. ‘What are you doing here, old chap?’

  Grainger gently nodded his head. There was a faint smile on lips. ‘Of course, it all adds up now. No wonder things kept going wrong – and I blamed Harriman and the Yanks, when all along it was you.’

  Braiden moved a hand towards his pocket but Grainger was ahead of him. He already had the FN automatic in his hand. ‘I wouldn’t if I were you. I’d shoot you like the dog you are.’

  Braiden was shaking his head and waving his hands. ‘I don’t know what your game is, old chap, but I suggest you put that thing away. You’ve been under a lot of stress, I know. You’re jumping to crazy conclusions. Now what’s this all about?’

  ‘That’s him, boss.’ Jamil was standing in the doorway. ‘He big bastard George fifth. I know him. I see him.’

  ‘There, you see,’ Grainger pulled a sour face. ‘A witness.’

  ‘This is tosh. I’ve never seen this boy before.’

  ‘Hmm. Roll up your sleeve. Go on. Do it!’

  ‘See, boss, one snake tattoo.’

  The nurse who had been standing at the door, mouth open and watching, felt herself being pulled aside. ‘Oh, matron,’ she said, still in a state of mild shock. ‘I’ve called the police.’

  ‘They’re here.’ The matron pulled her away. Wilson and two military police came into the room. ‘What’s this all about, sir?’

  Outside the hospital they stood on the pavement and watched as Braiden was marched away in handcuffs.

  ‘See, boss. George fifth was big bastard. Jamil knows these things.’

  ‘Not the real George the fifth, Jamil. He was a rather decent fellow. Quite a good king actually.’

  That evening they dined in the restaurant at the Bristol, and toasted the memory of the real George V, Grainger with a beer, the boy with a 7Up. It wasn’t that he didn’t drink beer, just that they thought that the real George V might not approve.

  Chapter 30

  There are more ways to kill a cat.

  Pierre Bonny was less than pleased with the way the cards had fallen, but he was not a man to be shaken off easily. In his room at the Hotel L’Iglesia he calculated an alternative device to gain his ends. Von Meyer had escaped the noose, together with the woman, though he cared nothing for her; she was not on his list. What drove him now was the British agent, Grainger. The man had slipped his grasp yet again, taking the Algerian with him. When he got the news from Hamiot that the Lady Agrippina had evaded Vichy interception and was now in Gibraltar, he realised he may not in fact have lost his man. If Grainger reacted in the way Bonny calculated, this spy might yet trap himself. He would, he decided, take the first flight out of Casablanca. Xicluna was beyond his reach but Grainger was not. There was a weak link he may be able to exploit.

  At the airport he boarded the flight bound for Paris. There would be a scheduled stop at Barcelona for refuelling and he would leave the flight there.

  The woman, Evangeline Pfeiffer, had gone to ground somewhere in northern Spain, in the area of Catalonia, a region that had fought the Republic in the Civil War and had lost. Now it was administered from Madrid. All the records of aliens in the country were held there. Vichy had a legation in Madrid. It should not be too difficult to discover where this woman was hiding out. Find her and he would have a trump card to play.

  From the airport at Barcelona he took a taxi for the 12-kilometre ride to the city, where he checked into the Ritz Palace hotel. There he would wait in the classic luxury of its fashionable rooms for news from Madrid.

  It was the first week of October. Bonny was tiring of the wait, even allowing for the luxury of his existence. He could not sit it out indefinitely; there was more to this war than one British agent. In Paris there were urgent matters that pressed for his attention. The resistance was becoming more organised and he needed to be back there. He would give it two more weeks. If nothing turned up he would have to call it off and return to Paris.

  In the closing week of that month, he got his break. The Gestapo bureau in Carrer Avinyo brought the news that they had found the woman he was seeking. She had married a Spanish nobleman, Carlos Luis Alejandro de Lorca, at a ceremony in the small town of Cadaqués. It had been a civil marriage so the certificate had been lodged with the mayoral office and not the archives of the Catholic church. A copy had been sent to the ministry in Madrid, and now a further copy was in his hands. The Gestapo bureau Avinyo would provide a car and driver for his mission.

  As the car travelled north out of the city,
Bonny felt a mixture of relief and elation. If he could capture the British agent he would not have to file a report of failure – a report which might eventually fall onto Himmler’s desk. Better still, he was getting close to settling a personal score. This woman had shot and killed one of his best interrogators and he wanted the satisfaction of revenge.

  It took six hours of tortuously bad roads to reach his destination; roads in a miserable state: potholed, neglected, and crowded with livestock. Donkeys, laden and slow, bullock carts that were impossible to pass, and sheep everywhere.

  His first call was at the mayor’s office. Nobody spoke French, and he spoke no more Spanish than might get him service in a restaurant. After a broken and unsatisfactory dialogue, they eventually directed him to the Guardia headquarters in the Hotel Residencia.

  There, he fared only a little better. The guard outside ushered him into what had previously been the hotel reception. From there a corporal, who also spoke nothing but Spanish, led him to an office. ‘Señor Bonny, policia Francesa,’ he said grumpily to a man seated at a table.

  The man stood up. ‘Sub-Inspector Ramirez.’ He offered his hand to Bonny. Ramirez spoke a little French, though not much. Between them it was established that Bonny was looking for Evangeline de Lorca.

  Ramirez made a phone call at the end of which he sent Bonny, in the company of a young lieutenant, to an imposing mansion close to the edge of the town. A woman in a severe black dress and white underblouse opened the door. ‘He is expected,’ she told the lieutenant. The guardia gave a polite bow and left Bonny with her. As soon as she had closed the door she led him to a salon.