Café Wars

by David Lee Corley

  He paid his bill and rose from the table. He would need to expose the person tailing him. It wouldn’t be hard. He walked across a square, entered a side street, and turned down an alley between two tall buildings.

  The man following Bella was a member of Le Main Rouge (The Red Hand), a secret terrorist organization run by the French counter-intelligence service. It was the Red Hand that in 1952 had gunned down Ferhat Hached, an early leader of the Tunisian Independence movement, and had blown up a civilian freighter smuggling arms into Algeria. His assignment today was not to kill but simply to follow Bella. The leaders of Le Main Rouge knew that Bella was not a man to be trifled with and that when the time came to kill him they would need to send their best.

  The man rounded the corner and entered the alley. It was deserted. It was as if Bella had vanished. The man knew that was impossible. Not enough time had passed for Bella to reach the opposite end of the alley. Bella was there someplace in the alley hiding. The man walked further into the alley checking doorways and stairwells leading to the basements of buildings. Halfway down the alley he heard a noise from above. He looked up and saw Bella on a fire escape landing. Bella released the ladder directly above the man. The heavy iron ladder fell and the leg of the ladder speared the man in the head killing him instantly. It looked like an accident and that was the way Bella liked to dispose of his enemies. Accidents generated fewer questions.

  Bella entered the futbol stadium through the maintenance tunnel exit. It was dark. Larbi Ben M’Hidi, commonly known as Si Larbi, stood in the shadows holding a submachinegun at the far entrance of the tunnel. Bella stopped, lit a cigarette and studied Si Larbi at a distance to determine if he was a threat. One could not be sure who was friend or foe these days even if you were both on the same side. Disagreements between the leaders of the underground organizations often led to bloodshed. Si Larbi was only thirty years old and had already made a name for himself as a brave fighter in the underground movement. Bella could not be sure of Si Larbi’s intent, but proceeded anyway.

  Si Larbi studied Bella as he approached like a prize fighter sizing up his opponent. There was recognition in the young man’s eyes. He knew Bella’s reputation and had seen his face in an Egyptian magazine. “You’re late,” said Si Larbi speaking in Arabic, the common language of North Africa.

  “It could not be helped,” said Bella.

  “You have a tail?” said Si Larbi looking back down the tunnel.

  “Had,” said Bella.

  Si Larbi nodded his approval and led the way into the stadium. “You brought a gun,” said Bella.

  “Do guns make you nervous?”

  “No but we said no guns,” said Bella. “I keep my word.”

  “I always carry a gun. It makes me feel better. Like my mother’s tit when I was a child.”

  “If you are caught with a gun the French will hang you.”

  “Best not get caught then,” said Si Larbi with a smile.

  Bella and Si Larbi climbed up the stadium stairs and joined a group of seven men. “You’re late,” said Messali Hadj the co-founder of the OS.

  “He had a tail,” said Si Larbi.

  “So did we all but we are not late,” said Messali.

  “A thousand apologies,” said Bella.

  Messali and Bella had not spoken in almost a year. They had been friends when they started the OS together and had watched each other’s backs during secret military operations against the pied-noir, the European settlers that had been given preference to the best farm lands by the French and full French citizenship. This infuriated the Algerians. As the time for the real war of Independence drew near, the two men had become estranged and the OS had split into two factions. The two leaders had different ideas on how to achieve Independence.

  Messali did not believe an all-out war with the French was necessary or prudent. It was too risky and would cost the lives of thousands of Algerians. He preferred to influence public policy through insurgency, as they had been doing. Why change course when you are winning? was his thought. The French politicians were already feeling the pressure of anti-colonialists at home in Paris and throughout Europe. Even the Americans were putting pressure on the French to relinquish her colonies. A war could harden the positions of the French politicians against the Independence movement. The Algerians could lose the support they had fought so hard to gain over the years and lose their chance of self-determination for another decade.

  Bella was tired of waiting for the French politicians to do the right thing and free Algeria. The Vietnamese had just won their Independence by openly fighting the French and defeating them with guerilla tactics. The Algerians could do the same. They had learned from the Vietnamese and knew which tactics worked against the French. Now was the time to publicly rebel and fight before the French public recovered from the shock of the French Army’s defeat at Dien Bien Phu.

  Introductions were made by Messali who everyone knew. Messali wasn’t the leader of the group. There was no leader. That was the point of the meeting. These nine men were the leaders of the individual underground movements that had formed since the Setif massacre. They did not trust each other, and often suspected ulterior motives from any action taken. However they all shared the same goal of Algerian Independence and were prepared to die to accomplish it. “The time has come to strike at the heart of the French while they are weak and still preoccupied with their withdrawal from Indochina,” said Si Larbi. “The people are ready and willing. The revolution should begin without delay.”

  “We must consolidate if we are to beat the French,” said Bella. “We need to fold all of our movements into one organization.”

  “And who would lead?” said Messali.

  “All of us,” said Bella. “We form a council.”

  “A council?”

  “Yes, a war council of sorts.”

  “A council is a lousy way to fight a war,” said Messali. “All of us getting together every time a decision needs to be made? It will slow our movement down to a crawl.”

  “I agree but it is the only way to keep us from fighting with each other.”

  “It’s not the only way. We could vote on a leader,” said Messali.

  “We could but it is unlikely we would all follow. Our political ideologies are too diverse. A council would be forced to accept and respect our different ideologies if it were ever to expect to get anything done.”

  “Like I said, a bad way to run a war,” said Messali.

  “We wouldn’t need to meet on every decision together. We could elect leaders of the various operations. The council would only decide on overall strategy and major tactical decisions concerning the entire organization. We could each be in charge of a region of the country.”

  “And who would get Algiers?” said Si Larbi.

  “We would decide that… as a council.”

  “You have a name for this new organization?” said Si Larbi.

  “I was thinking the ‘National Liberation Front’ or ‘FLN’ for short,” said Bella.

  “You’ve given this a great deal of thought, my friend,” said Messali, suspect. “And what of the OS?”

  “We form a new military branch and fold the OS and the other military wings into the new branch.”

  “We are to become your lap dog then?” said Messali.

  Bella bit his tongue and kept his temper in check as he said, “My only desire is to beat the French before they can regroup. Consolidation is the best way to accomplish that goal. The French people are fed up and have no stomach for war. That will change over time. We must strike now while we have the opportunity. We can decide on which path the country will follow once that mission has been accomplished and Algeria is free. After all we are all brothers in the faith.”

  Nobody disagreed that night. But only six of the nine would go on to form the FLN. Messali was not one of them. He would fight his own battles his own way with his own followers. Animosity and jealousy would fester like a rotting wound. It would
mean trouble for Bella and the FLN.

  Coyle had his arm in a sling as he rode in a trishaw through Hanoi. It was mayhem. There were thousands of Vietnamese families carrying everything they thought of value on bicycles and in hand carts. Anything with wheels that could carry a heavy load was put to use. The mother and father took turns pulling the load while the other herded the children carrying backpacks and suitcases.

  Their goal was simple – South. The French were leaving and the communists were coming. For anyone that had been even remotely associated with the French, life was over in the North. The Viet Minh had shown little tolerance for French collaborators and had a tendency to shoot first and ask questions later. Politicians, teachers and business owners were prime targets of retribution and were the first to leave.

  The flow of refugees went both ways during the three hundred days of transfer that was permitted by both governments. It was obvious by the traffic heading south that was backed up for hundreds of miles which people were more concerned for their safety.

  Over one million Vietnamese Catholics fled south when the CIA’s planes dropped flyers that read “The Virgin Mary is going south.” The politicians knew that a new war would be coming soon and the more people on their side when it happened, the better their chances of victory.

  The French were less concerned. They believed their citizenship still protected them. They sat and watched the exodus from their favorite sidewalk cafés and coffee houses. Some were even considering staying behind once the communists arrived. The North Vietnamese would need the French to operate the power stations, water works and trains. The French had vast trade networks that could keep the wheels of commerce moving and generate tax revenue for the new government. French plantations provided the food to feed millions of Vietnamese and even excess that was exported. Many thought it might even be more lucrative to operate under the Vietnamese than the French. Vietnamese officials were much cheaper to bribe than French officials.

  The French underestimated the hatred they had generated over the years of colonialism. At times the French had been cruel to the Vietnamese. They were quick to put down dissent with incarceration, and rebellion with violence. Compromise had been seen as weakness.

  The Vietnamese were always considered second class citizens and for decades had been denied full citizenship in France’s empire. The Vietnamese were paid very little and unions were not allowed under French colonial rule. The French entrepreneurs made their fortunes from Vietnamese misery and sweat.

  Coyle watched abandoned buildings and houses being looted by mobs as the trishaw rolled past. Most were stripped of anything of value. A few were set on fire. The looters weren’t angry – just desperate.

  The trishaw driver had demanded one U.S. dollar to take Coyle into the colonial part of Hanoi. It was dangerous. He didn’t want French francs which he saw as more useless than paper. Nobody knew what the Vietnamese currency would be once the communists took power. The American greenback and the British Pound Sterling were seen as safe and became the only acceptable currencies for several months in the North. Gold and silver jewelry were also acceptable, as was rice. The value of everything was measured by weight on questionable scales. Barter was the main system of commerce. Famine, and the disease that always follows it, spread fast.

  The trishaw pulled up in front of McGoon’s bungalow. Coyle climbed off the bench in front of the driver. He paid the man one U.S. dollar as promised. The driver seemed pleased and made motions with his hands signifying he would be willing to wait until the foreigner was ready to leave. Coyle made motions like he would be staying and that the driver shouldn’t wait. The driver was disappointed, spat on the ground and pedaled off to find another fare.

  Coyle waited for a long moment in front of the one-story house. The yellow paint had faded even more than he remembered it, and the surrounding vegetation had clearly been neglected. He wasn’t sure why he was hesitating to go inside. He had rehearsed how he would tell the girls about McGoon’s death, although he was sure they already knew. McGoon was a well-known character in Hanoi and word of his death would have traveled fast. He felt bad that he hadn’t come before today. His justification was that he was in and out of the hospital most of the time as the doctors tended to the infection in his shoulder. But he knew that was just a lousy excuse.

  The truth was that he didn’t want to think about McGoon. Coyle was there when he died. It was one of the traumatic events of his life, and that was saying a lot for a guy that had fought in four wars. Now McGoon was haunting his dreams. Mourning McGoon wasn’t going to bring him back.

  He had wired money to the girls through Western Union, so they had enough to eat and pay the rent, but he had left the message part of the wire blank. He didn’t know what to say or how to say it in Vietnamese. He wasn’t even sure the girls knew how to read.

  He was filled with dread when he finally walked toward the front of the bungalow. The girls would probably have put up some sort of memorial or shrine of their fallen caretaker. There would be a photo of McGoon. He would just avoid looking at it, he thought. His feelings changed when he saw the front door ajar and the lock broken. His pace picked up almost to a run.

  He pushed the front door open. It was dark inside. He wondered if the girls had paid the electric bill or even if they knew they needed to pay it to keep the ceiling fans and lights working. He moved to the shutters over the front windows and opened them to let some sunlight in. He was shocked by what he saw. Everything was gone; the furniture, the posters on the wall, even McGoon’s custom-made tropical island bar. There were palm fronds and seeds on the tile floor as if they had blown in through the open front door. He called out the girls’ names. There was no response. He moved to McGoon’s bedroom figuring the girls probably slept together in the big bed while McGoon was away.

  He pushed open the bedroom door. Everything was gone including McGoon’s big bed and the dresser where he kept his gaudy Hawaiian shirts, neatly folded and placed in the drawers after the girls washed and ironed them. McGoon’s closet had been emptied and the wooden jewelry box where he kept his father’s pocket watch and the mountain lion tooth necklace that he had had since he was a kid was gone too. Vanished like it never existed. But it had and so had McGoon. Coyle was suddenly angry. It wasn’t like he wanted any of McGoon’s junk. He just felt like it should still be there like it meant that McGoon was still there. But it was all gone.

  Coyle went into the girls’ bedroom and into the guest room where he had stayed until he could find his own place when he first arrived in Hanoi and McGoon had taken him in like an abandoned puppy. Everything was gone. The icebox, the sink, the toilet in the bathroom, everything that had even the faintest of value was gone... and so were the girls.

  Coyle was filled with emotion. It was Coyle’s fault that McGoon and Buford had been killed. McGoon had insisted on flying low when Coyle parachuted into the French garrison to be with Brigitte. If McGoon had flown at a safe altitude he and Buford would have avoided the Viet Minh anti-aircraft guns and still be alive. He had failed to keep McGoon alive and now he had failed to take care of the girls. He punched the wall several times and almost broke his hand. He didn’t feel the pain and even if he had he would have welcomed it. He deserved pain. He sat on the floor in the middle of the empty bungalow and wept like he never wept before.

  Brigitte was busy staring at the half-typed page in her typewriter. It’s crap, she thought. Men died. I owe them more than this piece of garbage. She pulled the paper from the typewriter and set it on top of a stack of finished typewritten papers. Then she pushed the entire stack over the edge of the desk and into the trashcan.

  Her apartment was small, with only one bedroom, a bathroom with an actual bath, a kitchen with a breakfast nook, and the living room that led out onto a patio just big enough for the two chairs and small table. She was pleased when Coyle told her that everything he owned fit into one canvas duffel bag. She had been feeling a little guilty that the bottom of the bedro
om’s one closet was filled with shoe boxes. It was Paris after all.

  Coyle could fit everything in two drawers in the dresser and had no need for closet space except to hang up his leather flight jacket. He could use the coat closet in the living room for that. When she was out on assignment with the paratroopers she only had one jumpsuit and one pair of jump boots. She lived like the men she jumped with, and they saw her as one of their own. But when she was home in Paris she was more relaxed and liked to dress up. Coyle would see a different side of her when he finally arrived and she thought he would like it.

  She put a new piece of paper into the typewriter. The phone rang. Brigitte stared at the phone like it was a viper. It could be Tom, she thought. It rang again. It could be Damien, she thought. Better to be safe than sorry. She didn’t answer it.

  Linh, Brigitte’s Vietnamese housekeeper, answered the extension in the bedroom. “Shit,” said Brigitte.

  Linh peeked out the bedroom doorway and made a writing gesture followed by a hand chop which meant it was Brigitte’s editor. Brigitte sighed and picked up the phone. “Good morning, Damien,” she said.

  “How’s the book coming along?”

  “It’s really taking shape,” said Brigitte looking down at the typed papers in the trash bin.