Café Wars

by David Lee Corley

“Great to hear. What page are you on?”

  “Page? I am still outlining, Damien.”

  “Did you throw everything in the bin again?”

  “Yeah. It’s crap. It’s like something a student would write to impress her teacher.”

  “It can’t be that bad, Brigitte.”

  “Oh, but it is… was.”

  “Why don’t you fish it out of the trash and let me look at it? You know I will give you an honest opinion.”

  “That’s what I am afraid of, Damien. I don’t think my ego could take your criticism right now and I just had all my kitchen knives sharpened.”

  “Okay. Fine. But promise me this is the last time you start over without letting me at least look at what you have written.”

  “I promise to do exactly what I want when I do it.”

  Damien laughed and said, “Yes you will.”

  “So why did you call? I know it wasn’t to check up on my book.”

  “You’re right about that. I have an assignment for you.”

  “An assignment? I don’t do assignments, Damien. The deal was I write what I want.”

  “I know. I know. But Ines decided she was in love again and abandoned her desk to go after some Italian race car driver. I swear this time I am going to fire that woman when she gets back.”

  “No. You won’t, Damien. She’ll come back in tears and you’ll forgive her like you always do. Hell of a way to run a magazine if you ask me.”

  “I wasn’t asking you. But I do need your help… if you’ll give it.”

  “What was she working on?”

  “Algeria. Things are really heating up down there.”

  “Yeah. I’ve heard. What angle was she taking?”

  “Honestly, I’m not sure. Her notes are all covered with hearts and racecars. You would be free to develop the story however you see fit.”

  “If I take it, I’ll need a travel budget.”

  “Of course. Just no long weekends in Nice.”

  “That was one time, Damien. And I did end up writing a piece on it.”

  “Which I threw in the bin.”

  “I didn’t say it was a good story.”

  “Look. If you’ll take the assignment, I may be convinced to look the other way if you decide to bring Tom along on any of your journeys.”

  “I should be so lucky. He’s back in Hanoi searching for whores.”

  “What? Really?”

  “I’m kidding. Tom and I are fine… I think,” said Brigitte taking a moment to consider. “All right. I’ll do it. It may do my writer’s block some good.”

  “Procrastination. That’s the spirit!”

  “Au revoir, Damien.” Brigitte hung up the phone before he could respond.

  Brigitte pulled the blank paper out of the typewriter and set it back on the stack of new paper. “Linh, I am going out,” said Brigitte.

  “You want I make dinner?” said Linh stepping from the bedroom.

  “Not for me but you can help yourself to whatever I have that isn’t moldy.”

  “The wine?”

  “Except the wine. We both know what happened last time. We don’t need a repeat of the barf-o-rama incident.”

  “Barf-o-rama?”

  “Never mind. No wine.”

  Linh nodded that she understood. Brigitte picked up her purse and exited the apartment.

  THREE

  It was 3 a.m. and still dark when Yacef Saadi rose from the bed in his home above his business in eastern Algiers. This was not unusual for Saadi; he was a baker, and bakers always rose early. Before his morning tea, he would start the fires under his ceramic stoves. He would make the first batch of bread dough and let it rise for twenty minutes while he drank his tea and ate a bit of dried goat meat to give him strength.

  His wife and children would wake later. His wife and oldest daughter would sell his baked goods to his neighbors that visited the bakery’s shop. His two oldest boys would use their bicycles to deliver his bread to restaurants and tea houses. Saadi knew how to sell baked goods. It was easy. Just make sure your shop was up wind from your customers. The aroma would do the rest.

  Saadi’s bakery specialized in kersa, the Algerian flatbread cooked in a stove-top skillet. The raised circles on the bottom of the cast-iron skillet gave the bread its distinctive look and helped cook the center of the bread. He made the dough with sunflower oil, salt, semolina and water, then fried the bread in vegetable oil which gave it its nice flavor and made the outside crispy.

  Saadi loved making bread. He also loved making bombs. He was very good at both.

  It was 11 a.m. when his bakery sold the last batch of bread and he closed the shop. His day’s work was half done. The other half would be done in the back of the bakery out of public view.

  He removed his apron and hung it on a nail in the wall by the doorway separating the shop from the bakery.

  He walked into the back of the bakery. There were seven young women lined up like a squad of soldiers. He looked at each closely and studied their faces and their eyes. They were all beautiful Algerian girls. He consulted with an older woman, a hairdresser and a young man, a tailor. He picked three of the girls - Marwa, Ludmila and Nihad. Marwa was the most attractive of the three and would be useful in obtaining intelligence from enemy soldiers. But Saadi knew that Ludmila was the real treasure. She could easily pass for European and had an intensity in her eyes.

  Saadi thanked the others. The rejected girls left, some with tears in their eyes. They wanted to serve their country and their families would be disappointed that they were not selected.

  With the other girls gone, the tailor went to work measuring the girls for the European style dresses he would make. Once the tailor was finished, the hairdresser cut Ludmila and Nihad’s hair short to the shoulders as was the French style. She left Marwa’s long curly black hair as it was. It added to her beauty. There would be a manicurist that would shape their finger and toe nails and apply the colorful polish that all the European women preferred. There would be a woman that taught each girl to apply makeup and a French teacher that taught them basic phrases they could use to buy a bus ticket or order a coffee in a cafe. Their tongues were not used to French, but the teacher kept at it until their accents were undetectable.

  Each girl was taught how to load, aim and fire a pistol and how to properly dispose of the evidence once the deed was completed. They were also taught simple self-defense skills that including gouging at the eyes with their long fingernails, kicking the genitals and how to use their elbows to break the nose of someone holding them from behind. They were taught what to do if they were captured and the various ways of committing suicide when no weapon was present. It was hard work and took over two weeks before they were ready.

  When the transformation was complete, Saadi performed a final inspection of his little army of spies. They were impressive. They may not have looked French, but they appeared upper class European and that was good enough for his purposes. The French military treated Europeans differently than the Algerians. They were not eyed with suspicion and could enter train stations and dine in restaurants without being searched. The police would not demand to see their identity papers or produce passes to travel from one end of the city to another. Being pretty didn’t hurt either. Most of the French soldiers were young and would want to impress the young ladies. An enamored soldier might even do one of the young girls a favor when asked. Yes, thought Saadi. These girls will do nicely.

  The final touch was a string of pearls bestowed on each of the girls by Saadi. A reward of sorts for all their hard work and loyalty to the cause. Few Algerian women could afford jewelry, let alone pearls. The pearls were the satin bow on a package that made them special… that made them each a present to be opened by the enemy. They looked so innocent and pure. They were not. They were deadly sirens.

  François Mitterrand, France’s Interior Minister, walked through the train station. The dull grey sky of Paris covered the glass canopy ceiling above
, offering a well-diffused light for passengers. He stopped and looked up at the electronic board that posted the current schedule of trains and their platforms. He did not notice Brigitte move up beside him with a suitcase in hand. She set the suitcase down behind Mitterrand and looked up at the schedule as if oblivious that the minister was next to her. Mitterrand found the departure platform for his train and turned to move off. He stumbled over Brigitte’s suitcase. “Oh, I am so sorry,” said Brigitte. “I should be more careful.”

  “It’s quite all right, Mademoiselle,” said Mitterrand and then realized it was Brigitte. “Oh, merde.”

  “Minister Mitterrand, what are you doing here?” said Brigitte feigning surprise.

  “You know what I am doing here, Brigitte. Otherwise, why the ambush?”

  “Ambush? I don’t know what you are inferring, Minister. I am on my way to see my aunt in Bayeux. She’s not feeling well.”

  “Ah, well… your aunt. I hope she feels better. Now if you will excuse me? I am on holiday.”

  “Since I ran into you, I wonder if you wouldn’t mind answering a few questions?”

  “I would love to but I am late and I don’t want to miss my train. You understand.”

  “Of course. I will walk with you.”

  “What about your train?”

  “It doesn’t leave for another hour.”

  “Fine.”

  “Would you mind?” said Brigitte motioning to her suitcase and pulling out a pencil and notebook from her purse.

  Mitterrand grunted his displeasure and picked up her suitcase. They walked toward the platforms.

  “Really, Brigitte. I don’t understand why you insist on playing these charades.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about but if I did it would be because you instruct your secretary that you’re always busy when I try to schedule an interview.”

  “Okay. I surrender. Ask your questions.”

  “Why are the Algerians, having fought for France in World War II, still denied French citizenship?”

  “Algeria. Jesus. This is why I need a holiday. Your question is political. I am the Interior Minister. I merely execute the law. I do not write it.”

  “You are not a politician?”

  “No. Not currently.”

  “And if you were?”

  “I would say that it has long been France’s policy not to tamper with the nationality of the natives in its colonies.”

  “If we do not offer them citizenship and the benefits that it brings with it, why should they be loyal and fight for France?”

  “I don’t believe the current government is concerned that the Algerians fight for France as long as they do not fight against it.”

  “So, they are fighting?”

  “Of course they are fighting. The Algerians have seen the victory of the Vietnamese. Their leaders are opportunists.”

  “Do you believe France is facing another war for Independence?”

  “No. The Algerians do not have the support of the Chinese. They have no army.”

  “They have the support of the Russians.”

  “Who told you that?

  “You know I don’t reveal my sources,” said Brigitte. “It seems land reform is the biggest stone in the Algerian shoe. Would you agree?”

  “I agree that the Algerians are upset at some of the laws concerning redistribution of land to the European colonists. But they are fairly compensated for their land.”

  “They may be compensated for the raw land but they are not compensated for any improvements on the land or any crops in the ground at the time of confiscation.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I am not an assessor.”

  “There is no justice without knowledge, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes. Of course. I will look into the matter.”

  “It’s been going on for a hundred years. You’ve had plenty of time to look into the matter.”

  “Perhaps I misspoke. I will revisit the matter. But this is no excuse for violence and disorder in the streets. There are methods available to the Algerians that do not require protests and rioting. We are a nation of laws.”

  “But those laws are not equally applied to citizens and non-citizens.”

  “That may be true but the Algerians have been given a voice in Parliament. Their representatives are free to propose changes to the law and make their arguments.”

  “Those seats are mostly held by colonists that have settled in Algeria and a few tribal leaders. Hardly a fair representation of the will of the people.”

  “You asked your question. I gave you an answer.”

  “The party line answer?”

  “The Interior Department’s answer.”

  “What will France do if the protests continue to grow or worse – turn into more riots?”

  “What we have always done… protect France and her interests.”

  “And is it in France’s interest to put down any revolt?”

  “There are protests and a few misinformed troublemakers that occasionally turn to violence. It’s hardly a revolution.”

  “…Yet,” said Brigitte and saw that Mitterrand was losing his patience with her. She already had several good quotes from the minister and decided to push him further in hopes of an outburst that could be turned into a headline. “I wonder if France’s leaders have learned from the war we just lost that the time to address colonial grievances is before the revolution begins, not after?”

  “You’re trying to make a mountain out of mole hill, Brigitte. Find another way to sell your magazines, Mademoiselle Friang,” said Mitterrand putting down her suitcase and continuing on without her.

  “Have a nice holiday, Minister,” said Brigitte.

  Mitterrand turned briefly and offered her the bras d'honneur as he walked away in a huff.

  The shoeshine station near the gates at Algiers international airport was a coveted job. Travelers waiting for their planes saw it as the perfect time to get the Algerian dust wiped from their shoes before returning to Paris or other European cities. If they were leaving France they saw it as a good time to empty their pockets of francs so the tips were generous. Most of the men that worked the shoeshine station were in their forties and fifties. They had worked there for decades.

  Zaki was Marwa’s younger brother. He had just turned sixteen and had lost the baby fat that made him look boyish. He had an easy-going smile and was considered handsome by most of the girls in his neighborhood. He was a spy for the FLN and his position at the airport shoeshine station had been arranged. The FLN leaders wanted to know who was flying in and out of Algeria. The shoeshine station was also a good place to overhear conversations between government officials and diplomats traveling together.

  Zaki used a nearby payphone to call a number he had memorized whenever he saw or heard something or someone worth noting. He usually made several calls each day. None of the other shoeshine workers questioned Zaki. They knew who he worked for and why he was constantly leaving his customers’ half shined shoes to make his phone calls. Whenever he would leave, another shoeshiner would step in and finish the job he was working on. That was the deal. Nobody made trouble for Zaki. Nobody dared.

  Zaki was working on a pair of wingtips worn by a Dutch wholesaler when he saw Sami Djaout picking up his ticket at the airline counter. Zaki had been given the photos and names of the top MNA operatives. Zaki had memorized them. He waited until Sami had left the counter and entered the passport control area for departure, before abandoning the wingtips and what promised to be a good tip from the Dutchman. The shoeshiner next to him slipped in and finished the wingtips.

  Zaki crossed the ticketing area and approached the ticket agent that had sold Sami his ticket. Zaki shook the agent’s hand leaving a folded up bill in the agent’s palm, the way a customer bribes a maître d’ for a good table at his favorited restaurant. The agent simply said, “Paris” and went back to helping the next customer in line. Zaki moved off to the payphone and made his cal
l.

  FOUR

  Coyle stood in front of a Hanoi storefront and studied the writing on the glass door. From what he could tell it was both the establishment of the Bui Lam Dung Detective Agency and the VinDoc Translation Service specializing in French, English, American, Chinese, and Russian. The store’s windows had been covered with boards to protect against looters, like a business owner digging in for the long haul. He wondered if the hotel concierge that had given him the recommendation was on commission. It didn’t matter. This was as good a place to start as any, he thought. He entered.

  An older woman wearing glasses sat behind a desk typing. He guessed by the stack of foreign dictionaries by her typewriter that she was translating a document. “Do you speak English,” said Coyle.

  “British or American?” said the woman without the normal Vietnamese accent.

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Oh yes. Very much. A truck in New York is a lorry in London.”

  “I suppose you’re right about that. I’m American.”

  “I know. I can tell by your accent. How may I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Mr. Dung.”

  The woman called out in Vietnamese toward a doorway covered with a curtain in the back of the office.

  The largest Vietnamese Coyle had ever seen appeared in the doorway. He was tall and broad; his shoulders barely fitting through the narrow doorway. He was fat but Coyle could tell there was muscle hidden beneath the fat. It was deceiving; almost a facade. “I’m Mr. Dung. How may I help you?” he said in a heavy Vietnamese accent.

  “My name’s Tom Coyle. I’m looking for a private investigator.”

  Dung moved forward like a tank and shook Coyle’s hand. Coyle had been right about the muscle; the man’s hand was like a vise. “Please have a seat,” said Dung motioning to a chair in front of an empty desk. “Coffee?”

  “Sure,” said Coyle sitting.

  Dung put a tea kettle on an electric hot plate in the corner of the office. He scooped several tablespoons of coffee grinds into a metal cup with holes in the bottom. He poured condensed milk into the bottom of two clear glasses and set a small spoon on each of the saucers under the glasses. He set the metal cup with the coffee grinds over the mouth of one of the glasses. “How did you hurt your arm if I may ask?” said Dung.