“It’s my shoulder. I was speared by a tree branch,” said Coyle.
“That must have hurt.”
“Yeah. You could say that.”
“I don’t mean to pry but curiosity goes with the job you understand.”
“I get it.”
“Besides, I like to know who I am working for. One cannot be too careful in my line of business these days. How does one get speared by a tree branch?”
“I was at Dien Bien Phu if that’s what you are getting at.”
“I thought it a possibility. But you are American. Not French.”
“I’m a pilot. I fly cargo for the French.”
“And troops at times?”
“Yes. I dropped troops when required.”
“Such a waste. All those men… on both sides.”
“Yeah… a waste.”
“And the tree branch?”
“I was captured. I tried to escape.”
“A booby-trap?”
“Yes.”
“You are lucky you survived. Many did not.”
“Yeah. Lucky.”
When the water boiled, Dung poured it into the metal cup filling it to the brim. The hot water mixed with the grinds and dripped down into the glass. The hot coffee didn’t mix with the condensed milk but sat on top. It would need to be stirred. When the first cup was filled he moved the metal cup over the top of the second glass and poured more water. Coffee was expensive. His guest would get the first pour and Dung would take the second. His wife sitting at the typewriter, Mrs. Lam, got nothing. “So how may I help you, Mr. Coyle?” said Dung sitting down across from Coyle.
“I’m looking for two girls. Women really,” said Coyle.
“Americans?”
“No. Vietnamese,” said Coyle handing Dung a photo of McGoon with a big cheesy smile standing on the bungalow’s back patio between the two girls. Coyle remembered taking the photo with a Brownie camera that he had bought a few weeks after arriving in Vietnam. He had left the photo at Brigitte’s apartment after showing it to her. He had planned on giving it to McGoon but never got around to it.
“Who is the man?”
“James McGovern. He was my friend. Everyone called him McGoon.”
“Was?”
“He died at Dien Bien Phu. He was also an American pilot flying for the French.”
“I see. I am sorry for your loss. Why do you want to find these two girls?”
“He was taking care of them.”
“And they were taking care of him?”
“Yes. You could say that.”
“Mr. Coyle, these types of arrangements happen often in Vietnam. When the arrangement has concluded for whatever reason, the girls usually go on to find another patron.”
“That may be and if they did then that’s okay. I just need to know that they are safe.”
“You feel an obligation toward your dead friend?”
“Yes. Something like that.”
“Do you know their names?”
“The one on the left is Chau and the one on the right is Nyuget,” said Coyle pointing to each of the girls.
“And their family names?”
“I don’t know.”
“It will be difficult to find them without their family names.”
“I know. I’ve got money.”
“Of course you do. You’re American.”
“They lived with McGoon in a bungalow in the French quarter. Maybe his neighbors know their names.”
“It’s possible, but girls such as they are not usually sociable with the neighbors, especially if the neighbors are foreigners. Maybe a maid or another girl employed such as themselves, yes?”
“Yeah. That might work. I would have asked around but I don’t speak Vietnamese.”
“Not many foreigners do.”
“Any idea how long it will take?”
“No. Not until I begin the investigation and see what I can discover. I will require a retainer.”
“Of course. How much?”
“Five hundred American dollars.”
“Five hundred? That seems like a lot.”
“Working in Hanoi these days is risky. The closer we come to the communist takeover the more dangerous it will become.”
“Yeah. I can see that. All right. I’ll need to go to my bank and get the money.”
“I will go with you… after we finish our coffee of course.”
They stirred the condensed milk into their coffees and drank.
Brigitte walked through Jardins des Champs-Élysées that ran along the north side of the boulevard. It was the end of summer and fall was fast approaching. The leaves in the trees were bright yellow and would soon turn to orange, then brown before falling. She was happy to be in Paris. She had missed it while away on assignment in Indochina.
In her mind the world was full of fascinating places, but nothing beat Paris. In the distance sat the Arc de Triumph at the top of the boulevard and behind her was the Louvre; two of the world’s greatest architectural wonders. The River Seine was to her left with its exquisite bridges and the cobblestone sidewalks that lined its banks. And then there were the parks. Paris was filled with parks lined with trees and plenty of trimmed grass for an afternoon nap. She loved it all. Her only regret was that Coyle could not be with her.
Brigitte had to admit to herself that she felt petty and jealous. Why was Coyle so hell-bent on finding those two girls? She questioned whether McGoon ever saw them as anything more than playthings. What kind of relationship could they have had with him more than sexual? They didn’t speak English and he didn’t speak Vietnamese. But Coyle was determined to find them and help them. He had even hired a private investigator. The situation in Hanoi was deteriorating quickly and she was worried what would happen to Coyle. She knew he could take care of himself under normal circumstances. God knows he had proven it in Dien Bien Phu. But what was happening in Hanoi was different than a war. It was panic and becoming chaotic. People did dangerous things when they felt insecure and threatened by an unstable future. They became desperate. She had seen it before in Paris when the German’s invaded, and again in the prison camps when the Germans realized the Russians were coming.
He will have to leave Vietnam soon, she thought. I will demand it. No… not demand. Coyle wouldn’t like that. He is his own man and must be convinced. I will just tell him. I almost lost him once. I don’t want to risk that again. If he is going to be in my life, we must spend our time together. He should be here with me, where we are safe.
She considered that thought that for a moment… What the hell was happening to me? she thought. I am a woman that jumps out of planes into a raging battle. Now listen to me… where we are safe? She didn’t like the feeling the thought had created. Love would not destroy Brigitte Friang.
As she walked through the park, Brigitte glanced over at a mother sitting on a bench fussing over the contents of a baby carriage. Next he’ll want to have a baby together she thought. A baby? I am not a woman that stays at home and changes diapers… although a baby from the two of them would be adorable. A baby would cement their relationship and give them a common goal in life, something they lacked now. What would they name it? What if it was a girl?
She snapped out of it and looked at her wrist watch. She was late for her meeting. Enough daydreaming. There was work to be done. She picked up her pace.
Sami Djaout was relieved when he saw Brigitte Friang approaching the café where they had agreed to meet. He had arrived early to secure a table and she was running late. He thought she might have changed her mind. She had become a celebrity since Dien Bien Phu and her interviewing him was of great value to his missions. He had two objectives – first, to increase international awareness of the Algerian struggle for Independence and second, to raise funds from the large Algerian expatriate community in Paris for Messali Hadj’s MNA organization. A story in Brigitte’s magazine would help with both objectives.
He knew what Brigitte looked like
from her photos in the magazine and in the newspapers that had announced her arrival back in Paris a few weeks earlier. She however did not know what he looked like. He stood and waved to her.
Brigitte saw the young man waving and nodded to him figuring that he was the MNA representative she had agreed to meet. The growing unease in Algeria was turning into a big story and promised to get bigger as protests grew in size and violence. Sami had offered to meet near her apartment, but she didn’t like giving out her address. The MNA was considered one of the more peaceful Algerian Independence organizations, but there were some violent acts that had been suspected to have originated with the OS, the paramilitary wing of the MNA. It was better to meet in public where she knew she would be safe.
She understood that her notoriety made her a target for kidnapping and didn’t want to take any undue risks. There that word was again… risks. Besides, she loved this café along the Champs-Élysées. It was a great place to people watch and she was one of the people that its customers liked to watch.
As she made her way through the narrow aisles of tables, Brigitte noticed a woman moving up quickly towards Sami. The woman was Marwa. Brigitte thought the woman must be an associate or perhaps another journalist that had seen her and was now trying to horn in on her interview.
Brigitte was close enough to get spattered with specks of blood when Marwa pulled out a revolver and fired three times into Sami’s chest.
Brigitte’s time working with the French military had taught her to hit the deck whenever she heard nearby gunfire. She landed hard on the cobblestone floor of the restaurant’s patio. Patrons screamed and ran. Get down, she thought. You’re just an easy target when you run. She considered yelling something to the fleeing crowd but then wondered if she also was the assassin’s target.
She looked over at Sami as he collapsed to the ground knocking over his chair and grabbing the table cloth as he fell. The hot tea he had ordered came crashing down on top of him and burned his face. It was the least of his concerns. The three bullets in his chest were what focused his attention. He was bleeding badly and in shock. His eyes met Brigitte’s. He looked confused. She wanted to help him but she was frozen in fear.
Marwa walked over and fired a coup de grace into Sami’s temple, killing him. She looked over at Brigitte. Brigitte was looking straight at her. She knew Brigitte would be able to recognize her in a police lineup if it ever came to that. Marwa would have killed Brigitte but she had been given specific orders by Saadi to leave her unharmed. Marwa turned and ran off through the fleeing crowd. The Café Wars of Paris had begun.
Brigitte sat in a police station giving a description of the assassin to a police artist. “Her hair was long and black. It had tight curls.”
“Did she have bangs or was all her hair the same length?” said the artist.
“Same length.”
“What about the shape of her face?”
“It was long and shaped like an oval. Her eyebrows were thick but they had been plucked and shaped recently. There was a little bit of swelling.”
“That’s very good. I’m surprised you’d remember something like that.”
“Yeah. So am I.”
“What about her lips and nose?”
“Lips were full and her nose was long but not too thick. Delicate. She was very attractive.”
A detective approached and said, “You mentioned you were there to interview him… the victim.”
“Sami Djaout. Yes.”
“Why were you interviewing him?”
“He represented the MNA.”
“The terrorists?”
“I don’t know if they are terrorists or not. That’s one of the things we would have discussed, I suppose.”
“Do you meet with terrorists often?”
“Like I said… not sure they are terrorists, but yeah I meet with potentially dangerous people all the time.
“And that doesn’t scare you?”
“I’m cautious, but no, it doesn’t scare me. When I interview someone they don’t want to hurt me because I am going to tell their story. If anything they attempt to charm me, hoping I will portray them in a good light.”
“So did he mention that anyone was trying to kill or do him harm?”
“No. We never actually talked, except on the phone. He was killed before the interview started.”
“That’s too bad.”
“That he was killed?” said Brigitte.
“No. That he didn’t say anything that would help us find his assassin. As far as Monsieur Djaout goes… good riddance.”
Brigitte was exhausted by the time she returned to her apartment. Most days she would take the stairs up to the third floor, but today she was just too worn out, and elected to take the elevator. She hated the idea of being trapped in the contraption if the electricity went out, but today that just didn’t seem important.
She pushed open the front door to her home and entered. Linh had already left for the day. It was late and Brigitte was hungry. She was too tired to make anything nutritious and the thought of going out again was completely unacceptable. She scrounged through kitchen cupboards and found an open box of tea biscuits. They were stale but she ate them anyway and washed them down with the last of a bottle of red table wine she had drunk the night before.
She thought about what had happened. She could not help but replay the assassination over and over in her mind. She wondered if she had missed something crucial that would help the police find the assassin that had killed Sami.
The woman had looked Algerian, maybe Moroccan. It didn’t make a lot of sense. Most Algerians were for independence. Why would one Algerian gun down another Algerian and in Paris no less? She supposed she could have been working for Ultra – the militant pied-noir group - or the Red Hand. Brigitte played back the scene in her mind and she noticed something… when Sami was on the ground and he watched the assassin walking toward him, he had the look of recognition in his eyes. He knew the woman that killed him. That would explain the look of confusion when he looked over at Brigitte.
She had kept her head and was still alive. She would write her story in the morning. That was the great benefit in working for a magazine, no tight newspaper deadlines, plus her stories were allowed a higher number of words that a newspaper. She had space to explore a story in depth. Most good stories required space to report them correctly. But right now all she wanted was a bath and sleep.
She drew a hot bath. She unbutton her blouse and slipped it off. She looked at the specks of blood covering the front of the blouse. It was ruined. She would need to buy another. She tossed it in the trashcan. She looked in the mirror and saw the specks of blood on her face. Sami was all over her.
Most people would panic seeing another man’s blood on their face, but not Brigitte. She knew death all too well. She had seen plenty of men torn up much worse than Sami. He was lucky, she thought. He died quickly and without much pain. She remembered the underground hospital in Dien Bien Phu where she worked for several weeks during the siege. The smell was the worst part of death. Most human do not smell pleasant in their final moments of life. She shivered from the memory.
She used soap and a washcloth to scrub off the dried blood. She didn’t want Sami mixing in with the bath water. She hardly knew the man and it didn’t seem appropriate.
She slipped into the hot tub and leaned back. She thought of Coyle. He would surely read about the murder in the western newspapers that were flown to the major cities in Vietnam bi-weekly. She knew her name would be at the forefront of every story about the assassination. He would be worried about her and call. The one thing she could always count on was Coyle’s need to protect her, whether she liked it or not. She was ashamed to think that maybe Sami’s death was not all bad… if it got Coyle to come home to her. She closed her eyes and thought of Coyle wrapping her in his arms and holding her close. It was a good thought after a bad day.
It was dusk. Bella sat on a berm overlooking the Mediterranea
n Sea. The lovers that had come to watch the sunset were gone. He was alone with his thoughts.
He had started a civil war between the underground factions that he knew was inevitable and he knew he was right for starting it. But that didn’t make him feel any better. Bella had struck the first blow and knew that Messali would retaliate for the murder of his representative in Paris. That wasn’t why Bella felt bad. He had betrayed his mentor. A man he loved like his own father. The only thing he loved more was Algeria.
The decision to kill the MNA agent in Paris was simple. The more distasteful the FLN could make the war, the sooner it would end. Even though it had been ten years after the last rebellion, Parisians were accustom to violence in their streets. The difference was that they were the ones rebelling during the Nazi occupation and they were the ones shedding foreign blood. Now the Algerian rebels were rising up against them and taking the fight to the cafés and restaurants that Parisians so loved. There would be no peace until this was over. No relaxing coffee and a cigarette as the crowds strolled by the outdoor patios. It would not be a popular war if Bella had anything to do with it.
The violence Bella and the FLN were about to unleash on the French and the pied-noir would benefit both Algerian Independence organizations. The French would be faced with a dilemma – fight another guerilla war with the FLN as they had done with the Viet Minh or give into the Algerians’ demands and grant them Independence. The MNA would benefit by looking more moderate. Given the choice between the FLN and the MNA, the MNA would be seen by the French as the lesser of two evils. The FLN would benefit by capturing most of the news headlines and would attract the Algerian youth and more radical elements to their movement. This was exactly what Bella needed. He wanted young recruits that he could train to fight his way and experienced veterans that had no qualms about doing what was necessary to win a war.
Café Wars Page 5