scuffed up.
'Yep,' I said. 'He had a clear line of fire once he got those branches out of the way. He had us in his sights as soon as we turned the corner. He should have waited a few seconds longer for a better shot.'
'Billy,' Kaz said, 'please do not offer these hints to anyone. I have no wish to give this renegade Vichy a second chance.'
'This was no fascist renegade, Kaz,' I said as I ran my hand over the ground.
'How do you know that?' he asked. 'There are still many Vichy French who do not wish to fight for the Allies.'
'We did expect some trouble when we agreed to the cease-fire,'' Harding said. 'The French troops still have weapons. One of them with a grudge could have slipped out, taken a potshot, and then gone back to his barracks.'
'How many times has that happened?'
'None that I know of,' admitted Harding. 'But with thousands of
French soldiers in this city who were shooting at us a day ago, any- thing's possible.'
'Well,' I said, 'how many soldiers in this war take away their shell casings after a firefight?' I could see Kaz's eyes widen. Harding looked at the bare ground where the shooter had been, still puzzled.
'It's a professional habit. Not of soldiers but of hired killers,' I said. 'Hit men don't leave anything behind to link them to the murder.'
'Murder? In the middle of a war?' Harding asked.
'Best time for it,' I said. 'Now let's get some food.'
Chapter Fourteen
We ate in a mess tent outside the hotel as the sun set and breezes coming off the Mediterranean cooled the evening air. I wolfed down beef stew and rye bread until I had caught up with my two missed meals. Looking up at the palm fronds swaying in the slight wind I remembered how they had looked from the roof of the hotel. Was that only last night? Last night Joe Casselli and Jerome Dupree had both been alive. Had either of them realized it would be their final night on earth? Had they felt the cool breezes before they died?
Most murders are unfair and unequal struggles. A few you can make sense of, but usually it's greed or brutality that causes someone to kill another human being, whether out of sudden rage or studied calculation. There was something much more than unfair about Joe and Jerome's murders. Something was very wrong, upside down, as if the rules had suddenly changed and no one had bothered to tell them. In a war, there's enough chance for a guy to get killed, even a supply sergeant or a college kid caught up in the thrill of plots and revolts. But to be murdered for what? A notebook? Drugs? In a hospital, where they had the right to feel safe and secure? It wasn't right. If they had been killed in the air raid, it would have part of the deal, part of the war. But they had lived through that, only to become victims of some two-bit drug racketeers.
A gust of wind kicked up and the palm trees swished loudly for a few seconds before the fronds dropped silently back in place. I started to wonder how I would know if this were my last night alive, and what I would do differently if I did. Lots of thoughts passed through my mind, but they all seemed petty and childish. Not to say lewd. Maybe it's better not to know, and to go on doing whatever seems important.
That was all the deep thinking I had time for. Harding had organized a room for the three of us, on account of Kaz's wound and the fact that we'd be sitting ducks sleeping in a hallway, even inside the headquarters hotel. Kaz got the bed, Harding took the couch, and I fell asleep in my boots on top of a sleeping bag on the floor, in front of the door. Like a good guard dog.
I woke up with a groan, and twisted around to get more comfortable. The floor was as unforgiving as a nun with a ruler. Kaz was sitting up in bed, sunlight streaming in through the open bay windows. Harding was gone. He would've had to step over me and open the door right in my face. I guess this sleeping dog had been best left to lie.
'Where's Harding?' I asked. I yawned and grimaced at the same time I tried to straighten up.
'He left near dawn. He ordered me to rest, and I decided it was an order worth following. He said he'd be back by nine o'clock with something for you to do.'
'Great. Let me get washed up and I'll get some breakfast for us from the mess tent.'
'No need, Billy,' Kaz said with a smile as he gestured toward the old-fashioned ornate telephone on the bedstand. 'The hotel is still operating and room service is quite dependable. I ordered breakfast which should be here any moment.'
'Room service?'
'Billy, just because one is wounded on the African continent in the midst of a war, there is no justification for eating powdered eggs when there are more civilized alternatives. I did have to promise a substantial tip, nearly a bribe, really, but it should be worth it.'
'Room service,' I mumbled to myself as I unlaced my boots and shuffled off to the bathroom. 'What a war.'
When I returned, a room service cart had been rolled up to the edge of Kaz's bed. Shiny silverware and real china was laid out for us and we ate eggs benedict, hot rolls, figs, and grapes washed down with sweet black coffee. Or I should say I did. Kaz picked at his food, worked at keeping up chatter about everything and nothing. He was going through the motions of being himself without putting his head into it. That didn't stop me from gobbling up everything on my plate including the figs, which I had never seen before. I was just starting to feel human again when Harding walked in.
'Why am I not surprised?' he said, looking at the room service cart as he helped himself to coffee.
'You said I should rest, Major,' Kaz said with a faint smile.
'I'm glad to see my subordinates are following orders,' Harding said, gulping his coffee from a china cup. 'Now, Lieutenant Kazimierz, a British doctor will come this morning to check your wound and give you your shot. If he says you're up to it, tomorrow I want you to see what^ you can find out about organized crime here in Algiers. Find out if Villard^: and Bessette are involved. Ask who's working the black market. Don't strain yourself, just talk to people, especially your Agency Africa contacts.'
'Shouldn't I take that assignment, Major?' I said. 'The Vichy cops are more likely to talk to another cop, even if he's an American. Kaz could come along to translate for me.'
'I've got another job for you, Boyle. First, we go back to the 21st General Hospital and you question everyone who might be involved in the murders and the drug heist. Lean on them, see if you can shake things up. They won't expect that after we beat feet out of there, so maybe someone will become nervous and run to the smugglers.'
'What do we do second?'
'Second, you take a boat trip. To Bone.'
'When?' I nearly shouted, quickly remembering to add 'sir' in a normal voice.
'You'll leave late tonight, from a Motor Torpedo Boat base about twenty kilometers east of here. British MTBs are going into the harbor at Bone with two destroyers to land the 6th Commando. A battalion of paratroopers will be dropped over the airfield later in the day to capture it. We don't think there are any Vichy combat units in the area, but we can't be sure and don't know if they'll fight if they're there. You go in on one of the MTBs, with a two-man shore escort-a translator and someone to protect you.'
'Do we know where the Vichy supply depot is?'
Harding pulled out a map of the Algerian coast around Bone, and spread it out on the bed, covering Kaz's legs. It had a city street map in one corner and just off the dock area was a gray square marked 'Le Depot de Provision.'
'Looks like less than a kilometer from where you'll land,' said I larding, pointing to a spot just above Kaz's knee.
'Major, I need the Commandos to seal off that area. If Villard's still there-'
'Whoa, hold your horses, Lieutenant,' Harding cut in. He poured some more coffee and walked to the open bay window, looking out over the rooftops. 'Do you have any idea what it took to get permission for you to go along
