'You're not playing in the minor leagues here, Willoughby. This is the big time, a felony, not to mention a goddamn low thing to do. Did you ever think about some GI out there, wounded and in pain, and a medic shows up fresh out of syrettes?'
'A felony?'
I could see Willoughby had more sense of self-preservation than feelings of guilt.
'Larceny with intent to sell, and probably some charges related to falsification of records, since I'm sure you signed out a certain amount of supplies to be delivered to the front. You waited until they were out of your jurisdiction and then lifted them, so if anyone discovered it at the other end, the finger would point at the driver or some other poor slob.'
'He told me to-' Willoughby caught himself, trapped between the desire to explain away his actions and the fear of implicating someone else. 'Who?'
'Why should I tell you anything? You're going to turn me in, take my stripes, and have me court- martialed.'
'That all depends on what I saw in here. I'm pretty sure I saw you stealing morphine from the U.S. Army. But maybe you were checking the shipment and that carton fell and broke open?'
Willoughby thought for a minute, flogging his brain cells to come up with a course of action. I decided to hurry it along a bit.
'Just so you know, we're talking about ten years at hard labor. Or not.' That was pretty easy math, even for him.
'Okay. I tell you who and we forget the whole thing?'
'If I believe you, and if it checks out.'
'You're not going to tell him I squealed?'
'Ten years. Splitting rocks every day.'
'Okay, okay. I get it. It was Doctor Dunbar. He's been after me ever since Joe got killed. He owes Colonel Walton and some other officers. He's been on a big losing streak and he wanted to get even. He told me to take the syrettes after I logged them out of the supply depot. We were supposed to split the take.'
'Who is the buyer?'
'I don't know. He said he'd find someone at the Kasbah in Algiers. Officers have been cleared to go into town when they're off duty. I haven't been anywhere since I got here.'
He sounded frantic. He knew everything depended on my believing him. Dunbar had managed to keep his hands clean. He could deny everything and Willoughby would be hung out to dry. Willoughby was sweating, little beads of moisture forming on his forehead and cascading over his face. It was hot in back of the truck, under the canvas, standing in the narrow passageway between stacked cartons of supplies. I decided to turn the heat up some more.
'When were you supposed to hand the stuff over to him?'
'Right now. He pulled two shifts in a row and he's off duty for the rest of the day. He was going to head into Algiers and nose around the Kasbah. Let me give him some of these syrettes and then you'll see it was his idea! He wouldn't take them otherwise, would he?'
I had seen honor among thieves, so I knew it existed. But not today, not here, not with this guy. I told Willoughby to give Dunbar half a dozen syrettes and tell him he'd get a lot more tomorrow. Dunbar could take the six samples with him and find a buyer. I was betting that he already had the buyer and was working Willoughby, hooking him with the idea of a one-time heist with no intention of stopping at that. If I was right, I had the connection I needed. If not, then I had a couple of small-time punks.
It sounded like a plan. Just what I liked, a plan, a suspect, clues, the works. The only problem was that I wasn't any closer to finding Diana.
I had to be sure to get back here and meet Harding at four o'clock to get to the MTB base in time for my little jaunt. If this lead didn't pan out by mid-afternoon, I'd leave Dunbar with his six syrettes and take off. Willoughby, I had other plans for.
Chapter Sixteen
A phone call and a jeep ride later I was standing in a narrows dusty passageway near the entrance to the Kasbah, the Arab marketplace in the center of Algiers. As we neared the market, French shops had begun to give way to Arab shops and the streets narrowed, with an ancient feel to them, as if the centuries were looking down on us. Kaz stood beside me, looking chipper in a khaki sling that matched his tropical British battledress. I looked like a rumpled colonial country cousin in comparison. Arabs swirled around us, their robes and turbans dazzling in all sorts of bright colors. They looked exotic and colorful, until they got close. A glance and a whiff revealed the robes to be filthy and smelly. Flies buzzed around my head and then I figured out what the turbans were for.
A civilian in a dark suit approached us.
'This could be him,' Kaz whispered to me. He had set up a meeting with one of the Agency Africa agents that the Polish government-in-exile operated. Kaz, with his sling, was easy to spot and his contact had given him a recognition code to exchange. The guy in the suit stopped in front of us. He had a black mustache, a couple of day's growth of beard, and blue eyes that darted everywhere, checking doorways and exits. He and Kaz exchanged some French I didn't catch, then shook hands and spoke quietly in Polish for a few seconds.
'Billy,' Kaz said, 'this is Vincent. He's lived in Algiers ten years, and knows where certain commodities are bought and sold in the Kasbah.'
'Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant. I am glad to be of service.'
His English was good, very precise but spoken slowly, as if he was thinking about how to say the next few words.
'Vincent, thanks for coming. The guy we're watching for is another American lieutenant, a doctor. He has a small amount of morphine to sell, with the promise of more to follow. He may or may not have a buyer lined up. Any idea where he'd start?'
'There are a few obvious places. He is in great danger though, if he asks openly about buying or selling drugs. One must be introduced by the right people.'
'Who are the right people?'
'There are several. The Sicilians are represented in the Algiers underworld. There are two major French crime families, as well. The Grimauds have connections with the nomadic Arabs and deal in smuggling and caravans from the interior. The Bessettes run the docks and-'
'Bessettes? As in Captain Henri Bessette?' I asked.
'Yes, he is part of that family. He used to be a colonel in France, they say, but was demoted and sent back here in disgrace after killing a man. It could not be proved, but the army was not pleased. It is rumored he bribed his way to a staff position here.'
'Well, it seems he may be working on his retirement plan. He hasn't stopped killing people either. I saw him bash a French officer's head in a couple of nights ago.'
'Bessette's family owns a carpet business. It is his trademark. We know about Captain Pierre Labaule's death. He made the mistake of being an honest man, and reporting the corruption he found. Follow me.'
Vincent took us to a seedy little bar on a side street just off the main marketplace. There were a few tables outside, shaded by a covering arcade. It was cool, and we had a good view of the square. Vincent spoke to the Arab waiter and in a few minutes three glasses of hot mint tea appeared.
'The Arabs believe hot sweet tea will cool you on a hot day,' Vincent explained. 'I've come to agree with them. Try it; it is very refreshing.'
'Look, Vincent, I'm sure the tea's great, but shouldn't we be looking for Dunbar?'
'We are,' he answered, keeping his eyes on the square as he sipped his tea. 'Watch that stall, the one with the red awning at the end of the row. They sell Arab knives and metalwork, but their main business is distributing drugs.'
'Do you think Dunbar will show up there?'
