My head felt as if someone had rammed a ten-penny nail into my skull, and I could feel blood trickling down my ear. I was damned if I was going to pass out, although it seemed to be an attractive idea as I tried to stand up. The guy who'd batted me took a step forward. I held up my hand.
'Irish,' I said, tapping my chest. 'Erin Go Bragh.' He didn't get it, but he didn't hit me again, either. Instead he hustled me over to the other side of the car to stand next to Harding and Georgie, both of whom had been smart enough to keep their mouths shut.
Georgie pulled out a white silk handkerchief and handed it to me. I pressed it against my head where it hurt the most and the flow of blood eased up. I looked around, counting the guns and looking for a way out. There were seven SOL thugs, all mean-looking, one of whom was smiling at the others as he showed off my Thompson. Spoils of war.
A black sedan was parked by the side of the road. The driver got out and opened the rear door on our side. He was dressed in a blue uniform, and so was his boss, who also wore a blue cape tossed back over one shoulder, and an armband similar to the ones worn by the SOL.
'Vichy police,' Georges whispered to us. 'The Gardes Mobiles. They run the SOL, unofficially, of course.'
'Of course,' I said. 'Any other surprises we should know about, Georgie?' I was joking, as usual, but even I wasn't ready for the punch line. The driver went to the other side of the sedan and opened the back door. Out stepped a tall German officer, in a sun-bleached khaki uniform, complete with Iron Cross at the collar and a band around his left sleeve, in ornate German script, that read 'Deutsches Afrika Korps.' One of Rommel's boys.
The two of them strolled over, like a couple of old pals. The French cop was of medium height, with a long face and a big, sloping nose at the center of it. He wasn't what you'd call ugly, but he probably would be someday. Right now, in his tailored uniform and polished boots, with his cape jauntily thrown over his shoulder, he looked like the cat that had caught the canary. Or three canaries. He smiled as he approached us, the kind of smug smile that comes from being in charge and having seven gunsels watching your back. The German was taller than him and slimmer, with a face as weather-beaten as his uniform. I could tell he wasn't a cop. Like Harding, he had professional soldier written all over him. He didn't smile, and he sure as hell looked like he didn't need seven guys to watch out for him.
'Welcome to Algiers, gentlemen,' the Frenchman said in excellent, but accented English. 'We have been expecting you.' He walked right up to Harding, extending his hand like a precinct captain greeting a visiting dignitary. 'Major Harding, I am Captain Luc Villard, at your service.'
His hand hung there for a second, the smile frozen on his face as he waited for Harding to respond. My mind dully registered the fact that those first roadblocks had been too easy to get through, that he had been waiting here for us, that he knew Harding's name, and that I didn't have a clue as to what in the hell was going on. Being a trained detective, such deductions came easily to me, especially the one about not having a clue.
'Pleased to meet you, Captain Villard,' Harding said, shaking his hand. He was trying to sound confident, but even Harding couldn't keep a slight tone of bewilderment out of his voice.
He gave it his best shot, though. 'Obviously, you are aware of our mission,' he continued. 'I bring greetings from General Giraud and General Eisenhower, and offer French forces our assistance in fighting those who occupy French soil.' He delivered this line with a straight face, ignoring the German standing right there. I almost believed the three of us were about to march on Paris.
Villard laughed as he turned to smirk at his German companion. 'We are well aware of your pitiful mission. Also, I am aware that this is French soil, under the sovereignty of France, and you are the invader!'
His smile turned ugly and he smacked Harding across the face. Harding didn't even twitch, and I caught a glimpse of a raised eyebrow from the German. It was his first expression of any kind and vanished in an instant. Was it disdain for Villard, or did he think a bullet would have been better than a sissy slap?
'We have freed General Juin from the pathetic rebels who occupied his house last night,' Villard said, 'and we have also taken into custody the British and American agents who acted as provocateurs among them. It was not difficult to learn from them that you would arrive this morning.'
'You can't expect to win-' exclaimed Georgie.
'I know who you are as well, Lieutenant Dupree,' Villard cut in. 'A traitor at worst, at best a dupe of the British.' He motioned for one of his men, and a thick-waisted sweaty guy in a dusty black suit leaned in and pulled Georgie s revolver out of his holster. He handed it to Villard, who aimed it at Georgie's chest.
'And I have little use for either traitors or fools.' He pulled the trigger before anyone could move. The sound exploded in my ears and the next thing I knew Georgie was thrown against the car, a look of shock and surprise on his face and a burnt, black hole in his chest that slowly spread scarlet as he fell.
Chapter Four
I knew Georgie was dead before he hit the ground. I knew it was a well-practiced routine, the hand gesture to the sweaty guy, the sudden, unexpected violence. I knew that it had a purpose, and that Villard enjoyed it. He smiled at us.
'The penalty for treason is death in your army too, I believe, Major Harding?'
'Yes, Captain, it is. If a legally constituted court martial finds the defendant guilty.'
'In this national emergency, some legalities must be put aside,' Villard said as he shook his head sadly. He casually threw Georgie's revolver down by his body, and continued as if nothing had happened.
'Search him,' he ordered one of his men, who turned out Georgie's pockets and tossed his wallet onto the ground. As Villard watched them search, I looked down at the piece on the ground, then around me. The German caught my eye, and shook his head no, ever so slightly. So this was part of the routine too. I looked at the sweaty guy and he had his rifle aimed right at me. Nice little game the Algiers cops had going here.
'But, where are my manners?' Villard said, after the search turned up nothing of interest. 'Major Harding, allow me to introduce Herr
Major Erich Remke of the German-Italian Armistice Commission. It is his job to insure that all parties adhere to the terms of the armistice that ended hostilities between France, Germany, and Italy. This includes resisting invasion by foreign armies.'
Remke snapped to attention and made a slight bow in our direction. 'Major Harding, you and your aide will accompany us into Algiers to the Gardes Mobiles headquarters. Captain Villard has given me permission to question you before I depart.'
His English was excellent, better than mine almost. He didn't sound like a psychopath and I wondered if we'd be better off with him than with Villard.
'Like he questioned Georgie?' I asked. My gut was churning as I thought of how alive and excited Georgie was just a minute ago. I told myself to shut up if I wanted to get through this in one piece. There'd be time to even the score later, when a bunch of killers didn't have the drop on me. Later, when I had Villard alone and a loaded. 45 in my hand. The thought calmed me.
Villard laughed and looked at his men, translating my question as if it were a good joke. They all thought it was hilarious.
Remke locked eyes with me. 'My duty here is to insure that the representatives of Vichy abide by the terms of the armistice, and to report on enemy movements to my superiors. I have no intention of shooting you, if that is your concern. As to this…' He glanced down at Georgie. The blood on his chest was already drawing flies. '… action, I have no authority to intervene in purely internal Vichy politics. Nor any wish to.'
He spun around and issued orders in French. I didn't understand the words, but the tone was clear enough. Everyone jumped to, except Villard, who gave him a dirty look and got back into his vehicle. Maybe these guys weren't such pals after all. A couple of goons took our side arms, gave us a quick check for hidden weapons, and then swiped our wristwatches for good measure. They tossed us into the back seat of our car and Remke and a driver sat in the front.
As the driver headed back to Algiers, Remke turned and gave the slightest hint of a smile. 'You are new to war, you Americans. You should prepare yourselves for far worse than this. Did you really expect these Vichy French to welcome you with open arms?'
'Name, rank, and serial number is all you can expect from us,' said Harding.
