Mac wingate 1, p.18
Mac Wingate 1, page 18
Something stirred in Wingate’s mind. He got to his feet, leaving the last half-inch of cognac still in his glass. He walked to the window and looked out over the harbor. “How do you know he’s in Casablanca?” he asked at last.
Timmermann shrugged his great shoulders slowly and spun the remains of his own drink around in the glass. “You know what it’s like in Intelligence, my friend. You have hunches—premonitions. Something has happened to the German Intelligence scene in the whole of French North Africa, ever since the Germans moved into southern France. There’s a new dynamism. There’s a new driving force at the top. More important, we know they are spending most of their energies compiling lists of every Jew from Spanish Morocco as far east as Gabes. That’s precisely the kind of job that Goebbels would give to Legrand.”
Wingate was still playing with the idea in his head. He said, “This Legrand—can he talk?”
Timmermann looked up at him, not understanding the implications of the question. He puckered his lips and finally he said, “I presume so. A man in that position—he’d be expected to give orders ...”
“Then the scar wasn’t deep enough to damage the larynx?”
“Frankly, I don’t know. Unfortunately, we don’t have a recording of the man.”
Wingate came striding back down the room, then leaned on the table and looked directly at Timmermann. “I’d prefer a picture of the scar,” cried Wingate. “What can you tell me about that?”
Timmermann shook his head. “Really, Captain Wingate, you’ve lost me. We have the surgeon’s report, but ...”
“And you remember it?”
“Of course.”
“Then for God’s sake, Colonel, tell me about the scar!”
Timmermann thought for a moment, then he said, “Length—about six inches. Three inches of severe laceration either side of the Adam’s apple. Twenty stitches. Disfiguring scar tissue caused by secondary infection. No one could see the man in normal dress without noticing that throat.”
“One more question,” said Wingate. He felt sure now that he knew who Legrand was, but there was one more hurdle—a big one. “This Legrand, what does he look like? I mean, how big is he? What kind of build does he have?” Timmermann looked mildly embarrassed. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “we don’t know. None of our agents has even been able to get a description of him, except for the wound. Otherwise, his appearance is a complete mystery.”
“You keep referring to him as a man,” said Wingate. He paused, then added, “Maybe we’re just assuming he’s a man. Think carefully. Is it possible—is it possible that Legrand could be a woman?”
Timmermann looked up at Wingate, his face expressionless. He seemed to be trying to put his thought on a new track before committing himself. At last he said, “You could be right, Captain. As far as we know, Legrand could be a woman. We just assumed ...”
Wingate took up his glass again and finished the cognac. He was satisfied now. But there was one more thing he wanted to clear up while he was at it. “Why did you suggest to me earlier that Moreau might be Legrand? You knew damn well he wasn’t.”
“My dear friend,” said Timmermann blandly. “I wasn’t certain that you knew what you were getting into. I thought it wise to put you on your guard against everyone. As it was, even someone as experienced as poor Moreau wasn’t careful enough.” He leaned back slowly and added, “In any case, Colonel Erikson had certain reservations about Moreau. Jacobi was seen visiting the building on the Rue el Ghaza on a number of occasions.”
Wingate was finally putting the whole thing together. The ransacking of the boat, the smashing up of Moreau’s apartment, the way the guy had finally been killed. He figured the hit man they had used in each case was that shaven-headed hulk who looked like a Japanese wrestler. He said, “I know who Legrand is, Colonel. I know that Legrand is a woman, not a man. And I know where to find her. I’m going after her myself ...”
“Oh, no!” Timmermann interrupted. “That kind of action’s for my department.”
“Colonel,” said Wingate, quietly insistent. “After what you and Colonel Erikson have just been putting me through, I figure I deserve a chance to get a shot at these people.”
Timmermann smiled and gave the matter a moment’s consideration. “Well, all right,” he agreed. “You can go along too.”
“That’s not what I had in mind, Colonel,” said Wingate. “You can come in as a backup team if you insist. But I want to go in alone to start with.”
Timmermann got to his feet and the chair stopped groaning under his weight. He seemed about to overrule Wingate by pulling rank on him, but he hesitated. Finally he nodded. “On one condition, Captain,” he said. “This marksman we pulled out of II Corps to help us test the security at the Hotel Anfa. He is—very good with guns. I want you to take him with you.”
Wingate thought for a moment. It made sense. It would be crazy to try it alone. He didn’t expect to be dealing with more than one person when he finally confronted Legrand, but he couldn’t be sure. “OK,” he said. “When do I get to meet him?”
“He’s below in the café,” said Timmermann. “I will ask him to come up.” He turned to the desk and picked up the telephone and said something briefly in Arabic. Finally he nodded and put the earpiece back on the hook.
“I can’t move until after Jacobi springs that charge,” said Wingate. “It could screw up the whole operation. Do you mind if I hang around here awhile?” He took a quick glance around the room. It looked anything but inviting.
“My dear Captain Wingate,” said Timmermann, expansively, “you are entirely welcome!”
“Will we know when Jacobi has fired the thing?” asked Wingate.
Timmermann laughed loudly. The sound seemed to generate somewhere in his belly and reverberate throughout his chest. “Oh, we’ll know!” he cried. “With the kind of thing that I have in mind for Jacobi, they’ll hear it all the way to Cairo!”
There was a brisk rap on the door and Timmermann turned his head toward it and called out, “Entrez!”
The door opened and a thickset figure in American uniform came into the room. Wingate’s hand dropped to the butt of the Browning. It was the Japanese wrestler who had stuffed Moreau in the closet and finally slashed his throat.
All the doubts that Mac Wingate had had about Timmermann earlier came flooding back into his mind.
Ten
Timmermann took a look at Wingate’s reaction to the Japanese and burst out laughing. “Captain Wingate!” he roared. “Of all the damn fools that I have been! Have you any idea of the lengths that I have been to to make sure that you stayed on your guard? How I have had you watched on the streets by the boys and all my other contacts, to see that you didn’t do anything rash? And now I can see that I need not have bothered at all. You are perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. I have never seen a man look more suspicious than you are looking at this moment!”
Wingate didn’t draw the Browning, but he didn’t take his hand off the butt either. The Jap was still wearing the American combat gear that he had been wearing on the boat. He came to attention and saluted. Timmermann, as the senior officer, returned his salute with a casual gesture of his hand.
“Captain Wingate,” said Timmermann, affably. “Sergeant Misuki.”
“Captain—sir,” said Misuki, still at attention.
Wingate nodded. In the daylight, the guy looked about ten feet wide. Wingate finally took his hand off the butt of the Browning and asked, “What were you doing on Moreau’s boat, Sergeant—the night of the air raid?”
“Looking for Moreau, sir,” said Misuki. His accent was pure Californian. Apart from his looks, he could have been tenth generation American. “Moreau was the only lead I was given.”
“Why did you rip the place apart and stuff the poor bastard in a closet?”
Misuki looked toward Timmermann as if expecting some explanation from that quarter. When Timmermann didn’t speak, Misuki said, “The place was ripped apart when I got there, sir. Moreau wasn’t there. I hung around, but he didn’t show. When the bombs started dropping, I figured there were safer places to be than on that boat. I got back into town.”
His voice was deep, with a low rumbling quality—a little like Timmermann’s, but without the humor. As far as Wingate could tell, there was no reason to doubt him.
“Did you see anybody around?” Wingate asked. “Coming off the boat, maybe, as you were on your way out to it?”
Misuki thought for a moment, then he shook his head, “Nobody, sir. A couple of Arabs coming along the quay. I guess they could have been on the boat, but I didn’t see them. One of them was some kind of giant. I couldn’t miss him.”
Wingate remembered the Berber. He remembered the way he had slashed the throat of the injured camel. He remembered the similar wound across Moreau’s throat. The sergeant’s story hung together. Wingate figured he was getting paranoid. He nodded to the sergeant and said, “Sorry about the questions. I guess I could still do with a good night’s sleep. OK—relax, Sergeant.” He hadn’t any doubt anymore. Selima was Legrand all right. She was the one who controlled the Berber and gave Jacobi his instructions.
At noon, Timmermann sent Ben-jussif out for food. He came back with baked fish wrapped in vine leaves, and stuffed dates for dessert. It tasted marvelous to Wingate. Accompanied by a couple of glasses of light red Moroccan wine that Timmermann served, it made things slip back into perspective.
After the meal, he said, “I think we’ll shift things around a little. I was figuring that we ought to wait for Jacobi to blow himself up before we moved, otherwise we might scare the bastards back into hiding. I think now we should take Legrand out while we have the chance. No one’s going to notice a single rifle shot here in town—certainly Jacobi won’t hear it from Anfa.”
Timmermann said, “But I thought we agreed, Captain Wingate. If Jacobi has the least suspicion, he’ll go back underground. It would lead to worse complications later.”
Wingate nodded. Timmermann was right. He glanced at his watch. “We’ll leave in an hour. After that, Jacobi will have had to leave town if he’s to get to Anfa in time.” Wingate took out the Browning and checked the magazine and the safety catch. It wasn’t necessary and he knew it, but he needed something to occupy the time. Sergeant Misuki was having the same problem. He checked the mechanism of his .30 caliber Garand M1 rifle, occasionally taking up a position behind a piece of furniture and drawing a bead on a distant target in the harbor. Once, he lay prone on the floor with his feet apart and his elbows resting on the bare planking, while he let the butt of the gun nuzzle into the soft flesh of his cheek. He was a real professional, Wingate could see that. Any doubts that Wingate had had about Misuki evaporated.
Finally Misuki got to his feet. He still wasn’t satisfied with the M1. He felt in his left breast pocket and took out a little stub of candle. He lit it and stood it on the table. When it was flaring nicely, he held the front and then the rear sights of the Garand six inches above the flame to collect a light deposit of soot on them. When the moment of truth came, he didn’t want any reflection from the sun distracting him.
At last, Wingate got to his feet and said to Timmermann, “It may take a little time. We’ll meet back here when it’s over.”
Timmermann nodded. “Ben-jussif will take you wherever you want to go. He knows the shortest way to anyplace in Casablanca.” He put out a hand to each of the men in turn. Finally he saluted. “Good luck, gentlemen,” he said. When he had finished speaking he turned away from them and took up a novel from the top of his desk, then sat down at the table to read it. Wingate wondered what apparent anxieties about the mission the fat man must be hiding.
As Wingate and Misuki reached the door, Timmermann made a final request. “Perhaps, Captain Wingate, when you’re able, you’ll send the boy back. I feel a certain responsibility, you understand? I wouldn’t want an innocent boy witnessing violence.”
It was a nice touch, Wingate thought. He began to feel that he could really get to like this guy. “You’ve got it, Colonel,” he said. “I’ll take care of him.”
They got into the old medina with Ben-jussif trotting ahead, Misuki following and Wingate in the rear. The narrow, winding streets were packed. No one appeared to notice them amid the crush of donkeys, camels and humanity. The stink of shit and unwashed bodies was almost overpowering. Wingate wondered what it must be like in summer when the flies came out and the thermometer shot up over ninety degrees.
They reached the flat rooftops of the old city by stages. First a flight of age-worn stone steps onto a single-story building, then a slope up the side of a lean-to roof, and finally a simple climb up a rusting iron ladder plugged into a wall. The view was magnificent, with the wide stretch of the harbor behind them and the blue-gray Mediterranean beyond. Ahead lay the distant foothills of the Atlas Mountains with their covering of snow. Below was the teeming life of Casablanca that had occupied this site from time immemorial. It was a bracing sensation for Wingate, surrounded by so much crowded history, and for a moment he forgot the mission and the war.
It was Ben-jussif who brought Wingate back to the present. He had already leapt to the next building across the width of the alleyway beneath and was calling, “Come, Johnny! Very easy!”
Misuki followed the boy and a moment later Wingate was close behind them. Ben-jussif pattered over the tar-covered roofs in his bare feet while Misuki and Wingate clattered behind him in studded combat boots.
They had crossed the third alleyway and were dodging between lines covered with damp laundry, when the faintest seed of doubt began to grow in Wingate’s mind. He brushed aside a sodden bed sheet with his right hand and thudded forward toward yet another gap between the buildings. As he did so, he was trying to pin down the cause of his uncertainty, but he couldn’t. On his right was the dome of the Sidi Allah Karouani Mosque and directly ahead of them the big red and green flag that flew over the entrance to the El Khalil. That was where they were headed. But for the moment Wingate stopped and tried to think. Ben-jussif slowed and called, “I go too quick, Johnny?”
“No,” Wingate said, coming alongside the boy. “You don’t go too quick.”
“We go on, huh?” Ben-jussif asked.
Wingate nodded. “Sure,” he said at last. “We go on.” They set off again. Only two narrow alleyways now separated them from the roof of the El Khalil. As Wingate cleared the first of them, he was wondering about Timmermann. It was curious that when Wingate had said he knew the identity of Legrand, Timmermann had shown no curiosity. Had Timmermann known too? Had he known all along?
“OK, kid!” Wingate called when they had reached the last of the alleyways. He put his hand in the pocket of his pants and took out a fistful of francs and handed them to Ben-jussif. “Thanks a lot,” said Wingate. “You can go home now.”
“Home?” Ben-jussif asked. There was deep disappointment on his face.
“Home,” Wingate repeated. “You’ve done a good job. I’m very grateful. But this is as far as you go.”
The kid shrugged and looked down at the money in his hand. It didn’t seem to interest him too much. It was obvious to Wingate that he would have preferred to stay with the action. Finally the kid turned and started back in the direction of the harbor. Wingate waited until the kid was well on his way, then he said to Misuki, “OK, Sergeant. Let’s move in.”
They cleared the last of the alleyways, leaping from the little raised parapet of one building onto the opposite one across the eight-foot gap. Misuki’s nimbleness surprised Wingate. The guy must have weighed around 250 pounds, but he moved as if he’d spent most of his life leaping rooftops. Wingate was glad they were on the same side in this war. Misuki would make one hell of an enemy. Misuki whispered, “You know the location?”
Wingate nodded. “She works nights,” he muttered. “This time of the day she’ll still be in her room. Maybe even in bed.”
Misuki took it in his stride, showing no emotion. As far as he was concerned, it was simply necessary information. Erikson and Timmermann had picked the right man when they had picked Misuki. He was a born killer—a dedicated professional.
They worked around the edge of the courtyard, crouching behind the low parapet so as not to give away their position to anyone who might chance to glance up from below. Occasionally, Wingate put up his head to check their position, his olive drab helmet and the top half of his face breaking the skyline momentarily. When they were opposite Selima’s room, Wingate turned to Misuki and nodded. Misuki fingered the breech mechanism of the Garand, as if impressing on it what he expected it to do.
Wingate noticed the red, white and blue insignia of the 9th Infantry that Misuki wore on his left arm. He remembered the time on Moreau’s boat when he had first seen it.
The doubts began to crowd back into his mind. He asked casually, “You with General Truscott, Sergeant?”
“General Fredendall, sir,” said Misuki, his head still below the parapet.
Wingate took a pair of lightweight binoculars out of his combat jacket and lifted his eyes clear of the parapet. He began scanning the windows opposite. There were a number of rooms on the far side of the courtyard. A couple had shades drawn and he figured that maybe some of the other girls were asleep inside. He was turning over what Misuki had just said. Fredendall was in command of II Corps and both Erikson and Timmermann had told Wingate that that’s where the marksman had come from. What bugged Wingate as he tracked along the line of windows opposite with the binoculars was that he hadn’t heard that the 9th Infantry had joined II Corps. “Jesus,” he muttered, “you must have seen some shit!”
