Hours passed. There was nothing to do, which usually would suit me. I'm not the kind of guy who thrives on adventure. Give me a nice routine, like walking my beat back in Boston, stopping at a diner for a cup of coffee, flirting with the waitress, twirling my baton out on the sidewalk, and watching the world go by. Seeing the same folks in their shops every day. Church on Sunday. Opening day at Fenway every April. Stuff like that.
Guys like Harding, and maybe every other GI I've run into, they all want adventure. Win the war, get a medal, whip the Nazis, smash the Japs. Me, I figure it's easy to talk tough but a lot harder to stay tough when the lead starts flying. It's not that I'm unpatriotic, I just don't have enough imagination to convince myself that war is going to be like it is in the movies. I've seen too many gunshot wounds up close to believe that. That's why I appreciate a nice, predictable, routine, boring life. Sure, you could get hit by a bus, or if you're a cop you might be one of the unlucky bastards who gets shot every now and then, but the chances are slim. The risk is a lot bigger roaming around North Africa, dodging bullets.
I thought I had it made back in Boston. I sure never thought I'd end up in a jail cell, much less a stinking Algiers jail cell. I was just enjoying being called Detective and then what happens? I get pulled out of civilian life and thrown into the army, where not even Dad's political pals could keep me out of this war. Getting into another fight alongside the English hadn't played well at the Boyle household. The Holy Catholic Church, the Boston Police Department, and the Irish Republican Army are a pretty big deal at home, although not necessarily in that order. My Dad and two uncles had gone off to fight in the Great War. Alongside the English. Only two of them came back, and they were pretty bitter. So I'd been brought up to believe that the only thing worth dying for, other than family and a brother officer, of course, was a free Ireland. One night, right after Pearl Harbor, Dad and Uncle Dan laid it on the line for me. It took a few beers at the tavern before they got around to it, but I knew something was up when Uncle Dan drained his fourth draft and told me this wasn't our war because no one had attacked a Boyle, or Boston, or any part of Ireland. Uncle Dan's a cop too, a detective just like my Dad. He's also a real IRA man, unlike Dad. He didn't like the idea of another Boyle dying for the "fucking Brits," but other than that sentiment, which I couldn't really argue with, they didn't have much of a plan.
Mom did. As usual. She recalled a relative on her mother's side who had married a guy who'd gone to West Point and worked himself up to general. He worked a staff job at the War Plans Division in that new building down in Washington D.C. The Pentagon. She was sure he'd like a nice young relative with police experience to be a security officer on his staff.
She had suggested the Military Police at first, but Dad hated their guts from his days in France. He said they weren't real cops, just guys with clubs who kept an honest doughboy from his drinks and the ladies on those few occasions when he got a pass. So, no Military Police for me.
Mom called her cousin and Dad called his congressman who owed him a favor or two, and pretty soon I was going to OCS and then to Washington, D.C. to join Uncle Ike's staff. Maybe Dad had kind of oversold me. True, I was a detective on the Boston PD, but I had only been in plainclothes for a few weeks. I had worn a bluecoat and walked a beat for five years right out of high school and although Dad had me detailed to help out around crime scenes a lot, I wasn't the experienced investigator Uncle Ike thought I was. It was kind of unusual for a cop to make detective at my age. While I can usually figure things out sooner or later, I'm no scholar, and the exam they gave was real hard. A few of the sheets from the test happened to find their way into my locker one day, and I managed to pass. My Uncle Dan is on the Promotions Board, so I was in. That's the way it works. I'm not saying I'm proud of it, but it doesn't mean I'm not a good cop either. I'm not just some stranger who got the job because he was smart enough to answer more questions than the other guy. That doesn't mean a damn thing when your partner is counting on you for backup.
I had to do my best and figure things out as we went along. I hate to admit it, but I didn't want to disappoint Uncle Ike either. The guy had such a big job and such a nice smile, it seemed that it wouldn't be fair to fail and add to his burdens. He's family, after all. We were all sure he and I would sit out the war at the Pentagon. Little did we know that he had been tapped to head up the U.S. forces in Europe. And that he liked the idea of having a former cop on his staff-a family member to boot-to work as his secret special investigator. There's all kinds of crime during wartime involving top brass and politicians, and Uncle Ike doesn't like anyone getting away with anything that hurts the war effort. He also doesn't like stuff like that getting in the news. Too embarrassing for Allied unity. That's where I come in. I'm supposed to look into things for him. Quietly.
The only thing quiet about this mission was this jail cell. Everything else was loud, from the artillery fire to the gunshot that killed Georgie. Nothing I could do about that now, though. I stretched my sore back and tried to get comfortable on the hard floor.
Major Samuel Harding was not "family," not even close. West Point graduate, decorated combat veteran in the last war, professional soldier. My complete opposite and worst nightmare. He worked in the Intelligence section at U.S. Army Headquarters, and Uncle Ike had detailed me to be his aide. That was my cover story and my job between assignments from Uncle Ike. Such as now. Which is why I'm sitting in a jail cell in Algiers, in the basement of the Vichy secret police headquarters, wondering if some French homicidal maniac is going to shoot me before or after he shoots Diana.
Diana. Now that's a whole other story. Diana had had a sister, Daphne Seaton, Second Officer in the Women's Royal Naval Service, attached to the U.S. Headquarters in London when I got there last June. She's dead now, but I don't want to think about that. I met Diana just before it happened. She knocked my socks off. Diana and I saw each other pretty regularly until I was sent to Gibraltar with Harding and she was recalled to the SOE.
She had enlisted, at the start of the war, in the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry. It was a women's outfit, and they weren't actually nurses, or yeomen either. Diana had ended up as a switchboard operator for the British Expeditionary Force in Belgium in 1940. She was nearly captured, and made it out of Dunkirk only to have the destroyer she was on sunk in the Channel. It was filled with wounded. She made it, they didn't. That's when she volunteered for the SOE.
I understood that. She needed to find out if she deserved to live after everyone around her died. I just didn't understand what possessed her to get herself in that position in the first place. I was here under protest, like any sane person, but Diana had no one to blame but herself. I got mad at her while I thought about it, which was at least a distraction from worrying about her.
I stood on the stone floor and stretched. The cell was empty, if you didn't count a sleeping Harding, me, and a rusty bucket. The walls were a flaky white limestone that crumbled easily and smelled like mold and piss. The iron bars were coated with rust, and my hands were the color of dried blood and white chalk. My head throbbed as I stood, and I remembered some of that rust color was my own dried blood.
A door clanked and I heard footsteps coming down the stairwell. Harding opened his eyes and got up instantly. He probably slept at attention. We both went to the bars and tried to peer down the hall, just like guys in the cells back home. I liked the view better from the other side.
Remke and another German officer strolled into view. They were both dressed in full-length leather coats, with goggles pushed up over their caps. If this was going to be an interrogation, it looked like it was going to be a messy one.
"Well, gentlemen," Remke said, "it appears there is not time for our little chat. Conditions are changing rapidly, and we must depart at once. While we can."
"We?" I asked. Remke smiled slightly, and glanced at his companion.
"Lieutenant Boyle is worried we might take him with us, Gerhardt," Remke said. "What do you say? Would he be better off as our prisoner or as an ally of the French?" Remke looked like he was enjoying himself. His pal didn't.
"Major, all I know is that we must leave immediately." Gerhardt looked calm, every part of him except his right hand, which held the grip of the Schmeisser submachine gun slung over his shoulder. He kept flexing it, opening and closing it over the hatch-marked grip like a nervous gunsel at a bank heist.
"My aide, gentleman," Remke said, as if we were being introduced at the officer's club. "Lieutnant Gerhardt graf von Neiderlander. Major Harding and Lieutenant Boyle."
Gerhardt snapped out a crisp salute. "Major Harding, I am pleased to meet you. Major Remke regrets he cannot discuss events further with you, since we must leave immediately." He spoke perfect English, with an accent that would have fit in at Oxford.
Harding returned the salute and looked Gerhardt up and down. He was tall and tanned, with white patches on his face where goggles had shaded his skin from the sun. A white scar ran down his right temple. His blue eyes and blond hair made him look like a high school kid, but his unusual tan, and the leather trench coat with a Schmeisser held at the ready, said he was a hardened soldier, an Afrika Korps killer.
Harding looked at me, then back to Gerhardt.
"I don't suppose you'd trade aides, Major?"
Remke laughed and said something in rapid German to Gerhardt, who cracked a smile.
"No, Major Harding. While I would like to learn more about you Americans, I cannot leave Gerhardt here. After all our difficulties working as allies with the French, I could not allow him to miss the opportunity of fighting them!"
"I'll make do with Boyle, then. Are you returning to Tunis?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps we will meet again, under circumstances that will allow me to learn more about you Americans. I am quite interested to see how you will adapt to this war. I do regret that you cannot accompany us to continue this discussion, but Captain Villard forbids it. I almost had him convinced that it would be better for him if you did not rejoin your forces, but…" He shrugged.
"You mean so that we wouldn't report the murder of Lieutenant Dupree?"
"That, and the fact that you were allowed to see the number of detainees in the courtyard," Remke answered.
"What do you mean?" Harding said.
"I told you old scores would be settled. Some of those people will never be seen again. Villard is very powerful here, a law unto himself."
"Why are you telling us this?" I asked. I was worried about Diana, and I needed to know if this guy was on the level.
"Most of those prisoners are ineffectual rebels who hardly know how to fire a weapon. They pose no threat to us. Perhaps you can assist in their release if you are freed soon enough. The French government here will go over to you within hours. There is no reason for Villard to shed innocent blood, but he will, and gladly."
I was trying to believe in this little speech about the sanctity of innocent life, but it just didn't add up. Especially when I saw how nervous Gerhardt was becoming. Harding caught on faster than I did.
"You've got some of your own people out there," Harding said with certainty. "I guessed you were in Intelligence. You're leaving a spy ring behind and one or more of them was caught up in this dragnet. You figure that if we yell loud enough, Villard will let them go."
I admired Harding's smarts until I saw how right he was. Gerhardt shifted one leg slightly and all of a sudden that Schmeisser was pointed straight at us.
"I don't think so, Major…" I stammered, trying to think of something, anything to say Remke put his hand on Gerhardt's arm and gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head.
"I see you are already learning how things work here, Major," Remke said. "But you still have more lessons to learn if you plan to stay alive. When to keep silent, perhaps. Remember that. Come, Gerhardt."
Remke turned on his heel and was gone. Gerhardt smiled, bowed, clicked his heels, then followed his boss up the stairs.
I waited a couple of heartbeats and then turned to Harding. "Major, you almost got us killed!"
"Don't worry, Boyle. All that talk was to deliver a message, to get us to look out for those prisoners so Villard doesn't knock off a German agent among them. I knew Remke wouldn't gun us down in here. Too unprofessional. But that lieutenant of his, Gerhardt, he would've done anything Remke asked. That's my idea of an aide!"
Unsure if he was joking, and not really wanting to know, I sat on the floor and waited for Vichy French politics to run their course. I also sent up a little prayer that everything would work out in time for me to get Diana out of here. I had already broken too many promises to God to even bother making another one, so I just straight out asked if He would save her. No reason, no promises, just save her from Luc Villard, the Germans, her own feelings of guilt, and her goddamned good intentions.