The First Wave bbwm-2 Read online

  "Jean, is that you?" Harding asked.

  The man walked through the granite archway and down two stone steps. He was tall and lean, and wore an elegantly tailored uniform. He smiled tentatively.

  "It is I, Samuel. If indeed that is who you are. The loud voice sounds the same but I do not remember the gray hairs."

  Harding grinned and walked toward him. They exchanged a manly hug and a couple of those double cheek kisses that gave me the willies. We didn't do a lot of that in Southie and I was sure I'd make a fool of myself if I had to try.

  "Jean, it has been almost ten years," Harding said. "I see time hasn't made you more tactful!"

  "Samuel, one of your best qualities is your voice. It is well suited to the battlefield. Authoritative and distinctive. I remember it from our days in the trenches. It was, however, less well-suited to duty with your embassy in Paris. Neither of us was meant for the diplomatic service, I think. Forgive the dramatics," he said, gesturing toward the guards standing at attention, "but the times call for caution."

  "Caution kept us both alive in the last war, too." Harding said to me. "Colonel Baril and I were lieutenants together during the First World War. He was attached as a liaison to my unit. He showed me the ropes when we first went into the trenches and saved a lot of our boys from getting killed right off."

  "Samuel is too modest. He also saved my life, you know," Baril responded. "But let us save reminiscences for another time. We have much to discuss. Come inside."

  We sat around a conference table in Colonel Baril's office next to a large window overlooking the bluff and the beaches beyond. The sea was filled with our ships and landing craft. The fort's guns were quiet. Arab servants in white coats served us thick, black coffee in little cups with handles you couldn't fit a finger through. I looked at Harding and somewhat grudgingly admitted to myself that he had really pulled off something spectacular. I was impressed with the fact that I had personally invaded North Africa and now was having coffee with these nice Frenchmen, as opposed to being blown to bits by them. I decided the survival of Billy Boyle deserved comment.

  "Nice job, Major," I said to Harding, gesturing at the scene below. No need to go overboard with praise for the boss.

  "Pay your compliments to Colonel Baril, Lieutenant Boyle," Harding said rather curtly. "He's the one who has put his head on the block to make sure this fort doesn't oppose our landing."

  "My colonel also suggested the beach below for your landing site," Lieutenant Dupree volunteered. "It provides good access to roads and the seas are somewhat quieter here."

  "So this plan has been in the works for a while?" I asked. I felt left out, like the last kid picked for a baseball team. Harding had chosen me to accompany him just two days ago, when I arrived in Gibraltar, fresh from leave in England. I was still in the dark about his mission. I sort of worked for Major Harding, who was General Eisenhower's deputy intelligence chief, except for when the general had a special job for me. Usually something involving low crimes in high places, crimes that had to be kept quiet for the sake of the war effort and Allied unity. Right now, things were pretty quiet in the military crime field, so here I was keeping the major company until Ike needed me again.

  "For some time, yes, Lieutenant Boyle," Baril said. "There are many of us here who do not support the Vichy regime and wish to strike back at the Germans, instead of collaborating with them. Are you not fully aware of the situation here?"

  He studied me as he asked that question, then looked at Harding with a glance that seemed to ask if I was some country bumpkin along for the ride.

  "Lieutenant Boyle has been recuperating after completing a secret mission, and only joined me recently," Harding explained. I mentally thanked him for the boost, and the white lie about the secret mission. Well, it had been a secret, except that I had kept it a secret from him as well as everyone else. But I'd managed to return from Norway, where the mission had taken me, so here I was, available for duty.

  Baril and Dupree exchanged glances, taking Harding at his word, even though the evidence in front of them, namely me, still gave them pause. I sipped some coffee. It was really strong, and sweet, which gave me the opportunity to try to move the conversation away from the shortcomings of yours truly.

  "Wow. This joe could peel paint." Except for a roll of Harding's eyes, everyone ignored me, which is the way I liked it when I had to hang around with senior officers. They had a way of thinking up ideas that got you killed and them promoted.

  "Jean, what's the situation here?" Harding said.

  Baril gestured for the servants to leave. He waited several seconds after the doors closed behind them.

  "General Mast, my commanding officer, is on his way here. He is with us, and will give orders to the outposts along the road to Algiers to not resist the Americans. He is attempting to stay out of touch with General Alphonse Juin, commander of all French forces in North Africa, until sufficient American forces are in place." Baril sat back, nodded at Dupree, and took a sip of coffee, letting the younger officer fill in the details.

  "General Juin is anti-German, but he is a professional soldier, and will obey whatever direct orders he receives from the French government, even if that government kisses the boots of the Boches," Dupree said with disgust.

  "What are your government's orders likely to be?" I asked.

  "To resist any invader. Period."

  "So, Colonel Baril, you and your men are risking your necks to help us?"

  "No, Lieutenant," Baril answered. "We are doing it for the honor of France. Many fine young men like Lieutenant Dupree have been working to carry out this coup so we can strike back against the occupiers of our nation."

  "Billy, my friend," Dupree said, "we are not risking our necks, but rather our heads. If we fail, the best we can hope for is the guillotine. If we succeed, I hope to be fighting the Germans by your side very soon."

  I was impressed with these guys, so impressed that I didn't even mention that, personally, my hope was to get back to headquarters in London and my nice room at the Dorchester Hotel as soon as possible. Hell, what I really wanted was to be back home on the force in Boston, but that was too much to hope for.

  "Sure, George…"

  "Georges," he corrected, giving it that Gallic uplift I'd never master.

  "Okay, Georgie. What's next, Major?"

  Harding looked at Baril. "Your lieutenant goes right to the point. I must prepare to meet General Mast. When can we expect Allied forces to reach us here? If orders to resist the invasion come from Algiers first, my men may have to obey them, especially if they are delivered by an armed force."

  "A detachment of British Commandos is making its way up the bluff now," said Harding, checking his watch. "They should be here within ten minutes. You can turn the fort over to them, and then follow us into Algiers."

  "Algiers?" I asked. "Before the rest of the Army gets there?"

  I was so happy at having made it this far that I wanted to enjoy the feeling for a while.

  "Our job has barely begun, Boyle," Harding said. "We need to make contact with our agents in Algiers who are working with the friends of Lieutenant Dupree."

  "There are over four hundred insurgents active at this moment. They are taking over police stations, government offices, even the official residence of General Juin," Baril explained as he strode to the door. "They need to keep orders from going out to countermand those of General Mast. If they succeed, your forces will be in Algiers before anyone can resist. You must leave quickly. Georges will drive you. He is very well informed and can put you in contact with the insurgents."

  We shook hands; I felt like one of the Three Musketeers. It was one of those moments that led to guys getting killed for the greater good.

  "How'd you get mixed up in this, Georgie?" I asked as we piled into the staff car.

  "My younger brother, Jerome, and several of his friends are involved. He took me into his confidence, and knowing that Colonel Baril was in favor of the Allie
s, it was only natural that I became his liaison. It means a great deal to us, to be able to join the fight against the Germans."

  "Is your kid brother in the army too?"

  "The army? Oh no, he is a student at the university. He is studying philosophy. You will meet him this morning. He is one of the leaders of the students."

  Now, I always thought I had a good sense of the odds for or against me when things got tough. Back in Boston, when I was walking a beat, they were usually in my favor, unless I did something stupid, like walking alone in Chinatown after rousting a couple of tong boys. In England, I'd kept a low profile when I could. I did make a side trip to occupied Norway, but that was personal, so it didn't really count. But as we got into the car, I began to calculate. There was me, Harding, and this French kid who probably spent more time trimming his moustache than cleaning his rifle. We were way out in front of the U.S. Army, heading into an enemy capital, to help a bunch of spies and college kids-philosophy students, no less-take over a military headquarters. I did the math as best I could, and determined that our odds of survival were roughly equivalent to that of the Red Sox winning the World Series.

  "Are you a baseball fan, Major?" I asked Harding.

  "Sure. Ever since West Point I've been a big fan of the New York Yankees."

  "Figures."

  Chapter Three

  The staff car got waved through a couple of roadblocks without a question. Harding said he would've had those guards court-martialed if they were in his army. I thought they did a fine job.

  We crested a ridge and saw the city of Algiers rising up from the harbor on a gently sloping hillside. There were a few tall hard-edged modern buildings, but mostly I saw whitewashed two- and three-story, softly rounded structures that looked like they'd grown straight out of the stony ground. The whiteness was intensified as they reflected the light of the morning sun in the sky. It was a clear day, and the Mediterranean was a deep shimmering blue, broken only by the wakes of warships that seemed to cut across the water in every direction. Up here it was quiet, the opposite of what I expected an invasion morning to sound like.

  "Not much fighting going on," I commented.

  "General Mast and Colonel Baril bought us some time," Harding said. "We've gotten ashore safely, but there are still organized French forces in the city and all around us. We need to get this settled, now."

  "And how are we going to accomplish that, Major?" I asked.

  "Well, Boyle, I've got two tricks up my sleeve. The first is a letter from General Giraud calling upon all French soldiers to rally to the side of the Allies."

  "General Giraud?" asked Georgie, clearly puzzled. "What has he to do with this?"

  "Giraud escaped from Vichy France recently and is with General Eisenhower at Gibraltar, organizing plans for French forces in North Africa to join the Allies."

  "General Giraud is a fine officer," Georgie said with a shrug, "even a hero. But he is no longer on active duty. Why would anyone obey his orders?"

  "Ike is counting on it," Harding said, evading the question.

  "That may be. But for the majority of officers, any such order will have to come via the chain of command. Some of us wish for vengeance on the Germans badly enough to disregard it, but most will follow the orders they receive from a superior officer."

  "But you said yourself this Giraud guy is a hero-" I said.

  "There are only two things that will work," Georgie cut in. "Either General Juin or some other senior official orders resistance to cease, or your army arrives very soon in overwhelming force, leaving no choice but to surrender and join the Allies."

  "So you don't place much stock in General Giraud?" I asked.

  "The decision must be made by the proper French authority or on the battlefield. Those are the only honorable choices. A retired officer hand-picked by the Americans, or worse, the British, will not be obeyed."

  I knew the French and the Brits didn't always get along, especially since the British Navy had shelled the Vichy French fleet at Mers el- Kebir to keep it from falling into the hands of the Germans.

  "I mean no offense, of course…" Georgie said, looking a little embarrassed.

  "None taken," said Harding, in a tone of voice that let you know he was really steamed.

  "I hope your second trick is a show-stopper, sir," I said.

  "You're the other trick, Boyle. I thought General Juin might be impressed when he learns that General Eisenhower sent his favorite nephew to meet him."

  Georgie eyed me, then Harding. I could tell he was trying to figure out if he could trust his command of the English language.

  "General Eisenhower is your uncle?"

  "Well, Georgie, he is, sort of. We're connected on my mother's side. I think we're really second cousins once removed or something, but since he's older I've always called him Uncle Ike."

  Georgie drove on without saying anything, through a neighborhood of European style homes and gardens.

  He finally turned and looked at Harding. "So your mission, Major, is to convince General Juin to surrender due to the influence of a retired French officer and the distant relative of an American general?"

  There was silence for a moment while Harding did a slow burn. "I will inform General Juin of the massive Anglo-American forces just landed upon his shores, and convince him that resistance is not only futile, but will needlessly delay the liberation of France!"

  "Very well, Major. I hope for your success, perhaps even more than you do."

  Harding didn't answer. He settled further down in the back seat and stared out the window. I could tell he had hoped for a more enthusiastic response. I didn't know how serious he was about using me with Juin. Uncle Ike wasn't all that famous and nephews-twice removed are a dime a dozen, so the two of us put together weren't exactly overwhelming. It seemed the odds were stacked against us.

  Georgie turned a corner and we entered a small village. The signpost said LAMBIRIDI, which was the town just outside Algiers.

  "General Juin's villa is just a few kilometers-" Georgie slammed on the brakes as a roadblock came into view. Two trucks were pulled across the road. Armed men with black armbands ran up to the car as it skidded to a stop.

  "Who are these guys?" I asked.

  "SOL," Georgie said disgustedly. "Service d'Order Legionnaire. Vichy fascist militia. They worship the SS, and do whatever dirty work Vichy asks of them."

  Before Georgie could finish, the doors of the staff car were flung open and rifles pointed at our heads, accompanied by more excited French chatter than I'd ever heard. One pair of hands grabbed my Thompson while someone else took me by the collar and hauled me out of the front seat.

  "Americain!" I hollered, trying to form the rest of the little French I knew into a full sentence. The next thing I knew, the flat of a rifle butt slammed into my head and plastered me against the side of the car. My legs buckled, as I tried to grab onto something to keep my head from hitting the pavement. It always bothered me that in the movies a guy got knocked clean out when someone smacked him in the head. Then he'd wake up later, rub his head a bit, and go on like nothing had happened. I knew something about getting hit in the head. It was very painful, there was usually a lot of blood, and if you were knocked out there was a good chance you weren't going to wake up again.

  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.