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?"
"It is very possible. This is a small-time operation, run by Arabs, the Tabriz brothers. They do business with all the organized crime gangs, including the Bessettes. If your doctor asks around in the Kasbah, this is where he would be sent."
"Why?"
"Because if he is with the military police, then no one will care if the Tabriz brothers are arrested. It won't make trouble for the Sicilians or for the French mob. Also, one of them speaks English. It is my best guess. In any event, if Doctor Dunbar has a meeting set up with any of the main crime families, then we would not be able to follow him. Not if we are concerned with staying alive."
"It's a big concern of mine, Vincent, but I don't have a lot of time."
"You are speaking to a man who has lived the last ten years of his life in Algiers, Lieutenant Boyle. I have learned here that we all have the same amount of time." He smiled thinly and sipped his tea, eyes darting across the square. I decided not to debate the nature of time with Vincent and drank my tea. It was pretty good, but it didn't cool me off. I guess it took a few years here to achieve that effect. I wondered how long the war was going to last and if I'd still be in North Africa in a couple of years, an old hand with strange acquired habits, still very far from home.
I tried to not keep looking at my watch, but I couldn't help it. After about the twentieth time, I looked up to see a U.S. Army officer walking among the stalls. He had blond hair like Dunbar's under his fore and aft cap, but I couldn't make out his face or rank. He was wearing a khaki uniform jacket with big pockets, just right for carrying half a dozen small cardboard boxes.
"That could be him," Kaz said before I could.
"If he comes this way, Vincent, we'll duck into the bar and you keep an eye on him," I said as I strained to see between the stalls and awnings in the marketplace. He turned toward us and I could see his face clearly. It was Dunbar, and he was looking over his shoulder, like a guy carrying stolen drugs in a bad part of town.
"It's him," I said as Kaz threw some francs down on the table and we got up to follow at a distance.
"Wait," Vincent said, holding up his hand to keep us back. "He is being followed, see there?" Two bull-necked guys in dark, dusty suits were trailing Dunbar, stopping to look at a stall full of dates or nuts or grapes every time Dunbar looked around. I couldn't tell if they were French or Arab, but one thing was for certain, they weren't there for the fruit.
An Arab kid ran up to Dunbar and said something, pointing to an alleyway at the end of the square. He nodded and dropped some coins into the kid's palm. He went off toward the alley with the two goons in his wake. It's amazing how a guy smart enough to be a doctor can be dumb enough to get in a fix like this.
"He's being hustled," I said, "let's go."
"I must leave you now," Vincent said. "I cannot be involved any further. Your friend Doctor Dunbar is not a very clever drug dealer."
"He's neither. Thanks, Vincent." I heard Kaz say goodbye-or who knows what-in Polish as I trotted across the square, trying not to be noticed by the two big guys whose backs were just disappearing into the dark alleyway.
The sound of a big meaty fist smashing into a ribcage is really unpleasant, but I knew I'd rather hear it than feel it. It came from inside a doorway in the alley, and was followed by a loud thud, a groan, and a yell. I made it to the alley in time for someone to throw Dunbar onto the ground. I could hear the door slam as he fell against me, knocking me down, too. I had my hand on my. 45, but there was no one else around except Kaz, a few paces behind me. He pulled Dunbar off me and leaned him up against the wall. The doctor's eye was puffing up and he held his ribs, wincing every time he drew a breath.