"I promised not to turn them in."
"Boyle, according to the Articles of War-"
"Major," I interrupted, "I know. They shouldn't get away with it.
But why should they sit out the war in a stockade?" He took a second, shifting in his seat, as if he was trying to get used to a new idea.
"What exactly do you mean?"
"Transfers. Willoughby to an infantry outfit at the front, and Dunbar to a Battalion Aid Station, as close to the front as any MD will ever get."
"Aid stations can be dangerous places," Harding said, nodding. "They're usually within enemy artillery range. Should cure the good doctor of his gambling problem. I think I have some paperwork to do when I get back to HQ."
With that, Harding nodded toward the road and I turned right onto the two-lane highway. We picked up speed, the wind whipping around us and biting through my field jacket. It seemed to blow some of the sand away, and the cold wind made my face feel cleaner. I didn't want to punch Harding any more, at least, but that uneasy feeling stayed in the pit of my stomach.
I was glad I had switched to a wool shirt, courtesy of Willoughby's supply stores. He'd also given me lined leather gloves, a scarf, and a wool cap. Kind of a thank you for not having him court-martialed, but I didn't think I'd be getting any more gifts from him. He'd be too busy trying to stay alive, and hoping no rear-area slob lifted the smokes from his rations. It felt good for a minute to think about that, but I couldn't keep my thoughts together. Everything was a jumble. Kaz, Diana, Harding-everyone was finding or losing somebody. I didn't like how things were adding up, and I didn't want to be the one to break it to Harding. I downshifted as the road rose up and snaked over a ridge. The wind from the south blew harder, scattering dust across our path. And, I had to admit, I didn't want his reaction to screw up my search for Diana.
"It'll be colder inland," Harding said, pulling out his own gloves. "If you end up in the hills, get ready for some really cold nights. It's almost tropical along the coast here, but don't count on it lasting."
"You can't really count on many things lasting, can you, sir?"
"Guess not, Boyle." Harding looked at me sideways, trying to figure out what I was getting at. I wasn't much at subtlety, so I didn't say anything else.
"The one thing I can't figure out is the link between the smuggling ring and whoever killed Casselli and Jerome," I said. I switched on my headlights. They were taped over, just a little slit open to let a bit of light out. A precaution against snipers, night fighters and who knows what other dangers up at the front. They illuminated enough of the road to show me what I was just about to run into, but not enough to warn me in time to avoid it. About as logical as the army got. It would protect me against the Luftwaffe spotting me from two thousand feet up, but not against a donkey in the road. I slowed down.
"It might not be the same killer," offered Harding. "And those two deaths might not be connected."
"Maybe not," I said. I thought about Casselli's slit throat, and how that was probably the work of a man. But Jerome's overdose, or poisoning, could easily be woman's work. It was too soon to suggest that to Harding, and anyway the phantom man and woman could have been working together.
"Jerome was involved in a revolt against the government here. There could be a number of people who'd want him dead," Harding said. "Are you sure there has to be a link?"
"If they were only after morphine, anybody could figure out that a military hospital and medical supply depot would have a lot of morphine on hand. But how many people in French Northwest Africa knew about penicillin before we landed?"
"A few doctors would know about it in theory, but that we can produce large quantities? Nobody."
"Then how come, a few days after we land, a crooked Vichy officer shows up and steals our entire supply? How did he know about it? How could he have hooked up with anyone fast enough to set it up? How did he obtain an American uniform? It was obvious from the crime scene that Casselli knew and trusted whoever killed him. How could he have become acquainted with an outsider well enough to trust him after just a couple of days?"
"Find Villard and ask him," Harding said, as if all I had to do was look him up in the phone book.
"I'll do that," I said, thinking that as long as Villard was the key to finding Diana, I'd damn well find him, and soon. "Meanwhile, can you get to Bessette again and really question him?"
"Not right now. Negotiations with Darlan are still very delicate. We can't grab one of his aides without seeming to implicate Darlan himself. Orders are to keep hands off."
"Orders from who?" I asked, even though I knew the answer. "Somebody's Uncle."
Chapter Nineteen
The rest of the ride was silent, except for the sound of wind-driven sand pelting the side of the jeep whenever a big gust kicked up. It peppered my helmet as I squinted to make out the bit of illuminated road in front of me. We stopped once at a crossroads to check the map. Harding clicked on his flashlight, cupping his hands over it to keep the light from leaking out into the darkness surrounding us. He hand-signaled left and killed the light. I spun the wheel and headed down toward the coast to the MTB base. The wind was at our back now, beginning to lessen as the landscape sloped down, away from the rolling brown hills and rock outcroppings inland. It was late evening, the only light coming from a half-moon drifting up from the horizon. The stars were splashed across the sky like diamonds on a jeweler's black velvet cloth in a Washington Street shop. It was beautiful, and I didn't care.
My head was filled with a jumble of thoughts that wouldn't quit, my heart was pumping like a six-inch hose at a four-alarmer, and my gut ached like I had swallowed a bone. There was just too much going on, too many things changing when I needed them to stay the same. I knew myself well enough to know that I worked best on familiar ground. When I knew where I was, and the people around me. I liked things nice and steady, even though I didn't always let on. I always gave officers, whether they were cops or U.S. Army, a hard time when I could get away with it. Someone with more brains than me might ask why I'd gone into law enforcement in the first place. Sure, it was sort of expected in my family, but I could've done something else. Pumped gas, worked down at the docks, any job that didn't have a guy wearing brass telling me what to do. Truth was, I didn't mind it that much. I liked to smart-mouth back once in a while; it really suited me. Everybody, including me, knew what was expected of them. It was like that in the army, too. Except now. Kaz was close to cracking up, I couldn't trust Harding with my latest suspicion, Diana was who- knows-where, and now Uncle Ike was getting in the way of this investigation, which was my only ticket to finding Diana. Plus, I had no idea how the whole thing hung together. I couldn't make it add up. And I liked things to add up at the end of the day. Maybe that's really why I liked being on the cops. It gave me a chance to set things right. Right, the way they ought to be, but never really were. I looked up at the stars and wondered, not for the first time, why did God in heaven leave things so screwed up down here? My Mom would've whacked me good if she ever heard me say it, but God disappointed me more often than He should.
I stopped thinking and started watching the road, which was just as difficult. It had narrowed down to one good lane and I could catch a whiff of salt air. Soon I could make out a white gate in the distance, and a small light glowing in a guard shack. I slowed down as Harding pulled a set of folded orders out of his field jacket, shaking the sand loose as he opened them.
A British Marine, flashlight in one hand, the other resting on the grip of his holstered revolver, stood in front of the gate. Two others stood casually by on either side, holding Lee-Enfield rifles instead of flashlights. Harding showed the Marine the orders, and he read them like it was his great-aunt's last will and testament. He seemed sorry everything was in order and reluctantly had the gate pulled up. Must've been a slow night. I drove down a gravel driveway, tires crunching on the loose stone, as the smell from the sea grew stronger. Salt and diesel fuel were in the air, mixing with woodsmoke and the faint odor of cabbage. The scent of war.