I tried to ignore the laughter from the crew and make believe that my face wasn't turning seven shades of red. Harry climbed up on the dock and only stopped laughing when an insect darted into his mouth.
"Damn flies," he spat.
"Algiers isn't too bad," Banville said, "but most of these smaller towns are breeding grounds for insects and filth." He kept his hand moving in a lazy motion in front of his face. Both he and Harry had leather straps hung around their necks from which Sten guns were suspended. They had replaced their white naval caps with those soup bowl helmets the English wear. Sweat ran in little streams down their temples and necks. I was hot under my helmet, too. It felt like the heat rising from the ground was cooking my head, like cabbage in a pot.
"Let's go," I said.
We walked along the waterfront. A concrete embankment ran along the shore, with wharfs and pilings jutting out into the water, none of which looked like they could survive a normal day's work down at the docks in Boston. A small two-masted boat had sunk at its mooring, rotting strands of rope still tying it to the dock. Palm trees lining the walkway along the embankment had dropped the brown and brittle fronds crunching under our boots. A dog darted out from a shack on the pier, and turned to bark at us once before slinking off into the shade of the palms.
"Where are we headed, exactly?" asked Harry.
"To Le Bar Bleu, 410 Rue de Napoleon, off the Boulevard Fesch."
"A bar?" Banville said hopefully.
"Is this another of your stupid tricks?" Harry asked, stopping in his tricks. The flies caught up with us. I kept walking.
"Le Bar Bleu may be a rendezvous for a smuggling ring. I need to find out if anything there points to where stolen medical supplies have been hidden."
"All this for a few stolen supplies?" Harry asked, as he trotted up to us.
"It's a new wonder drug that's supposed to cure infections better than anything else, and two people, maybe three, have been murdered over it."
"Frenchies or Arabs?" Banville asked.
"French, pretty well-connected too. The Army and the Gardes Mobiles are involved."
My answers seemed to satisfy Harry. We kept walking along the embankment until it curved left and came to a road. We went on, grateful for the shade of a row of three-story buildings facing the water. They were built of stone, with fancy ironwork grills over the bottom- floor windows which were shuttered tightly, like summer homes in Gloucester when the rich folks went wherever they go after Labor Day. Now we could see the main city pier where the British destroyers were docked. The Commandos were ashore, and things must have been going well. It was quiet.
The road we were following curved away from the water as the buildings grew smaller, packed in more tightly. Stone turned to cinderblock and smooth pavement turned to flat stones, narrowing down to an alleyway marked in the middle with a damp brown stain. The flies found us again. For the first time we saw people, Arabs in white robes with strips of colored cloth wound about them. A group of them came toward us, talking to each other in Arabic or whatever they speak in Algeria. They looked at us as if we were ghosts: interesting, but not of their world. A swirl of robes parted as we passed and closed up again, as if we had disappeared.
We came to a large square, filled with Arabs walking among market stalls and vendors selling leather bags, dates, nuts, melons, and lots more food I didn't recognize. Strange smells filled the air, the stink of unwashed bodies and garbage out too long in the hot sun mixing with spices from the cooking pots in the stalls. Clouds of flies rose from heaps of rotting fruit piled up against the walls. Now I knew why Arabs wore those long cloths they could wind around their faces. Barefoot kids in rags darted around us, in and out of the stalls.
Down one side street I saw two columns of Commandos doing^ double time, Sten guns held high on their chests, boots clomping to the rhythm of ready violence. We were headed in the opposite direction, moving quietly, our guns, heavy with the heat, pointed down, the grips slippery with sweat that streaked down our arms and pooled in the palms of our hands. I felt dull, hot, and thick as the air. Kids ran around us again, yelling to each other as if they were playing a game.
"Boulevard Fesch," said Banville, pointing to a blue enamel sign with white lettering fixed to the side of a building. We followed him toward the boulevard, and stopped at the beginning of the wide road. It faced the water, another row of solid stone buildings and fancy ironwork denoting the French section. I knew the Rue de Napoleon was one of the first few streets running off to the left. A couple of kids ran by us again. One looked at me and laughed. He smelled to high heaven and had open sores on his leg, but he seemed to be enjoying himself. I watched as he took off to the end of the block and stopped there.
"We're being followed," I said. "By experts."
"Who?" asked Harry, swiveling his head around. Banville turned around and raised his gun. A gaggle of raggedy kids behind us scattered.
"Them," I said. "All those kids. They run ahead and wait to see which street we take. They've been sending runners off to report to someone. I should have seen it sooner." But I hadn't. Just a bunch of dirty Arab beggar kids, nothing to worry about. Yeah, right. They must have had us from the boat.
"Let's go," I said, and broke into a trot. I knew we couldn't outrun these kids, but at least we could cut down on the warning time they gave. I saw the sign marking the first street and it wasn't ours. I ran faster and caught sight of the next street. Rue de Napoleon.
We hooked left on the run and I started watching the signs hanging in front of the shops and stores that lined the street. This was a French neighborhood, but it was closed up tight, no French ladies shopping for dresses or stopping for lunch while English Commandos roamed the streets. The kid with the sores on his legs darted into an alley on the right. That told me the bar was on that side; he was probably headed for a back entrance.
"Banville, stay here," I said. "Don't let anybody pass, especially any vehicles. Shoot out their tires if you have to." Banville looked to Harry, who shrugged and nodded.
"Aye, sir," he answered, and faded into a doorway, giving himself some cover and shade. I went after the kid, following the alley to the first left turn, and took it, figuring it ran along the rear of the shops facing the street. It was wide enough for one car, if it could make its way around the piles of garbage and empty boxes stacked up against the buildings. The flat paving stones were greasy with the remains of whatever people tossed out of their backdoors, and the smell of heated, rotting garbage rose up and slammed into my nostrils. The insects were back. As we ran by each pile of refuse, fat flies rose up, confused about whether to continue feasting on the slop or to begin to play in our eyes and ears. I tried to ignore them.
I saw a packing crate that looked like it could hold my weight and I jumped up, trying to get a better view down the alley. Ahead, just before the buildings curved to the right, I could see a truck parked, facing away from us. Behind it was a black sedan. I got down.
"That could be it up there," I whispered to Harry. "They must know we're coming, but if that kid didn't spot us, they're probably watching the front."
"And what exactly do you plan to do?"
That was just the kind of question I hated. My only plans were to not to get killed and to find out whatever I could from a contact at Le Bar Bleu. The problem was that there seemed to be more activity there than I had counted on. I knew Harry wasn't keen on this whole side trip, and while he'd follow orders, he'd be the first to point out that bursting into a nest of armed smugglers wasn't included in those orders.