Mac Wingate 1, page 15
“Just cut the crap, Jacobi,” Wingate cried.
“Himmler is coming to the Hotel Anfa tonight. He has a meeting scheduled for tomorrow. The meeting is to finalize arrangements for the control of the civilian population, the listing of Jews, the creation of another satellite of the Reich. The military offensive has already begun.” He shrugged and added, “By the end of the month ...” Wingate looked at him for a moment. The little guy looked so open, so harmless, sitting there behind the big wheel of the half-track. There was a kind of logic to the story, Wingate had to admit. When he had been in Tunisia, just before Erikson pulled him out, he’d seen the beginning of the German attack from the east. There had definitely been something in the wind.
They were beginning the last descent of the foothills now. The choppy gray sea lay three or four miles ahead, and between it and them were the boulevards and alleyways of Casablanca.
Wingate finally asked, “And where does Timmermann fit in?”
“He has done all the work for Himmler,” said Jacobi. “Made the contacts, handled the financial side. He is really a very clever man.”
“How the hell do you know all this?” asked Wingate. He still wasn’t satisfied.
Jacobi shrugged. “As I told you, Mr. Legrand,” he said. “For every thief in Casablanca, there are ten spies.”
“If Timmermann works for Himmler, who do you work for?”
Jacobi hesitated, considering whether it was safe to confide in Wingate. At last he said, “General de Gaulle.”
“Why? You’re not French.”
“True,” Jacobi sighed. “I would prefer to work for the Latvian Resistance. But there is no Latvian Resistance. I must work for what exists.”
Wingate thought about the meeting he had had with Patton. Patton had indicated that someone who merited VIP treatment was coming to a meeting in Casablanca. He wanted Wingate to find out where and when the meeting was to take place. He wanted Wingate to set explosives that would blow the goddamn place to hell. In Patton’s view, would Himmler come into the VIP class? Would it be worth all this trouble just to stick twenty pounds of Triton up that guy’s ass and twist the Hell Box on it? Jesus Christ, did Wingate need to ask such questions? There was only one bastard in the world that Patton would have been happier to have seen splattered around the four walls of a room, and that was the bastard hiding in Berchtesgaden!
Jacobi stopped the half-track and told Wingate to take off the jellaba he was wearing. At the same time he took off his own and spoke in Arabic to Selima. She went around the outside of the vehicle and got into the back, sitting on the floor to be out of sight below the level of the tailgate.
Jacobi said, “If it comes to a fight, Mr. Legrand, you look after the grenades and the shooting. Just let me drive. I know the town. If nothing happens, we can hide the truck in the courtyard of the El Khalil. No one will find it there. After dark, we must carry the equipment by donkey. We don’t want to be conspicuous.”
The way Jacobi continued to call Wingate “Legrand” was becoming crazy. Jacobi, knowing what he did about the Casablanca scene, must know damn well Wingate wasn’t Legrand. Why did he keep up the pretense? Then as he was considering it, the name took on a new significance for Wingate. Was it a code name of some sort? In French you might translate it as “the big one.” Did it refer to the head guy—“Mr. Big,” as they said in the movies? Was Himmler “Legrand”?
They passed a patrol jeep going in the opposite direction. There were two MPs in it. Neither even glanced toward the half-track. Wingate relaxed. He had the bag of grenades beside him on the seat with the flap open. The Browning pistol was on his lap. He’d considered joining Selima in the back as they began to hit the suburbs. That was where the big Vickers still sat on its tripod. Jacobi didn’t like the idea. “If we’re stopped, we’ll be stopped from in front,” he said. “The Vickers is pointing in the wrong direction.”
They went through the new medina and into the Mers Sultan district. The houses were large and expensive, with Arab gardeners working the gardens.
They were on the Avenue de Mers Sultan with Wingate leaning back into the thickly padded upholstery of the cab, when Jacobi gave a little sigh. “That’s a shame,” he said.
Wingate sat forward at once. At the near side of the Place Lyautey, there was a police barricade across the road. There were three gendarmes standing in front of the barricade. One of them carried a Sten gun. The gendarme in the middle of the road was waving the half-track to a halt.
“We’ll never talk our way out of this,” said Jacobi. “Perhaps the airplane saw what happened back there. Perhaps some patrol found the bodies. Ah, well ...” He sounded apologetic about what he was going to have to do.
“Miss the guys if you can,” said Wingate, when he realized that Jacobi had no choice but to smash through the barricade. “Don’t let’s add to our problems.”
Jacobi veered right. It seemed like a signal to the cops. The gendarme with the Sten brought it waist-high, as if all he had been waiting for was some excuse to use the gun. At the same time he let fly with a two-second burst of 9 millimeter fire. The slugs rattled against the metal sheeting of the half-track and splattered along the sidewalk to Wingate’s right.
Jacobi pulled the heavy steering wheel around as quickly as his strength would let him. The slow and sluggish way the vehicle reacted to Jacobi’s efforts suggested to Wingate that the ratio of the steering wheel mechanism to the front wheels was about one to one. It would take a guy ten times Jacobi’s size to throw the half-track around the way the situation was shaping up. Wingate leaned across with his left hand and added some of his own strength to Jacobi’s. The truck checked and finally veered left.
The gendarme with the Sten fired again. The bullets cut a pattern right across the top of the windshield. Slivers of glass showered over the heads of Wingate and Jacobi.
“Sons of bitches!” Wingate yelled. “Let’s go for the guy in the middle!” There was supposed to be a general agreement with these people. Everyone was supposed to be fighting the Germans. So far, he hadn’t even seen a German since Erikson had pulled him out of Tunisia, but sure as hell he’d seen plenty of violence.
Jacobi dragged on the wheel again. The truck slowly straightened. He had his right foot all the way down to the floor on the accelerator.
The gendarme in the middle of the road hesitated. He had stopped trying to wave the truck down. He was now deciding whether to stay where he was, or whether to get the hell out. The submachine gunner gave a final burst. The bullets missed the half-track altogether. The gendarme in the middle of the road took it as a hint and finally threw himself to his right, hitting the pavement and continuing to roll until he had reached the sidewalk.
A second later the half-track slammed through the wooden barricade, tossing splintered lumber into the air. Once it was through, there was another burst of machine gun fire. It was slower and heavier than the Sten and the sound of it reverberated through the metal cab. Wingate turned around as Jacobi began to pull the half-track toward the Place de France and the old medina. Through the broken window in the back of the cab Wingate could see the huddled shape of Selima. She was crouched behind the Vickers. Behind her, lying in the roadway beside the shattered barricade, were the three bodies of the gendarmes.
It was after 4:30 when they finally turned into the courtyard of the El Khalil. Jacobi got out of the cab but left the engine running. He ran across the cobbled surface of the courtyard and opened a couple of old broken doors that led into an empty stable beyond. The minute Wingate realized what Jacobi was doing, he slid over the top of the bag of grenades and into the driver’s seat. He threw the big truck into gear and began to edge it slowly toward the open doors. Once inside, Jacobi began to close the doors behind him.
Wingate switched off the engine and got out of the cab. The place stank of shit and ammonia. Wingate figured that the animals that normally occupied the place at night were out working the town.
The three of them went upstairs to Selima’s room. Selima made coffee, then settled down with the two men to drink it. She made little balls of marzipan by rolling them with her fingers. They tasted very sweet and were flavored with mint.
Wingate looked at her. She really was something. A belly dancer who could handle a Vickers like a veteran. What really lay behind that veil she wore when she wasn’t working? What strange thoughts went on behind those blue eyes that didn’t seem to fit in with the rest of her appearance, despite the classic black eye makeup?
She left them at six to go down to the club where Wingate had first seen her. She would be working every half hour until one in the morning.
Jacobi had already been out arranging for the transport of the explosives and when it got dark he suggested they change into Arab dress again before setting off. Wingate hung the bag of grenades around his neck and pushed the Browning into his waistband before pulling on the jellaba and winding the cheche around his head. Jacobi carried the Erma submachine gun that he had used when he had rescued Wingate from the jeep, and he pushed a grenade into each pocket of his pants under his jellaba.
“Just a simple precaution, Mr. Legrand,” he murmured, allowing a little smile to show on his face.
Downstairs in the courtyard, half a dozen donkeys had been lined up against one wall. They were tied nose to tail with a young Arab boy holding the lead animal. They stood patiently, head lowered, staring up one another’s asses.
Wingate grinned when he saw them and Jacobi said, “Something funny, Mr. Legrand?”
“I was thinking,” said Wingate, following Jacobi over to the big double doors of the stable. “That would make a funny cartoon, don’t you think? One ass staring at another?”
Jacobi unfastened one door and pulled it open. He shook his head. “I am afraid I don’t follow you,” he said.
Wingate pulled the other door open, wondering whether it was worth the effort of trying to explain the pun to Jacobi. He decided it wasn’t. “Forget it,” he said at last. “It wasn’t all that funny.”
Jacobi got rid of the Arab boy, then pulled the line of donkeys across the stable opening. Finally he climbed into the truck and began passing boxes to Wingate.
It took an hour to remove the boxes from the half-track and get them secured on the donkeys. Halfway through Wingate said, “Christ knows why we simply don’t open the boxes and load the stuff into sacks. A sack’s less obvious. A sack adjusts itself to the contours of the goddamn animal’s back. You can get rope around a sack the way it’s impossible to do with a box.”
Jacobi smiled and said. “Boxes inspire confidence, Mr. Legrand. Put yourself in the position of those in charge at the Hotel Anfa. Would you allow two Arabs with a string of donkeys to deliver sacks of explosives to you, the day before the head of the Gestapo arrived? Really—”
Wingate laughed out loud. “Jacobi, old buddy,” he cried, putting another box down on the back of the donkey he was loading, “is that what you’ve got in mind? We’re just going to walk this lot into Himmler’s headquarters, set it, wire it and get the hell out?”
“Have you a better idea?” Jacobi asked.
“Hey, come on!” snapped Wingate. “You’ve got to be joking! I thought you’d got some great secret scheme up your sleeve—a tunnel under the cliffs that we could use, some way across the rooftops ...”
Jacobi cut him short with still another of his smiles. “No,” he said. “I don’t know of any tunnels and there is no way over the rooftops. But I know Casablanca. Perhaps more important—I know people.”
Wingate looked at him for a moment, leaning with both hands on the box on the donkey’s back. The little guy had guts, Wingate had to hand him that. But who the hell was he really? A civilized guy from northern Europe like this—would he really get hooked up with some Berber Liberation Movement? Weren’t there more likely ways of taking his revenge on the krauts?
It was a little after eight o’clock when they led the string of loaded donkeys out of the courtyard and into the narrow alleyway beyond. Jacobi went in front, the lead rope of the first donkey in his hand. Wingate brought up the rear. He carried a short stick in his right hand. Every now and then he gave the animal he was following a sharp crack across the flanks. Occasionally he ran along the line and cracked each animal in turn. He did it to add authenticity to the act. The donkeys had been beaten from the moment they were able to stand. Punishment meant absolutely nothing to them. Whatever Wingate did to them, they continued to carry their burdens through one dark alleyway after another at the same predictable pace.
The trek through the old medina posed no problems. It was mostly empty now, with beggars curled under mounds of rotting clothes in every corner that offered any shelter and dogs huddled together for warmth. But beyond the medina, there were civilian police patrols and military patrols. Mostly the patrols just slowed and watched the two men with the string of donkeys suspiciously. On a couple of occasions, Wingate and Jacobi were flagged to a halt and questioned. Jacobi did the talking—either in French or Arabic. All Wingate could do was go through the act of being an idiot, grunting, shrugging his shoulders, pointing to his ears and letting his tongue loll out of his mouth.
They reached the Boulevard d’Anfa and moved south-westward out of town. Wingate relaxed. He pulled the jellaba higher up his neck to keep out the bitter wind from the desert. Jacobi called softly, “Take care.”
Wingate couldn’t figure out the warning. As far as he could see, the worst was over. They had gotten through the town without too much trouble. What the hell was likely to happen to them in the open countryside?
Jacobi called again, his voice just above a whisper, “Three men! Over on the left!”
Wingate glanced to his left, keeping his head low so as not to expose his features too clearly. There were three figures in jellabas coming toward the road from the direction of the desert. One of them rode a horse while the others walked beside him.
They came to a stop as Wingate and the string of donkeys came opposite them. “Salaam!” the man on horseback called, lifting his left hand in greeting. The other two said nothing. In the darkness, Wingate couldn’t make out their features. But they were tall and they carried rifles. He was already trying to figure out the best way to take them, if that became necessary. He slipped his right hand inside his jellaba and checked the butt of the Browning pistol and the bag of grenades. Jacobi had the ideal weapon, but could he pull it out from under that nightgown he was wearing before one of the visitors lifted his rifle? He began to wonder if he wasn’t taking the whole war too seriously. This was Casablanca. The fighting was miles away. Why the hell should he be so suspicious of three guys exchanging the time-honored greeting?
“Aleykum salaam,” said Jacobi, raising his hand in salute. Wingate wondered what he was doing with his other hand—pulling a grenade out of his pocket maybe? He began to move closer to Jacobi, along the line of donkeys. The animals were still moving at their regular steady pace along the side of the road.
The man on horseback called out something again in Arabic. One of the men beside him raised the muzzle of his rifle. Wingate could make out the vague movement in the darkness. Jacobi brought the lead donkey to a halt and the rest of the animals stopped behind it.
“What is it?” Wingate whispered. He already had the Browning in his hand with the safety catch off. If necessary he could fire through the heavy cotton material of the jellaba.
Jacobi called out to the rider on the far side of the road, then muttered to Wingate, “They want to know what we’re carrying.”
“Who are they?” Wingate whispered. They looked like some special military patrol. Perhaps even part of the French Foreign Legion.
“Robbers,” said Jacobi, quietly. “They are going to take the donkeys and kill us.” He spoke in a flat monotone that showed no surprise in it. Then he called again in Arabic and the horseman urged his animal across the road, followed by the two men on foot.
Grenades were out, Wingate knew that. The Arabs were too close. There was no cover for Jacobi and himself and Christ only knew if a grenade going off wouldn’t detonate the blasting caps and fill the desert with chopped donkey meat. He whispered, “Can you get to the machine gun?”
“Maybe,” murmured Jacobi.
“Go for the horseman. I’ll go for the guy with the gun.”
Wingate waited beside Jacobi, watching the three men come toward them. The closer they got, the more comfortable he felt. He had to take out the guy who was pointing the rifle with the first shot from the pistol, otherwise he was dead. The rider was no problem at the moment. His rifle was in a holster strapped to his saddle. The third man carried his weapon over his shoulder. It would take him a second to level it and another second to flick back the bolt and ram a round into the breech.
Jacobi was keeping up a continuous soft chatter in Arabic, gesticulating with his left hand and at the same time undoing the buttons of his jellaba.
The three Arabs finally came to a stop. The horseman was nodding appraisingly at the string of donkeys and the boxes strapped to their backs. The Arab that Wingate had selected as his first target had the muzzle of his rifle actually prodding into Wingate’s belly.
Wingate prayed. All he wanted was for his luck to hold for the next two seconds. After that, he could handle things. But that first slug of his had to hit the guy square in the middle. At the same time Wingate had to dodge the Arab’s rifle which was sure as hell going to go off, if only by reflex action.
Wingate dropped his left hand and parried the Arab’s rifle to his right. At the same time he fired a single shot from the Browning from inside his jellaba. The rifle went off a second later. Wingate felt the bullet rip its way through his clothing. The man reached forward automatically to grab the bolt of his gun and push another cartridge into place. Halfway through he stopped. His jaw suddenly sagged and he dropped to his knees. Wingate kicked him square in the face and he lurched backward with his legs curled under him.
