Operation Blue Sapphire

by David B. Gilmore

  “That’s why I’m calling. I have a contribution for you, but first I think it would be wise to let this all go away.”

  “I understand. Do not worry, for now we can make our expenses. But your help is always appreciated.”

  “Anymore contact from the reporter?”

  “None at all. I probably will not hear from her again.”

  “I meant to ask, how did she find you?”

  “She told me she was referred to me by another American, a Blaine Phillips. I told her I had not seen him for quite some time and asked how he was. She told me he had been murdered here in Calcutta.”

  “Murdered?”

  “It is what she told me.”

  “What was he doing in India?”

  “He worked for the American War Department, in what exact capacity, I do not know. He had an interest in, and was well versed in, economics. We disagreed about almost everything, but I liked him, and considered him a friend. I was very sorry to hear he had been killed. I will let you know if she contacts me again. I must ask, have you seen The Statesman this morning?”

  “No I haven’t. Why?”

  “They have released the name of the government official who was killed. His name was Ramdas Chandratre.”

  “The name’s familiar, but refresh my memory,”

  “Originally from Delhi, he quickly became one of the most despised Indians in Bengal. He is, or was, responsible for collecting the salt tax and oftentimes wielded a pretty heavy hand in doing so,” replied Gurjar. “A simple commodity, but a much hated law.”

  “I can easily understand how he could become a target.”

  “The Indian people watched as Singapore and Malaya fell to the Japanese. Then watched again as Burma fell, and fell so quickly. Now a lot are worried about having to defend India. They look to the other colonies and see that all the English did was extract wealth. They smell weakness and can taste independence. Plus, with the famine in Bengal and nothing being done about it, a lot are fed up and not as patient as I am.”

  “It sounds like a wakeup call for the government.”

  “One would think so. What they will do, and whether or not they will heed the warning, is an entirely different matter,” added Gurjar.

  “What else did the paper say?”

  “Not much, just that it was an explosion. They are not even calling it what it was.”

  “I wouldn’t expect much different. Keep up the good work. You’re on the right path, and I’ll soon have another contribution for you.”

  LaCroix closed and locked the gate at the driveway to the house. “Where to, Emma, the police station?” he asked as he pulled onto the street.

  “No, I’ve thought about it. They’re not going to give us any useful information. Besides, my cover with the Times is to write upbeat stories of how our boys are getting along over here. Going to the police may arouse more suspicion than what it would be worth. They know as well as I do nothing I could write about the bombing would make it past the censors, either here or back in the States. Too much of a chance the Japanese could somehow exploit it. I could say I’m just a curious reporter, but why take a chance. We’ll start back at the café and, hopefully, by now the police have finished their investigation.”

  “Good,” said LaCroix. “I can probably get a better look at the building and maybe know for sure what kind of explosives were used.”

  LaCroix found a parking space down the street from the café. As they walked toward the decimated corner, Emma was relieved. She despised the hordes of onlookers who had gathered on Saturday, all of them there to fulfill a need to catch a glimpse of the tragedy that had unfolded. Today they were gone. The windows of shops across the street were still boarded up, but some had reopened for business. She knew it would be awhile before the street returned to normal again, if it ever would. The memory of that day, the bombing, and all the horrors that accompanied it, along with the loss of friends and associates, would haunt the survivors forever.

  What had once been Damini’s Café was a hazard and was still roped off. Broken shards of glass, charred lumber and building materials still littered the sidewalk. Emma and LaCroix were careful not to step on anything sharp as they walked to what had been the entrance.

  LaCroix intensely examined the area. Because of the firefighting efforts, it was not exactly as it had been just after the explosion. He looked at the remains of the building and the ones next to it then glanced across the street. “I’ve seen enough,” he finally said.

  “Henri, what do you think?” asked Emma as they stepped away from the ruined café.

  “From what I can tell, it was detonated above ground, maybe three or four feet. At that height, the force could move in all directions. I’m pretty sure it was eight-oh-eight, and more than enough was used to do the job. They wanted to make sure of it.”

  “Let’s start talking to the other business owners and see what they remember.”

  As they started to leave the café, Emma stopped and gasped, then looked closer to make sure of what she was actually seeing. She was not mistaken. Laying in the rubble were teeth and several long strands of black hair attached to a piece of scalp.

  “What is it, Emma?”

  After regaining her composure, she said, “Nothing. Let’s go finish what we came here to do.”

  They went to all the businesses that were open. Emma introduced herself and showed them her credentials for the Los Angeles Times. Everyone they talked to basically told her the same thing. That they were waiting on customers or busy at work when the explosion occurred. They all knew Damini, she was well liked in the community, and no one knew why such a thing would happen in her establishment.

  Emma and LaCroix approached a shopkeeper at the end of the street. Emma introduced herself to him and let him read the small newspaper clipping that had been sent to her by Colonel Wyman. After returning the clipping, he shook the hand Emma extended to him and introduced himself as Amal Kabiraj.

  “I was wondering what you two were doing. I’ve been watching you go up and down the street,” said Kabiraj.

  “As the article about me says, I don’t cover the war, I write stories about people. Of course I’d like to know who did such a horrible thing here, but my focus is on the victim, who she was, her family, those kinds of things.”

  “Is that what sells newspapers in the United States?” asked Kabiraj.

  Emma thought for a moment, “Mister Kabiraj, I’d be lying to you if I told you it didn’t, but that’s not why I’m here. I’m here, I hope, to find something good out of this.”

  Kabiraj laughed and pointed to the remains of the café, “Like the bird, the one the Greeks or Egyptians believed in? The one that rose out of the ashes and lived to fly away or something similar.”

  “The Phoenix,” said Emma.

  “That is it. I do not believe in such things though, but I like what you are doing here. I do not see how you can find anything good, and I think you are wasting your time, but I will try to help you.”

  Emma took out her notepad and pen and started getting a biography of Damini. In just a few minutes, she learned she had started the café after her husband had been killed in a construction accident. She had lived in Calcutta with her sister and her daughter.

  “She had a daughter? How old is she?” asked Emma.

  “Eight or nine, maybe ten. When it happened, she was coming back from an errand her mother had sent her on to a bakery. I held her back from running into the fire.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Living with her aunt, Damini’s sister.”

  “I’d love to talk to both the girl and her aunt. It would put a very personal touch on the story.”

  “The family is grieving. They were unable to give Damini a proper funeral. That is very important to us.”

  Emma let the man’s words resonate. She very much wanted to interview the girl but knew she would have to approach the subject very carefully. “Mister Kabiraj, we are not that much di
fferent, Americans and Indians. Sure, we dress differently, eat different foods, and have different religions, but underneath it all we still share common goals and ideas. You said the family won’t be able to provide a proper funeral. How do you think American mothers, fathers, and families feel when they get a telegram telling them that their son has gone down on a ship in the Pacific or was killed in North Africa and buried in the desert? They, too, are being deprived of a proper funeral for their son or husband. All they have is hope that the military was respectful and proper.”

  Looking at the shopkeeper, Emma could see that his eyes were focused on her. She had his full attention, so she continued. “Americans are very compassionate people. A story like this about Damini, helping herself and trying to build a better life for herself and her daughter, will be embraced by my readers. It will find a common ground between our cultures, and when I’m finished with it, no one reading it will have a dry eye.”

  “I do not doubt your sincerity, Miss Williams. Tomorrow is not a good day for me, as I have to take delivery of more stock and continue getting my shop back in order. Come back on Wednesday or Thursday afternoon. That will give me time to talk with the girl’s aunt and see if she is agreeable to meeting with you. If she is, I will take you. If she says no, there is nothing I can do, and we will consider the matter closed.”

  “I understand. I’ll stop by in a couple of days.” After thanking him for his time, Emma and LaCroix departed.

  As LaCroix drove off he asked, “Do you think the girl can help us?”

  “Maybe. It all depends upon what she remembers. It’s troubling.”

  “Why, Emma?”

  “We don’t know where she is, but we can find out easily enough. All we have to do is follow Kabiraj and eventually he’ll go to the aunt, which will lead us to the daughter. He’ll probably go there when he leaves his shop tonight. I think an American reporter asking about Damini and the girl is an important thing to him. If it is that easy for us to find her, it will be for someone else, too. Someone who doesn’t want the girl to tell anyone what she knows.”

  “So we follow the shopkeeper?”

  “We’ll still go back Wednesday afternoon, but today we follow the shopkeeper.”

  LaCroix laughed. “He thinks you’re going to write an article that’ll be in the L.A. Times.”

  Emma lit a Lucky Strike and exhaled the smoke out the car window. “How do you know it won’t be printed? If I can get Colonel Wyman on board, first graders all over Southern California will be donating their milk money to help the little girl in India. Who knows, she might even end up at Harvard.”

  LaCroix laughed again. “Are you sure that would be an improvement?”

  Shortly after one o’clock, Simone du Maurier stepped out of a taxi on Esplanade Row, walked past the trolley junction, and climbed up the outdoor iron steps to the Chung Sun Chinese restaurant. It was a place Zacharie and Margaux had found and which they all liked. The waiters wore white coats, the service was very good, the food exceptional, and the establishment was impeccably clean. Chung Sun reminded her of the many places she frequented in Saigon, which made the dining experience all the more pleasurable.

  She quickly surveyed the dining room and saw her husband seated with Zacharie and Margaux Chevalier. She would rather have met Zacharie at the Great Eastern Hotel, but she knew this meeting was important. With luck, she would see him later in the week.

  “Good, you’re here. We’ve been waiting for you before we ordered,” said Jacques as he poured her a cup of tea.

  Simone quickly glanced at the menu and told them she was ready. Zacharie summoned a waiter who took their order and disappeared.

  “What did you find out?” asked Margaux once the waiter was out of the way.

  Simone took a sip of her tea and started speaking in French. “I found a shop owner who was willing to talk to me. As you suggested, I told him I did volunteer work for a Catholic charity, that our organization had heard of the tragedy, and we wanted to help the family. He was very busy putting his store back in order but took a few minutes to talk.” In a hushed voice, she continued. “I hate to give Rurik credit for anything, everyone knows I don’t trust him, but he was right. There is a potential witness.”

  “I don’t see how that could be,” Margaux argued. “I wasn’t in there very long and no one was eating. The cafe had just gotten busy. There wasn’t enough time for anyone to eat and get out of there.

  “Who is this potential witness?” asked Jacques.

  “A child.”

  “A child? Are you sure?” asked Zacharie.

  “The owner had a daughter,” said Simone.

  “She was going to send her out for dessert for us. I thought she would have been back and killed in the explosion. The woman said she was going to send her out right away,” protested Margaux.

  “Well, apparently, she didn’t. The girl was returning to the café from a bakery when the bomb went off. Other than emotionally, she’s fine and didn’t get a scratch.”

  “What can a child do to us?” asked Jacques.

  “Plenty, if she can identify Margaux. We could all hang for this. And they will hang us, that’s what they do here,” said Zacharie.

  Jacques laughed.

  “What’s so funny, Jacques?” asked Simone.

  “It’s better than the elephants.”

  “What the hell do elephants have to do with anything?”

  “That’s the way executions used to be carried out here before the English came. Crushed to death by an elephant.”

  Simone waited for the waiter to set down the dishes and leave before saying anything. “This is serious, Jacques. Zacharie’s right, they’ll hang us if they find us. Phillips and Ferguson I understand, it had to be done. We had to protect our interests. But now what?”

  “It’s simple. We find and kill the child,” said Margaux

  “What if the police have talked to the girl?” asked Simone.

  “Then we have all the more reason to find and kill her. In order to hang us, they still need to bring us to trial. Without a witness, they have no trial.”

  “I don’t think any of us were expecting this, Margaux,” said Zacharie.

  “This isn’t the time for any of us to be getting sentimental. No one cared about Phillips or Ferguson. This is absolutely no different.” Margaux let the others at the table sit quietly while they absorbed her views and comments. After a few minutes, she spoke again. “After the war ends, who here wants to move to Paris? Simone, when was the last time you were in Paris?”

  “You know I’ve never been to France.”

  “It’s going to be hard enough for all of us to go back to Saigon and pick up where we left off,” Margaux continued. “The rubber trade will come back, but we don’t know what condition the Japanese will leave everything in. And an even bigger struggle will be at hand with the communists. We all know that, and that’s why we’re here doing what we’re doing. If we fail, get used to the idea of living in France, because that’s where we’ll have to go.” She paused to sip her drink. “The first part of our deal is close to being completed. I have faith that this man will come through for us, now and in the future. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some Indian child come between us and our goals. That is final! And if none of you three are willing to do it, I will do it myself.”

  “But what if this man won’t take Simone to her?” asked Zacharie.

  “Then it’s time you start using the resources you have and find her. You’re an intelligent man, Zacharie. Start acting like one. And don’t waste any time. We’re going to be getting the first shipment soon, and we don’t need to have the police come knocking on our door over something like this.”

  “Margaux’s right,” Simone agreed. “We have to find her and take care of the problem.”

  “Okay,” said Zacharie, nodding his head ruefully and opening his hands to Margaux. “Before the war, we were businessmen. We’re not professionals at this, and it’s apparen
t. Otherwise, we’d have acted differently. I’ll find her. There has to be a record of a business license or something similar. It’ll take a little digging, but it’s not an impossibility.”

  “So, are we all in agreement on this?” asked Margaux, looking at the others intently. The other three agreed. Margaux took a bite of her food, and ended the discussion. “Good. It’s settled then. Go ahead and eat, the prawns are wonderful and won’t be any good once they get cold.”

  Tuesday evening the telephone rang at Edwin Tillerman’s boarding house. His landlady quickly answered it and called for Tillerman. “A man on the blower for you. If you don’t mind, Edwin, be quick about it. I’m waiting on a call to see if my bridge game is still on for later tonight.”

  “This shouldn’t take a minute,” replied Tillerman as he took the receiver.

  “Has anything changed?” asked Conrad Kruger.

  Acting as casual as he could, Tillerman answered, “Actually, yes.”

  “I’ll meet you by your bus stop in twenty minutes. Don’t make me wait.”

  Tillerman set the receiver down. “All finished, mum.”

  Fifteen minutes later Tillerman left his boarding house and started the brief walk to his bus stop. Shortly after crossing the street, he heard Kruger’s voice.

  “Over here, out of the light.”

  Tillerman walked a few steps down an ally close to where he had met Kruger before.

  Wasting no time, Kruger asked, “What’s changed?”

  “Starting Saturday night, another shipment has been added to the schedule. It will leave the factory at eight-thirty P.M.”

  “Are you sure of this?”

  “I saw the schedule this morning. I think it’s going to be permanent. And the shipment is going to the warehouse by the airfield. I think the guns are going to be flown to China. I’m not sure of that though.”

  “I don’t really care where they’re going. What about security? Anybody guarding the shipments?”

  “No, everything has remained the same as it was before the bombing.”