The Torch Betrayal

by Glenn Dyer

  “You see a broken pane of glass,” Valetta said. “I see someone who wanted to get into the lab without a key.”

  Butcher ran his fingers through his hair. “Son of a bitch.” He looked around for any broken glass on the floor. There was none.

  “The door leads to an exterior stairwell that leads to ground level. At night, someone looking to get into the lab wouldn’t be seen by anyone,” Valetta said, excitement in his voice. He knelt on one knee, putting him at eye level with the smashed pane. “And you can see the blood,” he said, pointing to the stains. “If we’re lucky, maybe fingerprints too.” He rose abruptly; again, he practically knocked Butcher over as he turned and headed to the front of the lab. “Johannson! Johannson!”

  “Over here, Captain. I was just about to—”

  “I don’t care about that. Tell me about the broken glass in the back door. What’s that about?”

  Butcher, followed by Weddington, caught up to Valetta as he asked the question. The rest of the lab staff, along with Billings, stopped what they were doing to view the unfolding scene.

  “Oh, that.” Johannson moved his hand to again do battle with his cowlick. “I noticed that when I came in this morning. The door was still locked, and I didn’t notice anything missing. All equipment accounted for. Didn’t think anything of it, so I didn’t report it to base security.”

  Butcher and Valetta traded looks. Valetta shook his head slowly as he rubbed the back of his neck.

  Butcher turned toward Johannson and stood nearly toe-to-toe. He jabbed a finger in Johannson’s chest. “I don’t give a damn about your equipment. What about the classified materials that this lab handles? How do you know that any of that material isn’t missing?”

  “Did I do something wrong, Captain?” Johannson said, taking a step back from the fuming Butcher.

  Valetta grabbed Johannson’s arm and pulled him back. “Answer the question, Lieutenant. The classified materials. How do you know that all of those materials are still here? And think hard before you answer.”

  “I . . . I . . . didn’t think of that . . . stuff, Commander. I just didn’t make the connection. I’m sorry.”

  Butcher shook off Valetta’s grip. “You didn’t think? Wrong answer.” He rubbed his forehead, as if he could calm the anger that was raging inside. “Ever hear of the term ass in a sling, Lieutenant?”

  No one moved, and nothing could be heard but the hum of the film processors.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  2200 Hours, Saturday, October 3, 1942

  Dean’s Bar, 2 Rue Amerique du Sud, Tangier, Spanish Morocco

  The Germans were singing again. Another marching song. This one about clearing the streets for the brown battalions and flags on high with ranks tightly closed. Thorn hated the Germans. And the Italians, for that matter. The German bastards always received the most attention and favorable treatment from the Spanish authorities in Tangiers. The Italians did also, but only because the Germans demanded it. It made him crazy. Those national socialists and fascists did stick together—he’d give them that much . . . but only that much.

  Thorn had been in Dean’s since the dinner hour. He’d had his usual dinner of chicken tagine with onions, honey, and mint. He’d washed it down with a few scotches, which took the edge off the anger that still lingered from the meeting he’d had with Eddy two days before.

  The bar had been opened by Joseph Anton, an olive-skinned British ex-pat of Egyptian descent, after serving for years as the head bartender at Caid’s Bar inside the Hotel El Minzah. Similar to the man himself, Anton’s departure from the El Minzah was a bit of a mystery, some saying that he was caught selling his own alcohol on the side to Caid’s patrons. A ballsy entrepreneur. Thorn liked that about Anton.

  Dean’s usual customers typically opted for a late start to their evening’s exploits. Nearing ten o’clock, the place was hitting its stride for the night as Anton dragged his five-foot-six-inch frame onto the leather-studded barstool, taking his usual seat near the entrance with his back to the wall, so he could see those who came and went. Given the type of people drawn to Dean’s, which included any nationality that had something to gain or lose in the game called World War II, he had to be on his toes all the time. This night, there were Germans, Italians, and a couple of Japanese embassy naval attachés mixed in with some British and American officers and civilians. When there was trouble, it usually signaled that some palooka new to the world of Tangier’s international spy trade had recently arrived from parts unknown and let the excitement of rubbing shoulders with their enemies trigger boneheaded behavior.

  “So, Conor, where was I?” Anton said.

  “You were buying me a drink, I believe,” Thorn said, tipping the last few drops of his scotch into his mouth and parking the empty glass on the marble bar.

  “I’ve already bought you two. That is my limit. Why don’t you slow down a bit there, yank?”

  “And spoil the fun I’m having? Come on. It’s a celebration. Join in, why don’t you?”

  “Not tonight. Told myself that I needed to stop soaking up my profits for a week or so. And what are we celebrating anyway?”

  “I am going on a trip. Back to London.” To get my ass kicked and shipped to God knows where.

  “Ahh, my mother country. I’d love to go with you, but I’m not sure they would let me back in,” Anton said as his eyes skimmed the growing crowd in the bar.

  Thorn held up his empty glass and motioned to the bartender to signal that his thirst had returned. The table of German officers in the rear of the place, who had been singing since the bar’s piano player and singer went on a break, had launched into a beer hall tune that drew stares from the other customers. “Any chance you can get the German opera troop back there to take a break?”

  Anton looked toward the back of the bar and located the table with the German officers. He made no effort to move from his seat. “Conor, I have learned by now that the customer, especially the German customer, is always right.”

  “What about your American customers?”

  “Ahh, yes, the Americans, whom I have always admired for their . . . tolerance,” Anton said as he continued to survey the crowd.

  Thorn shook his head and smirked. He’d taken a shine to Anton mainly due to his finely tuned survivor’s instinct. “So, since I am not long for the world of Tangier, clear something up for me. I’ve heard the rumor that you were a member of the criminal underworld, something to do with drug running? Could my friend Joseph be a gangster?” The squat, dark-complexioned bartender wearing a Moroccan fez on a mop of dark, slicked-back hair delivered Thorn’s scotch. “Could you have blood on your hands?”

  Anton finally looked directly at Thorn, who saw a glint in his eyes. “If only I had a pound note for every time I heard that story. And the one about being a spy for British intelligence, and about being a military advisor to the sultan,” Anton said, wiping his forehead and upper lip with a handkerchief.

  Bobby Heugle surprised Thorn with a slap between his shoulder blades, all but knocking him off his stool. “Conor, you son of a bitch. Hey there, Mr. Anton.”

  “Hello, Bobby,” Anton said as he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a bar tab. “I believe you forgot this last night. I guess you were in a bit of a rush, seeing how eager that lovely, slender Moroccan girl appeared to be.”

  “I will take care of that. And my apologies. I was a little light-headed, caught up in the moment, you could say.” Heugle, dressed in a tailored, blue suit, a loosened tie drooping from his neck, took the bar tab from Anton and waved it at the bartender to get his attention. Thorn saw the bartender turn his back on Heugle, prompting some muttered profanity.

  “Where have you been? Said you were going to be here an hour ago,” Thorn said.

  “I had a few over at Caid’s. That place was jumpin’. But I told the ladies I was with that I had to meet up with my ol’ pal Conor, to celebrate our grand exodus from their lovely city. Leaving behind a whole crazy bun
ch of agents, double agents, and maybe some triple agents.”

  “But that’s just it. Something tells me that this part of the world is going to get real interesting. Besides, at least you can see the enemy. Where we’re going, the only enemy we’ll get close to is a hemorrhoid from sitting on our asses in some backwater shit hole.”

  “Fine by me. Besides, this war won’t be over for at least a few years. You’ll get your balls in a fire somewhere before this is over, right, Joseph?”

  “Heugle’s right about that, Conor. Plenty of shit yet to hit the fan,” Anton said.

  “‘Balls in a fire’? ‘Shit hitting fans’? Stop—your efforts to cheer me up are failing miserably.”

  Bobby shrugged and turned his attention to the bartender. “Hey, sahib, can I get a little action my way?”

  The bartender continued to ignore him.

  A relative quiet descended on the bar as the German officers disappeared into the head to relieve themselves. It was the first time that Thorn noticed another table near the end of the bar, closest to the piano, contained one uniformed German army officer and a younger man dressed in civilian clothes, sitting erect and still, each with a glass of champagne sitting untouched in front of him. The piano player, a gray-haired, elderly man, returned to his piano and slumped over his keyboard, the tip of his nose hovering inches above the keys.

  As he struck up Billie Holiday’s “Strange Fruit,” two men, also in civvies, joined the German officer and his friend. One man, who Thorn noticed limped to the table, sat facing the piano; the other, tall and fit, sat with his back to the wall, giving him a view of the entire bar, including where Thorn and Heugle sat. Thorn recognized the strapping German and elbowed Heugle, who was talking up two awfully young Frenchwomen who sat to his left.

  “Bobby, be on your toes—we could have some trouble here.”

  “Un moment, ladies,” Heugle said as he turned around. “What are you talking about?”

  “That German who walked in and sat near the piano. I recognize him.”

  “So? I’ve seen a lot of these people before. It’s a small town. What’s the big deal?”

  “He and I had a bit of an encounter earlier today in the quarter.”

  “You mean the Gestapo guy . . . in the Mercedes?” Heugle, his interest piqued, looked for the table of Germans. “Holy shit.”

  “What?”

  “I told you I was over at Caid’s, right? Well, that long-legged Gestapo goon over there got into it with a waiter, actually wound up slapping him. He got tossed. And he was pissed. Wouldn’t stop screaming about something that I couldn’t quite make out—my German is rusty.”

  “Well, he was the driver.”

  “OK. So we’re simply having a drink. Just relax.”

  “Well, be forewarned. This was the trigger-happy one that just about killed Tassels. And I’m sure that he’s not too happy with me.”

  It didn’t take long for the German to zero in on Thorn, whose face he couldn’t have forgotten, given that when Thorn put his head in the Mercedes, they were nose to nose. The Gestapo agent stood, said something to the German officer, and took the quickest route to Thorn. Instead of going through the three-deep throng gathered in front of the bar, the German made a beeline for Thorn that took him behind the bar.

  When the bartender held up his hands in protest, the German shoved him into an open cabinet, toppling several bottles stored inside. The crowd quieted, and some of those seated sprang to their feet, no doubt anticipating having to make their escapes if things went too far.

  Thorn drained his scotch and wiped his mouth with his hand. He considered throwing his glass at the German but decided to try talking some sense into him first.

  With long strides, the German covered the remaining distance to Thorn. Upon facing Thorn, he swatted at Thorn’s glass and sent it crashing into the blue-and-white-tiled wall.

  So much for talking sense into the crazy German. Thorn jumped out of his stool and took a solid stance, spreading his feet wide.

  “You will pay for damaging my car,” the German said, his English surprisingly free of an accent. This guy could’ve been raised on Park Avenue his English is so good.

  “So we’re on speaking terms? I didn’t catch your name. Is it Adolph, Hans, Franz, Herman? With one n or two n’s? What is it?”

  “You arrogant shit.” The German surprised Thorn by lunging across the counter, grabbing Thorn’s shirt collar, and yanking him onto bar, grunting as he did.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Thorn spotted the two other plainclothes men shouting in German, moving toward them, while Heugle shoved the two Frenchwomen out of the way. The patrons that stood along the bar cursed the agents as they bullied their way through the crowd. A woman in a low-cut, black dress tossed her glass of champagne into the face of one agent and then screamed when he pushed her to the floor.

  As Thorn grabbed the edge of the bar and pushed away from the man, he noticed that the Gestapo agent had an elastic bandage wrapped around his left wrist. He suddenly recalled the accident on the docks a few days before that day’s encounter in the Arab quarter.

  Thorn went limp and allowed the German to pull him over the bar with his right arm. He hit the floor and heard the crashing of bottles that had been stored under the bar. Thorn, flat on his back, watched the German lift his foot over Thorn’s face, as if to stomp on him.

  Thorn reached up and grabbed the man’s bandaged wrist and bent it downward at a sharp angle. The German emitted a howl and began to lose his balance. Thorn yanked harder. The man doubled over in pain, fell to his knees, and, as he did, knocked a tray of glasses to the floor, inciting screams from the patrons who had begun abandoning the scene.

  Thorn snatched a bottle of schnapps from the shelf behind him and christened the German’s head. The man collapsed face-first to the glass-strewn, liquor-soaked floor and lay still.

  When Thorn popped up from behind the bar, he saw Heugle shoving the two other Gestapo agents back into the throng of cursing bar patrons. Thorn vaulted over the bar and grabbed Heugle by the arm as Anton rushed in from the courtyard at the rear of the bar.

  “Sorry, Joseph. He was looking for a little payback and came up a bit short.”

  “You better leave before the Spanish police over there think they need to arrest someone.”

  “You don’t need to tell me twice. Let’s go, Bobby.”

  Thorn and Heugle moved toward the beaded doorway and were swallowed up by the late, humid Tangier night. With thoughts of a desk assignment in London banging around in his head, Thorn considered that he’d might actually miss the Tangier nightlife.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  1100 Hours, Sunday, October 4, 1942

  Bureau Central de Renseignements et d’Action (BCRA), No. 10 Duke Street, London

  Major Andre Dewavrin straightened his tie and pulled at the bottom of his officer’s tunic. His hand passed over the fabric, flicking off any stray cigarette ash. His second-floor office window that overlooked Duke Street was open, to allow the room’s temperature to match that of the chilly fall day outside. The ringing of the bells of Saint James Church in Piccadilly drifted into the office, signaling the tardiness of General Charles de Gaulle.

  Visits from the general without a previously declared agenda unnerved Dewavrin. He ran his hands over this thinning, blond hair and then rubbed them together to dissipate the pomade. Acting on a presumption regarding the reason for the visit, he studied the notes of his last call from David Bruce, head of the Americans’ OSS, about the never-ending discussion of the OSS offering sums of money for intelligence supplied from French resistance units through the BCRA. Frustratingly, it seemed that he could never make it clear enough to the Americans that the BCRA or any element of the Free French would not accept money from Roosevelt or his lackey Donovan. The level of mistrust between his superior and Roosevelt was too high given Roosevelt’s support of de Gaulle’s rival General Henri Giraud.

  Dewavrin reached into his tunic pocket a
nd pulled out a pack of American cigarettes, Chesterfields—a bribe delivered by David Bruce on his last visit. As he lit a cigarette, his aide burst into the office and held the door open for a striding de Gaulle. Dewavrin dropped the cigarette into the ashtray, snatched the pack off the desk, and stuffed it back into his pocket.

  “Major. Good morning.”

  Dewavrin sprung from his desk chair and saluted, then headed around his desk to greet de Gaulle.

  “And shut that window. It’s damn cold in here.”

  “Of course, sir.” Before Dewavrin could make a move to the window, de Gaulle had settled into his desk chair and dropped his officer’s cap and riding crop on top of the desk. “What would the general like to discuss this morning? I am prepared to report on my last conversation with Colonel Bruce if you prefer.”

  “No, no, no. The only reason I am here is to check on my sister-in-law’s son, Remy. My wife will pester me to death if I don’t report that I have seen him recently and he is in fine health. So please send for him at once.”

  “General, that is not—”

  “Major, I don’t have much time. I am expected at the home of the Spanish ambassador in”—de Gaulle stole a glance of his wristwatch—“fifteen minutes. Now call for Captain Toulouse.”

  Dewavrin’s piercing blue eyes began nervously scanning the top of his desk. Toulouse was an insolent, duty-shirking liability who was, undoubtedly, involved with the recent disappearance of funds from the BCRA’s cash box used for the bribing of informants. Toulouse was, indeed, the cross de Gaulle made him bear. An infuriating promotion took Toulouse from lieutenant to captain, only adding weight to his burden. “General, Captain . . . Toulouse is not here. He’s been . . . unaccounted for since Thursday afternoon.”

  “What do you mean ‘unaccounted for’? You don’t know where a member of your staff is? This is unacceptable,” de Gaulle said as tugged on each finger of the silk glove on his left hand, removing the article. “Do you suspect foul play?”