THE BOY FROM THE TANGIER SOUK

by Richard Savin

  She turned to her brother, a look of pleading in her eyes. ‘They will catch you. I know they will and they will execute you. Please, please don’t go back into France.’

  Alain drew a deep breath. ‘It’s what Richard would do if he were here.’

  ‘But Richard is not here.’ She stopped abruptly and another shadow of a different complexion fell onto her face. She thought for a moment, then turned her look towards José.

  ‘Is there any news of Richard?’ It was uttered in a voice with no enthusiasm, a flat lifeless voice, a voice that expected only a negative answer. José shook his head slowly. It was as much as she expected.

  ‘I have heard nothing since they sent him back to England, mademoiselle.’ He paused and then added, ‘I shall ask when I go back tomorrow. I will pass through La Vajol; I will make enquiries with the American, Major Harper. This new OSS might know; they are close to the British.’

  Evangeline let out a low sigh of resignation. ‘Thank you, José.’ She got up from the table and cleared away the dishes.

  ‘There is some brandy in the cabinet if José would like a digestif,’ she called from the kitchen. ‘I will prepare some coffee.’

  She came back a short while later and they sat together, each with a glass of Spanish brandy. When they had finished José took his leave. ‘I will see what arrangements are to be made in Perpignan and send for you,’ he said quietly to Alain as they walked together to the front gate. ‘Until I do it is best you stay here with your sister; she has need of your support.’

  ‘Is there really no news of Richard? What do you think?’

  José frowned and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I doubt the British would tell, even if they knew. The Americans are better; they are more open – I will ask their Major Harper when I get to La Vajol.’

  Chapter 3

  The best man in London

  The weather had been good for March. The mercury had risen as the spring showers had washed away the last traces of winter. The days were drawing out and several times Grainger had been down to Sussex to see his family. That days had been unseasonably fine and they had sometimes sat out in the garden drinking gin and tonic, discussing the conduct of the war. His father was of the opinion that now the Americans had joined the fight it would not be long before the tide was turned.

  In the saloon bar of the Chelsea Potter the air was thick with the smoke of tobacco and crowded with uniforms. Men on leave with pints of beer stood around in knots and talked of the war and girls, and what they would do when it was all over.

  Chelsea was not home ground for Grainger; he had come over from Victoria to meet his friend Dennis, who was there for a short leave before being shipped out – he had no idea where to; these days they didn’t say and if you were on a transport you only found out when you got there.

  ‘What about you, Dicky?’ Dennis stuffed a big pinch of tobacco into the bowl of a pipe and tamped it down with his thumb.

  Grainger shrugged. ‘No idea. I had a call from Charlie Armitage but, of course, he wouldn’t say what it was about. I’ve been invited to Baker Street for a chat tomorrow.’

  Dennis struck a match and held it to the tobacco; he sucked on the stem of the pipe, then put the matchbox over the open bowl to increase the draw. The tobacco glowed red and he let out a stream of smoke from his nostrils. ‘Baker Street – that’ll be something awkward, I don’t doubt. Special Ops?’

  Grainger nodded and grinned. ‘Should think so; usually is.’

  Outside, a sudden burst of rain lashed against the windows, driven by squalls that sent pedestrians running, heads down, for whatever cover was to be had. The door to the bar opened with an accompanying rush of chill air, then banged shut. A slightly plump woman in a sopping raincoat stood on the threshold for a moment. She stamped her feet and shook her coat to shed the excess water.

  ‘Sweetheart,’ Dennis shouted, and stood up to greet the woman.

  Grainger waved in salutation to his sister. ‘Hello, Jo. Don’t mind if I don’t get up, do you,’ he laughed.

  ‘Always the gent,’ she jibed back at him and sat down.

  Dennis kissed her on the top of her head. ‘What’ll it be, darling?’

  ‘A glass of sherry would be nice, Denny.’

  ‘Dicky,’ he nodded at Grainger, ‘another pint?’

  Grainger looked at his watch. ‘Yeh, why not, might not get another chance for a decent pint once Charlie Armitage sends me off packing.’

  ‘We’ve set a date; it’s a June wedding,’ Dennis said when he came back with the drinks. ‘I’d like you to be best man – if that’s all right.’

  ‘I’d be honoured. Congratulations you two – it’s about time. I thought you’d never get around to it.’

  Jo beamed and flourished her hand in her brother’s face showing off her engagement ring. ‘Isn’t it just exquisite, Richard?’ Grainger leaned across and kissed her then shook hands with Dennis.

  ‘So,’ Grainger said, ‘June, that’s less than three months away. That’s a bit rushed, isn’t it? Not a little something on the way is there?’

  ‘Idiot,’ Jo slapped him across the shoulder. ‘Next year, ‘43, not this June. Really, Richard, what do you take us for?’

  Grainger pulled a silly face in mock embarrassment. ‘Sorry.’

  Dennis said nothing, just raised his eyebrows.

  Jo looked at her watch. ‘We have to go darling, drink up or we’ll be late.’ He downed the dregs of his glass and stood up.

  ‘What about you now, Dicky? Got a girl in mind?’

  Grainger shook his head and let out a short laugh. ‘Ha, no. No one at the moment.’

  ‘What about that little dolly you met in France?’

  Grainger looked wistful. ‘Lost touch – you know how these things are, what with the war and all that. Pity really,’ He gave a philosophical shrug. ‘Still can’t have everything I suppose, though I had rather fancied it might go somewhere. I’d go and look for her if Charlie would give me the time off, but there’s fat chance of that. At least not until we’ve knocked Adolf off his bloody perch – and I can’t see that happening for a while.’

  It was nearly six months since he’d been to the Baker Street office. He made his way through the anonymous ground floor reception to the lift where an elderly man in uniform stood guard. The man dragged the lattice gate shut and pulled on the lever that set the lift in motion. At the top floor Grainger stepped out of the lift and headed for what was signed as the ‘Management Suite.’ He knocked on the door and went in, not waiting for an invitation to enter. Inside, a blond girl sat at a desk clattering away on a typewriter. She looked mildly surprised to see him.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘it’s you again.’

  ‘Absolutely right. Is that a problem then?’

  She gave a little shrug. ‘Not especially so. It’s just, well, I thought you’d have copped it by now – the way things are.’

  ‘No, no, I’ve still got nine lives.

  ‘That’s good.’ She said giving him the faint trace of a smile. ‘I got this.’ She held up her left hand to show a small diamond cluster ring.

  ‘Engaged. Who’s the lucky man.’

  ‘Ronald. He’s so reliable – he’s a junior manager in the National Provincial Bank.’

  Ouch Grainger thought, that was a bit of a back hander; though he doubted she realised it. ‘Well good for you. Sir Charles in, is he?’

  She nodded. ‘Hold on, I’ll let him know you’re here; Grainger isn’t it?’ A moment later she twitched her head in the direction of the door to the inner office, indicating he could go in. Inside, Sir Charles Armitage and G, the head of SOE, were standing, poring over a map.

  ‘Dicky, good to see you again, my boy. How’s your mother – you remember G don’t you.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  They all sat down and G got out a folder from his desk. It was a thin brown file tied with red tape – ‘Emile Xicluna.’ G pronounced the last name awkwardly as if he had some difficult
y getting his tongue around it.

  ‘French Algerian, ex legionnaire; arrested by Vichy for distributing anti-government pamphlets; broke out of Laghouat prison and went into hiding in Morocco. He’s an important part of the underground resistance. I want you to go and have a chat with him. We have a little job for him and our information is he’s willing to help us. Have you heard of Operation Torch?’

  Grainger shook his head. ‘No sir. I can’t say I have.’

  ‘Just as well, it’s supposed to be top secret – very hush hush.’

  Sir Charles Armitage leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. ‘Okay, nearly a year ago, Dicky, Churchill finally persuaded the Yanks to mount an invasion of Vichy North Africa, principally Morocco and Algeria, to take the pressure off our boys in the Western desert and clear out Rommel for good and all. Its code name is Operation Torch. We need someone to mobilise the local lads – get them working for us when we come ashore. There are two key spots, Casablanca and Algiers.’

  Grainger nodded. ‘Doesn’t sound too difficult Charlie.’

  ‘There is just one slightly awkward snag, though.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Our latest intelligence is some bugger’s kidnapped this Xicluna chap. We don’t who; might be the Gestapo, might be Vichy.’

  ‘Could be tricky. Any clues as to where he’s been stashed?’

  ‘The word out there is Fez, but the truth is we have no idea.’

  G handed him a large brown envelope. ‘It’s all in here. Read it, then burn it.’

  ‘What’s the drill for getting down there?’

  ‘Destroyer. The navy will drop you off at Gib. We have a man down there who’ll take you across the border to Algeciras; he knows the ropes. There’s a Spanish ferry that runs twice a day to Tangier. That bit should be easy. The Americans have a man there already; you’ll liaise with him. It’s all in the envelope; read it.’

  ‘I’ve got you a nice porthole cabin,’ Armitage grinned. ‘You’ll need to get down to Portsmouth by tomorrow evening. It’s a two-day cruise, dear boy. Worth a hundred guineas before the war.’

  *

  It had rained non-stop from the time he had boarded the train at Waterloo until it pulled into Portsmouth Harbour station. There it eased and the air was filled with a fine misty drizzle. A navy staff car picked him up and drove him to the dockyard gates where a naval rating in the guardhouse requested his papers.

  From across the dockyard the outline of the destroyer HMS Ludlow was visible through the grey curtain of the drizzle. It lay alongside the North Corner jetty, its three funnels jutting up rigidly into the sky. He felt a twinge of excitement. It was good to be on the move again. It wasn’t that he did not like being home, seeing Dennis and Jo, visiting his parents, going to the pub, but the office bored him. He was no good with paperwork but that was how MI5 functioned. To get this break of being seconded to SOE, becoming one of the Baker Street Boys, was like breathing fresh cold air after being shut up in a stuffy room all day. It was invigorating.

  Papers checked, the rating saluted and the staff car drove over the slippery cobbles to the jetty. ‘Thanks,’ Grainger said cheerily to the driver and, grabbing his holdall, walked off to where he clambered up the destroyer’s gangway. At the top a lieutenant was standing watch.

  Grainger stopped at the top, briefly acknowledged the colours, and held out his papers. ‘Request permission to come aboard.’ The lieutenant looked at the papers and nodded. ‘Chief,’ he called to a petty officer, ‘see Mr Grainger safely to the officers’ mess. If you follow the Chief, sir, I’ll inform the captain you’re aboard.’

  In the mess room a steward brought him a mug of tea then left him to wait. A short while later the door to the mess was opened by a rating and the captain came in. ‘Good evening, Mr Grainger, and welcome aboard. I’m Captain Harding.’ Grainger stood up and the two men shook hands.

  ‘We’ll be shoving off in two hours. Let’s get you installed. Dinner in here at twenty hundred. Weather’s a bit lively; it ‘ll be a bumpy ride – how’re your sea-legs? Any good?’

  ‘Not too bad.’

  ‘Excellent. I’ll get someone to show you the drill.’ He looked over to where the mess steward was standing by the entrance to the galley. ‘Stevens, see to it that Mr Grainger gets to his cabin.’

  Harding had not exaggerated. Once clear of the shelter in the Solent things got bumpy. The bows of the destroyer heaved up then slammed down into the grey of the Atlantic. It was the roughest ride he had ever had. Dinner was a lively affair of hanging onto plates and glasses and by the time he had gone swaying back to his cabin, there was nothing for it but to get horizontal in the bunk and sleep through it.

  The grey light of dawn was visible through the small porthole when a rating knocked on his door, pulling him out of sleep and into the conscious world. ‘O six hundred sir,’ a voice cheerfully informed him. ‘Breakfast in the mess is at eight.’

  Grainger thanked him, hauled himself upright and swung his legs out of the bunk. The weather had settled down to a slow drizzle that misted the glass of the porthole. At least they’ve ironed the bloody lumps out of the sea, he mused to himself as he stood in front of the mirror and shaved.

  As the day progressed the sky lightened and by the time he went up onto the foredeck just before lunch it had turned to a pleasant pale cobalt. ‘Well Charlie was right,’ he said out loud but to no one in particular. ‘A hundred guinea cruise.’

  Back in his cabin he sat at a small desk fixed to the bulkhead and opened the fat buff envelope that G had given him back in Baker Street. He fished out the contents and spread them on the top. A single sheet of paper with instructions, a contact name and a description of Xicluna, two grainy photographs: one a full length shot of a man in a shabby black suit, and a full face head and shoulders snap that looked like a police mugshot.

  There was a bundle of Spanish peseta notes wrapped around with an elastic band and another larger one of French money. In a separate canvas pouch were ten gold sovereigns for emergencies where only gold could solve the problem – and, finally, a Belgian FN .32 calibre automatic with a box of 25 rounds.

  He read the instructions then set fire to them in an ash tray as he had been instructed. He stuffed the money and photos into his wallet and the gun and sovereigns into the pocket of his overcoat that he had thrown onto the top bunk.

  The day was hot and as they came through the Straits of Gibraltar he could just make out the North African coast, a thin dark line on the horizon. Somewhere out there, he thought, was his quarry, Émile Xicluna – always supposing he was not already dead.

  Two hours later, the Rock came into view, a rugged white cliff rising to a cone. He breathed in the warm smell of the sea, all salt and iodine. It was good to be back in the Med.

  As he stood looking out to the shore a rating approached him. ‘Excuse me, sir. Message from Captain Harding, sir. Request you join him on the bridge.’

  He made his way up top. The Ludlow was an old US vessel so she had an enclosed bridge. A lieutenant saw him and opened the bridge door, beckoning him in. Inside there were three officers, all with binoculars trained on the waters of the Straits, searching for the tell-tale signs of German U boats.

  ‘Ah, Mr Grainger,’ Captain Harding waved him over to where he stood close to the compass binnacle. ‘Thought you might like to join us, get a good view of the Rock from here. Ever been there before?’

  Grainger nodded. ‘Once, with my parents, when I was at boarding school. We came on a cruise liner from Southampton. Gib was the first port in the Med.’

  ‘So you know it then? Seen the monkeys, have we?’

  Grainger smirked at the recollection. ‘Yes, we went onto the upper rock. My mother said she wanted to see what she called the apes, though my father pointed out they were not apes but Barbary macaques.’

  ‘Indeed, that is correct.’

  ‘Made no difference; she carried on calling them apes. I think the macaques mus
t have resented it.’

  Harding raised his eyebrows querying the remark. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, she carelessly left her sun hat on the top of a wall; one of the blighters swooped down and snatched it.’

  ‘Hah, they’re devilish thieves. There’s more than one matelot lost a cap to the little beggars. Did she get it back?’

  Grainger waved his hands, open palmed, into the air and gave a small shrug, indicating the end had been inevitable. ‘Not a bit of it. The little bugger made off up the rock. Sat on a ledge waving it at her mockingly.’

  ‘I imagine you’ve been across to the Barbary coast.’

  ‘Yes. Later our ship docked in the port at Tangier and we all went ashore to the souk. Absolute pandemonium; the locals were worse than the chimps on the rock. Had to watch our pockets.’

  As he came down the gangway and stepped off the end, a man in a neatly pressed pale linen suit presented himself. ‘Grainger, isn’t it? Braiden, naval intelligence. Welcome to the Rock.’

  Grainger hesitated for an instant. He hadn’t expected a welcoming committee. ‘That’s right. How did you know who I was; have we met before?’

  Braiden shook his head. ‘Not that I recollect. I knew you were coming in on the Ludlow and it was clear from the way you walked the plank you were no sailor.’ Both men laughed then shook hands.

  ‘Come on,’ Braiden said, ‘I’ve got a car waiting. We want you on your way in short order. This place is rotten with spies. New faces attract attention.’

  The crossing out of Gibraltar and into Spain was no more than a formality.

  ‘That was easy,’ Grainger observed.

  A smile of satisfaction wiped Braiden’s face. ‘Things are quite civil with the Spaniards; ever since Franco cold-shouldered Hitler’s overtures to join the Axis. You know they had a meeting in Hendaye last year? Disaster for Hitler; jolly good for us though.’