4. BREADCRUMBS by Virginia Hainsworth

The ferry crossing had been rough but, as is the way, the nausea had left me as soon as I set foot on land.  And now, more than twenty four hours later, standing in a bar in Algiers, the Gauloisian fog is clearing my mind.  Yes, I know that sounds crazy but it always has the same effect.

Last night I checked into a hotel on Rue Didouche Mourad. Its French colonial style architecture had appealed and I felt as though I deserved a decent hotel, at least for one night.

The old town is as busy as ever but the industrious kind of frenetic activity I witnessed when I was last here some years ago has been replaced by a bubbling unease. The aftermath of the recent revolts and riots against the French government has created a restlessness which permeates everywhere.  The talk in the bar is of nothing but the struggle for independence and I push my way into a seat in the corner to escape it and to reflect on my next steps.

My eyes never leave the door, an old habit I find difficult to shake off even after all this time.  And I sigh loudly to signal my annoyance as a man in an impossibly clean and crease-free jacket sits down next to me.

I take a sip of wonderfully viscous black coffee and momentarily close my eyes to let the cream jacket know that I don’t want to engage in conversation about independence, de Gaulle or anything else.

My mind turns to railway timetables and onward connections and the sounds, a mixture of Arabic and French, begin to recede from my consciousness.  A deep throated voice of undistinguishable accent but perfect English cuts through my thoughts.

‘So, Alan, what are your plans now?’

‘Excusez-moi, je ne comprends pas.’    I affect my best French in as guttural a tone as I can muster as I turn to the cream jacket.  I am tempted to accidentally spill my coffee over it.

‘Oh, come on Alan, let’s not waste time.’  A long fingered, perfectly manicured hand proffers itself to me. ‘George Vanderbilt.  You’ve heard of me, of course.’

He offers me a cigarette from a gold case and I notice his name inscribed on the front.  I shake my head.  I am struck by the difference between the age of his face and that of his youthful, creamed hands.

‘Surely you didn’t expect me to lose track of the documents? ‘ he continues.  ‘I had the Creightons followed from the start.  They did what I suggested, by enlisting the help of someone with your skills. I am so glad they chose you.  My research into your background gave me confidence in your abilities.  However, I fear you may be losing your touch.  You left a trail which was as easy to follow as Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs.   So, tell me what you plan to do next, now that you have lost the Creightons.’

His voice now is low and barely audible.  My thoughts collide briefly and then come into sharp focus.  I have always found total honesty to be unnecessary and so I try the next thing.  The partial truth.

‘I shall be leaving for Cairo later today.  I have a contact who will take me there.’

‘You have looked at the documents, no doubt?’

‘Of course.’  And then, to protect myself, ‘I cannot understand the technical data but do see why you cannot take them to South Africa yourself.’

I continue with a blend of half-truths and watch his face carefully to gauge the reaction.  ‘I advised the Creightons to split the information into two packages, which they did.  They left one with me, which I reunited with its other half after I encountered the Yank.’

‘And where are the packages now?’ He looks at his cuticles.

‘Safe.  I am confident that neither will be discovered.  Even if I am searched at any point.  You can be sure they will be delivered safely to their final destination.  The price may have gone up, of course’

He looks nervously around him.

‘I am not as careless as you think,’ I add.  ‘I saw your man- I assume he was your man- on the ferry.  Short, unshaven, smelled of fish.  And a little too fond of cognac.  I think you’ll find he smells even more of fish now.  But he’ll recover.’

I notice that there are a couple of creases in his jacket after all. And a little sweat stain on the collar.

I smile at him as I continue.  ‘The Yank.  CIA I assume. He’s been taken care of.  But I suppose you know that.’  I can barely conceal the satisfaction in my voice.  ‘You can trust me, you know.  I have your contact details and I will get in touch with you once I have transported the packages to their end destination.  You can be sure of that.’

He drains his coffee cup.

‘A bientôt, then,’ he murmurs and stands up.

I notice that a red wine stain on the back of the chair has transferred itself to the back of his jacket.

‘One last thing,’ I add.  ‘You will need to take your jacket back to Karim’s laundry.  I know you only collected it from there at 11 o’clock this morning, but that’s Algiers for you.  And please do let me brush the breadcrumbs from your back.’

I smile to myself all the way back to my hotel.  As I reach reception and ask for my key, the receptionist says, ‘Ah Monsieur. Juste à temps.  I ‘ave an urgent call for you.’  He hands me the telephone.

A woman’s voice, unfamiliar.  ‘Alain?’

‘Who is this?’

‘Jean-Jacques is dead.’  A click as the receiver is replaced.