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frenetic activity I witnessed when I was last here some years ago has been
replaced by a bubbling unease.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.
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