5. Slightly Wrong-Footed by Clair Wright

I’m feeling pretty sore over losing the documents back in Paris. I got careless, he got lucky; it won’t be happening again. 

In the meantime there are some advantages to being dead, metaphorically speaking of course.  The English guy, Alan, isn’t looking for me – not yet, anyhow. That was his mistake; too much confidence in his old French comrade. Sadly misplaced. 

I catch the next boat to Algiers and check into a passable place in the Kasbah – the usual thing – tiled walls, orange trees, terrible bathroom arrangements. It’s a more anonymous choice than the swanky place favoured by Alan; it doesn’t take me long to find where he is staying and I find the night porter to be very helpful with the usual encouragement. 

I find a café in a narrow street off the main square and order a coffee. It’s thick and black and burns in my guts but I can’t bear the mint tea that’s the only other offering.  A kid – a boy maybe eight or nine, hard to tell – recognises me as foreign money and heads straight for my table. 

“Shoe shine?” he asks. He drops to his knees and makes ready with a brush and a rag. I shake my head. He switches tactics, and holds his hand out, looking me straight in the eye. I decide he might be useful.  

“Okay kid. Do you want to earn this?” I address him in French, as my Arabic doesn’t extend beyond ordering a beer, but I flash a few coins in my palm and he gets the message. He’s instantly more respectful and attentive. “There’s an English guy staying in the Hotel Mourad. I want to know where he goes and who he speaks to. Understand?” He nods and holds out his hand. I drop in a couple of coins. He looks disappointed. “The rest later. Come back at six.” He shrugs and sets off across the square, quickly disappearing into the afternoon traffic. 

I buy some bread and oranges and retreat to my room. I don’t want to risk running into Alan until I’m ready. 

At six I return to the café. The shoe-shine boy is waiting for me. He gives me a run-down of his afternoon’s mission, with plenty of embellishment which he seems to think might earn him extra. Despite this, the information is useful enough for my purposes, so I slip him a ten franc note and he runs away, satisfied. 

I pick my moment carefully and with a certain amount of relish.  The Englishman is returning to his room, sluggish after a generous lamb tagine and a bottle of shiraz.  He’s a pro, but he can’t hide his shock when I step out of the shadows.  

I take a moment to enjoy the flicker of confusion which passes over his face. He seems to accept quickly that I have the upper hand here. He nods when I gesture towards his door. This is business best conducted in private. 

I glance around the opulently furnished room, though I am hardly expecting the documents to be lying on the desk.  Alan pours himself a brandy and invites me to join him. I decline, amused by the English habitual concern with courtesy. 

I decide to take the direct approach. We are both professionals, and I would prefer to avoid the inconvenience of having to dispose of another corpse in a strange city so soon after dispatching the Frenchman.

“You don’t want Vanderbilt to get these plans any more than we do, I’m thinking,” I offer, as Alan swirls his brandy around the glass. 

He raises his eyebrows. “On the contrary, I have no strong feelings on the subject,” he replies.

“Come on,” I say. “Don’t try to tell me it’s all about the money. I’m disappointed in you. What happened to Queen and Country and all that bullshit?”

“Why?” he says, turning to face me. “How much are you offering? Did your boss give you a budget?” 

I don’t like the way his lip curls when he says this, like I’m a government stooge. 

“I’d start being more helpful if I were you,” I say. I slip my hand into my vest pocket and withdraw it, just a little, so he can see the handle of my MK-22. 

His curled lip broadens into a smile. “Come now, where would that get you?” he asks, pouring himself another generous slug of brandy.  You don’t know the whereabouts of the documents. I do. You want them; I have them. I am worth a good deal more to you alive, than dead. We both know that, don’t we, Mr Johnson?”

Now he has me slightly wrong-footed.  I feel the tick starting under my right eye.  “Oh I’m sorry, am I not supposed to know your name?” he smiles at me again. 

I find myself pouring brandy into a glass. I down it as he says, “Why don’t you contact your boss, and see what he might like to offer me? Maybe we can do business after all.” 

“I’ll see myself out,” I reply, and leave him to his nightcap.