James Benn: The First Wave

Georgie turned a corner and we entered a small village. The signpost said LAMBIRIDI, which was the town just outside Algiers.

"General Juin's villa is just a few kilometers-" Georgie slammed on the brakes as a roadblock came into view. Two trucks were pulled across the road. Armed men with black armbands ran up to the car as it skidded to a stop.

"Who are these guys?" I asked.

"SOL," Georgie said disgustedly. "Service d'Order Legionnaire. Vichy fascist militia. They worship the SS, and do whatever dirty work Vichy asks of them."

Before Georgie could finish, the doors of the staff car were flung open and rifles pointed at our heads, accompanied by more excited French chatter than I'd ever heard. One pair of hands grabbed my Thompson while someone else took me by the collar and hauled me out of the front seat.

"Americain!" I hollered, trying to form the rest of the little French I knew into a full sentence. The next thing I knew, the flat of a rifle butt slammed into my head and plastered me against the side of the car. My legs buckled, as I tried to grab onto something to keep my head from hitting the pavement. It always bothered me that in the movies a guy got knocked clean out when someone smacked him in the head. Then he'd wake up later, rub his head a bit, and go on like nothing had happened. I knew something about getting hit in the head. It was very painful, there was usually a lot of blood, and if you were knocked out there was a good chance you weren't going to wake up again.

My head felt as if someone had rammed a ten-penny nail into my skull, and I could feel blood trickling down my ear. I was damned if I was going to pass out, although it seemed to be an attractive idea as I tried to stand up. The guy who'd batted me took a step forward. I held up my hand.

"Irish," I said, tapping my chest. "Erin Go Bragh." He didn't get it, but he didn't hit me again, either. Instead he hustled me over to the other side of the car to stand next to Harding and Georgie, both of whom had been smart enough to keep their mouths shut.

Georgie pulled out a white silk handkerchief and handed it to me. I pressed it against my head where it hurt the most and the flow of blood eased up. I looked around, counting the guns and looking for a way out. There were seven SOL thugs, all mean-looking, one of whom was smiling at the others as he showed off my Thompson. Spoils of war.

A black sedan was parked by the side of the road. The driver got out and opened the rear door on our side. He was dressed in a blue uniform, and so was his boss, who also wore a blue cape tossed back over one shoulder, and an armband similar to the ones worn by the SOL.

"Vichy police," Georges whispered to us. "The Gardes Mobiles. They run the SOL, unofficially, of course."

"Of course," I said. "Any other surprises we should know about, Georgie?" I was joking, as usual, but even I wasn't ready for the punch line. The driver went to the other side of the sedan and opened the back door. Out stepped a tall German officer, in a sun-bleached khaki uniform, complete with Iron Cross at the collar and a band around his left sleeve, in ornate German script, that read "Deutsches Afrika Korps." One of Rommel's boys.

The two of them strolled over, like a couple of old pals. The French cop was of medium height, with a long face and a big, sloping nose at the center of it. He wasn't what you'd call ugly, but he probably would be someday. Right now, in his tailored uniform and polished boots, with his cape jauntily thrown over his shoulder, he looked like the cat that had caught the canary. Or three canaries. He smiled as he approached us, the kind of smug smile that comes from being in charge and having seven gunsels watching your back. The German was taller than him and slimmer, with a face as weather-beaten as his uniform. I could tell he wasn't a cop. Like Harding, he had professional soldier written all over him. He didn't smile, and he sure as hell looked like he didn't need seven guys to watch out for him.

"Welcome to Algiers, gentlemen," the Frenchman said in excellent, but accented English. "We have been expecting you." He walked right up to Harding, extending his hand like a precinct captain greeting a visiting dignitary. "Major Harding, I am Captain Luc Villard, at your service."

His hand hung there for a second, the smile frozen on his face as he waited for Harding to respond. My mind dully registered the fact that those first roadblocks had been too easy to get through, that he had been waiting here for us, that he knew Harding's name, and that I didn't have a clue as to what in the hell was going on. Being a trained detective, such deductions came easily to me, especially the one about not having a clue.

"Pleased to meet you, Captain Villard," Harding said, shaking his hand. He was trying to sound confident, but even Harding couldn't keep a slight tone of bewilderment out of his voice.

He gave it his best shot, though. "Obviously, you are aware of our mission," he continued. "I bring greetings from General Giraud and General Eisenhower, and offer French forces our assistance in fighting those who occupy French soil." He delivered this line with a straight face, ignoring the German standing right there. I almost believed the three of us were about to march on Paris.

Villard laughed as he turned to smirk at his German companion. "We are well aware of your pitiful mission. Also, I am aware that this is French soil, under the sovereignty of France, and you are the invader!"

His smile turned ugly and he smacked Harding across the face. Harding didn't even twitch, and I caught a glimpse of a raised eyebrow from the German. It was his first expression of any kind and vanished in an instant. Was it disdain for Villard, or did he think a bullet would have been better than a sissy slap?

"We have freed General Juin from the pathetic rebels who occupied his house last night," Villard said, "and we have also taken into custody the British and American agents who acted as provocateurs among them. It was not difficult to learn from them that you would arrive this morning."

"You can't expect to win-" exclaimed Georgie.

"I know who you are as well, Lieutenant Dupree," Villard cut in. "A traitor at worst, at best a dupe of the British." He motioned for one of his men, and a thick-waisted sweaty guy in a dusty black suit leaned in and pulled Georgie s revolver out of his holster. He handed it to Villard, who aimed it at Georgie's chest.

"And I have little use for either traitors or fools." He pulled the trigger before anyone could move. The sound exploded in my ears and the next thing I knew Georgie was thrown against the car, a look of shock and surprise on his face and a burnt, black hole in his chest that slowly spread scarlet as he fell.

I knew Georgie was dead before he hit the ground. I knew it was a well-practiced routine, the hand gesture to the sweaty guy, the sudden, unexpected violence. I knew that it had a purpose, and that Villard enjoyed it. He smiled at us.

"The penalty for treason is death in your army too, I believe, Major Harding?"

"Yes, Captain, it is. If a legally constituted court martial finds the defendant guilty."

"In this national emergency, some legalities must be put aside," Villard said as he shook his head sadly. He casually threw Georgie's revolver down by his body, and continued as if nothing had happened.

"Search him," he ordered one of his men, who turned out Georgie's pockets and tossed his wallet onto the ground. As Villard watched them search, I looked down at the piece on the ground, then around me. The German caught my eye, and shook his head no, ever so slightly. So this was part of the routine too. I looked at the sweaty guy and he had his rifle aimed right at me. Nice little game the Algiers cops had going here.