James Benn - Evil for evil

"Yes, she came back from her briefing yesterday; she's on a forty-eight-hour leave."

"You mean her SOE briefing," I said in a low voice.

"Yes. You should see her, Billy." She stared at me, her expression hardening. She couldn't fully have the man she loved, and here I was, throwing away a good chance at love through stubbornness and pride. I didn't blame her for the dagger look.

"I want to," I said, and she led me to Uncle Ike's office and knocked.

"William," he said, getting up from his desk and shaking my hand. "I hadn't heard you were back. Just got in, by the looks of you. How are you? How was Ireland?"

"I'm fine, sir. That situation in Northern Ireland was resolved, nothing to worry about."

"Excellent! Here, have a seat," Uncle Ike said, gesturing to a pair of chairs opposite his desk. "Was Major Cosgrove pleased with the outcome? And what was her name, Miss O'Brien?"

"Subaltern Slaine O'Brien. She's dead, sir."

"My God, that's terrible. As a result of this business?"

"Yes, sir. Several others too. British, Irish, Americans. More than I'd like but we put a stop to it, so I guess it was worth it."

Uncle Ike nodded as he lit a cigarette. Less than a year ago, I wouldn't ever have said such a thing. Now I could, and I saw the strain on Uncle Ike's face, as he dealt in numbers that would dwarf mine, the deaths I could count on my fingers with a few to spare.

"You did well, William, and I'm sorry about the losses. Tell me, did you enjoy seeing Ireland?"

Perhaps someday I'd look back and remember what I'd seen and recall some of it fondly. The smell of the peat burning, the green fields after a rain, the sound of Irish voices everywhere. Not yet, though. And it was part of Great Britain I'd seen, not the free Republic. But Uncle Ike was a man with enough worries of his own, and I never felt like saying anything that might burden him.

"It was grand," I said, feeling that was not quite a lie. Grand, magnificent, terrible. "Can I ask about the rumors? Are you going to get General Marshall's job?"

"That's up to the president, William. Looks like one of us will command the invasion of Europe and the other will be chief of staff."

"Which do you want, Uncle Ike?" I spoke softly, taking advantage of the permission he gave me, when we were alone, to call him that.

"I'll happily do whatever the president orders," he said. Leaning close, he spoke in a whisper. "I've always accepted whatever orders came my way, William. But I'm a changed man now. No one could have experienced what I have and not be different from the man he was in the beginning. I want to command the invasion, and see this war to the end." He leaned back and ground out his cigarette. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his forehead seemed permanently creased.

"My money's on you, General."

"Thank you, William. Now get some rest. Kay will get you squared away."

SHE DID. A room, a bath, a tray of food, a full set of tropic khakis, and all the gear I might need. One thing about working in a headquarters, there was never a shortage of supplies. After I ate, washed, and shaved, I decided to close my eyes, just for ten minutes, before I went in search of Diana. I opened the doors to the balcony to let in the cool breeze from the Mediterranean and stretched out on the bed. It was four o'clock, 1600 hours. Maybe half an hour, a catnap. I closed my eyes.

I dreamed of a city with white gleaming buildings and narrow streets. I was looking for someone but never could find her. I'd get lost in dark passageways, until I was back at the hotel, and then a bomb hit, and there was fire and smoke.

I woke up instantly, my heart beating fast and fear in my gut. I knew the city was Algiers, and the bomb was from another time when Diana and I had been here. Close to death, the companion that haunted us both. I blinked my eyes, thinking I was still asleep. I wasn't, and it was dark. I looked at my watch, rubbing my eyes awake. Nine o'clock, damn.

I dressed and headed for the general's office, hoping Kay would still be there. She was, the place still a beehive of junior officers and WACs. She'd told Diana I was here, but Diana was headed out with someone, and said she'd see me in the morning. It sounded like the cold shoulder to me, and I pressed Kay as to where she'd gone. She told me after a little coaxing: the Cafe Continental in the Casbah. She didn't want to tell me who Diana's companion was but I got it out of her bit by bit. Yes, it was a man. Yes, a young man; no, not an American. He was British, an army captain, and yes, he was quite good-looking; actually, all the girls thought so.

A little voice at the back of my head told me to go back to my room and get a good night's sleep. I didn't listen; I was surprised that voice kept giving me advice after all the years I'd ignored it. It wasn't always bad advice; it just came when I didn't want to hear it. I jumped in a taxi and asked the driver to get me to the Cafe Continental fast, tossing a bunch of British pounds on the front seat, probably enough to buy the cab and a couple of donkeys to boot. He floored it with abandon, weaving around a colonel who almost lost his service cap in the slipstream. My kind of cabbie.

He came to a stop that sent me slamming into the front seat, in front of the Cathedral of Saint Phillipe, its twin minarets, graceful curving arches, and decorated tiles revealing it had been a mosque before the French took over. Or so Diana had told me, last time we were here, walking to the Cafe Continental. The cathedral was lit up, the blackout long gone since we'd chased the Luftwaffe all the way back to Italy. I legged it along the side of the limestone building, the stones looking as old as the ruined temples I'd seen in Sicily. The side street brought me into the Casbah proper, a maze of narrow streets and winding alleyways. It was easy to get lost but all you had to do was walk down the hill and you'd end up at the harbor, where you could turn around and try again. But I knew my way around. I knew where you could buy hashish, sell your sister, hire an out-of-work spy, or arrange for a smuggling route into the desert, to Spanish Morocco or the Rio de Oro. What I didn't know was how to talk to Diana when I found her, or whether she'd listen.

I dodged Arab women, their robes covering every inch of them, embroidered head scarves and veils drawing the eye though I thought the idea was to discourage male glances. Boys pulled donkeys weighed down with dates, jugs of water, blankets, firewood, and wooden crates stamped U.S. ARMY. The alleys were dark, the only light coming from overhanging balconies built out over the street so far they almost touched their neighbors across the way. I'd left my pistol back at the hotel, figuring that it would go better if I didn't arrive armed, and I cast a few glances over my shoulder before I hit Rue Marengo, a wider street where, during the day, open markets sold everything from fruit and vegetables to trinkets for GI tourists, brass baubles, Arab daggers, and German Lugers.

I slowed my pace, collecting myself, trying to calm down so I wouldn't punch out the Brit officer before we were introduced. The evening was cool but I wiped sweat from my temples as I adjusted my fore-and-aft cap, loosened my field scarf, then tightened it again, before rubbing each shoe on the back of my pants to get rid of the dust. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and sauntered off, just another bored soldier looking for a new bar or brothel. The Cafe Continental was around the next curve in the street, and I wanted to scout the position from a safe distance.

I knew the layout: a gleaming white building with sky blue doors and shutters, the sign in the same blue and white over the door, the main entrance on the street. Off to the side, there was a courtyard shaded by trees, where Diana and I had eaten a couple of times. Strings of lightbulbs hung low in the tree branches, casting a leafy glow over the tables, each flooded by candlelight.