The early morning came and went; the freshness of the air, crisp and cool – the new day blossomed with brief hope before being burnt away by the unremitting heat of an African summer.
JD Dunne had been awake for hours developing photographs in the back room of an art gallery. The Gallery sold antiques of dubious quality and artefacts of dubious authenticity. Its owner was a keen photographer and, when the young American had wandered into his store late the previous afternoon, had latched onto him and dragged him to the rear of the store to show off his precious photographic equipment. The two men talked cameras, the effects of sand and heat on equipment, the intricacies of getting just the right shot, and finally, the difficulty of developing film while on assignment. At that point, the gallery owner, with a grin from ear to ear, wrapped an arm around JD’s shoulders and guided him to a section of wall covered, floor-to-ceiling, by a huge Persian rug. The owner pushed one edge of the rug aside to reveal a small darkroom. JD smiled and stepped in. It was dark and hot, and smelled of stale humid air and chemicals. All light was lost as the rug closed back over the doorway, to be replaced by the guttering flickers of a Moroccan oil lamp.
The room was a tiny rectangle. Barely enough room for the two men to fit in, but along one wall was a long bench with tubs for developing and a gleaming enlarger. JD touched the cord strung from wall to wall and ran a finger along the edge of the developed film and drying photographs. Underneath the bench were shelves of brown glass chemical bottles, bowls, tongs, more tubs and more cameras. JD’s smile widened. He was in the presence of a fellow fanatic and he doubted that his own darkroom back home could equal the quantity of equipment and chemicals crammed into this one.
The gallery owner beamed with pride as JD’s low whistle of approval filled the room and immediately offered unlimited use of his darkroom.
JD had taken the man at his word and decided that the quicker he developed his photographs from the Café’s re-opening the sooner Ferrari would pay him. He’d worked hard getting as many shots of the ‘beautiful people’ of Casablanca as he could, formulating each picture as he mingled and chatted and snapped away; knowing which had a chance of making it into a magazine and which would not as soon as his finger pressed down on the shutter release. There were at least three good enough for Vanity Fair, one of those cover material for sure, and JD was certain he could sell a few others to the more serious journals.
That had been before he’d discovered the one photograph that pushed thoughts of fame and fortune from his mind and filled it instead with anxiety, fear and excitement.
He rushed through the crowded streets now grasping the envelope he’d shoved all his proofs and full-sized photographs into as soon as they were dry. His hands were sweaty and his mouth dry, but he knew what he had to do and just who would be able to help him.
The photograph that had sent him into a spin had nearly been trashed – too many unknown desperate faces, poor composition, bad lighting. It was not one of his best pieces. JD was already in the action of tossing it away when the lamplight flared and seemed to spotlight one face in particular.
JD Dunne collected faces the way a poet might collect words. They were stored away in his memory and he never forgot a single one. Tangiers, he remembered. It was someone in Tangiers. He’d reached for a magnifying glass and held it over the scowling features of a man caught seconds before turning away from the camera. JD’s mouth had gaped open as he remembered who the face belonged to and then closed on a gulp of apprehension. The man in the photograph, the face from Tangiers, was looking straight into the camera lens, straight at JD. Shit!
It was at that moment the dreams of magazine covers, awards and exhibitions were forgotten. He was in trouble, serious trouble.
The Blue Parrot Café didn’t open its doors until late in the morning. JD looked at his wristwatch – only nine a.m. He peered through a window – the café was deserted. Stepping back from the shopfront, he stared up at the hotel next door. He’d seen Chris Larabee go in there when they’d left the saloon the day before, but he didn’t know which room. There was no choice but to ask at the front desk. He glanced around him suspiciously and noticed a car pulling into the kerb behind him. It occurred to him, as he stood staring at the car, that someone in as much trouble as he was in probably shouldn’t be standing around the market place gawking like a tourist. But it was his hands not his feet that were moving as he brought his always-present camera up and pointed the lens at the car.
Two men were climbing from the back seat. The first one JD didn’t recognise, but he took his photo anyway. The second man was Orrin Travis, head of Special Operations for the OSS. JD got as many pictures as he could before they could see him and disappeared into the crowd just as both men looked up and started walking toward the café.
Chris lay in his bed, thinking. Above him the ceiling fan turned in lazy circles that now and again sent an almost cool waft of air downward. He was tired and curious again. Why him and why now? All he wanted was to wake up one morning and not have to think about plans and strategies, not worry about what dangerous situation the day might present, not concern himself with truth, half-truths and lies. It seemed to him, as he lay there watching the fan turn, his destiny was to be surrounded by trouble and mayhem – usually other people’s trouble and mayhem, he admitted to the fan, but still, he always ended up in the middle of it somehow.
He and the other men – and just how, he asked the ceiling fan, did he end up with three associates obviously as destined for trouble as he was himself – had spent most of what remained of the night going back to check on Vin’s story of murder and find out what was going on. All they’d managed to learn was that Tarak was most definitely dead and that whatever he’d had to give Tanner more than likely stolen. The rest of the family and a good proportion of the neighbours had been jostled into police wagons and taken to the local lock-up. Where, the lone neighbour not arrested informed them, they were being held and questioned at length about a good many things. The informant had also mentioned that a short time later a man, a foreigner, had left the residence. The neighbour couldn’t describe the man any further, it was dark and the man had kept to the shadows.
After paying the neighbour to forget the existence of the small group of Americans and removing any evidence of their own presence, Vin lit fresh incense and said a short prayer to his friend’s god, and they left. Separating outside Chris’s hotel just before dawn, they agreed to meet again later in the day. Tanner had grabbed his hand in a firm shake and warned him to watch his back, which gave Chris an odd feeling – it had been so long since anyone had cared about his back. And then he’d come up to his room, stripped off his jacket and shirt and lay on the bed to stare at the fan.
He didn’t know why he cared about what happened to Vin Tanner. Didn’t know why he was letting Ezra Standish get close to him again. Didn’t know why Nathan Jackson’s opinion of him was suddenly important.
Who the hell cares about any of them and why the hell do they care about me?
Either the fan didn’t know or wasn’t talking. Chris snorted in disgust and got up. If he wasn’t going to sleep he sure as hell wasn’t going to lie there and talk to a ceiling fan.
He walked over to the washstand and splashed some water from the pitcher left for him – his hotel room was much sparser and antiquated than Ezra’s – onto his face. The water was still cool and he felt momentarily refreshed.
Then there was a brief knock on the door and freshness was lost.
The knot in JD’s stomach was growing harder, first the photograph and now Travis. He could barely contain his excitement, something big must be about to happen, and he was in on it. Well… he knew about it and he had proof, now all he had to do was convince the others and he’d have the story of a lifetime.
JD was standing at the front desk of the hotel reading over the registration book when his heart missed a beat for the third time that morning. Behind the concierge’s desk – an aged wooden hutch that also served as key depository and manager’s office – was a mottled cheval mirror. The mirror was bright with reflected light from the door and, when the source of light was temporarily cut off, JD glanced up to see a familiar silhouette slipping through the entrance. The figure moved out of the doorway and the mirror was once again all light. JD turned to his left in time to see Vin Tanner, in western clothing this time, jogging up the staircase.
"Did you find the information you required?" the concierge asked.
JD turned back to the man and smiled pleasantly. Looking back down at the book, he found Chris Larabee’s signature and room number. "Sure did, much obliged," he answered. Closing the book, he slipped the man an American five-dollar bill from his wallet and followed the Texan up the stairs.
Vin was opening the door even as Chris’s, ‘come in’ sounded. He slipped in through the narrow gap, closed the door behind him and strode straight across the room to the window.
"A little paranoid, aren’t you?" Chris said.
"I ain’t the one with the gun pointed at the door," Vin answered.
Chris shrugged. In his line of work carrying a gun was mandatory, pointing it at unexpected visitors in his hotel room was habit. He started to uncock it and then froze. A creak in the floorboards outside his room gave away yet another visitor. He aimed the gun back at the door as a soft, more patient knock came on the hard wood.
No one entered and Chris gave Vin a wry grin, acknowledging the Texan’s own gun, out and ready, with an amused expression. "Looks like someone with manners," he commented, as the door remained closed. He noticed Tanner’s change in dress style for the first time. "In disguise today," he said, putting away his gun and smirking.
The knock came again. "Mr. Larabee? It’s JD."
Chris opened the door, but blocked the opening with his body, preventing the photographer from seeing into the room. "What can I do for you, kid?"
JD held up the envelope. "I think someone’s trying to kill me."
"With an envelope?" Larabee’s face was serious, but JD knew when he was being made a fool of.
"Of course not, this is why he’s going to kill me. He was at the opening last night and I took his photo only I didn’t know until this morning, but I definitely think he’ll be after me…"
Chris sighed and leaned back from the door allowing it to open further. "You better come in, and bring your envelope with you." Turning to Vin, he said, "It’s the photographer from yesterday." Vin nodded and, putting his gun away returned to gazing out the window.
"Mr. Tanner," JD acknowledged the other man.
"Kid. Been takin’ pictures of the wrong people again?" Vin moved over to the table where JD was tipping out the photographs from the envelope.
"Yeah, only this time I was s’posed to be taking the pictures. Was hired by the owner of the Café to document last night’s ‘grand event’. Never noticed this guy until this morning when I was developing the photos and even then I nearly missed him. Here it is." JD finished sorting through the photographs and tapped the face of trouble. "Do you know who that is?"
Both Chris and Vin leant over the table for a closer look. Vin reached out to take the photograph up. He was frowning.
JD proceeded to answer his own question. "That’s Davis McCluskey. He’s the key suspect in a string of assassinations across Europe and a hotel bombing in London. He works for whoever pays the highest price and he’s good. This is probably the only photograph of him anywhere in the world and he knows I’ve got it."
"Explain to me how you know him?" Chris asked.
"I was on assignment in Tangiers before coming here. A contact took me out to some sort of training camp for the local militia. He was there."
"And now he’s here?" Vin asked, though it seemed to Larabee that the Texan wasn’t expecting an answer.
"Do you know this guy, Vin?" Chris straightened and took the photo from the other man.
Vin nodded. "Davis McCluskey a.k.a. Davie Boy a.k.a. Mack the Knife. He was uncovered as a mole in MI5 three years ago, but escaped out the back door as the spooks were crashing down the front. They’ve been following his bloody trail ever since, and by bloody I mean bloody. The guy’s a killer."
"And you know all this, how?" Chris had never heard of the guy, but then he’d been pretty busy himself the last few years and the last twelve months in Tobruk he’d had a whole lot more to worry about than the political comings and goings in Europe.
Vin looked vaguely uncomfortable. "I keep my ears to the ground and my eyes open."
"Do you know his modus operandi too?" Larabee was aware that Vin had said a lot less than he could have. He’d let that go for now. They didn’t know each other that well just yet, though judging by the man’s paling complexion, they were both thinking the same thing.
"Tarak!" Vin exclaimed. It fit the picture perfectly. McCluskey was a slasher; the throat usually, sometimes followed – depending on the nature of the target, Vin knew – by embedding the murder weapon deep into the heart, the symbolism of the action, unnecessary as it was, unknown to M.I.5 or the O.S.S. "But how could McCluskey have known about Tarak…"
"Who’s Tarak?" JD interrupted.
Vin was staring at the photograph again and appeared not to hear the photographer’s question. "McCluskey saw you take the photograph…"
"I’m lucky I made it through the night. Who’s Tarak?"
"I’d say you made it through the night because this Mack the Knife guy was busy somewhere else."
"Who’s…"
"Tarak is… was a friend of mine. He was murdered last night."
"Oh, sorry," JD mumbled, suddenly humbled by the fact his continued existence was, in all likelihood, due to the death of somebody else.
"That’s not all," JD began after a few drawn out minutes of silence. "On my way here I saw Orrin Travis. He was going into the Blue Parrot Café."
Chris looked at the photographer. The guy might look a little green, but he was a veritable fountain of information and surprises. "Who’s Orrin Travis?" Both Larabee and JD glanced at Tanner as he placed the photograph back on the table with a snap.
But it was Vin this time who answered the question. "He’s OSS Special Operations… my boss."
"You’re OSS?" JD asked, amazed.
Vin nodded.
"Damn… and here I thought you must have been stolen by nomads at birth and brought up with the camels," Chris commented. "I gotta get some coffee into me before one of you tell me I’m the long lost King of Tasmania." Chris ran his hand roughly through his hair then dropped it down to his bare chest.
"Where?" JD asked, perplexed. His question went unanswered.
Whistles started blowing out in the street, voices were yelling. Vin stepped back to the window, alarmed. Below him, gendarmes had pulled up and were piling out of two automobiles. A crowd was milling around the front entrance to the Blue Parrot Café. Vin caught a glimpse of Orrin Travis in a heated discussion with the head gendarme and Wallace Andersen – Travis’s aide. Ferrari was not to be seen.
Chris moved to Vin’s side and looked out the window for himself.
"Reckon you better get dressed, your highness, cause somethin’s just turned rotten on the streets of Casablanca and I got a feelin’ we’re gonna be standin’ in it up to our kneecaps real soon," Vin said. His voice was low and husky and Chris felt the chill of forthcoming danger in the marrow of his bones.
"What do you want me to do, Mr. Larabee?" JD was humming with excitement. Headlines were flashing through his head – Photographer uncovers international plot – JD Dunne, photographer of the year, brings infamous assassin to justice – Dunne, hero of the nation awarded congressional medal for bravery – JD, photographer, journalist, all-American most eligible bachelor of the…
"You, Mr. Dunne, can stop calling me Mr. Larabee and go get some coffee and rolls for breakfast."
Chris waited for JD to leave, grumbling all the way against the injustices of being relegated to gofer-boy, before taking another look out the window. "If that’s the case, we might need some extra help…" Larabee thought out loud.
"Got someone in mind?" Vin asked, turning to the mercenary with a grim smile.
"Yep. Gonna have to get him out of bed first." Chris’s expression was almost feral and Vin’s smile widened.
The room was dark; window shutters were still closed, curtains remained drawn. The French doors leading out to the tiny balcony were shut tight. Clothing was strewn across the floor from door to lounge to bathtub to bed. A pair of women’s shoes were stuck, toes down, in a champagne bucket along with an empty bottle of French champagne; long brown silk stockings draped from the bottle and overhung the Chippendale chair where the bucket was perched. Soft murmuring came from the bedroom - sweet endearments, deep crooning, the occasional grunt and giggle. Blankets had fallen haphazardly over the side of the bed, tangled with sheets and pillows. Thick mosquito netting hung from a brass hoop above making the bed a shrouded island and the couple hidden inside its sole inhabitants.
A loud bang followed by a crash of wood on plaster wall heralded the vicious opening of the main door. The man on the bed paused in his ravishing of the woman’s neck to peer through the netting and dim light. "Were you expecting someone?" he asked the woman. She wrapped her hands around his head and pulled him back down to chew on his ear.
"There is no one to expect," she murmured.
But as heavy footsteps crossed the room and the raging voice drew closer, the man rolled away. "I think we’d better take a rain-check, darlin’. Your ‘no one’ sounds mighty mad." He continued rolling until he’d slipped over the far edge of the bed, grabbed his trousers – hanging over the bedside table - and crawled into the open closet, shutting the closet door just as the ‘no one’ reached the bedroom and thumped a closed fist against the door.
Muffled voices, angry and shocked, filtered through the thick wood of the closet then, with a few more shouts and a crash of the bedroom door, all went silent. The man counted down from one hundred before leaving the closet. Pulling on his trousers in the dark, the man contemplated escaping via the balcony, but the room was three stories up from the street below and, judging by the slivers of bright light shining through the gaps around the French doors, it was broad daylight outside.
"Damn!" he muttered and tiptoed to the door separating the bedroom from the main living area. Pressing his ear to the wood he listened for a moment before cracking it open and easing his body through the gap. The living room was as dark as the bedroom and just as silent, and the man sighed with relief. Whoever had been there was gone…
"Morning, Buck. Interrupt something?"
Buck Wilmington froze and then looked up in surprise. A figure broke away from the darker shadows in the room and was bathed in light as the shutters blocking the windows were thrown open. "Chris!" Buck exclaimed, his face breaking into a pleased smile. "Hey you ol’ war dog you, good to see you, ol’ buddy." Buck met Chris in two strides and wrapped his arms around him in a huge bear hug.
"Easy ol’ fella, folks’ll talk."
"Will the talks go ahead, Sir?"
"They have to, Wally. Don’t worry, we have plenty of time to smooth things out," Travis answered his aide.
The two men stood in a corner of the room as a doctor saw to the remains of Monsieur Ferrari. Travis was surprised to learn the doctor was American, but apparently there were quite a few of his fellow-countrymen in Casablanca. The head-gendarme had confided that the city was in quite an uproar at the present time. A German army officer had been shot two nights ago. Lieutenant Renault of the French police had gone missing. A local man had been murdered the night before and now M’sieur Ferrari found by Travis himself an hour ago, and in every case there was a different American involved in some way.
Ferrari had been seen talking to three, including the doctor currently examining the body, at the re-opening of the Café Americain. The Café’s former owner, an American, had disappeared at the same time as Renault. One of the last people to see the new saloon owner alive was a young American photographer hired by Ferrari to photograph the re-opening. The doctor, photographer and one of the other Americans from the previous evening had also spent some time at the Blue Parrot Café the day before.
Orrin watched the doctor work. Wally was droning on about increasing risks and security measurements for the third time since discovering the dead man. Travis stopped listening and concentrated on the matter of the four Americans. Nothing particularly suspicious in Americans being in Casablanca, of course, it was just the nature of these particular Americans that had Travis’s hackles rising. Four reasonably young, single men, three of whom were still unknown and had only recently arrived in the city. From separate destinations it seemed – surely four men arriving together would not have gone unnoticed. The fourth, Dr. Jackson, had been a resident of only a few months. A coincidence? Possibly… but in these troubled times the OSS Section Chief could not afford to let such coincidences pass unchallenged.
The doctor moved methodically over Ferrari’s body checking for signs of other wounds and injuries, looking for any type of evidence that might help the police in their investigation. Travis continued to watch in thoughtful silence. He hadn’t liked Ferrari, but he wasn’t glad the man was dead. Not glad at all. For all the man’s shortcomings he was an amazing organiser with a shrewd mind for details. His loss at this time was a blow to the Allied movement that they could ill afford.
Jackson finished with the body and pulled a white sheet over its length, covering the sunken face with a sigh. He had a terrible feeling that things were going to get worse before they got better if what he suspected was true – the same killer murdered both Ferrari and Tarak. What could possibly link the two men? Nathan straightened and walked over to the table where a bowl of water and a towel sat waiting for him. He dipped both hands in the lukewarm water and scrubbed them clean before clearing his throat and beginning to speak.
"He died from a single knife wound to the throat. The blade had to have been extremely sharp, it cut clean through to the jugular… from right to left, I’d say. Probably a southpaw… a professional…" he told Travis and Andersen.
"A professional?" Orrin asked. "What makes you say that?"
Nathan shrugged and dropped the damp towel back onto the table. "It’s a straight cut, clean… no ragged edges or indication of pauses in action. The killer had to know what he was doing. Also…" Nathan paused, not sure how much he should say and knowing with every word he did speak he’d be sunk deeper and deeper into this mess.
"What?" Travis was impatient. News of a professional killing was bad. His mission may have been compromised.
"I inspected the body of Tar… the local man who was also murdered. Both men were killed the same way, by the same killer."
"Are you sure about this?" Andersen interjected.
"You knew the other man?" Travis added.
"Yes, I’m sure and no, I didn’t know him," Nathan answered truthfully. "The first body also had a knife wound to the chest, but it was the throat wound that was fatal."
"How come there’s not a second wound in this case?" Andersen persisted.
Nathan frowned, how the hell should I know? "Only the killer could tell you that."
"Do you know of any connection between the two men, Dr. Jackson?" Orrin asked with a good deal more patience than his aide was showing. He was thinking desperately the whole time. Very few people knew about the mission, the whole assignment handled on a strictly need to know basis. The fact he was handling it personally was indication of the importance of the current situation. All agents involved were kept segmented and told little, their assignments apparently unconnected and routine. Even so an agent had disappeared, believed dead, a month ago in Marrakesh on just one such routine assignment. Another coincidence? He’d thought so at the time. Circumstances surrounding the disappearance had led him to just such a conclusion, but now… the coincidences were piling up and beginning to look like a full-blown incident.
Jackson managed to keep his temper in check and answered Travis with a deceptively calm voice. "No, I don’t, Sir, but then I didn’t know either man…"
Andersen’s voice cut across Nathan, accusing and suspicious. "And yet you were seen with two others talking to Ferrari yesterday afternoon and last night. How do you explain that?"
Travis raised an eyebrow at his aide’s rudeness even as Nathan’s face hardened into a cold mask. The OSS chief watched as the doctor forced his clenching fists open and rested them on his hips, and hid a smile. Wally could be a damn pain in the ass when he wanted to be and had come close to receiving a fist in the face because of it several times. It looked like now was another one of those times.
"Are you accusing me of something, Mr. Andersen, because I don’t like your tone? I already told you that I didn’t know either man and if I was seen with this one," Nathan hooked a thumb back at the covered body, "it was because I happened to be at his café yesterday and last night with a couple of friends and no other reason."
"Ha!" Andersen exclaimed as if he’d caught the doctor out in some great untruth. "You admit then to…"
"Wallace! That’s enough!" Travis interrupted. "Go down stairs and see if the police have found anything in the café."
"But Sir, I…"
"Now, Wally. The doctor doesn’t know anything and you’re making a fool of yourself. Go and talk to the police."
Andersen’s pale face paled further, sinking into surly anger. He grabbed his hat from the chair where he’d left it earlier and slunk from the room.
Nathan was furious and turned to pack his medical bag and get the hell back to Bidonville.
"You don’t know anything? Do you, Dr. Jackson?" Orrin asked.
Nathan froze at the soft voice asking him outright, he realised, what it was he was trying to hide, and his anger faded as fast as it had risen. He dropped a bottle of disinfectant into the bag and snuck a glance at the man who had only introduced himself as Orrin Travis. That he was someone of power and importance somewhere in the world was obvious. Travis had a certain aura about him; a man used to giving commands and having them obeyed. Right now though, the man was gazing out the window and lighting a cigar. For a moment, Nathan was reminded of Vin Tanner always quietly watching; out windows, doors, along the street, at Tarak’s house consumed with guilt. Nathan rubbed his face with his hands and yawned, he was so tired.
"No, I don’t know anything," he said, hating to lie, not sure that he even was.
"And your friends?" Orrin stared at the street below. They were only two stories up and the faces of people walking to and fro were clearly visible. He breathed in the thick cigar smoke and paused, his eyes narrowing in thought.
"Only met them yesterday," Nathan admitted. "Don’t know that they knew Ferrari all that well either." Travis was nodding, but Nathan suspected the man had lost interest in the conversation. "Anyway, the police know how to contact me. I work out of the mission down in Bidonville."
"Thank you, doctor. You’ve been a great help," Orrin said, turning to shake Nathan’s hand in farewell. "My apologies for my aide’s brusqueness."
Nathan began to shrug the other man’s attitude off then realised that he’d lost Travis’s attention. He retrieved his bag and his hat, and left, gently closing the door behind him and leaving Orrin Travis to whatever had attracted him out the damn window.
Travis heard the door click shut and ignored it. The vendor’s barrow across the street, groaning with the weight of baskets full of leather sandals, had his full attention. Standing nearby were three men who could only be American; their relaxed, casual poses as they chatted with friendly, but guarded smiles on their faces screamed at the veteran spy watching them. But it was not them that had caught his rapt fascination. It was the man behind the barrow talking urgently to the vendor.
By all accounts, he was seeing a ghost.
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