Oh the shark has pretty teeth dear
And he shows them pearly white
Just a jack knife has McHeath dear
But he keeps it out of sight.At the Café Americain, the evening had begun as it did every night, the patrons filling the room as they always did, the booze flowing as it always flowed. In the Café Americain, life and reality were put on hold and desperate times left at the door with Abdul. Few people were aware of the intense situation going on around them and those that were turned away from the hardened expressions of the Americans that seemed to haunt the shadowed corners and backrooms of the saloon. Danger hid behind every glittering light and lurked beneath the tinkling tunes and smooth voice of the piano man.
You know when that shark bites with his teeth dear
Scarlet billows they start to spread
Fancy gloves though has McHeath dear
So there’s never, never a trace of red.In the private rooms above the saloon, rooms that had witnessed anger and despair, love renewed and love resolved, Chris sat on the sofa hissing with pain as Nathan poked and prodded the gash in the mercenary’s side.
"What is this stuff?" Nathan was mumbling.
"Don’t know," Chris replied. "Azziz’s grandmother put it on, said it would help with pain… and it does… or did until you started poking around."
"Smells worse than fresh horseshit baking in the midday sun," Vin said, wrinkling his nose.
"You’re practically a native," Nathan said to the OSS agent. "What do you think it is?"
Vin shrugged. "Two days worth of horseshit baked dry in the midday sun?"
Nathan wasn’t sure if the other man was serious or not. Neither was Chris. "Bullshit!"
"Nope," Vin said, sniggering. "Jus’ like I said… horseshit."
Vin and Chris had only been back a short time. Nathan had pounced on them as soon as they had walked into the apartment concerned that their injuries might have gone too long untended.
"Nate can’t help it," Josiah said, coming into the room and quietly pulling the bedroom door closed behind him. "He was born to worry, a natural doctor. May as well get used to it."
The men all grinned with amusement and camaraderie, and Josiah had the sudden feeling that they were all standing on the edge of something momentous. A rock-solid friendship was forming amongst this rag-tag assortment of men; men that had only recently met and yet they had never been strangers. They knew nothing about each other but were willing to place their lives in each other’s hands. Where did such solidarity come from? From what soul-deep well did it spring? Josiah didn’t know, probably never would. He did know though that he was glad to be a part of it… whatever it was.
The telephone ringing brought the archaeologist from his musings and he crossed to the desk to answer it. The other three men grew serious as they listened to the one-sided conversation, gleaning nothing from Josiah’s one-word answers and grunts. The call ended after a brief explanation of how the rest of the team stood and Josiah replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle.
"Ezra?" Vin asked.
"Yes," Josiah replied. "Wilson has come out of the attic and is roaming the rooftop yelling and screaming obscenities at the police. He has quite an audience too. Ezra says the palace grounds are filling up faster than Wembley Stadium on grand final’s day."
"The police shouldn’t be letting those people in," Nathan objected. "What if Wilson decides to shoot into the crowd?"
Josiah shrugged.
"Turkey shoot at Thanksgivin’," Vin added. "Damn, we’ve got to stop him. Can’t afford to wait around for him to give up. It just ain’t gonna happen."
"Ezra’s thoughts exactly. He has your rifle with him and wonders how good you are at shooting it?" Josiah said, pointedly looking at Vin’s bandaged wrist.
"I’ve had some practice," Vin told him, standing. "And the wrist is fine. You up for some driving? Gets pretty hairy this time a’ day."
"Been driving city streets since you were in diapers, boy," Josiah said with a wide grin. "Let’s go."
"I’ll come too," Chris said, pushing Nathan’s hands away and trying to stand without grimacing too much. His side felt better but it was stiff as hell and protested any and all undue movement.
"No you don’t," Nathan interrupted. He pushed Chris back down into the sofa. "You lost blood today… need to give yourself a chance to get it back."
"He’s right, Chris," Vin said. "We need someone here for when word on McCluskey arrives. Should be any time now and the doc here’s gotta watch out for Buck."
Chris stood anyway and gripped Vin’s arm. "I’ll send Abdul down if anything comes up. Watch your back."
"Stay safe," Vin said in return and followed Josiah out of the door.
Downstairs in the main saloon, Sam continued to sing.
On a sidewalk Sunday morning
Lies a body oozing life
Someone sneaking ‘round the corner
Is that someone Mack the Knife.
Ezra sat on the hood of a truck, elbows on knees and peering through a set of binoculars he’d borrowed from Sargent Godfrin. His eyes felt like hot coals and were beginning to water from staring through the thick glass. The mad-man on the roof was pacing the domes like the cornered animal he was. It was a far cry from the smooth and urbane young man Standish had first encountered on the busy platform of the Casablanca Port train station. Then, his dark hair had been slicked back and his pale suit neatly pressed; now, Macdonald Wilson looked more like a bedraggled scarecrow with his hair hanging limply in his face and his clothes stained with Andersen’s blood.
When Macdonald had first made his appearance on the roof, Ezra, Lieutenant Casselle and several of Casselle’s men snuck back into the attic to remove the body of Wallace Andersen. Ezra had warned the Frenchman what to expect and, after Casselle had reopened the lid of the trunk and seen for himself, they decided to take Andersen out trunk and all. The body now resided in the back of the same truck Ezra was sitting on, laid out on a stretcher and covered with the same shroud in which it had previously been wrapped.
Tanner should be here any minute, Ezra told himself, following Wilson’s abrupt movements with the binoculars. It appeared that the man was having a wild argument with someone, though he was alone on the parapets without even the benefit of the usual seagulls or pigeons for company. Every now and again, snatches of angry curses drifted down on the breeze. As the day had waned the sun had lit the palace domes like stage lights at a Vaudeville show. The light continued to fade and threw elongated shadows across the stonework, Wilson’s insanity growing with them.
The evening was well under way but there was still some time until complete dark and Ezra hoped there would still be enough light for Vin to take down Wilson, permanently if it proved necessary. Ezra pondered a moment on where his faith in a near stranger came from. Faith wasn’t something he usually held in great abundance, but it seemed to have appeared without conscious thought. At a guess he supposed having his skin… and his hands… saved without question of his innocence or guilt might have prodded this unusual certitude in the Texan. But why the others? Especially why Chris Larabee?
Ezra squinted into the glasses. He could feel the beginnings of a monster headache working its way from the back of one eyeball to the other. Wilson was leaning back against the white masonry of the dome that overlooked the huge attic windows. The last of the sunlight reflected off the glass and cast Wilson in a watery wash of paleness. He looked exhausted and sick, but he still kept a two-handed grip on the rifle – Wilson wasn’t done in quite yet.
Casselle and his men had finally begun clearing the persistent crowd, the distant call to prayer having helped draw away most of the gawkers, the growing dark the rest. Soon, the searchlights would come on to stripe the city in their ghastly glare. The chances of Vin being able to shoot Wilson would surely then drop to one hundred to one.
A car engine, loud in the false quiet of dusk, sounded from the direction of the front gate and Ezra chanced a look.
"Mr. Tanner, that had better be you," Ezra muttered and wondered if Larabee would be with him. One of these days he’d have to explain to the mercenary what had happened back in Tobruk, that leaving his fellow-American trapped in a cave by the approaching Germany army had not been his intention at all. His leg still ached as a reminder of the dangers of battlefields. And yet it hadn’t stopped him from jumping right back into something that could prove equally dangerous. Why did he do these things? Maybe Larabee knew. Chris seemed to be just as attracted to life-threatening situations as himself.
The automobile pulled up behind the truck and Ezra heard the deep voice of Josiah call out a greeting. A few moments later, Vin knelt down on one knee beside him and reached for the binoculars.
"Any change?" the Texan asked.
"Only time," Ezra replied. When Vin half-turned to him with a questioning look, he added, "Time marches on, the sun is sinking… not much light by which to properly acquire your target."
Vin stared at the sky. "There’s enough… Has he shot at anyone yet?"
"Only clouds thus far and a reasonably insane attempt at the sun. He missed."
"Where’s Vin’s rifle, Ezra?" Josiah asked, a grin widening across his face at the southerner’s deadpan comments.
The rifle lay on the other side of Ezra’s position and he shifted it closer to Tanner. "What will you do?" Ezra asked. He had seen the killer glint in the quiet man’s eyes on several occasions now and had the growing feeling that the cold ruthless side of the man was well tempered by a strong sense of morality and compassion.
"Wing him," Vin replied. "Can you contact Casselle and warn him to be prepared to go out and pull Wilson in?"
"Definitely. He has some of his men in the attic already." Ezra jumped down from the truck and reached into the cabin for the radio pack. He climbed back up beside Vin and started to make his call.
Vin handed the binoculars down to Josiah and picked the rifle up, giving it a cursory check over before resting the stock comfortably against his shoulder. He raised the barrel until it pointed at the roof and lowered his head to squint through the site until he found his target.
Wilson was still leaning back against the dome, gazing listlessly at the yellowing clouds above him. Vin pulled back on the trigger, waited a long moment, breathing slow to steady himself, mentally counting down the breaths… in 2, 3… out 2, 3. On three his finger finished depressing the trigger and the rifle fired with a loud crack, straight, smooth and on target.
Ezra had stuck his fingers in his ears as soon as he saw the strange calm fall over Tanner’s face. He knew a man once that worked with explosives. ‘Fingers’ he was called on account of the several digits he’d managed to lose over the years. ‘Fingers’ got the same emotionless expression on his face that Vin now wore, right before he blew the crap out of whatever bridge or building was in his sights. Vin wasn’t missing any digits but the expression was still the same. So he blocked his ears and turned away to watch the roof and Macdonald Wilson.
The crack was still deafening and Ezra watched in near-silence as Wilson stumbled and nearly fell. He grabbed the binoculars and his vision was filled with a bloody Wilson scrabbling for balance on the edge of the roof. Ezra gave a low whistle. "Looks like… yes, left shoulder…" he paused in his report as Wilson lost his grip on the rifle and it fell with a clatter to the ground. "He’s lost the gun," he told the others. "Shall I tell Casselle it’s a go?"
"Yep, with caution," Vin replied.
Ezra made the call, all the while keeping his gaze firmly fixed on Wilson and, once Casselle had signed off, on the men creeping carefully through the attic windows. It was Didier Godfrin, who approached the Englishman. Ezra could see the Frenchman’s lips move as he entreated the madman to surrender. Wilson seemed to be inclined to do just that and stepped toward the police officer with hands stretched out in submission.
"Don’t trust him," Vin whispered and Ezra felt tension coil in his belly. The headache started pounding.
Wilson was giving up, surely, he would. "He has nowhere else to go," Ezra said aloud.
But he was wrong. There was somewhere else.
Wilson pulled one arm back and slashed it forward again, a knife appearing in his hand with the movement and cut through the short space between himself and Godfrin with the deadly intent of murder; two more rifle cracks resounded through the air in quick succession. Wilson took both bullets to the chest and froze mid-air as life left him. Dead fingers released the murder weapon and Macdonald Wilson went the only way truly left to him… down.
To the ground.
Buck woke up alone and in the dark. There were voices coming in from the next room and a sliver of light where someone had left the door cracked open. The voices rose and fell, and swirled around as Buck listened. Further back he could hear music, behind the music was the night. Buck turned his head; catching his breath on the pain that small movement caused and watched the pale curtains slow dance with the breeze. The voices hushed and then grew louder. Buck could catch snippets of conversations.
"You can’t go alone…" sounds like JD, Buck thought.
"… The other man… asleep in the corner…" Nope, don’t know that one.
The voices were starting to fade out again. The curtains were shimmering with moonlight.
"Send Abdul… tell Vin… I’m going down…"
Chris?
"Chris?" Buck’s voice was barely a whisper and the curtains looked like ghosts come to haunt him. The room filled with light as Buck’s eyes closed again. He could hear someone talking to him, feel hands on his face and chest, sense people standing over him.
"Will he be okay?"
"Yes. Looks like he’s coming around. So long as he stays away from madmen with sharp knives for awhile he should be fine."
"I’ll take JD with me for back up. Stay with him, Nate."
"I will. You be careful."
And then the voices were gone and there was just the light touch of hands on his body. He tried to open his eyes and the touch moved to his face.
"Rest now, Buck. You’ll be fine. It’s nearly over."
Nathan’s words washed over him. Over? He thought with a sigh.
God, but he hoped so.
Nathan was still settling Buck when the telephone rang. He tucked the blanket firmly around the injured man’s body and quickly went to answer it.
"Nathan, it’s Josiah. Wilson is dead."
"Vin?"
"Yeah. Had no choice. Went for one of Casselle’s men. Fell off the roof, but he was already dead. Vin’s one hell of a shot. How’re things there?"
"Buck’s coming around. Abdul should be showing up there any minute. Vin’s messenger arrived. Chris wants Vin to meet him down at the harbour. Wharf three. He and JD have gone ahead."
"Any word on the hostage?"
"Not much. The boy said he looked asleep. Chris is worried Travis might have worn out his usefulness."
"How’s Chris?"
"Fine, but don’t tell him I said that. I still want him to get some more rest."
"Secret’s safe with me. We’ll head down to the harbour soon as Abdul arrives. I’ll call again then and let you know how things stand."
"Be careful, Sanchez. There’s still a pile of sand out there with your name on it."
"Too late at night for crows, Jackson, but tomorrow’s a whole other day."
The line was disconnected and Nathan stood with the telephone receiver in his hand wondering if there would ever come a day when he knew what the hell Josiah Sanchez was talking about. He dropped the receiver back into its cradle with a shrug and went to lock the door. It was too hot to close the windows.
Josiah hung up the telephone and walked back over to where Ezra and Vin stood looking over the body of Macdonald Wilson. He’d landed on his back. Ezra’s flashlight lit the macabre scene; the pool of blood under the dead man’s crushed head, the broken limbs, the ruined chest and the sightless eyes in Wilson’s untouched face. The skin was waxen; a smattering of red drops across his face the only colour. It looked like he was crying tears of blood.
Vin squatted down and pushed away the stringy locks of hair that littered the man’s brow, patting it down in an attempt to slick it back away from the face.
"What are you doing?" Josiah asked.
"It didn’t go like that, further to the side," Ezra commented.
"Not doing it like it was," Vin said. "Doing it like I’ve seen it on someone else."
Ezra and Josiah exchanged looks.
"What do ya think?" Vin asked, standing up. "Who does he look like?"
The other two men inspected Vin’s handiwork with puzzled expressions. Ezra was the first to recognise what Vin was hinting at.
"Why didn’t I notice that before? The similarity is uncanny."
Josiah looked harder and then realisation dawned on him as well. "Hold your flashlight higher, Ezra," he said. "My God, it’s true."
"Didn’t Nate say the old doc had two sons?" Vin asked Josiah.
"Yes," the older man nodded. "But one was dead."
"Well, I reckon one is… now."
Backlit by the moonlight, the dockside warehouses looked like blackened, burnt out edifices. Empty and forbidding, the harbour stretched out in all its man-made glory to the glistening sea beyond. Waves lapped against the pylons of the docks, reflecting a silver and white kaleidoscope of light. Wharf number three was deserted. No boats were tied to its bollards, no cargo sat waiting dockside for loading. Even the lurking rats had departed for more prosperous jetties.
The apothecary’s grandson ducked from one dark corner to another until he and the two foreigners that followed him stood beside an old Buick 44 that had seen better days.
"That’s the car that was parked out front of the Casablanca Grande this morning," JD said.
"It is also the car that I followed from my grandfather’s store this afternoon," the boy said.
"Did they go anywhere else?" Chris asked.
"No, Mister. Straight here. I had to pedal fast to keep up."
"You did a good job," Chris told him, pulling up the hood of the car and leaning over the engine. There was a soft crunch followed by a louder creaking sound and Chris straightened, a bundle of wires and connections in his hand. "One escape route less," he said. Walking around to the rear of the car he popped the trunk and peered in.
JD followed Chris around and looked over the other man’s shoulder. "Look’s like he was planning a little trip." The photographer indicated the luggage in the trunk.
Chris grunted and dropped the wires in, closing the lid down with a quiet click before turning back to the boy. "Can you point out which room the men are in?"
"Follow me," the boy replied with a vigorous nod. He trotted around the corner and approached a side door, barely visible in the dark. Pushing it open, he whispered, "In here and up the stairs. There are three doors. They are in the first room. It looks over the water. The first man pushed the sick one in and he fell on the floor, then he sat down at the desk and looked through some papers."
"You followed them right up to the office?" JD asked, amazed.
"Yes. I take you now?"
"No," Chris replied quickly. "You’ve done enough. Go home now. Your grandfather will be worried."
"May Allah keep you safe," the boy mumbled as he darted away and into the shadows.
When he’d gone, JD looked at Chris. "What now?"
"Wait here while I go have a closer look," Chris told him.
"I don’t think so," JD said. "I’m coming with you. Nathan told me not to let you out of my sight."
Chris gave an exasperated sigh and nodded. "Okay, but keep back and stay quiet. If I tell you to run, you run. Got it?"
"Yes, Sir," JD answered. Both men pulled their guns out and crept up the stairs to the first door.
"Pull up there." Vin pointed to a bundle of empty packing crates haphazardly lashed together on the edge of the first jetty. "Any closer and McCluskey will hear us coming."
Josiah swerved toward the crates and brought his car to a crunching halt. "Sorry," he muttered, but Vin and Ezra were already out of the car.
When Josiah had joined the two men on the dockside of the parked car, Vin pointed out over the harbour.
"Wharves one, two and three. Port’s closed down for the night; don’t happen often so we’re in luck."
"Any particular reason it’s closed down tonight?" Ezra asked. He watched the searchlights arc over the city and glitter on the water’s surface below them.
Vin shrugged. "Don’t know and right now I don’t care. We need to find Chris and JD as quick as possible."
"Perhaps we should have let Abdul accompany us after all," Ezra added.
"Better that he gets back to the saloon," Josiah said then. "Keep all the bases covered."
"We ready?" Vin asked, taking careful note of his companions, both wore identical expressions of concern and concentration. They were as ready as they ever would be. "Stay alert." Josiah and Ezra held Vin’s gaze. Vin nodded once. "Let’s go."
Chris stopped at the top of the stairs. The first door was wide open. He motioned JD to stay where he was and began to crawl to the opposite wall. Keeping his back to the hard wood he squatted low on the floor and inched himself along until he was opposite the open door. Holding his pistol in two hands he aimed it into the room. There was no movement and no sound other than his heartbeat pounding in his chest.
God damn it if we’re too late again, he cursed silently. Still moving he worked himself past the door and, glancing to the other two doors – closed tight – he rolled across the floor so that he was now positioned between the offices. Chris signalled to JD to come closer and held up his hand to stop when JD reached the top step. JD knelt and watched Chris.
Chris started moving slowly into the office, gun first, looking all around as he crept further in. A groan from the corner had him shifting his attention there for a split second before covering the rest of the room. He looked behind him to see JD peering in and told the eager man once more to wait, then slowly stood. No mad-man jumped out at him, no killer pounced. McCluskey was no longer here.
The groan came again and Chris stepped over to the corner to find Orrin Travis tied, gagged and mostly unconscious. Larabee removed the gag and slid his knife through the ropes around the older man’s wrists.
"Travis?" he whispered. "It’s Chris Larabee. Wake up."
The only answer was more groans and Chris turned again to the door to wave JD into the room. He waited while the photographer checked the hallway before crawling through the door and standing in a half-crouch position to walk over to Chris. "Is that Travis?" he asked.
"Yeah, want you to stay with him and keep him quiet. McCluskey can’t be too far away…"
"How do you know that?" JD interrupted.
"Travis is still alive. Close the door after me and block it with something. I’ll knock three times then two times. Don’t open the door for anyone else."
"What if Vin and the others show up?"
"Just keep the door barred until I get back. You’ll be fine."
"Okay. I’ve never shot anyone before, you know. Not ever."
"Let’s hope you don’t have to start tonight," Chris replied and patted the nervous young man on the arm before repeating, "You’ll be fine."
Chris eased himself away and back out the door, slipping into the hallway without a sound. JD followed him, closed the door and reached for a chair to prop under the knob. He briefly contemplated dragging the desk across, but that would be too noisy.
Travis was groaning again and JD left the furniture to tend to the injured man.
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