Calamai could measure the irony of having planned so many secret operations in that white North African city until the day finally came for him to go there on a mission of his own. The trip from Rome to Algiers almost ended in disaster when two British fighter planes out of Malta opened fire on the lumbering SM 81 transport fortunately missing the engines and fuel tanks. Enough damage was done however to force the plane to land at Bône in Algeria where necessary repairs delayed the flight for two full days. He finally reached Casablanca on November 2, behind schedule.
The Italian consulate made a reservation at the Hotel Transatlantique, an establishment often used by the various espionage services including SIM. There was such intense rivalry among Italian intelligence services that no cooperation was possible. The Admiral much to his distaste had to use the SIM networks.
The hotel was virtually empty and the war’s shortages had eroded its original 1920s neo-Moorish charm. The long bar was dark and humid with an unpleasant moldy smell and the leather armchairs felt sticky in the thick North African air. Maurice, the polished French bartender in his white jacket and black bow tie greeted Calamai with a formal bow before leading him to a table. The pro-Vichy Radio-Maroc was broadcasting war news and the speaker was reading a German war bulletin using the expression “strategic retreat” when referring to El Alamein. The Admiral knew that Rommel was actually in full retreat in an attempt to avoid a rout. If Rommel failed to turn around and dig in at the old Libyan–Egyptian border he might be forced to run all the way back to Tripoli because of his collapsing supply lines. Malta remained the main reason for all those fuel tanker sinkings.
A tall fair-haired man entered the bar. He was impeccably dressed in a pearl grey suit and even sported a white carnation in his left lapel, a flourish that seemed out of place. The Admiral quickly concluded that his counterpart couldn’t be a military man and was therefore a diplomat or an intelligence officer.
“Monsieur Gillet?” the well-dressed man asked the Admiral who stood up.
“Yes.”
“I am Kenneth Davis, Vice Consul of the United States.”
The fellow had a charming smile and somewhat effeminate mannerisms that Calamai immediately found irritating. They shook hands and Davis sat down. The bartender came over immediately,
“Bonjour, Monsieur Davis.” He said with another deep bow.
“Good to see you Maurice. How about a bottle of your best local red wine for Monsieur Gillet and me?” he nodded at the Admiral who approved.
“Immediately, monsieur. Will you gentlemen be having lunch in the restaurant?”
“Not this time Maurice, thank you.”
Maurice bowed again and quickly returned with black olives, various hors d’oeuvres and a bottle of Chaudsoleil the most popular local red wine, and actually the only one available in wartime. Calamai feared the trip might turn into a waste of time with such a flamboyant individual. Davis leaned over and said in a mock conspiratorial tone,
“This bar, my dear Monsieur Gillet, happens to be the most private place in town; perhaps because it is a well known watering hole for the many spies that congregate in this strange city. You should see how things get lively in the evenings when everyone comes in for cocktails to plot the end of the world. It also happens to be free of recording devices…well, sometimes. We try to sweep it as best we can when Maurice is cooperative. Oh, and we know all about Axis triple agents who work for both sides and the middle as well, a very lucrative arrangement, I should think.”
Calamai then produced the letter bearing Ciano’s signature and handed it to the Vice Consul who read it carefully.
“I will make sure this reaches the under secretary as quickly as possible.”
“I am empowered by the foreign minister to explore various possibilities.”
“Monsieur Gillet, let me state at the outset that my brief states that I am only to listen and report back; I am not authorized to engage in any negotiations. I just want to be clear about the ground rules I must follow.”
The Admiral considered that statement for a few seconds thinking that it represented a major setback to his mission but he showed no reaction and smiled.
“Then we should probably proceed by order of importance. My superiors wish to explore the possibility of a cease fire in place within the next two to three months.”
Davis became very serious.
“Cease fire in place should be defined rather precisely for us to consider what it is you mean exactly, Monsieur Gillet.”
“Libya, minus the Germans; the islands in the Aegean, Dalmatia to remain as they are…our troops in Russia will be repatriated…we retain Somalia but give back Ethiopia.”
“All this with Germany’s consent?” asked Davis incredulously.
Calamai was ready for such a reaction.
“The Russian front remains unsettled but if the current German offensive succeeds, as we are confident it shall, such an agreement may be possible. Germany may even welcome the exit of the Romanians, Hungarians, Italians and other assorted “volunteers” since they always wanted to keep the East to themselves! The other Axis partners are more than eager to withdraw their armies from the front and from the war.”
Davis smiled since it confirmed the many rumors circulating in diplomatic circles,
“Let’s move on to another issue Monsieur Gillet.”
Calamai obliged,
“Italy would not be invaded if she breaks with Germany.”
Davis remained expressionless and felt it was time to conclude,
“All right Gillet, we should stop here for now. I need to report back and assume you can stay here for a reasonable time?”
“No more than two days, unfortunately.”
“Good, hopefully I will at least have some reactions to your queries.”
They agreed to meet again on November 6. Calamai was now doubtful that his mission could be another one of Count Ciano’s undertakings launched in a moment of drug-induced stupor. The Admiral had serious doubts about the realism of “peacefully” disconnecting Italy from Germany with the other desperate Axis allies rushing to follow. He simply could not imagine Hitler and his entourage agreeing to such a catastrophic loss of prestige and power without a bitter and bloody struggle.
He was now stuck in Casablanca, a city filled with hostile agents and spies and an increasingly restless population. He went slowly limping with his cane up the rue Colbert to the boulevard de Marseille shaded with luxuriant palm trees, stopping frequently to make sure he wasn’t being followed. At a newsstand under an awning he spotted a lingering presence behind him on the sidewalk. It was a thin young man, the typical Moroccan office runner wearing a red fez with a long black tassel and sandals that clashed with his somewhat soiled tan suit. The Admiral crossed the expanse of the Place de France that also served as the city’s main bus terminal. Many Arabs in their long burnous were waiting patiently for the greatly reduced bus service due to the severe wartime gasoline restrictions.
The young chap kept his distance, ducking artfully in and out of doors and corners so that for a few seconds he would disappear completely and you’d think you had lost him. This was not top-drawer tradecraft, thought Calamai who expected a far more sophisticated type of pursuer even for a slow and physically impaired person such as himself. The chap was becoming obnoxious and the Admiral wasn’t moving fast enough to shake him. He had to confront him and take his chances. On his way back to the hotel he took a table at the Grand Café “Au Roi de la Bière” and ordered a pastis.
Three French cavalry officers in shiny boots and spurs were having their late afternoon apéritifs with a few ladies. Shoeshine boys would come up regularly only to be rebuffed rather roughly at times. A few tables away he noticed two attractive European women who immediately smiled at him. He rightly concluded that they were professionals in search of generous customers.
The pursuer had suddenly disappeared once again and the Admiral kept on checking discreetly hoping he had the good sense to stop his pursuit. Suddenly on a hunch, Calamai got up and walked to the back of the establishment toward the men’s room at the far end of the bar. Sure enough the little fellow was there, spying on him from the narrow hallway leading to the toilets. But he was suddenly trapped and frightened with nowhere to go but past the ominous limping man he was supposed to shadow and who was now closing in on him. Calamai smiled and walked passed the Arab to the lavatory but at the last second he swung around and grabbed him by the jacket shoving him into the toilet with such force that his pursuer fell and his red fez tumbled on the wet floor revealing a round and perfectly shaved head. He drew a small pistol and pointed it at the Admiral.
“I…I am sorry Monsieur but you leave me no choice.” Said the Moroccan in flawless French.
“Please don’t come closer or I will have to shoot.”
Calamai opened the palms of his hands to show that he wasn’t armed. The man picked up his fez and put it back on, his tan pants and jacket now looking even grimier.
“All right, all right. Why are you following me?”
“I am only doing what I’m told, Monsieur.”
He motioned with his gun for the Admiral to move back against the wall holding his hands high and his palms visible. Suddenly as the Moroccan moved closer, Calamai, using his stiff leg as a club violently kicked the gun out of his left hand with a crushing blow to his elbow. The Moroccan fell to the floor once again, this time howling in pain. The gun skidded into a corner.
“Sorry, my friend,” said Calamai, “but guns however small make me terribly uneasy. Now who paid you to follow me?”
The man was whimpering holding on to his shattered elbow. The Admiral tucked the gun in his pocket and, ignoring the man’s cries, methodically searched his pockets that revealed very little. Calamai then sat him up against the white tiled wall.
“Now listen carefully, the pain will slowly ease if you hold your arm at an angle and keep it very still. However if I must hit you again I can guarantee that the pain will make you pass out. Do you understand?”
The man nodded as tears were streaming down his cheeks and he perspired profusely as held his arm in a makeshift sling.
“I was paid a lot of money to follow you everywhere…”
“And by whom?”
The man looked away and the Admiral made a threatening move.
“Monsieur Maurice…it was Maurice…”
“The bartender at the hotel?”
The little man nodded and sank a little further to the floor as if he expected more punishment.
“And who does Maurice work for?”
“Right now he’s working for the Germans.”
“So, he sells his services to different countries?”
“Yes, to whoever pays the most. The Germans are very generous right now.”
Calamai got up and fished a large twenty-franc note from his pocket.
“Listen, I have nothing against you and I’m sure you need money like every one else. Go to the hospital and get that elbow fixed, don’t waste any time. What’s your name?”
“They all call me Jacques…but my real name is Mohammed Rafif.”
“All right Jacques, I’m sorry I hurt you but that’s war. I am also buying information. If you are interested meet me here tomorrow, at this time. I can pay you even better than Maurice. Understood?”
“I …I will be here.”
“And forget about flashing guns around, you’ll be the one who gets hurt.”
“Thank you, monsieur…”
The Admiral went out into the busy street with the little pistol in his jacket pocket and slowly limped back to the hotel.