It took me just half an hour of observation to realize Rupert Trezeguet was no ordinary fisherman. Booking into the Hotel de Tours for just one night, one of the seedier haunts, he spoke fluent French to the concierge, then quickly disappeared upstairs to his room.
I retreated outside, stood on a street corner, obligatory newspaper in front of me, and kept watch. Exactly ten minutes later, a man stepped from the hotel’s rear door. A complete change into European clothes, jacket, shirt, and tie couldn’t disguise the man’s walk, and I picked him up immediately, his polished leather shoes clicking loudly on the cobbled road. He made for the center of town, finally sitting in a café just along the street from my hotel. From my distant vantage point, I could see three men watching the café, and probably him. At least two were German, and one was plain clothes French police. Over the last ten days I had become familiar with their faces; the goons who pick out new arrivals, trail them, then trawl them into consulates for late-night chats. Some were never seen again.
As I watched the scene, the penny dropped; the reason why his demeanor had stuck a chord with me. Rupert Trezeguet was acting exactly like he’d been taught at Camp X.
Startled from my third party semi-interest into full blown emergency, I sidled closer to make sure my theory was correct. I did not know the café well; I had been there only once and not returned as it hadn’t impressed me. Sitting at the table, his back to the whitewashed wall, Rupert wasn’t drinking much, his casual interest in a folded newspaper on the small, round table was cursory to say the least. He was watching the watchers, calculating his escape routes, remembering maps. There was just one problem. He was doing it all too obviously in my opinion.
But the question remained; should I just watch, or act?
In the end, the French policeman got there before me. Slipping from his position opposite, he glided to the café tables, checking all papers. To his credit, Rupert didn’t move, just readied his identity card on top of the newspaper. When his turn came, he looked up at the policeman with squinted eyes, the Frenchman speaking out of the high noonday sun.
I could see them both smile, then the policeman moved off, checking the rest cursorily. I could see one of the German watchers break off, heading for the consulate.
Rupert Trezeguet from Camp X had passed the first test.
I had intended to visit Port Lyautey, check on the other boat-building venue, but the new arrival had stymied that interest. I decided to slip further into the shadows, and keep watch on Trezeguet.
That he started off towards the bazaar area didn’t surprise me; it was a major tourist attraction. By now he was followed by just one man; the German goon who had now watched him for over two hours. Knowing I couldn’t get close without being discovered, I decided to cut ahead, loiter in the stalls, and let them both walk past me. It took ten minutes to get in front, hiding in the hanging carpets of a rug-seller.
It only took a moment for Trezeguet to approach, looking at silks, hookah pipes, anything at all. He acted like a first-time visitor should, he spoke French to the sellers, he bought a few small, easily carried items, he browsed without commitment, and he watched his back without giving the game away.
Except, of course, to me.
Every trick he pulled was out of the S.O.E. handbook, and only someone who had been through the exact same treadmill would have spotted it. The longer I watched Rupert Trezeguet, the more I became convinced he was on my side. All I had to do now was get him on his own, and confront him.
Lost in my observations, to my surprise Ramsai was suddenly in my face, asking about silks, showing me two he’d bought on my behalf, blethering about visiting Port Lyautey, taking my attention from Trezeguet’s disappearing form. I’d been thwarted by my own man. I couldn’t dismiss him without making him aware that something was amiss, and I certainly couldn’t include him in my conspiracy.
With my eyes hiding their disappointment behind my sunglasses, I sensed the German stooge pass me, following his quarry.
I browsed a few more stalls, Ramsai by my side, then feigned fatigue, and made to return to my hotel.
“When are we going to Port Lyautey?” Ramsai asked.
“Uh, I think we’ll make the trip, but not for a few days.” I didn’t tell him I wanted the ‘extra’ guards to be dismissed before I made the short trip up the coast. “I’m feeling a bug or something?”
“A bug?”
“I may be becoming ill.” I simplified.
To my chagrin Ramsai’s normal cow-towing became worse, and I initially cursed my silly comment. However, at the hotel when I retired to my room, he thankfully left me alone.
I’d always wondered what Ramsai did when he wasn’t with me, but since I’d only planned a short stay in Rabat, I’d had no need. Now, since my money was running low, the question raised its ugly head again. I considered following my ‘man’, then decided against it. I gave him a good hour to get out of the area, and slipped downstairs for a whisky, the standard Scottish medicine of choice.
With my trusty newspaper open in front of me, I gazed out of the large windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of Trezeguet. Two drinks later, I had spotted no-one of significance, so opted for a scouting mission. The Hotel Descartes proved a blank, as did the two next choices. I shook my head and headed through the bazaar to the docks, walking along the shoreline towards the German boats.
I felt useless, and leaned on the low wall looking toward the sea. With the sun beginning to settle to the horizon, I felt the sea breeze blow over me, and luxuriated in a nice whisky buzz.
“Imagine finding you here, Herr Volland,”
I turned to see Bariman squinting into the sun. “I felt a chill coming on,” I gave a weak smile. “I thought I’d chase it away with a Scotch or three.”
“Ah, the virtues of Germany’s newest conquest!”
I grinned, hoping to mask my irritation at his comment. I didn’t need his unintentional barbs at my native home. “Indeed, Herr Bariman.”
“Did you come to see the Schnellboots?”
“No,” I lied, yet turned to look at the hulls closely. “When you have been aboard one, seeing them beached here, half-finished, is a travesty.”
“True, true. Did you see your comrades arrive yesterday?”
“Comrades?”
“From the German Government,”
“I did see them arrive, Herr Bariman, but remember, I am not from the Government, I am here on explicit instruction from the Deputy Reichsführer himself; a very private mission.”
“Ah, yes, of course.”
“And my mission here will stay secret, won’t it, Herr Bariman.”
“Again, of course.”
I looked back out to sea. “Out there, sailing on that ocean of pure blue, is the enemy.”
“And below it, our proud submarines.” Bariman said smugly. “E-boats and U-boats, winning the war for the Reich.”
I smiled, turned and shook his hand. “Absolutely.” I gave him a weak salute. “I must go, I feel quite terrible.”
On my way back to my own Hotel, I passed by the Deschamps. Trezeguet stood at the bar, talking to one of the ever-present fillies who do their trade by night. I walked up to the mirrored bar, and sat down, just two high chairs away. I don’t know much French, but I did hear a certain teasing in his voice. I ordered a whisky and nursed it, swilling it gently round the glass.
Then suddenly, the girl broke into English. “I am just a poor girl…” she said coquettishly.
Oh, I sensed a trap. Her words were the first English I’d heard in my whole mission in Africa. I almost willed him to shut up.
“Je suis désolé, mon anglais est très, très mauvais.”
Good boy. I smiled inside.
“Oh, allez, dites-le,” she moved closer, saying the words up onto his lips. She was a looker, the inferred message of her body language was clear. “Pour moi, Je suis juste un pauvre garcon. I am just a poor boy.” Then she laughed, Trezeguet followed her mirth.
He swilled his drink, golden like mine, but it could have been brandy, rum, anything really. “I am just a poor boy.” They chinked glasses and laughed some more
The girl complimented Rupert on his impeccable English, but to my expert ears, he’d made one very serious mistake… he’d spoken English with the very slightest hint of a Newcastle accent. I determined then and there to help him out of whatever predicament he was swiftly climbing into.
First I had to leave the immediate scene. The stairs led up to a balcony which looked down on the bar below. It was dark up there, and a man could hide in the shadows. I downed my drink, then headed upwards, as if I had a room there. It took one moment to see a man already standing in a room doorway. I decided to hopefully take his place, and walked confidently towards him.
His eyes were downward into the bar; he didn’t even see me.
The side of my hand slammed into his Adam’s apple, immediately rendering him ineffective, I walked into the doorway, catching him as he stumbled backwards. The room beyond was dark, the shutter pulled tight. Thirty seconds of a choke hold brought the man to unconsciousness. I dragged him towards the bed and dropped him roughly onto the floor behind it, successfully hiding the body from anyone looking inside.
I then took up the man’s position in the doorway, looking down onto Trezeguet and his floozy.
I had exactly seven minutes to wait, when they chinked their glasses, drank their dregs, and headed upstairs. My plan was simple; let them get inside their room, burst in while they were entering, and give her a choke hold too.
As they neared my position, I closed the door to let them pass, then the plan went to hell. To my surprise, she started to open my door, her silk-covered words probably promising the delights to follow. I quickly fell back behind the door jamb, and waited. She entered, walking backwards, dragging poor Trezeguet by the tie.
It was the wrong angle to deal with her with a hold, and I needed them both inside.
“Damn it,” I mouthed lightly, and punched her solidly on the temple, hoping for immediate immobility.
“Merde!” Trezeguet gasped. I grabbed him by the hand, swinging him into the room, throwing him towards the bed.
I kicked the door closed, switched the light on, and stood with my hands up. “It’s okay.” I snapped in English, watching his brows furrow over his eyes. In the instant of his immobility, I checked on the girl; she was out cold. “I’m a friend.”
“Mon anglais est très mauvais.”
“Aye, so I heard before.” I pointed to the body on the floor. “That’s what was waiting on you.” Trezeguet twisted on the bed, looking down at the man’s body. “I know you’re English. I even know what camp you were trained in.”
He turned on the bed. “Okay,” he said eventually, all pretenses in the French language gone. “Talk to me.”
I wondered if he would know the passwords I’d been given on the outset of my mission in Rabat. “Aunty Anne.”
His eyes sparked with recognition. “Bob’s Your Uncle.”