Free The First Wave by James R. Benn Page A

I heard footsteps, but they didn’t head toward me. A door opened to the corridor, and the guy from the next room, sounding really pissed off, barked out harsh words. I went to the hallway door and cracked it open quietly, just enough so I could see through the narrow opening with my eye pressed up against it.
    I saw the back of this fellow, as he yelled down a staircase at someone a few flights below. He was a short, gray-haired man wearing pale blue pajamas. I guess he didn’t like being awakened in the middle of the night any more than I would. A voice answered him, and I recognized it as the captain who had entered the building. He let out a string of French that once again included “Bessette.” This time he seemed angry. The gray-haired guy shouted “non” and by his tone, he meant it.
    He turned and I saw his face, the same face that I had seen in the papers and newsreels. Admiral Jean Darlan himself, the little Vichy collaborator who was giving us so much trouble. His face was set in a frown as he passed by the door at which I stood. I could have opened it and grabbed him by the neck, he was so close. Maybe I should have, but I was here for my own reasons.
    He went into his bedroom and I knew it was time to move on. Next door to the most powerful Frenchman in North Africa wasn’t my idea of a good hiding place. Opening the door further I eased out into the empty corridor. I went down the staircase and listened for sounds to tell me which way the captain was going, as I wondered what his beef was.
    He entered the hallway two flights below and I wasn’t far behind. I flattened myself against the wall and peeked around the corner. The captain marched down the corridor and tried a door on the left. It opened and he looked inside. No one home. He went for the next one on his right, and I could hear him spit out the name “Bessette.”No love lost there. He went in and I took my chance, sprinting down the hall to the empty room on the left. I slid into it and pulled the door almost shut behind me. It was a small office, stacked with boxes of files and rolled up maps.With the door cracked open I could see into the room across the hall. Two brass candlesticks on the corner of a desk illuminated the Army captain arguing with someone, Bessette probably, just out of my view. French was flying fast and furious, and I could tell that Bessette was trying to calm the other guy down, but he wasn’t buying. Finally, the captain slowed down. It sounded like he was delivering an ultimatum. I picked up a few words I had heard on occasion from French-Canadians sitting in Boston PD jail cells.
    Contrebandier . . . that was smuggling or smuggler, I was pretty sure.
    Droguer . . . drugs, I knew that one.
    Américain . . . well, that was me.
    Bessette got up and moved into view, calling the captain “Pierre” like they were old chums. From the conversation so far I could guess he was trying to placate Pierre. I watched him as he shook his head “no” in response to a question. He was a fireplug of a guy, squat but full of muscle. His hair was close-cropped and starting to turn to gray. His nose looked like it had been broken years ago. Maybe he had been a prizefighter once, or a stevedore. His hands were thick and beefy. He turned away from the captain and as he did one of those big hands grabbed a candlestick, and turning faster than I’d have thought he could, brought it down with a powerful swing right to the top of the captain’s head. One second they were talking, and the next second Bessette was standing there, flecks of blood on his face, smiling down at the twitching body of his late-night visitor. There were some gurgles and thrashing for a few seconds, and then the only sound was my heart pounding in my chest to beat the band.
    I tried to get a grip on myself and figure out what was happening. Who the hell were these people? First Villard shoots Georgie and then Bessette smashes in Pierre’s skull. They were doing