Gibraltar Passage (8 page)

“From what I have seen of the place,” Jake said, “your home is beautiful.”

“Yes, it is. We are dominated by the sea and the mountain and the military. Either you love such an atmosphere or you leave.”

“You certainly look at home here.” Jake drifted into polite conversation. No matter how charming Lady Haskins might be, she did not appear to be the kind of person with connections to the local underworld.

Shrewd eyes showed awareness of his wandering attention. “Have you wondered, Colonel, why a member of the French Underground would seek to flee to territory firmly in British hands?”

Jake looked back down at the tiny woman and reflected that perhaps Admiral Bingham had been right in bringing them together after all. “No, I hadn't.”

“I find that most intriguing.” She thought a moment, then said, “Traitor. You are sure he used that word?”

“It's what the girl reported to us. She was absolutely positive about the message.”

“Then hard as it may be for your French friend to accept,” Millicent Haskins said, turning her bright gaze back toward Jake, “I think it would be wise to consider that the traitor is one of his own countrymen.”

“There is much truth in what the old woman has said to you,” Pierre said as they made their way back to naval quarters.

“Yeah, Millie Haskins is some lady,” Commander Teaves said. “She's got the vision of an eagle. Sees right to the heart of an issue.”

“You know her well?” Jake asked.

“Everyone knows Millie. She makes it a point of making everybody's business her own. Sort of considers all who live here as part of her extended family. The locals call her the Matron of Gibraltar.”

“I have been troubled by Patrique's travel to Gibraltar
without knowing why,” Pierre went on. “Now I can see no other reason for it but this one.”

Teaves skirted around a pair of quarreling curs. “Any idea who this traitor fellow might be?”

“None.” Pierre hesitated, then said, “Perhaps it is because I do not wish to think too deeply.”

“May be your only way of finding out who was behind your brother's disappearance,” Teaves pointed out.

Jake was beginning to realize that the commander's easygoing voice was a velvet glove cloaking a steel-keen mind. “That makes very good sense.”

“Just conjecture, but maybe the way to find your brother, or at least find out what happened to him, is to hunt down the hunters.”

“If it was indeed a traitor,” Pierre said to the night, “it would have to be someone who has something to hide
now
.”

“I get you,” Jake said. “Not something from the war. Nobody is going to chase across the Mediterranean to settle a wartime grudge. Not now.”

“Somebody with something to hide,” Teaves said. “Something big.”

“Or somebody in a big position,” Pierre mused.

“A turncoat,” Jake suggested. “Played both sides of the fence during the war, and now he wants his secrets to stay good and buried.”

From the far side of the road came the faintest of sounds, a gentle snicker of well-oiled metal upon metal. Yet for Jake the almost inaudible noise shouted loud across the years. Without an instant's thought his wartime reflexes had him down and flying with outstretched arms for his friends' legs.
“Down!
”

The wall that was now over their heads erupted with dust from a barrage of bullets. Before the machine gun's roar was silenced, Jake was rolling and crawling for the gutter.

The shadows from across the street emitted a faint curse, then the gunner aimed his weapon lower and traversed a
second time. Jake pressed himself to the smelly, slippery stone of the shallow ditch and wished for a weapon of his own.

A shout from farther down the street. A scream from a window above their heads. The sound of running feet. The machine gun made a third swipe at the street fronting the gutter and at the wall above their heads. Dust and rock chips flew in every direction. Then silence.

As the footsteps and yelling approached, Jake risked raising his head. The smell of cordite hung heavy in the air. “Are you all right?”

Pierre rolled over and heaved himself up. “Fine. Commander?”

“All in order,” Teaves said, emerging into view. “Other than a little shaken.”

“And angry,” Pierre added. “I have a distinct dislike for people who shoot in my direction.”

Shutters overhead flew back, and a shotgun-bearing moustachioed man scowled down at them. “What's going on here?”

“I wish I knew,” Teaves said to the street in general. “Did you see where they went?”

Jake pointed down the alley across from them just as the group of a dozen or so men, some in uniform, came racing up. “I think they were back in there.” The men, jabbering in Spanish, turned and chased down the dark alley.

“You gentlemen all right?” demanded the man over their heads.

“Shaken,” Jake said.

“And dirty,” Teaves said, picking a bit of filth off the front of his dress whites. He glanced Jake's way. “Do you realize you're bleeding?”

Jake swiped at his face, and only when he saw the blood on his hand did he feel the sting. “Must have been hit by a flying rock.”

Pierre inspected the cut, decided, “A flesh wound.” He stepped back. “That is the second time you've saved my life since all this started.”

“You don't say?” Teaves said, joining them. “When was the first?”

“A barkeeper pulled a pistol on me,” Pierre replied, his eyes still on Jake. “My friend moved as fast then as now.”

The crowd returned, dejected and angry. They exchanged shouted words with the man overhead, who glowered over his shotgun barrels, clearly wishing he could find somebody to shoot. He said to the trio, “They have found shells, nothing more.”

“Let me have some,” Teaves said. “Bingham will want to see them.”

“You have to tell the admiral?” Jake said.

“He'll hear about it all by himself,” Teaves replied. “News like this spreads by osmosis.”

Someone in the crowd chattered to the man overhead, who translated, “Do you know who it was?”

“Brigands,” Teaves replied, his eyes warning Jake.

“We saw nothing,” Jake agreed.

The police arrived, took statements. The alley was searched a second time. Nothing. Weary, dirty, and bruised, the three men were finally permitted to return to base.

On their way back, Jake asked Teaves, “Why didn't you want me to say anything to them?”

“Just a hunch,” the commander replied. “Thought it might be easier to track those guys if they don't know how much we know.”

“The commander is correct.” The light of a flickering street gas lamp showed Pierre's expressive face cast in a fierce scowl. “It is time, as you say, to hunt the hunters.”

Chapter Nine

“This will not do, mister,” Admiral Bingham barked. His anger was fierce enough to blister the air. “I will not permit officers under my command to be shot at!”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Harry Teaves replied, his voice as laconic as ever.

Jake, Pierre, and Teaves stood in the center of Bingham's office, while the admiral stalked the floor in front of them, arms locked behind his back. “You say you did not catch sight of the men?”

“We don't even know if it was more than one,” Jake replied. “Sir.”

“Have a seat, gentlemen.” The trio slipped into three high-back chairs. “The bullets tell us nothing, I'm afraid. German make, but they fit any number of weapons. There's a glut of those on the black market just now. Remnants of war and all that.”

Bingham stopped before Jake. “That was fast thinking on your part, Colonel.”

“More like an automatic reaction, sir.”

“Indeed. Your reactions served you well. You saw active duty, I take it.”

“Mostly in Italy. But I am stationed in Germany now.”

“Yes, so Commander Teaves informed me. Karlsruhe, do I have that right?”

“Yessir.”

“I shall inform your superiors of this, Colonel.” He resumed his pacing, forming the letter in his mind as he spoke. “They should know that your performance has saved the life of an American officer assigned to my depot.”

“Ah—” Jake was stopped before he could start by another of Harry Teaves' throat-clearing exercises. “Thank you, sir.”

“Don't mention it.” Bingham turned to Pierre. “Would you happen to have a picture of your brother, Major?”

“Yessir. One I borrowed from my parents.”

“Let me have it, please.”

Pierre unbuttoned his side pocket and drew out a jagged-edged print. The admiral inspected it and gave a start. “I say. Identical twins.”

“Yessir.”

“Most remarkable. Has it occurred to you, Major, that the assailants might not have been after you at all?”

Pierre opened his mouth, shut it, tried a second time. “Now that you mention it—”

“Indeed.” Bingham thrust the photograph at Teaves. “Assign a squad to show this around. They are to take their time, Commander. Stress in the strongest possible terms that they are to visit every bar, every hotel, every boardinghouse, every back-room dive. Ask both after this man, and anyone else who might have been inquiring after him. I want no stone left unturned.”

Teaves accepted the picture. “Aye, aye, sir.”

“Shoot at one of my officers, will they?” Bingham fumed his way around his desk and back into his seat. “I'll have their guts for garters. All right, gentlemen. Dismissed.”

As they left the garrison headquarters, a midshipman approached them. “Commander Teaves?”

“That's me.”

“Message for you, sir.”

Teaves unfolded the paper, read the few lines, and announced, “We've been summoned, gentlemen. It appears that Millie Haskins has need of our presence. And when that lady speaks, you better answer on the bounce.”

The old woman lived in a stout colonial residence, one clearly built with solid confidence that the family would remain there for centuries to come. The house was almost buried under its ballast of bougainvillea. Great clusters of
the rich purple flowers grew in such profusion that Jake was on the front stairs before he realized he was entering a deep porch and not the house proper. He spotted a pair of rainbow-tinted hummingbirds feeding delicately from the blossoms, then stooped and stepped into the perfumed shade.

Millicent Haskins sat enthroned on a high-back brocade chair. “Good morning, Commander. Hello, Colonel. So kind of you gentlemen to stop by. I hope I did not pull you away from anything important.”

“Not at all, ma'am.” Commander Teaves took her hand and bowed stiffly from the waist, but did not quite bring it to his lips. Millicent Haskins accepted the gesture as her due. Afraid that he might do something wrong, Jake simply accepted her hand and said, “I didn't have an opportunity to introduce my friend last night. This is Major Pierre Servais.”

“Welcome to my humble abode, Major.”

“Enchanté.” Pierre bowed over her hand with the polish of a courtier. Millie flashed her eyes in reply, giving Jake the impression that she must have been a beauty in her day.

“Do sit down, gentlemen. Hodgewell, I'm sure the officers would like a glass of fresh lemonade.”

“Very good, madam,” replied a desiccated butler in formal black.

“And ask Lavinia to join us for a moment.”

“Please don't trouble yourself on our account,” Harry Teaves said.

“Nonsense. That is the pleasure of having servants. It permits one to go to great bother without rising.” She glanced at the bandage on Jake's forehead. “I see you have been injured since our last encounter, Colonel.”

“Nothing serious,” Jake replied. “We had a little run-in last night.”

“So I heard. From the sounds of things, you are all lucky to be alive.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” Teaves replied. “Jake here has the reaction of a leopard.”

“You must tell me all about it.” She looked over their heads. “Ah, Lavinia, excellent. Gentlemen, may I introduce the finest cook on the peninsula.”

They stood and turned and found themselves facing an inscrutable woman of advancing years. Her hands were plump and strong and so chapped they looked bruised. Her steel-gray hair was pulled back into a tight bun. Her face was as chapped and puffy as her hands. Her eyes were hidden within deep folds, offering only brief glimmers of a shrewd gaze.

“Lavinia has a relative who operates a small restaurant for the locals up near the Rock. Upstairs he has rooms which he rents. He has had a pair of men staying with him now for over three weeks. Tell them what he said to you, please, dear.”

“Bad men,” Lavinia said, her English heavily accented. “One man has scar.” She traced a line down the side of her face from forehead to neck.

Jake and Pierre exchanged glances. “Did they mention a name?”

“No name. But men speak French, little English. No Spanish. Not from here.”

Pierre asked, “Why do you say they are bad?”

“Not speak with others. Have much money. Carry knives, maybe guns. Cousin not sure, no saw, smelled grease.”

“Oil,” Jake corrected quietly, suddenly chilled by the memory of that snickering sound. “Gun oil.”

“Yes, so. Cousin know smell. He is hunter.”

“You mentioned, did you not,” Millicent Haskins pointed out to Jake, “that one of the men you are pursuing has a scar?”

“It's what we were told,” Jake said. “We haven't seen either of them.”

“Still,” Millicent Haskins said, “perhaps it would be something worth investigating. Lavinia would be happy to take you to the establishment, wouldn't you, dear?”

“This is great stuff, Millie,” Commander Teaves said, rising to his feet. “If you don't mind, we'll give you a rain check on the drinks.”