The Casbah

Copyright Oggbashan June 2002 The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.

I all started in a dingy office in war-shattered London. I was working as a free-lance journalist which I thought I could do with my experience in Military Intelligence (MI) during the recently ended war. And yes - I've heard the old joke about "Military" and "Intelligence" being contradictions!

I'd dropped in to see Simon who was a real journalist in his office in Fleet Street. He had a room of his own in the attic. It was cold in winter, hot in summer but he was very proud of having his own "office". All right, I admit it, I was jealous.

I brought a present as I usually did. I "found" things through my contacts. This time I had sugar, real coffee and a pair of nylons for Simon's wife.

As I walked in Simon glared at me.

"I wish you wouldn't use me as your mail box, Doug. Someone's been trying to contact you. He's rung three times today! I like to use my phone sometimes you know!"

We had similar conversations nearly every week. Simon knew there wasn't a phone at the digs I shared with some other ex-Army types in Pimlico. My presents were a way of making up to him for the inconvenience. I opened my attache case.

"Here you are, Simon. This should make up for your trouble."

He opened the parcel gingerly. Then he beamed.

"Sugar! Proper Coffee! and nylons ... I'll be popular at home. Thanks Doug. Keep on using my office. Don't mind my outbursts. It's been a rotten week."

"Why?" I asked.

"The roof is leaking at home. It's dripping over our bed. All the response I get from builders is "We can't get the materials!". All I need is a couple of slates."

"I'll see what I can do" I replied "Who wanted me?"

"He left his number. Where did I put it?"

I watched impatiently as Simon rummaged on his desk. He always was a messy blighter.

"Here it is!"

The number was familiar, very familiar. My old boss's number from MI: Brigadier X - I'd better not mention his name. I'm still covered by the Official Secrets Act. I can't even tell you how many cups of Army tea I drank a day.

"Can I use the phone, Simon?"

"Of course, Doug."

Simon was turning the packet of nylons over and over in his hands. I doubt he'd actually seen a packet before.

I dialled the number. Brigadier X answered it himself. That was a change. In the war there would have been several people between him and an outside line.

"Douglas here, sir. You wanted me?"

"Yes. Get over here right away. Is your friend Simon a sound chap?"

I knew what the Brigadier meant - "Could Simon keep his mouth shut?"

"Yes sir."

"OK. Tell him to forget about my call and this one. We might want to use him later on though."

"Yes sir."

"Get here now! Goodbye"

The Brigadier's phone crashed down.

Might want to use Simon? That was a turn-up for the book. Simon was a journalist not an Intelligence Officer. Though I suppose journalists have to dig out things people want hidden. What could MI want with Simon or me? I'd been demobbed six months ago.

"Simon?"

He looked up. He saw the expression on my face. I suppose as a journalist he gets to watch people's reactions.

"Trouble, Doug?"

"No. At least I don't think so. Please forget the phone calls and the telephone number."

"Right-O!"

He tore the scrap of paper in half and dropped the pieces in his messy ashtray. He lit the pieces with a match. Simon knew how to do some things properly.

I dropped back into MI role as if I'd never left. I knew where I was going but I didn't go straight there. Oh no! I jumped on and off buses, dodged down side streets: all the usual stuff until I knew I wasn't being followed. Very Cloak and Dagger but that sort of things saves lives. I walked into the old office building as if I did so every day. I went to the messenger's cubbyhole.

"Mr (I emphasised the "Mr") A to see Brigadier X." I announced.

I won't give you my name. In this account I'm just "Doug", "Douglas" or "Mr A".

"Yes, Mr A, sir! Joe will take you up." said the head messenger. He knew who I was and what I'd been.

I followed Joe. The familiar corridors seemed strangely empty. Almost disused. Before - but that was during the war - they'd have been full of people. How things had changed in a few short months.

Joe knocked on the Brigadier's unmarked door. He opened it, put his head in and announced:

"Mr A to see you, sir"

Joe stood aside and waved me in. I entered closing the door behind me. The Brigadier sat at his familiar desk. It seemed like I'd been thrown back to the heady days of war. Yet ...

"Thank you for coming, Douglas. Take a seat."

That was a change. He used to bark orders at me.

"You wanted me?" I asked.

"Yes. I'm not sure how to start ..."

I interrupted him. As a civilian I could. As one of his officers I'd never have dared.

"You must want me badly to have gone to all this charade just for me. This building's been empty for months and yet here you sit looking as if nothing's changed. Even the head messenger is back. That was the real flaw. He retired before I was demobbed."

"I was fairly sure you'd see through it, Douglas, but my superiors insisted. They thought it would be a test. They even had the stupidity to have you followed from Fleet Street. The idiot lost you in the first hundred yards."

"So why? It must have cost a lot to set up?"

"We want you back - but not back if you follow me."

"No. I don't follow, sir."

"They want you to do a job for them that's deniable and unofficial. It mustn't be associated with any official intelligence agency or with His Majesty's Government."

"So why me? There must be serving people who could do something deniable. We used to do it all the time."

"Because the contact won't talk to anyone else."

"He - I assume it's a he - asked for me by name?"

"Yes, Douglas. He knew your trade name and your real name. We want what he's got. He wants to trade but only through you."

"Who is he? What is he trading? For what?"

"I can't answer those questions, Douglas, not until you agree to take the job."

"So what are you offering me?"

"Pay at your former rank of Major, backdated to the date of your demob, and your old seniority in that rank. That will help increase your pension when you get there."

"IF I get there, you mean. His Majesty's Government wouldn't be so generous if it thought I would survive!"

"There are some risks."

"I'll bet there are. You could have got round the insistence that I should be the contact. I could be dead, abroad or exploring the Amazon. I'm expendable. Your current lot aren't. There's so few of them. Sir!"

I added the "Sir!" to irritate him. He knew dumb insolence when he heard it.

He took a Churchill size cigar from the box on his desk, offered me one which I took. He lit both, sat back in his chair and put his feet on the desk. This was most unlike the wartime Brigadier!

"I warned them that you wouldn't be easy to persuade, Douglas - they wouldn't listen. Why should they listen to a has-been like me? I've retired too. I should be potting my geraniums or whatever you do with geraniums."

He laughed. It had a hollow sound. It made me feel that someone was walking over my grave.

"This whole thing is a hang-over from the war, so they've brought back the old war-horses such as you and me. Silly buggers!"

"OK, so they want me. Why should I do it?"

"I could say it is for King and Country, but it isn't. It's for our friends the Americans. They want what's on offer and they want it badly. If we get it for them they'll write off some of the country's debt."

"How much?"

"They SAY they'll write off five million dollars, Douglas."

"Five million!"

"Yes. That's a lot of export earnings. You can see why HMG are keen."

"And for that they'll pay me a Major's pay for a few months. Cheapskates!"

"I think so too. They're paying me to talk to you. A few hours' pay. It's pleasant to play at being a Brigadier again. That's all it is. Play."

"OK. They know I need money. If I do it I want real money. I'll do it for the Major's pay plus ten thousand dollars on completion. Dollars not pounds. That's only about three thousand pounds."

"But that's what - ten years' pay for a Major. You can't ask that much from HMG."

"No. They can ask the Americans for it."

"I'll try it on for you, Douglas. Wait in the corridor while I make a few phone calls."

I waited about ten minutes. The Brigadier stuck his head out and called me back in.

"I didn't know that Cabinet Ministers had such a profane vocabulary." he said. "Most instructive!"

"What did they say?"

"After much huffing and puffing and foul language they agreed. The dollars will be deposited in a New York bank today."

"Then let's get down to business. What is it about? What do I have to do?"

"You have to go to Tangier. There you have to make contact with a German scientist who was working at Peenamunde. He's hiding in Tangier. He wasn't one of Von Braun's rocket guys. He was working on something different - very different. When the RAF bombed the rocket development site he was moved to Bavaria."

"How did he know about me?"

"You were blown on that mission in France just before D-Day."

I knew all about that. I was running around Northern France like a headless chicken waiting for the Allies to arrive. My name and description were on every other telephone pole.

"The man's girlfriend was French. She was there when you were being hunted. He and she made the connection between your mission and the V1 and V2 sites. So he knows that you are an expert on V-weapons. Also that you are not Russian. The Russians are after him and so are the Americans. Either of them would shoot him rather than let their ally have him. For some reason he thinks we, or specifically you, won't."

"It's a bit late for me to start killing now. I went through the whole war without hurting a fly. I'm no hand at unarmed combat. I'm too small."

It had been a sore point as a kid. As an adult I stood five foot two inches or one metre fifty-five for our continental friends.

"When do I go?"

"Tomorrow morning. There's an RAF plane flying to Gibraltar. From there you'll take the ferry. The MI chaps in Gibraltar will give you instructions for the next bit. Is your passport in order?"

"Which one?"

"Your real one."

"Yes."

"The chaps on The Rock will add a visa for Tangier. They'll provide you with suitable clothing and expense money. Once in Tangier you're on your own except you can contact your friend Simon. You can write, telegraph or telephone him. Whether you can phone from Tangier I'm not sure. I'll give you two copies of Dickens' Tale of Two Cities. You know how to use them. Will he?"

"Yes. We were Buck Rogers fans as kids."

"Don't be flippant even to an old codger like me. This is serious."

"I know. I think my chances are not good. If I don't make it my will is with my solicitors. I've left everything to Elsie, Simon's wife. We were friends but the better man got her. I didn't think it fair to propose knowing what I was doing during the war."

"I hope she won't inherit. Good luck! Here's the details of the RAF flight. Any messages from you to Simon to be telephoned here, OK?"

I'd have to give Simon the number again. He'd thoroughly destroyed it!

That was it. Back in harness. I went to Simon's office checking for people trailing me. Why I don't know. They knew I'd have to contact Simon. They could be sitting in Fleet Street waiting for me.

Simon took it calmly. I explained that it was all "hush-hush". I even told him about my will. He said:

"That's awfully good of you, old chap! The memsahib would be pleased but we'd rather have you alive, don't you know?"

Simon was quite good at imitations of brainless army officers. Still I knew what he meant. He and Elsie would miss me if I bought it.

I caught that plane. It was as uncomfortable as ever. Cold, noisy and draughty. The landing at Gibraltar was frightening. The plane turned round The Rock and hurtled towards that incredibly short runway with both ends in the sea. I thought that the plane couldn't stop before the end and was bracing myself for a warm bath in the Mediterranean. We made it. There must have been at least 3 yards of runway left!

I was whisked through customs by a bossy RAF type. Waiting for me were three blokes in suits that screamed Army officer in civvies. They gathered me up and we drove into the town in a Humber Snipe. We couldn't have been much more conspicuous if I'd had a brass band to greet me. One of the blokes had the grace to apologise.

"Sorry about the reception but if we'd done it any other way the local spies would have been suspicious. This way makes you look like a visiting Civil Servant from Whitehall. They come as thick as flies in the summer. We'll drop you at the Bristol Hotel. That's where they stay. You're booked in for the night and on the ferry tomorrow. Got your passport?"

I handed it over.

"Thanks. We'll get it visa'd for Tangier and get it back to you in the morning. I'll show it at the Bristol's reception first."

"Can you do another visa for me?" I asked.

His eyebrows raised.

"I suppose so."

I handed over my other passport.

He whistled.

"This is a good forgery!"

"That's the point. It's not. It was issued by HMG, just like the other one. Why forge when you can have the real thing?"

"I didn't know we did that sort of thing, Mr A."

"I doubt we do now. But then it could be useful." I said.

"I'll say it could. Still could be." He looked carefully at me. "We were told you were demobbed. Why two passports?"

"You never know when they might be useful. I'm not demobbed now. I've been re-commissioned with my original seniority."

"Sorry Major, Sir! I didn't know."

"Forget it. Keep treating me as a visiting Civil Servant."

"OK. This is the plan for tonight. We register you at the Bristol. I brief you in your room and then we have dinner there in the company of two decorative young ladies. The food will be good and so will they."

"Is that normal treatment for Civil Servants?"

"Yes. The young ladies are spies. Not ours. They work for Generallisimo Franco. We know they are spies. They know we know they are spies. It's very peculiar here on The Rock. We play so many double games I'm surprised we don't get bitter and twisted. I'm told that it's even worse in Tangier. So - we'll show you off to the girls. They may well try to pump you for information. One of them will even try to share your bed. Any objection?"

"No. I'm a bachelor."

"Then you can accept her kind offer. You can tell her what you like as long as it sounds like the truth but isn't. Oh! We're at the Bristol. Come on."

We registered. The Bristol was a monument to the glorious days of the British Empire. The staff were suave but efficient. The place seemed such a contrast to drab old London.

In my room my civvy dressed friend introduced himself properly.

"I'm Captain Ian Smith of MI in Gib."

"And I'm Major A - again - of MI in London."

"We'd heard of some of the things you did during the war, sir. I hope you are as successful this time."

The preliminaries over he quickly got down to business.

"You have to meet Herr Adler in Tangier. This is how. You are booked into the Grand Hotel in your own name. The night after your arrival you will go to the Casbah to the Kit-Kat Club. A table will be reserved for you by the stage. You will sit at that table until the dancer Zulieka performs. At the end of her act Zulieka will give you instructions on how to contact Herr Adler. If nothing happens on the first night you should return on alternate nights for the rest of the week."

"Sounds like a Hollywood film! What sort of idiots am I dealing with?"

"Don't ask me. I'm just the messenger boy. When you meet Herr Adler you are authorised by our American friends to give him one million dollars and two passports endorsed for him and his girlfriend to enter and stay in the good old USA. You are to help to get them there with his important paperwork. As well as your Tangier visas you will have US visas. If you need help from any British sources you will have this letter from the Prime Minister. If you need American help, here is a letter from their President."

I looked at the letters. Both gave me free use of any British or American Armed forces any where in the world "to enable Mr A to complete his mission". They were two blank cheques! I could start World War Three with these!

"Bloody Hell!" I said "No one has ever had this sort of authority!"

"I agree, sir" said the captain. "Even Eisenhower didn't have that much."

"What has Adler got that is worth so much?" I asked.

"I don't know, sir. I thought that you might."

"I haven't a clue."

"Whatever it is the Americans want it badly." he said.

"That's obvious. The sooner I get to Tangier the better."

"First we've got our game to play with the young ladies tonight." he reminded me.

"OK. I'll forget everything until I arrive in Tangier. I'll play the susceptible Civil Servant for you and them."

"At least the food will be good. Not like rationing in London!"

"That gives me an idea. I'll be here to try to bring Gibraltar into line with Britain's rationing. That story will do. I'm going to Tangier to check up on the profligacy of the Consulate."

"You'll be unpopular - very unpopular. The Rock Scorpions like their food. So does the garrison."

"So would anybody who's tried Woolton pie or dried egg. They are revolting. But it's a good cover story." I added.

"Maybe too good. You might end up running for the ferry chased by half The Rock's population!"

"I'll risk that. Only the girl will know. It won't spread that fast, will it?"

"Probably not. She'll be horrified."

So it was. The evening meal was wonderful. I had steak. I ate enough meat to supply rations for a family for a month. The wine and the side dishes were better than I'd remembered from before the war.

The two girls were Dolores and Maria. Maria attached herself to me. We danced away the evening. Maria was almost a caricature of an Englishman's idea of a sultry Spaniard. She had ivory skin and beautiful long black glossy hair tied in a bun under her mantilla. Her red spotted dress was long and slinky with frilled tiers and a train which she flicked in the dance turns like a professional flamenco dancer. She was certainly providing the local colour! She taught me some flamenco. I was stamping my feet and clapping my hands with the best of them. I didn't admit that I'd spent a long time in Spain. That was during their Civil War. She thought I was a quick learner.

She adroitly insinuated that she didn't have to go home tonight. I leapt at her bait. Maria in bed was as skilled as Maria on the dance floor. I duly spilled the beans about my mission to bring the horrors of rationing to Gibraltar. She was suitably aghast. I woke up the next morning with a feeling of a well spent night. All that remained of Maria was the rose from her hair. I laughed. That was a bit too corny!

I caught the ferry without a pursuing crowd. The trip across to Africa was a delight. The sun shone, the sea was bright blue with a few whitecaps. Spain and The Rock stood out clearly as did the other Pillar of Hercules. Apart from lunch I stood by the ship's rail almost the whole time just revelling in the change from foggy London.

Once in Tangier I took a gharry (horse-drawn carriage) to the Grand Hotel. It seemed even more like a Hollywood film as the djebella-clad staff took my luggage to my room. It was decorated in the best Moorish style with arches and blue tiling inscribed with verses from the Holy Koran. My room faced a porticoed courtyard which had an ornate fountain tinkling at the centre, surrounded by date-palms. I pitied Simon in his dim London office. However Simon wasn't running the risks I was.