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He nodded toward the parking lot.
Why the hell not? Canidy thought.
The man made a path through the crowd and Canidy followed, carrying the suitcase that contained some clothing and the Johnny gun.
The parking lot looked more like a junkyard. Not one of the vehicles appeared to be in sound operating condition. And when Canidy saw the man stop at a 1936 Peugeot 402, it made him long for the tiny Austin “Nippy.”
The black paint on the guy’s taxi was severely faded and much of it had been overtaken by rust. The sedan had no trunk lid, no front fenders, the rear bumper was crushed into the bodywork and the back window was broken out completely.
The man put the suitcase in the lidless trunk, then motioned for Canidy to give him the other case to put with it.
Like hell!
And have someone come along and steal them while we’re in traffic?
Canidy shook his head and pointed to the backseat.
The man looked, understood what Canidy meant, and moved the case out of the trunk and into the car. The second case went next to it. Then Canidy got in beside them.
“Villa de Vue de Mer,” Canidy said.
“Villa de Vue de Mer?” the driver repeated with some surprise.
What the hell is wrong with that?
Stevens said that’s where Fine was based, at the Sea View Villa.
“La Villa de Vue de Mer,” Canidy said again with conviction.
“La Villa de Vue de Mer,” the driver said, nodding repeatedly, “La Villa de Vue de Mer.”
It was a twenty-minute drive from the airport into downtown Algiers.
It wasn’t that long of a distance—twelve, maybe fifteen kilometers—but the narrow roads were in bad shape and they were packed with more of the craziness that was at the airport. It was a third-world mix of traffic that included not only cars and trucks but people on foot and horses pulling wagons.
Canidy, on a positive note, did notice that the weather was absolutely beautiful, the temperature mild, the late-afternoon sky cloudless and bright blue.
As the car crested a hill, the city and the naturally circular harbor—with the Mediterranean Sea just beyond—came into view.
At the port docks was a colorful fleet of wooden fishing boats. And anchored in the harbor were a half dozen or so United States Navy vessels and twice that many Liberty ships. Silver barrage balloons—beginning to reflect the early golden hues of the sunset—floated above the ships, their steel-cable tethers discouraging attacks on the ships by enemy aircraft.
The driver, tapping the horn occasionally, wound the taxi down the city’s narrow lanes.
The car made a right turn and drove past the luxurious Hotel St. George. It sat on the lush hillside overlooking the port.
Canidy knew from his research that the hotel had been built in 1889. It was of a French Colonial style—with a brilliant white masonry exterior—and it was surrounded by beautiful, well-kept gardens and rows of towering palm trees. The interior was said to be impeccable, with grand, gilded ceilings and walls adorned b
y thousands of multicolored, hand-painted tiles.
Canidy also knew that the supreme commander had made the St. George his Allied Forces Headquarters. And with Eisenhower’s AFHQ came all the brass, and all their aides.
Probably a good idea to keep clear of the place.
They drove on and came to an open market.
The cabbie slowed and rolled past, slow enough for Canidy to be able to get a good look at the tables of produce and dried fish for sale.
He studied the people waiting in lines and the ones at the front, haggling. A tall, olive-skinned man, with thick black hair cut close to the scalp, a rather large nose, and a black mustache, walked past his window—and Canidy did a double take.
