Kat's Rats Page 4

  Dore wiped off the bolt’s spring and mumbled. “Just write it in your report. No one wants to hear the sordid details.”

  “Come now. Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

  “What? I…” Dore sloshed gun oil all over his breakfast and scrambled to catch the little pieces of his weapon as his squirming knocked the table around. “Bloody tosh!”

  Kat pecked his furry cheek and squeezed his bulging triceps while muttering into his ear. “You sweet, giant lug. It’s not me; it’s you. You deserve a good girl, not...” She fixed her fire-red ponytail back in place and laughed at the big guy’s angry pouting. “Well if you’re so hot and bothered, maybe we can try that night out again sometime. Just the two of us after this damn war is over.”

  She rushed off to her room. A catcall cut her off as soon as she touched the knob.

  “Purrty and got a head on her shoulders. Best dadgum honey trap I’ve ever seen in the business. My hat’s off to you, Colonel. You sure know how to pick ‘em.”

  Kat cringed at the pillow-in-the-mouth Texan drawl bellowing throughout the room. A tall, sun-baked man leaned against the terrace frame and shot her wink. He kept both thumbs hitched in the belt of his spotlessly white civilian suit… however, anyone could spot the missing six-shooters and cowboy hat a mile away.

  “Since when are we doing face-to-face meetings with the American Office of Strategic Services? It took a lot of money and time to set up our cover business.” Kat rolled her eyes and dipped into her room, emerging less than ten seconds later in a sundress.

  Complete with her gun belt.

  She cut off the chatting men and leaped right back into where she left off. “Bloody American amateurs. Do you think your diplomatic immunity is worth a damn out here? I don’t care how good you think you are at covering your tracks. Believe me, they followed you every inch of the way from the embassy. There’s probably a dozen Gestapo thugs waiting right outside! Capson, cover the door. Dore, fire up the burn box and prep for an emergency exfil—”

  A few feet behind the American, who’s shit-eating-grin only spread wider, Colonel Trufflefoot, drained the last of his cocktail and pried his old bones out of his wicker lounge chair. “You’re not the only professional around, my dear.” As Kat marched out to the balcony, he stretched and casually dipped his head down the street. “You are half-right. I count two tails.”

  Kat slid out to the edge of the villa’s balcony and fiddled with the purple Moroccan Sunset lilies dangling from a flower box. She gave Trufflefoot a broad smile while hissing between her teeth. “I see four. No civilians would leave their delivery truck idling for so long with gas rationing so tight.”

  “Six of them, actually.” The cowboy lit a cigar behind them, staying in the terrace’s shadows. “Don’t forget the two in the lobby waiting for me to come out.”

  “Bloody Yanks…” Kat tore her peripheral vision off the street three stories below and cut both eyes at the newcomer. “Wait…why are none of them looking directly at us?”

  “Oh, I reckon the perverts are all busy watching my last-minute room reservation, two floors below us. In particular, an olive-skinned beauty who always forgets to close the curtain all the way when showering. The poor dear is so scatterbrained. Even forgets to lock the interior door to the next room, or the one after that. I’m sure she doesn’t even recall renting that whole wing of the hotel.”

  “Cute. So you Ami’s have deep pockets. Still a huge risk. So what’s so important that you couldn’t send a message via the dead drop? Mr…”

  She stepped into the balcony shadows, crossing her arms as the American stretched out his hand. He winked anyway.

  “Call me, John Smith. You can ask your boss about the details. He’ll fill you in on what you need to know.”

  Trufflefoot stirred his mimosa and tucked back into his newspaper with a chuckle. “Go ahead and fill her in. Maybe she’ll tell you something that’s above your pay grade.”

  Smith blinked, running his eyes around the lazy British “businessmen” lounging around the suite before settling back on the girl cocking her head and stomping her foot in front of him.

  “And here I thought you Brits ran a tight ship. Ok, well, darling… You’ve been prepping the groundwork for something much bigger than an invasion of Casablanca. I can’t give you the details.”

  “Yes, Operation Torch. The American’s first foray into the war. Simultaneous amphibious assaults against Morocco and Algeria. Gobble up all the Vichy controlled parts of North Africa by New Years and trap Rommel in one fell swoop. You’re aiming big. I’ll give you that. Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet.”

  Smith’s perpetual grin faltered for a moment. He clucked his tongue while shoving his hands in his cotton khakis. “Not even MI5 knows those details… You fellas aren’t a run of the mill spy team, are you? Is this one of those MI6 black ops teams we’ve heard so much about?”

  Kat met his unblinking stare for a good ten seconds before he finally shrugged.

  “Fair enough. I’ll stay in my lane. There’s been one little change, FDR’s just as hot and bothered as Stalin to open up a second front ASAP. So we’re moving the timetable up to November. I hope you’ve had fun because this cozy little hotel is going to be on the front lines in a month.”

  In the living room, Capson and Dore high-fived each other. Atkins gasped from his ad-hoc tanning bed on the balcony and shot up straight, spilling his plate of malted dates over the Sten gun hidden under his deck chair.

  Smith straightened his tie. “Well, I’ve said too much. Tie up any loose ends you have here. You’ve done a hell of a job weakening the Vichies. Now the cavalry is on its way. We’ll take it from here. Let me know if Uncle Sam can ever return the favor.”

  He shot Trufflefoot a salute and took a step for the door. Kat snatched his arm. “We’ll cash that chip in right now, to save your asses.”

  Trufflefoot ground his jaw at That Look in her eye and rushed over. “Kat, what the hell are you not telling us?”

  The pretty little demoness wagged like a puppy. “Have you ever heard of Hans-Joachim Marseille?”

  “Some ace fighter pilot, right? What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Sergeant Dore and I had a little run-in with him right here in town last night. He’s here on R&R before heading off to lead a squadron of experimental fighters at a secret base near Oran. Hitler’s got an ace up his sleeve, as you Yanks would say. They’re convinced these planes can just zip through your fighter cover and pound your troop transports with impunity.”

  “Oh, come now. You know how many Secret Axis Base reports I file every week?” Trufflefoot stiffened his upper lip. “With your… peculiar skillset, I’d assume you’d be better able to fact check such dubious claims. Especially when, well, under the circumstances.” He patted her head.

  Kat hissed, “yes, sure, he’s quite a braggart, and maybe I had a bit too much bubbly, but I’m positive he’s telling the truth on this one point.”

  “You know better. We need more than a rumor. Not to put too fine a point on it, how do you know he wasn’t just stringing you along to get in your… uh, to gain your affection?”

  “Some things a woman just knows.”

  Atkins snickered. “So pillow talk, hmm? If he already got what he wanted, then why lie? That’s a pretty hard-core interrogation tactic.” He gave her arm a playful punch, jumping back a millisecond before her foot swiped the air where his crotch was.

  “I’m just saying it’s time to take a little field trip. Get some more details. It’s what, just an eight-hour train trip?”

  A white-faced Atkins stuttered. “Wait! Doesn’t the Arab Legion have plenty of insurgents in Algeria? If you just want a
general report, then send them.”

  Kat ran into her room and yanked out her suitcase, shoving every weapon she could find inside. “Those mercenaries will just take your money and tell you what you want to hear without ever putting down their hukkah. It only makes sense to do this ourselves.”

  Trufflefoot plucked at his well-waxed mustache. “No, for the first time ever, I’ll have to agree with the Corporal. It doesn’t make sense for us to go all the way to Algeria just to check out some random airfield. The Vichies have 125,000 troops across North Africa, most right here in Morocco. Getting them on our side, or at least sitting on their collective asses, is our number one mission. Sorry, Kat… every now and again I have to put my foot down.”

  As soon as she slapped both hands on her hips, he laughed. “It’s not about believing you. What’s this single squadron of rumored super fighters compared to the 500 or so French aircraft we know are ready to fight right now? We need to make sure they stay on the ground.”

  John Smith broke his squinting silence with a whistle. “It’s not so crazy. A few weeks ago, radars on Malta did pick up some impossibly fast-moving aircraft zipping by—hitting more than 500 mph in level flight. They chalked it up to some type of new radar jamming.”

  He collapsed in the nearest Ottoman and yanked his tie loose.

  “Point is, it would only take a handful of these jet things to doom the operation. If they can really move that fast, they could squirt right by our fighter escorts and hammer the transports. We’d have it worse than the Japs at Midway. And this op is bigger than just the Vichy forces. If we fail in North Africa, that opportunistic Franco is going to be pretty damn tempted to enter the war. When the Spanish overrun Gibraltar and close the Straights… well, how long can your army in Libya hold out when the Mediterranean is a Fascist lake?”

  No one said a word.

  Smith fired up another cigar and slapped his knee. “Welp, it’s been too long since I was in the field. You got the guns. I got the money. What do you say we party together?”

  Trufflefoot cleared his throat and crossed his arms at Kat—a veritable scream by his standards. “Remember the last time we went on one of your wild safaris? They exiled us out here. This time we have no backup. We’re way off the books. Smith here is the only American that even knows we exist. Can’t take the risk.”

  Dore kicked his dining table chair, smashing it to pieces against the front door. He ignored the debris and paced around, pawing at something in his invisible cage. Kat sighed. “Colonel, can’t you see what you’re doing to him? You can’t set a Wolfman out to pasture with the sheep. Drives him mad.”

  “Uh, huh. You’re worried about him?” Trufflefoot snorted. “I think you’re just sick of going cold turkey. How long’s it been since you killed a NAZI?”

  Kat moaned. “Oh, far too long. It’s giving me the shakes.”

  “You had a chance last night. Why’s Marseille still alive?”

  “That’s… different.” She flapped her mouth open and shut a few times before finding some confidence. “He’s not like the rest. Just a hotshot young pilot; doesn’t buy into the fascist doctrine. Besides, Hanssy is a…” She giggled a little. “He’s an excellent asset.”

  Atkins beamed and tossed over a first aid kit. “Good Lord, how’d you get a 3rd degree burn?”

  Kat blushed even harder while Trufflefoot wagged his head and coughed. “Christ. Maybe you’re on to something. If this place can turn the Grim Reaper herself into a gushing schoolgirl, perhaps we should take a break. Smith, make your phone calls. Sergeant Dore!”

  The big man stomped up as Kat squealed. “We’re back in the field!”

  He wrapped her in a bear hug while Capson hooted from the couch and Atkins deflated deeper into the plush cushions.

  Trufflefoot stuck up his hands. “Now, this isn’t some raid. It’s just a reconnaissance run. We’ll take a quick looksie and call in the birdmen. No shooting, ok?”

  Atkins clapped his hands over his face. “Oh God! Every time you say that someone winds up getting a medal. The hard way.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Oran, Algeria

  “Ahhh!” After being locked behind blackout curtains all night, Kat cringed as she spilled out of the rattling train into the blinding Mediterranean sun rising fast across the water.

  “Damn, I think we’re made…” Kat reached behind her back as everyone on the crowded platform glanced her way, the local women with sneers, the men with bushy leers.

  Smith wedged past Dore’s unflinching shoulders and gently squeezed Kat’s wrist. He shoved her handgun back down while wrapping a purple scarf around her naked red-head so that only her face peeked out.

  “This ain’t exactly a cosmopolitan paradise like Casablanca. Folks ‘round here don’t see too many Europeans. And the few they do meet aren’t exactly beloved…”

  Before Atkins and Capson finished hauling their suspiciously oversized luggage out of the train car, a pair of French constables materialized out of nowhere.

  Trufflefoot stretched his sore back and stuck out his Swedish passport, babbling politely in French the whole time. Neither Officer even glanced at his papers. The oldest grinned while rapping his boot against one of the long suitcases on the platform.

  “Don’t bother with your excuses. I’m sure you’re here on business, like every other foreigner. So are we.”

  Trufflefoot took a breath and tried to match the lawmen’s level of disdainful arrogance. “This is absurd. We already went through customs at the border. I have a ticket…” As Trufflefoot reached into his pocket, both gendarmes unslung their sub-machine guns and spread out a little.

  Smith guffawed and slid forward, both hands in plain sight. “I’m afraid I don’t speak a word of French… I can’t help notice you still haven’t called for backup from the main checkpoint over there. Would you like to see my papers?”

  The oldest cop’s jaw dropped as he snatched the outstretched passbook, one that wouldn’t even close around all the bills it struggled to contain. It took the cop a moment to count the fat stack of greenbacks—not the nearly worthless script of Francs or Marks but universally accepted US dollars.

  He whistled and tucked his weapon away, switching to wheezy English. “Welcome to Oran. Have a safe trip. It’s a dangerous place though. I could arrange an escort for you and your associates. Ensure you don’t bump into any other… bureaucratic hurdles.”

  “No thanks. We already have a local guide.”

  The gendarme followed Smith’s gaze, turning his nose up at the cluster of native men lounging around outside the station’s fence.

  “Your funeral. They’re all a bunch of criminals, you know.” He and his compatriot stomped off. As soon as they cleared the platform, a particularly well-dressed native sauntered over.

  Smith gave a little nod and stretched out his hand. “As-Salaam-Alaikum. Kazeem, right? Do you have a last name, sayidi?”

  Even in his three-piece suit, complete with a bowler cap instead of a turban, the Tuareg man’s wind-scarred scowl couldn’t hide his Berber ancestry. His crisp English was clear and learned from a drill Sergeant. “Kazeem is more than enough. Let’s go already. My men all have day jobs to get back to.”

  “So you gonna give us a hand, or what?” Dore hollered at the Tuareg’s spinning back as he made an about-face and stomped off. Smith grinned and snagged one end of the nearest overstuffed suitcase.

  “You get exactly what you pay for with these guys. They’re bleeding me enough already. I didn’t spring for the help package.”

  “Now this is what I call transport!” Atkins whistled at the trio of Rolls Royce Phantoms nestled among the horse-drawn wagons. Elbowing the local driver out
of the way, he massaged the cherry-wood body and glistening black runners on the first one.

  Capson heaved his bag in the trunk and pouted. “There’s no space for a machine gunner.”

  Smith passed an envelope to Kazeem and settled in with one of his ever-present cigars. Dore covered the door with his broad back and cracked open his suitcase. From under the lone change of clothes, he pried out his precious and shoved it under his floppy coat. Then he tucked a handful of the 50+ pre-loaded magazines in his pockets like so many fun little breath mints.

  “Don’t let your arse get too comfy. We’re about as inconspicuous as an orgy in church. You Yanks watch too many movies.”

  Trufflefoot circled the fancy wagons and cleared his throat for the tenth time. “I’m… less than comfortable with this plan, Mr. Smith.”

  Kat clucked her tongue and slapped Smith’s arm. “Hiding in plain sight. Not too shabby, you sly fox. Why no diplomatic plates though? Since when are you on a budget?”

  “Sorry, darling. There just wasn’t time. Money can’t fix everything. Maybe they’ll be here by the time we’re ready to extract.”

  “Are you bloody daft?” Dore clenched his fists open and shut. “Maybe your bankroll is big enough to deal with the French Colonial Cops, but the Gestapo is out of even your price range. They’ll be all over us before we even get out of the city!”

  “Actually, they’ve been watching us since we got off the train.” Smith flicked an eye at a middle-aged white gentleman methodically pouring through his newspaper at a café down the block. “So let’s keep acting like a bunch of lazy, overpaid contractors. See, your Corporal gets it.” He nodded at Capson, already asleep while stretched out on the Phantom’s leather rear couch.

  “Money is the ultimate cover story. Keep ‘em dazzled, and they’ve got no reason to run our IDs.” Smith rifled through his briefcase and tossed over a few pages to Trufflefoot—the headers emblazoned with iron eagles. “Speaking of which, congratulations. Your company won a big contract to upgrade the power substations on the outskirts of town.”