The Malta Key, Part 2
Chapter 14
Gertie walked in the direction of the taxi stand, to a group of men in white djellabas, their faces obscured by the brims of their felt hats, eyes darting. She approached one. He nodded, bored.
The taxi was a battered Chevrolet sedan, its paint faded, chrome bumpers chipped, the sound of its engine a rattle of coughs and sputters. The driver, his own dark face a map of wrinkles and lines, eyes the color of hot tea, signaled for her to get in. She climbed into the back seat. The smell of gasoline, cigarette smoke, and exhaust fumes wafting through the car windows.
The city of Algiers was a delight to see. It was a jumble of sights and sounds, smells and surprises, a synthesis of the senses. The streets were a mix of the old and the new, the ancient and the modern. The white buildings of the Casbah gleamed in the sunlight. The French colonial architecture was a stark contrast, the wide avenues lined with palm trees, the grand boulevards with elegant shops and cafes.
The taxi drove through the city, passing the Place du Gouvernement.
The taxi stopped in the porte-cochère of a hotel, a grand, colonial structure, its façade an arabesque of wrought-iron balconies, its windows draped with lace curtains. The driver pointed to the building. "The Hotel de Paris," he said, his voice gravelly, raspy. "The best in Algiers."
Gertie stepped inside. The lobby was a cavern of cool, white walls, the ceiling fans a relief from the heat outside. It was empty of crowds. The hotel registrar, a man in a crisp white uniform, his face a mask of professional courtesy, followed her approach.
She paid cash, the franc notes crisp and new in her hand. The commander had given her a cash purse for emergencies, and she parsed it with care. The registrar nodded, his eyes glancing at the duffel bag as he accepted the money. He ordered a porter to carry the bag, leading her to a room on the second floor.
The room was simple, comfortable, with a double bed, a small writing desk, the walls painted a pale, dusty pink. She locked the door behind her, her presence the only disturbance in the quiet of the room. She lifted her duffel bag onto the bed and opened it, taking out her uniform and a small change of clothes. She set the uniform aside, hanging it in the wardrobe, and changed into a simple dress, a cotton blouse and a skirt that would be comfortable wear in the heat.
She left the room, and descended to the ground floor. The hotel's restaurant was also on the ground floor, a spacious room with a high ceiling, its walls adorned with faded paintings of the Mediterranean. The air was cool and smelled of strong coffee.
Gertie sat at a small table near the window, ordered a coffee and a plate of pastries, and watched the street outside. The restaurant was half-empty, with only a few guests and soldiers in uniform. A group of French officers sat at the next table, laughing delightedly, their conversation punctuated by the clinking of glasses. A woman in a dark dress sat alone at the far end of the room, her eyes fixed on a newspaper, smoking. A man in a tweed suit sat at another table, writing.
Gertie understood what it was to be the stranger. She was an outsider in this city, a foreigner in a land that was not her own. She was a ghost, a shadow in the landscape of North Africa, a bird of a different feather.
She finished her coffee and pastry, and returned to her room. She sat by the window, her mind racing. She was finally here, in Algiers, and she was part of the game. She would have to play it carefully, or she would be defeated, she thought.
Gertie woke the next morning, the sun already filtering through the curtains. She dressed quickly, her uniform still crisp, her hair pulled back. The uniform was not that of a soldier, but a service uniform, nonetheless. She checked her appearance in the mirror, her eyes evaluating her face. Who was she, really?
She surveyed the room one last time, picked-up her duffel bag, and stepped out of the room. She exited, returning the way she came to the specified guardhouse. It was a small, concrete building, its walls painted a dull gray. A sentry stood at the door.
The heat was already oppressive.
“Good morning, Brigid O'Shaughnessy,” Gertie said.
Brigid O'Shaughnessy held a small, leather-bound notebook in her hand, pen ready in the other. Brigid looked at Gertie, her eyes registering Gertie's face.
"You're on time," Brigid said, her voice flat, her tone devoid of any emotion. "Follow me. We have a convoy to catch."