Cold War Trilogy - A Three Book Boxed Set: of Historical Spy Versus Spy Action Adventure Thrillers

by William Brown

  With that, the Colonel pointed to the envelope lying in Grüber’s lap. “Open it. Look at those pictures. I want you to see all the things this man was able to photograph inside, despite your crack German security guards patrolling the compound.”

  Grüber pulled the prints out. Starting at the top, he slowly examined each one.

  “He had it all,” the Egyptian hissed. “The assembly building, the fuel bunkers, the army tanks, your guards, Fengler and his technicians — even you. Look at yourself, standing there so arrogant and content, chatting with the guards, gazing across the blowing desert sand like Erwin Rommel himself. Were you looking for Montgomery on the horizon, perhaps?” The Colonel’s voice dropped to a deadly whisper. “He was selling those to the CIA, Grüber. The next time I want the best, I shall tell your General Hoess to hire the Mossad. They make you people look like rank amateurs.”

  “We caught him, didn’t we?” Grüber finally snapped back and called the Colonel’s bluff. “We caught him, and he paid dearly for his treachery. You have his photographs, and no damage has been done!”

  “No damage, you arrogant fool? Count the photographs.’’

  The German’s heart sank as he quickly fanned the edges of the prints, one by one. “Eleven,” he whispered.

  “Yes, Herr Major. Eleven! A roll of film like that holds twelve shots, does it not? Clearly, one is missing. That means he gave the twelfth to this American CIA agent, Thomson.” The Colonel paused, letting the ominous words sink in.

  It was Grüber who finally broke the silence. “What do you want me to do — kill him, too?”

  “No, I don’t want him killed. I want the missing photograph, I want to know how much this Thomson knows, and I want to know to whom he told it. The police questioned him last night, but he told them nothing. That is irrelevant, though. I know them and I know the detective on the case, a man named Saleh who served under me in 1956. He is resolute, and he will hound this Thomson until he can pin Yussuf’s murder on him. Sooner or later, the American will relent and attempt to trade the photograph for his freedom, and I cannot permit that to happen. Once Saleh has it, he will not rest. In a few days that will not matter, because the police will be obeying my orders, not those of the Great Traitor. Until then, however, I cannot afford to have them suspicious.”

  “Suspicious?” Grüber asked sharply. “I understand that you cut the man’s head off. Don’t you think that might raise a few suspicions?”

  The Colonel turned and glared. “An infidel like you can never understand our ways, Grüber. Yussuf was a traitor to his people; to his nation; and, most importantly, to his faith. The punishment is prescribed. That is our way, and nothing else would suffice.”

  “Perhaps; but despite your complaints, the Jew would never have talked — not to me, not to you, not to anyone. You forget that I tried my hand on more than enough of them in the Crimea, Kiev, and in Warsaw.”

  “Not in Stalingrad?” the Colonel sneered.

  Grüber’s eyes flashed for a moment, but he didn’t respond. “No, I did not have the honor of serving there. However, I assure you that you can kill a Jew, but you cannot make one talk.”

  “I see…”

  “However, if you had turned that fat Arab over to me, I would have had him singing like a bird in ten minutes — a different breed entirely,” he added slowly, not bothering to hide his own contempt. “Instead, your temper appears to be no easier to control than mine; and you chose to indulge yourself by cutting off his head.”

  With that, Grüber turned away and rolled the window down without asking. He had had a bellyful of this Egyptian and took a deep breath of fresh air to clear his head. He knew the Egyptian’s eyes were burning into the back of his head, but Grüber no longer cared. “Now, tell me what you want me to do.”

  When the Egyptian did speak, his voice was surprisingly subdued. In the last analysis, like it or not, they needed each other; and they both knew it. “Find the American and learn what he knows about Heliopolis. Then see that he disappears as Landau did. I will handle the rest. The police will be told that the CIA smuggled him out of the country and shipped him home. They will believe that, because it is what they want to believe — that the entire thing was another CIA plot. Do you think you can do that much, Grüber? Can you carry out my orders this time without fail?”

  “Ja!” Grüber snapped his head around and met the challenge. His arm, expecting to salute, twitched from old reflexes they had drilled into him over the years; but he stopped it. He would never salute this Egyptian. That would be unforgivable. Never. Orders be damned.

  “When you finish with the American, return to Heliopolis and stay there. Double the guard and keep a close watch on Fengler and all the technicians.”

  “They work for us, and they can be trusted,” the German interrupted. “You have been given assurances on that by…”

  “Trust? Assurances? Those are of no value to me, Grüber, only our ultimate success is. You Germans…” The Colonel paused as his eyes seemed to glow red hot inside the dark car. “You failed me just as you failed with your final solution. They were your Jews, Grüber, not ours. Because you failed, your problem was soon visited upon my people. If the Jews needed a homeland, the British should have given them Bavaria. It would have served you right; so do not waste my time with your trust or your assurances. We poor Arabs can no longer afford them.” He stared at the German with hate and contempt, his dark eyes threatening. “If you, Fengler, or any one of your ilk fails me on Thursday, we all die. Nothing will save us then. So, it is Thursday, Grüber! Everything must be a surprise and work perfectly on Thursday, because Nasser will not give us a second chance.”

  The German swallowed hard, his throat now as dry as the air outside. On Thursday, he would be done with this business. On that one point, if nothing else, the two men agreed.

  “Now go,” the Colonel said with a casual flip of his hand, as he would dismiss a waiter in a cheap restaurant.

  Grüber opened the car door and got out, anxious to leave. If he had not, he might have strangled the man right then and there; and that would have meant the end of everything. Could it work, though? Grüber had met more than his share of fanatics. In fact, he considered himself one, but this Egyptian was over the edge. He was insane.

  Inside the car, the Egyptian watched Grüber walk away, then leaned back against the seat cushion and closed his eyes. A faint smile crossed his lips, and then quickly vanished. Getting other men to do his bidding was his forte. He knew the precise volume of anger to pump into an egomaniac like Ernst Grüber, and he had inflated him to the point of exploding. Good, he thought. The more the German hated him, the more determined he would be to avoid the humiliation of another failure and the more he would focus his vicious temper and impressive array of skills on their mutual enemies. Yes, he smiled again, the next day or two would not be pleasant for this American, Thomson. The Colonel hated Americans, but no more than he hated the British, or the Russians, or even the Germans for that matter. They were all godless infidels: foreigners and white barbarians. Whether they were Christians or Communists, they shared the same Crusader mentality. They thought they knew everything that was worth knowing, and he hated them for that arrogance.

  Of the lot, the Nazis were the most despicable. They were supremely arrogant, racist, and amoral. That was why he hired them. They were men without a country and could sink no lower; so they could be trusted to be cruel, totally venal, and self-serving. Like the monkey in the old fable who persuaded the alligator to carry him across the river on his back, the Nazis thought that they were using him. Well, the Colonel thought, the other shore is drawing near. Soon, we shall see who ends up as dinner.

  On Thursday, they will get their due, each of them in their turn: Israel, the United States, Great Britain, and even Russia; because it was all about oil. By next winter, the godless infidels will have reams of their own broken promises to burn and little else. The lights will go dim in Washington, London, and Moscow. Th
ey will no longer have the oil fields of the Arab Crescent to suck dry — not after Thursday. That was when the black flag of Islam will flash across the sky once again. It had been 1200 years since the Army of the Faithful first rode into battle beneath it. On Thursday, he will be the man who unfurls it and awakens the dreams that had lain cold in his people for all these centuries.

  Nasser thought he could outlaw and suppress the Moslem Brotherhood, so did Farouk, and the British before them; but no one can outlaw a dream or suppress a movement that springs from the heart of the people. It will begin here in Egypt, as it must. The great Saladin, Sultan Salah al-Din ibn Ayyub, the Muslim hero, knew that. Once Cairo and Egypt are purified, the rest of the Middle East will follow and he will cauterize the Western-induced cancer that has been growing in their midst since 1948. Their most hated enemy will be incinerated in a rain of fire, and the entire Moslem world will rally to him. By sunset on Thursday, all Islam will bend its knee to the black flag of the Moslem Brotherhood in Baghdad and Riyadh, Damascus, Tripoli, Amman, and a thousand mosques between them. Yes, the world will tilt on its axis on Thursday!

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Thomson spent that afternoon and most of the evening at the back table in Jeremy’s. No talk, no bar games — all he wanted was enough time to get himself roundly smashed. That was the one remaining pleasure that Kilbride and his Harvard flunkies could not deny him. Was it a load of self-pity? Had he sunk that far? Well, what if he had? This time, he had earned it. As he looked down into his glass, he thought how nice it would be to take Kilbride, the fat Arab without a head, Saleh, Damascus, and his hotel’s elevator repairman, and dunk them up and down in the straight gin. Maybe if he soaked them until they were numb, they would finally leave him alone. Gradually, that pleasant thought made things begin to look a shade brighter, that is, until Reggie Perper walked in. He pranced in through the door, smiling and whistling as usual, and headed straight for Thomson’s table.

  “Let’s have two, Jeremy, my good man,” Perper said to the bartender as he raised his fingers in a broad V, “and bring one for the corpse at the back table, too.”

  “You aren’t staying that long,” Thomson warned, knowing that simple rudeness was never enough to chase Perper away. Sure enough, the man pulled out a chair at Thomson’s table, its legs making a loud, irritating squeak on the floor that sent a shiver down Thomson’s spine. “Goddamn, Reggie,” Thomson mumbled, but Perper sat down at the table anyway.

  “Oh, be nice for a change,” Perper said with a laugh as he glanced around the dark, nearly empty bar. “I don’t see anybody else buying you drinks; and after what you went through this morning, I figure you need one.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Alone? That’s way too easy, Thomson.”

  “All right, what do you want?”

  “Want? Nothing. I don’t want a damned thing from you. Nada, nichts, zero. However, I thought I might let you know that your name has been mentioned most prominently on the old jungle drums today, writ large in italics, bold caps, and exclamation marks.”

  “The jungle drums, huh.”

  “You made quite a stir, kiddo. The word is you got your ass put in traction, so old Reggie thought he would stop by and console the patient.”

  “Console or gloat? Go away, Reggie. Don’t smile, don’t giggle, and don’t give me any of your bullshit. Just go away.”

  “Thomson, only winos drink alone,” he said as he looked around the dimly lit room, “and only a hermit would drink in a cave like this.”

  Jeremy set a tray of drinks on the table and cast an angry glance at Perper.

  “Put them on his bill,” Thomson ordered, “all of them and add a big tip, too.”

  Perper laughed and drummed his fingers on the tabletop, saying nothing until Jeremy took the hint and went away. Then he began to whistle after taking a long look around the room. “How can you stand this place? It’s so depressing.”

  “It wasn’t, until you came in.”

  “And with all the time you spend here, Jeremy should charge you rent. Shit, move your desk in; why go halfway?”

  “I don’t have a desk and don’t want one, either.”

  “Oh, yeah, I remember, now — no desk for Thomson. Oh, no, he’s the Lone Ranger, God’s gift to the free world, the guy who wants to die in the saddle, like John Wayne.” He leaned forward, still drumming his fingertips on the table, louder and louder. “Thomson, look at yourself. Haven’t you ever heard of that big thing in the sky? What do they call it now, the sun? You look like a mole, for Chris’ sakes. Just look at your tie, your suit, and even the shirt. Jeez, I can see everything you ate for the past week.”

  “All right, Perper, I surrender,” Thomson said as he grabbed Perper’s wrists and pressed his fingers flat on the table. “No drumming, no whistling, no fidgeting, and no more crap. Sit perfectly still, say what you came to say, and then get out… please.”

  “That’s much better, old man. See how fast I can grow on you?” Thomson had to admit that Perper’s grin was infectious. “And maybe you are right about this place. These days, it’s a damned sight safer than the Goddamn embassy.”

  “Except for code clerks?” Thomson released his grip on Perper’s wrists and gave up.

  “Yes, sir, except for code clerks,” Perper readily conceded, “and don’t you knock it. Old Reggie Perper paid his dues just as you did. He was in the field only two classes behind you at The Farm. Remember? He ducked every bit as much lead as you, too — Athens, East Berlin, Bucharest, and even Hungary in ’56, so don’t get all uppity with me.” Perper’s eyes narrowed. “The only difference between us, and I mean the only damned difference, is that you didn’t have the smarts to hang it up a long time ago. What did you expect the Agency would do after Damascus? Give you a damned medal?”

  “It beats a desk,” he mumbled, “or the code room.”

  “You keep telling yourself that,” Perper said as he leaned back in the chair and smiled contentedly. “The code room is just fine. Perper hassles no one, and no hassles him. He’s a day-shift paper pusher who doesn’t let his name get written up in cablegrams like certain other people he knows.”

  “Kilbride’s that pissed?”

  “That’s a mild understatement. The cablegrams have been cascading down from the top floor like confetti on a Fifth Avenue parade.”

  Thomson thought about that for a moment. “Okay, Reggie, why? Why are you telling me all this? Last time we talked, you were going to be like the piano player in the New Orleans cathouse — hear no evil, see no evil, just busy little fingers on the ivory.”

  “Me? You know all that stuff is super-duper, cross-my-heart, top secret. Did I say anything?” Perper asked innocently.

  “Yeah, right… but what are you up to?”

  “Nothing… but how about you? Let’s say that you’re the only guy lower down on Kilbride’s shit list than I am.” Perper turned serious. “That guy is not only incredibly stupid, but he’s a real shit. He doesn’t trust any of us regulars anymore, he won’t learn, and he won’t listen to a thing we say. We’re tainted, you see, beyond hope; and he can’t wait to ship every one of us somewhere else.”

  “He doesn’t want any witnesses.”

  “That’s probably it. He’s surrounded himself with his own private mafia of loyal and eager little preppies who tag around behind him in their three-piece suits.”

  “Collins?”

  “Ah, you’ve met.” Perper grinned. “Collins is the one who personally sends Kilbride’s messages for him, not us. He sends them all… but I peeked.”

  “Why don’t you complain to the union?”

  “Can’t. If they took away his Captain Midnight decoder ring, he’d probably cry and go complain to Daddy Dearest.” Perper shrugged and took a stiff pull on his gin. “Something’s going on upstairs, Thomson, something big, and none of us have a clue what it is. I don’t think anyone does except Kilbride and Collins; but reading the tea leaves, I gather your little conferen
ce this morning had something to do with it.”

  “Maybe,” he replied as he leaned forward. “Okay, Reggie, why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why your sudden interest in what happens to me. Is there an office pool on how long I’ll last? Or have you just developed a perverse curiosity about the dying?”

  “Or the already dead? Oh, I don’t know.” Perper frowned. “We never got along very well, Thomson, but you and I are two old dinosaurs, OSS fraternity brothers, and the breed is nearly extinct. It’s that simple. If Kilbride gets his way, there’s gonna be one less of us big old, humpty-backed monsters rutting around in the grass. So give a little consideration to old Reggie Perper for a change. What am I going to do when you’re gone? Who will I swap war stories with? Some snot-nosed Harvard kid who is half my age? No, that would do me in. So I figure us dinosaurs have got to stick together for the sake of the species.”

  “Reggie,” Thomson smiled and shook his head. “Take that crap someplace else. I know you. Now tell me why you really came.”

  “What! You don’t believe me?” Perper said as his face broke into a thin, conspiratorial grin. “All right, I don’t either. Let’s just say I can’t stand Kilbride for my own sublimely delicious reasons… and she shall remain nameless.”

  “Much better,” Thomson smiled back. “Now I’ll start paying attention. So, the Ambassador caught you with some broad? What else is new?”

  “Nothing, but he really got righteous about it. Would you believe, he actually packed her off to Istanbul. That was a bit much!” Perper answered, trying to act outraged. “So, let’s say I’ll cheer for anyone who jabs him in the ass with a pitchfork.”