“Knowing you, Reggie, that is perfectly understandable.”
“Look, Thomson,” Perper leaned forward, his voice turning serious. “I like you, I really do; but there’s one big difference between us. We both want to see Kilbride jabbed hard in the ass, but all I do is stand in the back row and cheer. You’re the one he’s going to catch holding the pitchfork. So, watch out. Kilbride is a real jerk, a silver-haired bastard with heavy political connections right into the White House, and he is the Ambassador, not me, and not you. Even the damned State Department busts a gut to keep him happy. Guys like you and me? We don’t stand a chance. So you be careful, Thomson; Kilbride doesn’t like you very much.”
“I don’t like him much, either.”
“Cute. Real cute. I hear they’re opening a Comedy Club over at the Hilton. You can try out your new stand-up act. I’m sure everyone will come to watch.” Perper looked at him and shook his head. “How many times do you need to get kicked in the head before you wake up? He’s stupid, he’s naïve, and he’s a classic bull-headed Mick from the North End with a big ego and big plans. If you screw them up, he’ll chop you into little pieces.”
Thomson conceded the point. He leaned across the table and started probing. “All right, Reggie. You’ve been around longer than I have. What’s Kilbride really up to?”
“I’m not sure. All I get is whiffs and whispers.”
“Has he gone native?”
“He ain’t the first, and he won’t be the last. Kilbride’s like a kid who found an embassy in his Christmas stocking and the swelled head that goes with it. Guess I can’t blame him for wanting to score, but he wants it too bad. He sees it as his express train into Kennedy’s Cabinet, maybe a governor’s mansion, or even the Senate. Who knows? What he lacks in brains, he more than makes up in ambition. Gone native, you ask? For Chris’ sakes, Thomson, he wears it like a badge of honor. You heard about the movie, didn’t you?”
Thomson shook his head.
“Three weeks ago, he got a copy of Lawrence of Arabia from one of Kennedy’s cronies in Hollywood, maybe Peter Lawford or someone like that. They ran it eight times down in the basement, and Kilbride didn’t miss it once. Thinks he’s God’s gift to the Arabs now. The man’s more Egyptian than the Sphinx, so watch out. He intends to make them happy, and he’s going to keep them that way, regardless of what it takes.”
“Yeah, he told me he’s gonna get a treaty with the Egyptians. He’s nuts.”
“No, he’s just arrogant and naïve. That’s worse, and there’s a whole lot more back at State just like him. They love the Arabs. They are all the rage, you know. Everyone wants to snuggle up to them, so they love Kilbride… for the moment. You and I know it can’t last; they’re just using him. Eventually, he’s going to take a really big fall; and when he does, you don’t want to be caught underneath, Thomson.”
Perper leaned forward, his expression serious. “What the hell did you step into yesterday, anyway, man? I’ve seen Kilbride mad, but he stormed around screaming like you’d tracked the barnyard all over his new white carpet.”
“Damned if I know, Reggie. Look, you work in Codes. Have you ever heard of an Agency guy named Evans? Maybe a cover name? Anything?”
“Here? Evans?” He frowned. “No, not that I remember.”
“It figures.” Thomson nodded. “What about Heliopolis? Have you heard any stories about something going on out there?”
Perper shrugged. “Not really. It’s a nice little town. I remember the Brits had a base out there, but that’s about all. Who knows anything for sure around this place? There’s always more secrets and conspiracies floating around than even I can keep straight.”
“But you heard something?”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but there was a story going around that they opened it up again. Even that isn’t new. Remember, Heliopolis is only fifteen miles from Cairo and straight up the road. I doubt it would be airplanes, though. The place was pretty run down, but it could be the army. Every dictator likes to have a few friendly battalions close to the capital and Nasser’s no fool. He remembers how he got the job, and he isn’t about to give the next guy the opportunity to do it to him. Like I said, who knows?”
Thomson thought about it as they sipped their drinks, and then asked, “What about Germans? Are there any of them working around here now?”
“Germans? Damned right there are!” Perper snorted. “Just open the guest register at the Nile Hilton or the Semiramis. Check the Top floor, and they aren’t a bunch of traveling bankers from Frankfurt, either. Nasser brought in some real sweethearts the last two or three years, guys like SS General Oskar Dierlewanger. Remember him, ‘the Butcher of Warsaw’? And Daimling… I think he was head of the Gestapo in Düsseldorf. Leopold Gleim commanded Hitler’s bodyguards. Willi Brenner ran the death camp at Mauthausen. That’s just for starters. He’s got more Panzer Generals and Colonels than a Wehrmacht rest home. I think he’s sharing a lot of them with your pals up in Damascus, but they’re all over the place.”
“Hasn’t Kilbride said anything about it? Hasn’t he bitched or filed a protest?”
“Kilbride?” Perper scoffed. “The SOB invites the Krauts to our receptions! As I said, this whole thing really stinks.”
Thomson nodded slowly and took another sip before he asked, “What about the Israelis? Does the Mossad still have any agents operating in Cairo?”
“I guess, but they’ve only got a skeleton crew here at best. It’s a tough town for them, so when they do sneak a guy in, they don’t waste him. They keep him busy on military stuff — troop movements, new weapons, communications, profiling the command structure, that kind of stuff. That is, however, when State Security isn’t chasing their butts all around town; but no one talks much about them these days.”
“Why, Kilbride?”
“Yeah, we used to play big brother for them. You know, help them out where we can, but not anymore. Kilbride put that in the deep freeze. He hates them. Maybe it’s just the new ‘Peter O’Toole’ role he’s playing. Let’s hope so.” Perper tried to sound charitable. “So, you be careful. If he catches you playing footsie with them, you’re dead.”
Reggie suddenly looked at his watch and belted down the last of his drink. “That’s enough commiseration for one night. The meter’s run out, and so must I.”
Perper stood and turned toward the door, then paused and looked back down. “Thomson, I don’t know what kind of shit you got yourself into, and I really don’t want to know; but go easy, man. You need to climb back into that coffin of yours and take a nice long nap before that bastard Kilbride pounds a stake through your heart.”
Thomson raised his glass in mock salute.
From Perper’s expression, this time he looked truly worried, because Thomson didn’t look like he was about to listen. “You’re a fool,” he said, “and remember, I wasn’t here; and I sure as hell didn’t say anything to you if I was. So, good luck. You’ll need it.”
Perper turned and bounced away, whistling even louder than when he came in. As he passed the bar, Jeremy called him over. The Englishman had been waiting with a broad smile and six glasses.
“You look like a sporting man, Mr. Perper. Do you see these glasses here? Well, three of them are full and three of them are…”
Reggie didn’t let him finish. He picked up the middle of the three glasses filled with whiskey, poured its contents into the middle empty one with a flourish, and set it back down where it came from. “There!” he chuckled sadistically. “Now I’ve got one for you, Jeremy, my good man. How many Brits does it take to screw in a light bulb?”
Thomson smiled, thinking Perper might not be such a pain in the ass after all.
CHAPTER NINE
After Perper left, Thomson sat alone in the bar for the better part of an hour, so lost in his own thoughts that he never touched his drink. He no longer wanted it; and for the first time in a long time, he did not need it. He was sky-high without the gin, as he twirled little pu
zzle pieces and an old black-and-white photograph round and round in his head.
There was another customer in the bar that night — a tall, muscular European. The man had blond hair and was well dressed. Other than a cursory first glance, Thomson did not pay much attention to him. Like Thomson, the man sat alone at a small table and slowly nursed a drink. When Thomson rose to leave, much earlier than usual, Blondie appeared to frown. Tonight, though, Thomson wound his way through the maze of tables, smiling and holding his arms straight out from his sides as if he were a tightrope walker. Jeremy laughed as he watched the American stroll out the door. “Hate to lose the business, Mr. Thomson,” he called after him, “but it’s good to see you leave this way for a change.”
Outside, Thomson slipped off his suit coat, threw it over his shoulder, and then he took a deep breath. Even the rancid city air smelled better. Pausing to look around, he saw that the narrow side street was deserted, as usual. Still, Cairo never seemed as vibrant to him as it did then. Even the dark shadows sparkled with a new clarity. He knew it was not the city that had changed but him. The old juices were finally flowing. Like a gnarled oak, he felt the sap racing up and down the trunk again, making him feel young and alive for the first time in months. Maybe it was mere illusion, but Thomson no longer cared. He felt great. Yes, he knew he was still in deep trouble; but someone else was in even deeper. The bastards had made a big mistake when they left a few pieces of their puzzle lying around — just a few, but it was Thomson who had found them. Now, he had them clutched tightly in his fist; and he was not about to let them go. He had no idea where they would fit; but when he did, he would put it together and jam the whole puzzle down their throats, board and all.
He turned and began walking down the sidewalk to his hotel, feeling better than he had in weeks. He was working again. He might not have official sanction to be doing it, but he certainly had the time. So, screw Kilbride, screw Collins, screw Saleh, and screw the rest of them, too. There wasn’t a damned thing wrong with him that work wouldn’t cure. That was when his heady thoughts were cut short by a friendly, heavily accented voice calling out to him from behind.
“Herr Thomson, ein moment, a moment please.”
Thomson slowed enough to throw a quick, curious glance back over his shoulder, without much thought. It was Blondie, the guy who had been sitting in Jeremy’s. Now, Blondie was smiling and trying to catch up. That was not going to happen, Thomson thought. The guy had his right hand jammed inside his jacket, and there was a plastic edge to his smile that Thomson didn’t like. Jacket? Why would anyone wear one on a muggy night like this? Little things like that instantly caught Thomson’s attention. No, not one of them would arouse suspicion in an ordinary person, but Thomson was not ordinary. His instincts and reflexes took over without being told. They were still a bit sluggish, like an old car that has been buried all winter in a snow bank, but after a few gasps and sputters, the engine finally kicks over and begins running, rough as a cob, but still running. They checked the situation out and did not like what they saw.
It had something to do with Blondie and a deserted street. Thomson didn’t like either one. He glanced back again and smiled, but he did not stop walking. His eyes locked on Blondie’s and that split second was all it took. He had the sharp, hungry eyes of a hunting hawk — alert, constantly moving, and as cold as a grave. Thomson picked up the pace, walking ever faster; so Blondie could not close the gap. Reflexes, reflexes, he thought, as he turned his head and glanced quickly up and down the street, scanning the surrounding turf, taking in every detail and filing it away. He had placed Blondie on his mental game board. Now, he checked the surrounding parked cars, buildings, and dark doorways for any movement, straining to hear the squeaks and scrapes that separated the safe places from the dangerous ones, while noting the soft spots where he could bail out. In seconds, he had the whole scene mapped and recorded in his mind, and he did not like the pattern that emerged. There was a solid wall of dark, empty buildings on his right and a long line of cars parked bumper-to-bumper along the narrow street to his left, hemming him in on the sidewalk. Up ahead lay the safety of the next street corner. Thomson began to walk even faster, until he saw a car door open up ahead and two big men get out. The night was dark and their faces were cast in shadows, but he had the sick feeling they were the two Goons who chased Yussuf from the bar the night before. Goon One stepped into the middle of the sidewalk, neatly blocking Thomson’s escape route, while Goon Two stepped into the street just as easily cutting off his next choice.
Thomson stopped where he was. The two Goons and Blondie were each big, bigger than he was; so Thomson knew he had to use his head. They were not amateurs, either. They had picked their spots well, too damned well, cutting him off and boxing him in, while standing there with the casual nonchalance of professionals. Worse still, they did not even have to move; Blondie was driving him right into their waiting arms.
“Herr Thomson,” Blondie called out again with a thin, crocodile smile as Thomson slowed. “About that word with you…?”
“Sorry, not now, Fritz,” Thomson said with a smile as he edged toward two parked cars. “My bowling team’s in the finals tonight, and you know how antsy those guys get when the high roller is late. Maybe next time, okay?”
Thomson smiled and waved, jumped over the hood of the next car into the street, and took off running. With the two Goons up ahead and Blondie behind, Thomson had no choice but to double back towards the bar. The odds were three to one, not that he had much choice. He would have no choice at all if he let them get any closer. Sprinting flat out, he managed to get past Blondie before the German could get over the cars. That broke their trap and gave him a fifty-foot head start on the two Goons. Unfortunately, Goon Two broke into a dead run as soon as Thomson made his play. At first glance, he looked big and lumpy, but as he charged up the street, Thomson saw that he was lightning-quick. His short pounding strides gobbled up the pavement and closed the gap in seconds. Once he had caught up, the Goon didn’t try anything fancy. He raised a balled fist and snapped off a short punch that caught Thomson in the middle of his back and felt as if a Mack truck had hit him. Thomson had to admit the guy was an artist, and he had painted a masterpiece of destruction with that one quick stroke. It sent Thomson flying forward, hopelessly out of control, and heading straight toward the side of a parked van like a perfectly guided missile. All Goon Two had to do now was to slow down and watch the fun.
Thomson saw it coming. He raised his arms to try to protect himself from the worst of it, but nothing was going to help much now. His head struck the van’s rear corner, and the other parts of his body piled in from behind like a string of runaway freight cars hitting a concrete wall. That knocked most of the wind and all of the fight out of him. Stunned, Thomson’s body slid down the van and collapsed in a heap on the pavement. Before he could catch his breath, Goon One had caught up, leaped on top, and wrapped his short, powerful arms around the American’s chest. Before he could tighten his grip, Thomson had enough awareness to throw his head straight back. He heard a sickening crunch as he caught the big ape flush on the bridge of his nose. The guy released his grip and grabbed his bloody face and cursed loudly in Arabic, as Thomson rolled away. The Goon reached out for Thomson again, but it was too late. The American had pulled his arms in and curled into a ball. Good thing, too. The angry Goon would have crushed his ribs if he had gotten a decent grip.
They wrestled and rolled around on the pavement. Between the grunts and groans, Thomson was doing okay. He was battered and bloody, his torn and filthy jacket was lying beneath them, and his shoe had been ripped from his foot; but he was still in the fight. He even entertained a glimmer of hope that he could break free, until he saw the legs of the other two men standing next to him, waiting to grab the first piece that popped out of the pile. So much for getting away, he realized. Perhaps if he could catch his breath and scream like hell, someone would hear him. The Goon must have read his mind, because he finally got
a grip and clamped his arms around Thomson’s chest. It felt like a vise and the American could not even breathe, much less scream.
Out of desperation, Thomson let his body go limp. He dropped his mouth over the meaty part of Goon One’s forearm and chomped down hard, drawing blood. The guy roared in pain a second time. Now furious, he squeezed even harder and slammed Thomson from side to side on the concrete as if he were a rag doll. That did it. Playtime was over. For the coup de grace, Thomson saw a dark blur approaching out of the corner of his eye. He tried to twist away, but Goon Two kicked him in the side of the head. It was only a glancing blow, but enough to cause him to see flashing bright-red stars. Rough hands pulled him to his feet, and his brief, one-sided tag-team wrestling match was about over. While Goon One held him up, Goon Two took aim with a huge fist. From the gleam in his eye, he was going to make it a good one. Why not? He had the time, and Thomson couldn’t do anything to stop him. Just as the fist was about to smash his face, Blondie spoke up and grabbed Goon Two’s arm.
“Nein, nein! Genug!” Enough, he said, but the rest of the order was cut off by the blinding glare of a harsh white light — no, two of them. It was a set of headlights on a big car now racing down the street straight at them. The car’s horn blared, and the high beams pinned Thomson, Blondie, and the two Goons in their powerful glare. That was the showstopper. The Goons could not help being distracted. At the last second, the car slewed sideways and screeched to a halt, not thirty feet from where they stood. The Goons panicked, instantly forgetting about Thomson. As they turned away, Thomson found himself alone, tottering back and forth on rubbery legs that could no longer hold him upright. He toppled backward into the side of the van and sat down hard on the pavement.
Both Goons dug inside their jackets, frantically reaching for their guns; but Blondie wasn’t that stupid. He didn’t know who was inside the car, and he wasn’t waiting to find out. He jumped between two parked cars and ran down the sidewalk, bent low, determined to get away before his carefully laid plans went even further awry.
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