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

by William Brown

  “Papa,” she moaned, looking up at the ceiling and trying to fight back the tears, “the war is over. Can’t you see that it was a long time ago? How can any of it matter now — if it ever did — and what did it accomplish? Men like Grüber almost destroyed Germany, but Germany has risen from the ashes, and Germany has forgotten. Is it not time that we forget, too?”

  “Forget? You want me to forget?” He stared at her, his mouth hanging open as if he could not comprehend the word. “Is that what you think we should do? Forget? No, my dear, you are asking for the impossible.” He reached out and grabbed her arm. His hands were trembling and his face was red. He had never touched her like this before, and she had never seen such a look in his eyes. It terrified her. “What could you possibly know about Germany, Ilsa? Your generation could never know what it was like to be a German in the 1920s. We were on our knees, disgraced, and shattered beyond any hope. The Communists were rioting in the streets, pensions destroyed, and a bushel of Marks couldn’t buy a man a loaf of bread.”

  He paused, slowly releasing his grip on her arm, yet he could not release the vice-like grip those ideas held on him. As she watched, a strange glow came over him. “You cannot imagine the shame of it, Ilsa. Nor can you imagine the pride that burst forth when the people and the nation turned to a new dynamic leader. He gave us something of which every German could be proud. He saved Germany, but you hear none of that today. No, all they talk about is the destruction which they’ve blamed on him. The truth is that the German people failed him, Ilsa. The liberals, the Communists, and the Jews deserved what they got.”

  He began pacing again, talking more and more loudly to himself if not to her. “Unfortunately, you are right, Ilsa. None of that matters now. The war is indeed long over, and all that does matter is my work. That is all that ever mattered. However, if they had listened to me then — Göring, Himmler, and the rest of those cretins who surrounded him… things would be far different today. That was the Führer’s one fault, Ilsa. He allowed too many small minds to crowd in around him. They corrupted him and sapped him of his strength.”

  He stopped pacing and faced her again, standing upright, as she had not seen him do in years. His voice was loud and firm as he declared, “They deserved what they got, all of them. Go home? No, this is my last chance, Ilsa, my last chance. It took me fifteen years to get this close, and I will never have this chance again. This time I will show them I was right. Thursday at noon, that is when I will show the entire world that I was right.”

  She stared at him and saw something in his eyes that she had never seen before. It made her shrink back in fear.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Thomson laughed as he ran along the rear wall of the passenger terminal, his feet flying down the tarmac. His old legs might not be good for the distance any longer, but they could still give ’em hell in the dash. Collins and the two security guards had finally fought their way past the Egyptian gate agent and managed to get outside, but Thomson already had a good lead on them. He found the exit door to another passenger lounge, yanked it open, and found himself back inside the terminal, walking briskly through the main concourse. Time was not on his side, however. Collins and the two security guards were years younger than he was, and he could not outrun them for long. He could not hide either, not here anyway; but he was not about to quit. His only hope was to get out of the terminal and away from the airport as fast as he could.

  Outside the main entrance under the harsh mid-morning sun, a long line of cabs waited for passengers. The drivers were doing what bored cab drivers do everywhere — standing around in small groups, smoking and arguing sports and politics. Others sat inside their cars reading the morning paper or taking naps. Thomson ran to the car at the far end of the line, opened the rear door, and jumped inside.

  “Back to Cairo,” he told the startled driver. “Now!”

  The other cabbies turned and howled in protest, so Thomson threw a twenty-dollar bill into the driver’s lap, squelching any objections he might be harboring. The man grinned and tromped on the accelerator. As his cab roared away from the curb, he raised his arm and waved good-bye to the others. Seconds later, they were out on the main highway, merging into the heavy morning traffic, mostly exhaust-belching diesel trucks headed into the city. The road was six lanes wide, plus a broad center median that featured bedraggled shrubs and countless billboards saluting the Great People’s Revolution, the virtues of the new regime, and the smiling, mustached, hawk-nosed visage of Abdel Gamal Nasser himself, mile after mile into the capitol.

  Thomson looked back through the car’s rear window but saw nothing, not yet. He turned back and slumped in the corner, closing his eyes and trying to catch his breath. He was completely spent. The only salvation was his sure knowledge that Collins was an over-educated idiot. In fact, he was counting on it. Damned Harvard amateurs, he laughed to himself. Collins had probably aced all the classes at Langley and Harvard before that, but the one thing the Agency couldn’t teach any of them was common sense. Still, Thomson knew that a victory like this was like wetting your dark pants on a cold winter’s day. It gave you a momentary warm glow until the cold chill of reality took over again.

  So, what was he doing, Thomson asked himself. Where did he think he was going? One man alone in a foreign city where he only spoke enough of the language to order American coffee and find the Men’s Room? He was playing against the house and against a stacked deck. It was crazy for him to run; then again, it would have been even crazier for him to let them pack him off on that airplane. That would have been the end, not just of his career, but also of whatever self-respect he still held. After all, wasn’t he the one who begged to be let back in the game? Wasn’t he the one who begged the spy gods for one more chance? Well, he got it, in spades.

  They were already halfway back to the city, but the morning traffic was beginning to thicken and slow like cooling fudge. He turned and looked back through the rear window again. This time, he saw a big, powerful American sedan bobbing and weaving in and out of traffic, trying to catch up. That, no doubt, would be Collins. Remembering Kilbride’s orders, Collins would be in a near panic by now. Sure enough, the Boy Wonder was back there playing bumper tag with the Fiats, cabs, and trucks — the desperate amateur trying to beat the pros at their own game again.

  “Hurry up,” he told the cabbie, “Yella, Yella!” but before they reached the city, Collins had already cut the gap between them in half. With the limo’s horsepower, it was only a matter of time before he closed it completely. Thomson leaned forward and tapped the cabbie on the shoulder. “That car behind us,” he said as he flashed a conspiratorial smile in the rear view mirror. “That’s my girlfriend’s brothers. Understand? Three of them, and big!” he said, spreading his arms and drawing his thumb across his throat. “You lose them, okay?”

  The driver answered with a big grin and a cackling laugh. At the next intersection, he veered right and cut left down a narrow side street. The small cab heeled over and Thomson braced himself, grabbing the door handle for dear life as the small cab sped on into the city’s Old Quarter. They say it had once been ringed by sixty massive stone gates, but only three of them had survived. It was common knowledge that the Cairo cab drivers had probably knocked down the other fifty-seven, and inciting one of these drivers to speed and drive recklessly was both redundant and suicidal. The cab darted through the teeming, narrow streets, rounding corner after corner, using the road or the sidewalk interchangeably and sending pedestrians scrambling for the sanctuary of the nearest doorway. Collins might try to keep up, but he had the wrong car and entirely the wrong genes for the job.

  Thomson began to think he had lost them, when the cab made a sharp turn and the driver suddenly hit the brakes. The car skidded to a halt, throwing Thomson onto the floor. He quickly pulled himself up to his knees and looked through the front windshield. Directly in front of them, only inches from the bumper, an old delivery van completely blocked the street. The cabbie turned i
n the seat, looked back at him, and shrugged, chattering away in Egyptian. They had reached the end of the line, and this would have to do, Thomson thought. He pulled out several more twenties and dropped them on the front seat.

  “Good try,” he told the driver, smiled, and jumped out of the car. Thomson squeezed around the side of the delivery van and ran up the street, hoping he could disappear from sight before Collins caught up. As he reached the next corner, he glanced back and saw the snout of the big American sedan careen into view at the other end of the street. Thomson had no need to watch the rest. Collins was driving much too fast and did not have the manic reflexes of an Egyptian cab driver. Over the sounds of his own pounding feet and heavy breathing, he heard a loud screech of brakes, followed by several ‘Thumps’, and the sharp, chain-reaction crunches of metal on metal and breaking glass. Nothing else might work, but a good Middle-Eastern smash-up was certain to slow Collins down, he thought as he broke into a grin. The Boy Wonder had no idea what he had just gotten himself into.

  Thomson saw Collins jump out of his car and point at him as he rounded the far corner. Collins’s plan was probably to leave one of the security guards with the car, while he and the other one continued the chase. Unfortunately, the Egyptians would hear none of it. The cab, a small sedan, and two delivery trucks had all been chain-tail-ended by Collins’s Mercedes. That drew a rapidly growing crowd of angry drivers, friends, neighbors, and onlookers, who figured out there was money to be made here. If one American hostage was a good thing, then three were that much better. With shouts and raised fists, they closed in and pressed all three Americans back against their car. Collins was stuck. All he could do was watch Thomson disappear around the corner, laughing at him.

  The sun was well up now and the day was growing hot. Thomson set off running into the maze of streets in the Old Quarter. Time and distance were on his side now; and with luck, he could become a very tiny needle in this stinking haystack. After only a half-dozen streets, he was dripping with sweat and badly winded. He ran another block and finally had to stop. Leaning against an old brick wall, he dug a fist into his side, trying to stave off a sharp cramp. That was the last thing he needed, because he could not stop running, not yet. He pushed himself upright again and forced his unwilling body to continue, breaking into a slow, painful trot. One more street, he told himself, then another, and another, until he could go no farther.

  He stumbled into an alley, desperate to find a refuge. Halfway down, he saw a low, dark archway. It would have to do, he thought. He bent over and stepped inside, taking a seat against the far wall. Panting and wheezing, it felt so good to stop and escape the heat, that he almost forgot about the stench. He had not had much sleep for several days now, and he suddenly realized he was bone tired. That was understandable, but he refused to give in to it, not yet. He needed a plan. Think, he ordered his brain. The best way to block the pain and exhaustion was to put his mind to work. Since his first drop behind German lines all those years before, he had been one of the very best at thinking on his feet, so what were his options? Objectives? Resources? Liabilities? Catalog, analyze, evaluate, and plan… he needed to go down the punch list, just as those bastards back in Virginia taught you to do.

  He needed sleep, food, money, and a place to go to ground, but where? Where could he go? The hotel was out, and so was Reggie Perper and whichever of his friends remained at the embassy. Those would be the first places Collins would look. Still, Collins’s resources were limited, too. Kilbride wouldn’t dare bring in the local cops or even the Agency, so he had to handle this strictly in-house. He had a contingent of Marine Guards, as well as embassy security; but he would need more than that. He would get a few local stringers and contract players, but he would need to pull in more — maybe from Rome, Athens, and even Jerusalem to cover all the bases. How long would that take — eight, maybe ten or even twelve hours? It would be at least that long. By then, it would be getting dark. If Thomson could keep away from them until sunset, he would be free to move again; and the darkness would give him another twelve-hour lease on life.

  Resources? That was a joke. He emptied his pockets onto the dirt… a key ring, a wallet, no passport, and, of course, no gun. Money? He pawed through the small stack of bills in his wallet and quickly counted them. In Egyptian pounds and U.S. green, he had perhaps seventy-five dollars and change left. That would not last long, or get him far, not on the run. He could live on it for a day, maybe two, but what next. Thomson ran his hand through his hair in desperation as he closed his eyes. Let’s face it, he realized. He had been stupid to run away and think he could possibly beat them. Damn! They had him trapped like a rat in a box here in Cairo. The trap might be big with lots of room to run around in, but eventually, they would drop a net on him.

  He had violated the Agency’s First Commandment. He had broken away and gone lone wolf. In any intelligence agency, that was a mortal sin, and all of the Hail Marys and Mea Culpas in Christendom would not get him absolution, not this time. By tomorrow, they would have every snitch and free-lance gun in Cairo looking for him, dead or alive. Right now, Kilbride was probably hoping it would be dead.

  Thomson began flexing his knees, knowing it was time to push on, when he heard footsteps enter the alley from his left. He pressed his body back against the wall and froze, listening to the slow, confident strides coming toward him. Hopefully, it was some local out for a stroll. Pass on by, he prayed; but the footsteps did not. They slowed and stopped just beyond Thomson’s line of vision, and then he heard a second set of footsteps enter the alley from the right. They sounded slower and oddly out of sync. As they came closer, the awkward footsteps became more distinct. They were the scratchy shuffle of a foot dragging across the old bricks of the alley accompanied by the crisp click-click of a steel-tipped cane.

  As he waited, barely breathing, he heard a voice. It was the first man, and he was speaking in Egyptian. Soon, the second man approached the archway and his shadow fell across the bright patch of sunlight. Thomson held his breath as a brightly polished shoe came into view, followed by the white cuff of a well-tailored linen suit. The cane rapped on the side of the stone doorway, and a man said, “Mister Thomson, you may come out of your hole, now. Your friends are blocks away from here and going in the wrong direction, so come out before I send Sergeant Sayyid in to get you.”

  It was Saleh, but why?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  They rode in silence, sitting side by side in the rear seat of the police cruiser as Sayyid drove them to the central police station. Saleh offered no explanation, and Thomson would not give him the satisfaction of asking for one. Instead, he leaned back and closed his eyes. His feigned nap was short-lived as Sayyid parked the car in the courtyard, grabbed Thomson by one arm, and hustled him through a rear service door up a dim flight of stairs. Saleh played caboose, limping painfully up the stairs behind them. It was curious, Thomson thought. If Saleh was so damned certain about what was going on, why were they sneaking him into the building? Why didn’t Saleh have Sayyid drag him through the front door, book him like the prized catch he was, and throw him in the basement lockup as he had threatened to do?

  Saleh’s office was on the third floor. When Sayyid shoved him inside, Thomson saw it was furnished in second-hand pre-war bureaucrat, with a cheap, wooden roll top desk, three ancient wicker armchairs, a cracked leather couch, and badly worn linoleum on the floor. The room seemed to contrast so sharply with the man. Image? Or did he want it grim and functional, so he would never feel the temptation to be comfortable here. Saleh pointed to one of the armchairs. Like any good prisoner, Thomson decided to slump in his seat and keep his mouth shut, watching Saleh slowly lower himself into the swivel chair behind his desk. Sayyid stood blocking the doorway, his eyes drilling holes in the back of Thomson’s head.

  Saleh motioned to Sayyid. “You may leave us now, Sergeant. This man is not going anywhere. Are you, Mister Thomson?” Reluctantly, Sayyid turned and left the room. Saleh stared ac
ross the desk at Thomson studying him closely for a moment. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely as he lit another of his strong Turkish cigarettes. “I consider myself a good judge of men, Mister Thomson,” he finally said, “but you are a complete mystery to me. Two nights ago, when we found your shoe lying in the street, I assumed you had finally gotten what you deserved. No such luck, eh? Undeterred, you continue to pop up in the oddest places, like a jack-in-the-box. So you must excuse my confusion. Why did you not get on that airplane?”

  Thomson looked across at him and smiled, but offered no answer.

  “Your people had us completely fooled. You would have escaped me this morning and been long gone on that airplane, if you had not chosen to run. When you did, the betting line around here was heavily in favor of Collins and his two men. Most of our people gave you no chance whatsoever; so you must tell me why. Could you not bear the thought of leaving this pleasant little country of mine, Mister Thomson?”

  “Did you lose much money?”

  “Five pounds — Egyptian, of course. I am certain that you will provide me ample opportunity to win it back before we are finished. Still, if you had gone, think of all the questions you would have left behind. The poor things would have been like shoeless orphans, left to wander Cairo without the slightest hope of finding an answer.” He continued to stare at Thomson with an amused smile. “So what am I to do with you — arrest you for murder or espionage? There is always breaking and entering or kidnapping; but they seem almost shockingly pedestrian for a master criminal like you.”

  “Well, thank you,” Thomson nodded appreciatively.

  Saleh looked at him, perplexed. “Why did you run away, Mister Thomson? I can fully appreciate the CIA’s desire to get you out of here, but why did you willfully disobey them? Why did you run?”