Months later, an old friend visited him in the hospital. Pale, thin, and depressed, Saleh was waiting for a death that refused to come. Gamal would not hear of it. He ordered Hassan to accept a position he had arranged with the civilian police, arguing that Egypt could not be denied his talents. He needed a man he could trust in every government department, and the police were no exception. Hassan would have preferred to die, but he obeyed. After all, how could one refuse an order from one’s President and closest friend? So, when he thought he had lost everything, a new world opened up for him; and he found much more than he expected. He found a faith, every bit as real and burning as the one that drove Ali Rashid. Hassan Saleh’s faith was Egypt and Gamal Abdel Nasser. To Saleh, the two had become one; and newly commissioned Detective Captain Hassan Saleh was its high priest and protector.
Nasser was always in the eye of the hurricane, the heart and soul of the revolution he had unleashed. As the furies swirled around, tugging and pulling at him, he stood up to them like a block of granite. Forty-two years old, he was at the height of his power and abilities. With a hawk-like face, rich olive skin, thick jowls, and crinkly black hair, he looked every inch an Arab but an unusually tall, thick-chested, and broad-shouldered one. As both friends and foes quickly understood, Nasser did not need his physical size to dominate other men. He did it with his inner strength and the sheer force of his will.
Those impressions hung on Hassan Saleh like heavy anchor chains as the insignificant Police Captain from Cairo went to visit the President of Egypt at his suburban home in Mansheet el-Bakr. The furnishings in Gamal’s office were as Spartan as Saleh expected. Nasser could perform on the world’s grand stage with more pomp and ceremony than anyone, but the boy from the small village of Beni Murr was far different. He was a quiet, introspective man. All he ever required was a small desk, an old stiff-backed couch, a few chairs, a bowl of oranges, a pitcher of lemonade, and his books. The man was an insatiable reader, and three or four of them always lay open within his reach.
Gamal greeted Saleh with the genuine warmth of a brother, throwing his arm around Saleh’s shoulder and bidding his old friend to sit beside him on the couch.
“How is the leg?” Gamal asked, focusing those large, pale-brown eyes on his friend’s face. “It is better, I pray.”
“Insha’Allah, God willing, it is still there. Who can complain?”
“I wish I could accept my setbacks with such grace. It has been too long, Hassan. We can blame it on our cursed responsibilities, but still far too long, my old friend.”
“True, but they are what we sought, are they not? I am not ready to lay them down and go back to that brown mud house my grandfather built, are you?”
“You are right, of course.” Nasser laughed. “Still, those were good days, precious days; and I fear we have each lost much since then. Enough of that depressing talk. What brings you out here to see me? Knowing you, it must be a matter of grave importance, or you would not have come.”
“A simple inquiry, my President, no more.”
“Ah! So, the matter is official.” Nasser leaned forward and listened intently.
“Yes. It is a murder I am working on, and a most confusing one, I am afraid. Each such case begins in an alien landscape, where all the participants have maps and a set of directions, except the police. Our task is to blunder about in the fog, tripping over the loose ends and poking at little details, until we find a path or two. Most lead me nowhere, but I must walk each one to its end, regardless.”
“How fascinating.”
“And frustrating, but that is the task you assigned to me that day in the hospital, to follow those paths wherever they may lead.”
“Such as my office this morning.”
“Yes,” Saleh answered. He was pleased to see Gamal listening with that old intensity, his head thrust forward and his jaw jutting out. He looked as if he might topple forward, but he didn’t, and he missed nothing. To Saleh, the expression on Gamal’s face melted the years.
“From the first day, this case has taken me in strange directions, my President. I kept rejecting them, confident they were false leads. However, each new path I took brought me back around to the same place.”
“Here? I admit I have been rough on my opponents, but I have not killed any of them lately.” Nasser grinned.
“No, but you may be able to provide me with some information.” Saleh paused to gauge the President’s reactions. “You see, these paths keep leading into the desert to an old RAF base near Heliopolis.” For a brief moment, Saleh saw an amused flicker in Nasser’s eyes, but then it was gone. Saleh dared not ask directly, so he went on. “That is why this investigation is so confusing. It is a murder case, several murders, in fact. I would not waste your valuable time on anything less, but my path keeps pointing out there toward Heliopolis. I must ask. Is something going on there? Is it a secret base, a base that has something to do with rockets?”
Nasser’s face opened in a broad smile. “It would appear that even the highest state secrets cannot stay hidden very long when my best detective begins to pick away at them, one thread at a time.”
“I apologize if I have stumbled onto…”
“No, no, you make me very proud. It just goes to prove that I selected the right man for the job. That said, I might as well tell you, before you unravel the entire cloth and drop it at my feet,” he said as he smiled proudly. “Yes, we do have a secret rocket program underway out at that old RAF base.”
“That is all I need to know,” Saleh quickly replied as he began to rise.
“No. Sit with me a moment longer. I want you to understand. Yes, we are developing a rocket, not a very big one, but it will suffice. The final test is the day after tomorrow, at noon on Thursday. Now that you know, I want you to join me in the reviewing stand at Heliopolis to watch the test as my special guest.”
“It would be my great honor, my President.”
“It is nothing you do not deserve, Hassan.”
“One more minor point, Gamal,” he asked. “Are we using Germans to build these rockets?”
“Yes, we are.” Nasser nodded. “Our people do not have the skills to undertake a project like that, not yet anyway. So, whom else could we ask? The Americans? The Israelis own them. Despite how much they protest, all Washington ever offers me are Hollywood movies, refrigerators, and their insufferable arrogance. The Russians? They are even worse. They leave us nothing but inferior weapons and a monstrous debt. What a lovely choice, eh? The Communists are atheists, and the Christians are hypocrites. So, I turned to the Germans. If they fail me, I will go to the devil himself and ask him to make a rocket for me.”
“I do not question…” Saleh sounded contrite, fearing offending him.
“Oh, the rockets themselves are nothing, but they convey power and prestige, which we desperately need right now. Farouk bankrupted us and destroyed everything that held this nation together: our values, the ruling class, even the army. So, what is left? The religious fanatics are tearing at me from the right, and the Communists are lurking on my left. I am afraid this office is all that holds Egypt together today.” Nasser paused, the strain showing on his face. “You see, no matter what we do, we remain prisoners of the great Saladin — the warrior General who will ride in, drive out the infidels and the sinners, and save his people. Those days are long gone, I am afraid. Warrior Generals cannot save much of anything now. Only a united people can, but that will take us many, many years. That is why I need those rockets. They will restore our pride, and that will buy me the precious time I need to rebuild this nation. When our people lift their eyes to the skies next Thursday, they will never drop them back to the dirt. They will have a new pride and self-respect, and then there will be nothing they cannot achieve.”
Hassan Saleh nodded. He could not agree more.
“Our future lies with the poor nations like ourselves. Together, we can cut the chains that bind us to the West and to the East. Think of the age we live in, Ha
ssan. All of the world’s great leaders come from the developing nations — Nehru, Mao, Sukarno, Nkrumah, Perón, Castro, Ho Chi Minh — each is from a poor nation like ours. Like them, the only thing we need is time. War has been our folly, and we cannot afford another one. Win or lose, another one will tear Egypt apart. Those rockets, however, will become our new symbol. Do not trifle with us, they will say. Do not try to dictate to us or threaten us, because we can reach out and punish you, if you dare. That is why I am building them, Hassan. They will restore our national pride.”
The power of Nasser’s will radiated across the couch and lit a fire in Saleh’s soul. Those brown eyes expressed six thousand years of glory and pain.
“That is why I need you, Hassan. These are dangerous times. Conspiracies are everywhere, and you and Ali Rashid are the only men in Egypt whom I trust to guard my back. Believe me, there are thousands who would plunge a knife into it. Six years ago, I moved against the Ikhwan, the Moslem Brotherhood, and those fanatics have been after my blood ever since. Last year, it was the Communists. Now that my ultimate triumph is at hand, my patience has worn thin with these constant conspiracies and so has my luck. So, plod on with your investigation, old friend.” He laughed as he looked into Hassan’s eyes. “Continue to follow those paths of yours, because you must buy me time. You must see that I have it.”
Saleh swallowed hard as the weight of the great man’s words fell on him. “I shall try, my President,” he whispered.
“I know you will, Hassan,” Nasser said as he rose to his feet. Saleh rose, too, knowing the meeting was over as Nasser slowly walked him to the door.
“One more question,” Saleh asked. “I understand that you have stationed some new troops out at Heliopolis. Some armored units?”
“Armor?” Nasser frowned as he thought about it. “Out at Heliopolis? No, not that I am aware. I think there are only security guards. Tanks would only attract attention and we would not want that. Do not worry, though,” he said as he dismissed the question with a knowing smile. “It is in the best of hands. You will see on Thursday, Hassan; and I promise a few surprises even my best detective may not expect.”
After the door closed, Nasser stared at it, and then chuckled. He walked back to his desk and picked up a folder from the tall stack demanding his immediate attention. He began to read, but could not concentrate. Finally, he laid the folder down and reached for the telephone.
“Ring Heliopolis for me,” he ordered, “I wish to speak to the commandant… personally.”
As he waited for the connection, he replayed Saleh’s words in his head, remembering back to those good days when they were boys, so young and so idealistic. The images were old and dim but still warmed him, until the ringing of the telephone brought him back to the present.
“Good morning, Ali,” he began. “No, nothing important, but I had a special visitor this afternoon. He asked me a number of very perceptive questions about Heliopolis… Yes, yes, and about the rockets. It appears your crack security might have some holes in it.” Nasser paused, smiling to himself, letting the panic build at the other end. “Who? Oh, I thought you would never ask. It was a homicide detective from Cairo, and I believe you are acquainted… Yes, yes, Hassan Saleh. No, he is investigating a murder case… No, he did not know everything, but he knew enough and he asked me about the rockets. He asked me about the German scientists, too.”
Gamal listened to the reply intently. “Of course not… what do you think I would tell him? I invited him out to watch the exercise on Thursday. What would you have done?”
Nasser laughed, even louder. “Yes, yes, I’m sure you will. Oh, and he asked me an odd thing. We have no armored units out there, do we? … I did not think so, but you know how doggedly determined the fellow can be… Well, it is good to know he is human and actually got something wrong for a change… Yes, yes, of course, I will be there on Thursday at noon. You could not keep me away.”
Colonel Ali Rashid placed the receiver back in its cradle. He sat ramrod straight, staring down at the telephone, as his forced smile began cracking and dropping away in large pieces. Slowly, he raised his eyes and glared at the man sitting on the other side of his desk.
“Nasser know about the tanks?” Grüber dared ask, trying to deflect the rage he knew was coming. “How?”
“A mutual friend, a lowly homicide detective named Hassan Saleh,” Rashid said in an angry whisper.
“The one who questioned Thomson?”
“Yes. He is a childhood friend of ours, a pit bull, and the only man in Egypt I truly fear.”
“Did Nasser believe your story?”
“He has no reason not to believe me, does he? We must see it stays that way.”
“Then the problem is contained.”
“Do not underestimate Nasser.” The Colonel’s eyes grew worried. “He is the Grand Master of conspiracies. How do you think he got where he is and has managed to stay there? The devil himself has not led such a charmed life. Many have tried to get at him, but none has succeeded. If he gets the slightest hint of it or hears the faintest whisper, we are doomed.”
“Then we must silence this Thomson, and your police Detective.”
The Colonel’s eyes flared at the German’s open challenge. “The American is yours, but stay away from Hassan Saleh. Do you hear me?” Rashid demanded, his powerful eyes glaring at Grüber. “Saleh is my concern, not yours. Is that clear?”
Grüber wanted to argue, but making the point was enough, at least for now.
“Attend to your duties,” the Colonel hissed, “but remember this, Grüber. On Thursday at noon, we may live or we may die, but it will all be over. Nothing is to be left to chance. Nothing!”
The Colonel’s voice cut through the thick, hot air inside the small room like the flashing blade of the scimitar hanging above his desk. “None of your people are to leave this compound, especially Fengler and his daughter. Thomson talked to her once, and that cursed American can be all too persuasive.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It was late morning. Thomson knew he would not last long in daylight on the streets of a foreign city where his white face stood out like a neon sign; so he ran as fast and as far as his legs could carry him toward the main business district, where the Western hotels and stores might give him a better chance of blending in. What then, he wondered? Keep running? To where? It was hopeless. What he needed was a place to hide until dark.
Twenty hot, sweating minutes later, he entered the deserted alley behind Jeremy’s bar. He tried the back door, the one that fat fool Yussuf must have used to escape from the two Goons, but the door was locked tight now, apparently barred from the inside. “That damned Brit,” he mumbled, banging on the old wooden boards until his knuckles hurt. He knew Jeremy only left the place to eat and sleep, but Thomson got no response from inside… nothing. The iron-ribbed door mocked him, blocking his way as everything in this damned city had done for the past three days. He was exhausted and drained, feeling more alone and hopeless than he had ever felt, even after Damascus. Turning his head, he glanced anxiously up and down the alley, expecting to see a police cruiser any second. “Jeremy, you Limey bastard, open up,” he pleaded, but it was no use. The bar was empty. It was 11:00 a.m., broad daylight, and Thomson could wait no longer.
Tired and frustrated, he threw himself against the door again, using his shoulder as a battering ram, trying to force it open; but all he got for his efforts was a bruised shoulder. The door would not budge. The damned thing was solid wood and braced, banded, barred, and bolted tight with steel. He could probably blow the building to kindling and old bricks, but that damned door would still be standing upright in the rubble.
Thomson was getting desperate. If he hung around here much longer, some good citizen would call the cops for sure. On the other hand, if he went back to the streets and kept running from one hiding hole to another, he would only be delaying the inevitable. There was no escaping Egypt or even Cairo, and he was too tired to keep trying
. Saleh and Sayyid would be hot on his heels by now, and he would get a lot more than a push down a rear staircase when they caught up. Saleh seemed like a good enough cop, serious and committed. It was too bad Thomson couldn’t make the little man understand, but that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon unless he figured out some way to break through the little guy’s hatred of everything Western.
He stepped back from the door and looked up, his eyes searching the rear wall of the building. High above the door header he saw a narrow transom. The glass was filthy, covered by a generation of dust and grime, and it did not appear to have been washed or even opened in years. At the rear of the next store stood an old, rusting trash bin and a stack of wooden packing crates. Thomson tossed the crates aside and wedged himself behind the trash bin, pushing on it until he had manhandled it across the rough concrete and into position beneath the transom. Still, it was not tall enough. He ran back and grabbed two of the crates, piled them on top of the trash bin, and then climbed to the top of his rickety tower.
The transom was loose. He could rattle the frame, but the window, which was bolted shut and covered with heavy wire mesh, wouldn’t open. “Damn it, Jeremy! It’s only a bar, not the goddamned Bank of England.” Too tired and angry to care, he pulled Sayyid’s revolver from his jacket pocket, smashed the transom glass, and tore a hole in the rusted wire big enough to reach his hand through to the rusted latch. He pulled up on it, only to have the entire window frame come out in his hands. Figures, he thought. In a rage, he raised it over his head and tossed it across the alley, watching in delight as it smashed against the far wall. He turned back, knowing the room on the other side of the door must be the Brit’s storeroom. It was dark inside. He leaned through the opening and pushed his head and shoulders inside, pulling his torso and legs behind them until he could lower himself down to the floor. He slumped against the cool wall of the storeroom, exhausted. He was sweating hard and his heart was pounding, but it felt nice here in the dark — quiet, cool, and safe, for the moment. He shook his head and laughed aloud. Kilbride was right. He was too old for this crap and not nearly good enough to pull it off anymore. Maybe he could have in his prime… maybe, if he had ever had a prime. Now, he seemed to be a half-step late; and a half-step was what separated the quick and the dead.
Cold War Trilogy - A Three Book Boxed Set: of Historical Spy Versus Spy Action Adventure Thrillers Page 91