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

by William Brown

  “We cannot fight the police or the army,” Gamal continued. “They are our own people. No, we must win them over, absorb them into the revolution, and use them to lead the way for us. That is why I joined the army. We are not alone in this. There are many others who see things as we do. We want change for the nation, but we cannot leave it to the mob in the streets to set the agenda. If we do, our victory will be hollow.”

  “The victory? Tell me what happens after this great victory, Gamal?” Ali asked again, always returning to the point. “After we drive the British out, what will happen then? Will we simply have a pharaoh in a khaki uniform? Is that all that we get, or will it be a Saladin, a Moslem leader who will rally the true believers from Baghdad to Morocco? You see, I do not believe that our enemy is the British; it is Western secularism. That is what saps our strength. If we do not put it to the torch, we will always be a silly little people. So which will it be — a pharaoh or a new Salah ad-Din.”

  Gamal considered the question. In Egypt, this was how the equation always reduced itself. Even in the streets, among the Socialists, the Fascists, the New Youth Movement, the Communists, and the Moslem Brotherhood — they all agreed on throwing out the old system, but never could agree on what would replace it in the end. Saleh could never understand them. Why could it not simply be freedom? Why was that not enough? Would they not want a breath of freedom, a better life for the people, and more social justice than they have now? To the extremists, however, the revolution was merely the overture.

  Gamal looked at Ali, trying to understand the man, but it was getting harder and harder each year. “All I know, Ali,” he looked into those deep, fiery black eyes, answering honestly, “is that our people deserve better than what they have now. Nothing, however, will ever improve for them if we do not begin to set the stage.”

  “Why isn’t that enough?” Hassan added. “After twenty-five centuries, why isn’t it enough to have Egypt ruled by Egyptians? Let your precious Syrians, and Iraqis, and Moroccans take care of themselves.”

  “You have never understood me, have you?” Ali asked, his eyes flashing.

  “No, I understand you,” Hassan answered. “I simply do not agree with you.”

  “We are Moslems, first and last. Egypt is merely a narrow green valley squeezed between two deserts, whose glory was three thousand years ago. Pharaohs — what do I care about pharaohs? Today, we draw our strength from our faith. Yes, the revolution must start here, but it must not end here — never! That is our sacred duty.”

  “And if it does not start here and succeed here,” Gamal said, throwing his arms around the two of them, “then thirty years from now, we will still be sitting in the mud on this riverbank, cursing the same old problems, won’t we? We must fight them together and not fight each other.”

  That was twenty-five years ago. Today, Hassan Saleh knew that Gamal was the one who needed time. His revolution had barely begun, yet his enemies were already trying to pull him down like an old statue. He needed time and Saleh would see that he got it. Unfortunately, the Captain was exhausted. It was nearly 8:00 p.m. and long past the hour he should have gone home to his family. He finally rose, stretched his cramped leg, and limped slowly out the door. His mind was still buried in old memories of far better days as he left the building and crossed the dimly lit parking lot to his car. As he slipped his key into the door lock, he heard a soft voice calling from the shadows.

  “Captain…”

  Saleh turned and frowned. “Yes, what is it?” he asked, squinting as he tried to see who it was. That was when something hard struck him across the back of the head and knocked him to his knees. He fought the pain and numbness, struggling to clear his head and get back up to his feet; but he was hit again. He toppled forward onto his face, stunned, and only dimly aware of the voices and footsteps around him.

  “No!” he heard a familiar voice say. “We want him alive, you fool! Load him into the car and hurry before we are seen.”

  Hands lifted him off the pavement, and he felt a sharp pinprick on his right bicep.

  Shouts — someone was shouting. There were bright lights and loud curses. The arms that held him up suddenly let go. He felt himself standing, hanging in midair, as feet ran away across the parking lot. He smiled, floating pleasantly on the air, until he felt himself falling again, as if down a long, bottomless, black chute.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Thomson hid in the storeroom until dark, caught in a series of fitful naps that left him more tired than before he started. Earlier, around 5:00 p.m., he heard someone open the front door and begin puttering around in the bar, taking the chairs down and putting out the stock. He figured it was Jeremy, but he didn’t want to involve him unless it was necessary. So Thomson stayed where he was, rolled over on the boxes, and went back to sleep. A half hour before Perper was due to arrive, he quietly slipped out the back door into the alley. Two stores down and closer to the opposite corner, he spotted a row of garbage cans. After chasing two cats from their nesting place, he squatted behind the cans and waited. He wasn’t expecting any surprises from Reggie Perper, but he was in no condition to handle much of one, either.

  At the stroke of eight, he saw Perper’s lumpy figure come into view at the other end of the dark alley. He stopped and squinted into the shadows on both sides, unsure of the situation, which made Thomson smile. If Perper was this scared, then they would get along just fine. He watched him walk slowly toward him, counting doors, until he reached the rear entrance to the bar. He pulled a white handkerchief from his pants pocket, mopped his brow, and waited for something to happen.

  “Oh, for Chris’ sakes, Thomson,” the codes clerk called out in a loud whisper, “come on out. Can’t you see I’m alone?”

  “Okay, Reggie, relax,” Thomson answered as he stepped from the shadows and met Perper in the center of the alley. Perper was sweating like a pig. “Did they follow you?” Thomson asked.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “How should I know?” Perper shot back. “You phone me on a goddamn open line, and then have the balls to ask if I was followed down a dark alley?”

  “Okay, okay.” Thomson raised his hands and surrendered. “Look, I’m not in much better shape than you are tonight.”

  “Tonight? Tonight ain’t the problem. We’re both a little dated for stunts like this.”

  “Relax. Did you learn anything?”

  “Plenty, and I scared the hell out of myself when I did.” Perper mopped his brow again, his eyes darting back and forth to the ends of the alley. “You were right. There were research labs at Hechingen, but they didn’t have a damned thing to do with rockets. Let me give you a hint. You got your H’s screwed up. Hechingen is a small town south of Stuttgart, near Haigerloch. Now, does that ring any bells?”

  “Haigerloch? Oh, shit! The Krauts built a nuclear reactor there, didn’t they?”

  “Tried to. They couldn’t get the bugs out and make it work, but that didn’t stop the bastards from trying. All they needed was more time — time they never got, not back then anyway.”

  “And Fengler was there?”

  “He was small-time, more like a lab assistant than anyone important; but he was in on everything they did, both in Berlin and down there, from 1935 to the bitter end,” Perper said as the sweat rolled down his cheeks. “The brains of the outfit was a guy named Werner Kaltenberg. He was the boss at Haigerloch and in charge of the reactor. His sidekick was Fritz Schlaerman. He was in charge of what they called applied research. How’s that for a title. And your boy Fengler worked for him. Those clowns weren’t just playin’ Einstein, scribbling on the blackboard, Thomson. They were making Uncle Adolf a bomb, a goddamn A-bomb.”

  Thomson nodded slowly. “Fengler’s a nuclear physicist, isn’t he?”

  “After I bust my ass, why do I get the sick feeling you already knew?”

  “It was the only thing that made any sense, but I didn’t have proof. Any
thing else?”

  “Oh, I saved the worst for last. See, while you majored in frat parties, I actually took a physics course or two at Brown. Schlaerman could never make their reactor work, because he couldn’t get his hands on enough high-grade uranium ore to refine,” Perper said. “That’s where Fengler came in. He cooked up a substitute homemade stew using Strontium 90 and Cobalt 60 instead of uranium. Call it a ‘poor man’s A-bomb.’ It goes up with a bang but not nearly as big as the real ones and it’s dirty as hell. Throws fallout all over the place. Schlaerman and Kaltenberg were scientists. They understood the ramifications and refused to make it, so Fengler took the idea to Himmler and Göring. He claimed his one bomb could render London uninhabitable for a hundred years, and he was probably right. All they had to do was slip one up the Thames in a U-boat or find a German Kamikaze pilot who was nuts enough to fly it in, but they ran out of time. In after-action reports, our wizards and the Brits concluded that Fengler was onto something. It could have worked. That’s what I don’t understand, Thomson. Nasser isn’t nuts. He knows the world won’t stand for something like that, not even the Russians. They’ll stop him as soon as the word gets out.”

  “Not if they use it first,” Thomson commented quietly.

  Perper stared at him. “Why would he do something that stupid?

  “Who says he knows? Unless I miss my guess, it is part of a coup. They got two rockets and maybe a couple of nuclear bombs.”

  “Only two? What are they gonna do then? They’ll get pasted.”

  “Not if no one knows that’s all they’ve got. They’re going to hit Tel-Aviv and Haifa, dump Nasser, and take over. By then, it won’t matter. So we haven’t got much time.”

  “We? Perpers don’t come in heroic flavors, Thomson, just plain vanilla.”

  “Are you going to wait until they nuke Tel Aviv?”

  Perper stared at him and finally nodded. “Look, you’ve got to take this to Kilbride. I know he’s stupid and arrogant, but he couldn’t know about a bomb. He’ll have to listen if I back you up.”

  “I can’t take that chance. What about your Israeli friends? Wouldn’t they help?”

  “Help?” Perper snorted. “They’d hit Egypt with everything they’ve got, and don’t kid yourself. They already have a bomb. Oops! Did I say ‘a’? I think they have a bunch of them, and you can bet your ass they’ll use them if it comes to that. Is that what you want?”

  “What about Langley or the Pentagon then? Can’t you get a message out? If they start asking questions, Kilbride will have to do something.”

  “What’s with this you stuff, again? I learned a long time ago that when shit hits the fan, the vectors of airborne distribution are never proportional.”

  “More from the Brown Physics Department? Too bad you didn’t take any history or political science.”

  Reggie glared at him, but Thomson saw a look of guilt cross his face. “Damn you!” he finally said. “Maybe I can try later tonight. I’m on the graveyard shift, and…”

  Perper never got to finish his sentence. He and Thomson were blinded by a pair of high beam headlights coming at them from the far end of the alley. Thomson swore as he grabbed Perper by the arm and pulled him behind the garbage cans. He peered around the edge to see who was out there, but it was useless. The lights were too bright.

  “Thomson,” he heard a disgustingly familiar voice call out. “You, too, Perper — come on out before you get hurt.”

  It was Collins.

  Perper moved closer. “Thomson,” he whispered. “Let me go out. Collins doesn’t have a damned thing on me. I’ll say you phoned me and wanted to give yourself up. Okay?”

  “Reggie, he didn’t come here to talk. He came here to kill me, and he’ll kill you just as quick.”

  “He wouldn’t dare. He doesn’t have the sanction to do something like that — not to me, anyway. Let me draw their attention while you make a run for it.” Thomson grabbed his arm and tried to stop him, but Perper turned and said, “What? Have you got a better idea?”

  Thomson didn’t, but he didn’t think much of Reggie’s idea, either. Finally, he nodded. “Be careful. Don’t fool around with Collins.”

  “I won’t. I’ll be flat on my stomach if he even looks cross-eyed at me.” Perper stood up, holding his hands over his head. “Okay, Collins,” he shouted. “No pyrotechnics. Thomson asked me to come here, so he could give up, nicely and quietly. So don’t blow it.”

  Perper stepped gingerly into the bright light in the center of the alley and began walking toward the car. As he did, his body cast a long, deep shadow across the garbage cans where Thomson was hiding. Like it or not, Thomson knew this was the best chance he would get. It was a fifty-yard sprint in the open before he reached the end of the alley; but there was no choice. Perper continued to babble and wave his hands about as he approached the car, so Thomson pulled Sayyid’s Webley revolver from his pocket and made his break, running as fast as he could the other way. He put ten quick strides behind him before he heard the first gunshots. They echoed in the narrow alley like cannon shells and showered Thomson with pieces of brick and mortar as they ricocheted off the walls. That made him run even faster, bobbing and weaving like Jim Brown in the open field.

  Thomson knew Collins would not be stupid enough to leave the other end unguarded, and he was right. With thirty feet to go, a large shape suddenly stepped into the alley and blocked his way. It was one of the security guards who helped Collins haul him out to the airport. Fortunately, the bright headlights that backlit Thomson were shining straight into the big guy’s eyes. Still, that was a .45 automatic in his hand. Even if he could not see very well, he dropped into a very professional-looking shooting stance. A real pro would have one hand on the pistol’s grip and one under its butt for support; but the security guard was looking straight into the bright headlights and squinting. As he raised his off-hand to shield his eyes, the gun barrel began to wobble all over the place. At this range, though, how could he miss? Thomson had Sayyid’s police revolver in his hand, but there was no way he was going to shoot the man. Killing an embassy guard would be the end of everything.

  Time hung suspended as a sadistic smile crossed the security guard’s face. The man probably thought Thomson was too old, too stupid, and too slow; and now he would pay the price. The guard finally steadied his hand, sighted down the barrel, and began to take up the slack on the trigger, just as one of Collins’s bullets skipped off the brick wall, flashed past Thomson’s shoulder, and caught the guard at the base of the throat. His eyes suddenly bulged out and he bent forward at the waist, as Thomson heard a shocked, gurgling grunt escape his mouth. The guard forgot all about Thomson as he dropped the .45. His fingers clawed at his throat and he tried to stop the blood now gushing from the jagged hole, but it was hopeless.

  Too bad, so sad, Thomson thought as he ran past the guy. Stop and help him? Not a chance. When he reached the corner, he turned and looked back. The other guard was also after him now, trying to catch up. Thomson wasn’t worried, though. While muscle might be good in the clutch, it wasn’t much help in a sprint. Farther back, he saw Collins standing by the car. He saw something else, too. Lying in the center of the alley was another crumpled body. It was Reggie Perper.

  “You bastard,” Thomson screamed at Collins. “You stupid bastard!” He stopped and pointed Sayyid’s revolver back down the alley. He pulled the trigger and kept pulling it until the revolver clicked empty. Both Collins and the second guard dove for cover as Thomson’s rounds slammed into the car. In the narrow alley, the big Webley slugs echoed like cannon shots. One of the headlights shattered with a loud pop, and he heard several screams. Still, it was not enough to even the score. That bastard Collins would pay for what he had done.

  Nothing personal? It was now very personal.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Thomson ran through the dark side streets, chased more by his own rage than by Collins and his men. He ran until his body refused to let him punish it any furth
er and then collapsed in the doorway of a dark store, soaked with sweat and gasping for air. Slowly, he felt the anger recede. The flames finally flickered and died out, leaving behind a bed of white-hot coals. They say you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs, and Thomson intended to make a big one out of Collins. Who do they think they are — Collins, Kilbride, and even that damned Kraut Fengler? They were on his list, but he knew it went higher. There weren’t enough brains between the three of them to dream up a scheme like this. No, there was someone else behind it. Someone else was lurking in the shadows, calling the shots. He was the one Thomson intended to stick with the tab.

  He opened his eyes and looked at his watch. It was almost 9:00 p.m., giving him over nine hours of darkness — nine hours. They were not much but they could be enough, if he put them to good use. Once upon a time, stealing a car was a snap for a polished cold warrior like him; but he hadn’t hot-wired one since the Truman Administration. The old East German, Czech, and Russian sedans he was accustomed to working with had all the sophistication of a farm tractor. The electronics and wiring on the new cars were a lot more complicated than he remembered. He found a new Renault on a quiet side street and applied all his skills to the ignition. Even hanging upside down under the front seat, all he got for his trouble was several painful shocks from the bare ignition wire. Finally, he gave up, cursing the French and resolved to find a car that was a bit closer to his own age.

  Two blocks farther on, he saw the rusting carcass of an old MG roadster. Its owner probably left it out each night, hoping that some thief would take it and put him out of his misery, so Thomson crouched down beneath the steering wheel and set to work. He had almost figured out the wiring when he saw the ignition key tucked under the edge of the floor mat next to his hand. Minutes later, he was driving northeast on the main highway, heading toward the desert and Heliopolis.

  An hour later, Thomson lay on the top of the same sand dune looking through the fence at the big aircraft hangar in the middle of the compound. For the first time in years, he felt that old, grim determination welling up inside him. It was how he felt before those big drops into Germany years before: eager and with a fine edge of intensity. If he was right, that hangar was where the Egyptians had hidden their new toys. He would have loved to blow it to bits, but all he had with him was a rusty tire iron from the MG and Sayyid’s empty service revolver. They weren’t going to be much use, but the revolver beat bluffing with a tire iron. Besides, he did not intend to shoot it out with Grüber’s SS guards.