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

by William Brown

  The old hospital dated to colonial days. Fortunately, so did the directory signs inside, with the long list of departments listed in both Arabic and English. Still, Thomson didn’t have the slightest idea where they might treat someone like Saleh. Would he be in Emergency, Post Op, Orthopedics, or Surgery? Were there separate wards for officers, enlisted, and civilian VIPs? Who knew? He began the first and second floors where the major departments were located, taking them one at a time. He walked through Post-Op and Intensive Care and ended up in the Internal Medicine wing; but he found nothing. Returning to the main corridor and the central bank of elevators, he stepped inside the first one that came, and pushed the buttons for the top two floors. When the door opened for the fourth floor, he stuck his head out for a quick look up and down the rather Spartan-looking hallway. From the signs on the wall, he realized these must be the enlisted military convalescent wards. He doubted they would park a Police Captain with connections in such plebeian surroundings, so he let the door close and rode the elevator up to five.

  As the door opened, he saw wallpaper and plush carpeting had replaced the faded paint and bare floor tile of the four lower floors. If they had a VIP area, this was most likely it, Thomson thought. He stepped out of the elevator and walked briskly down the long hallway, holding the clipboard high enough to shield his face, pretending he was a near-sighted intern checking a patient’s file. Several orderlies walked past and gave him curious looks, but they continued walking and did not challenge him.

  Thomson was beginning to wonder if this was the right hospital, much less the right floor, when a door at the far end of the hall opened and Sayyid stepped out. The big sergeant yawned, stretched, and then began walking toward Thomson. The American raised the clipboard higher and did a quick about-face. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he remembered his previous meetings with the huge Egyptian cop. Thomson held his breath as he listened for a shout or even a threatening growl behind him, but none came. Apparently, Sayyid had not recognized him. Thomson continued retreating toward the opposite end of the hall, with Sayyid’s heavy footsteps keeping pace behind him. One thing was certain; Thomson was not going to let them catch up.

  Finally, the footsteps stopped. Thomson kept walking, but risked a quick glance back and saw that Sayyid had stopped at the elevators. When the elevator door opened, Sayyid stepped inside and disappeared from view. Thomson had been hoping for a break like this. He dashed back to the other end of the hall and found the door from which Sayyid had emerged. There was no way of knowing when the big sergeant would return, so Thomson pressed his ear to the wooden door and listened. He heard nothing. Reaching under his smock, he pulled out the Luger and held it under the clipboard. Time was not on his side now; so he threw caution to the wind, opened the door, and quietly slipped inside.

  It was a private room. The lights were off. The window shades were drawn, and it was dark inside except for a dim floor lamp standing in the corner. The furnishings appeared very plush for a hospital — a lot bigger and nicer than your average fellah in from a beet field would get, Thomson suspected. The bed and nightstand stood along the sidewall. There was a soft couch along the opposite wall and a wheelchair and tall lounger in the corner by the window. Thomson saw he was alone, except for the man lying beneath a sheet on the bed. He lowered the clipboard and kept the Luger aimed at the bed, determined not to walk into another trap. “Don’t move,” his voice rasped, as he edged closer and switched on the reading lamp that hung on the headboard above the patient’s head. In the circle of bright light, he immediately recognized Saleh. His face was pale, his head heavily bandaged, and his eyes shut tight; but it was definitely Saleh.

  Saleh’s facial muscles were slack, and it was obvious he had not heard a word Thomson said. “Oh, come on, Captain,” Thomson said in frustration, as he shook the policeman’s shoulder. “It’s springtime, and you’re the Queen of the May, you little bastard, so rise and shine. I’m in no better shape than you are.”

  Saleh frowned and grunted from the continued shaking. One eye finally opened and then a second, but they were glassy with dilated pupils.

  “Oh hell,” Thomson mumbled, turning toward the nightstand next to the bed. “What did they pump into you, anyway?” he asked, noticing the hypodermic needle and a vial. He picked it up, but the inscription was in Arabic, not that he would have understood it in English. There was a water jug on the table. He carried it over and splashed some of it on Saleh’s face. The Egyptian’s eyes blinked again, and it was obvious he could not focus. “What? Who? Mister Thomson? Is that you?” Saleh shook his head and frowned. “Where am I? Wait, I remember now. You were right. You were right all along. Tomorrow — I must stop them.”

  “Oh, great. That’s really great,” the American commented dryly. “You ‘must stop them’. Well, meanwhile, let’s you and I get you up on your feet and the hell out of here before your buddy Sayyid comes back.”

  Thomson grabbed the wheelchair and rolled it to the side of the bed, bent over, and tried to lift Saleh up and into it; but the Captain was still babbling and pleading with him. “Gamal — I must warn Gamal.”

  “Sure, that’s what we’re gonna do, Sport.”

  “He will know what to do. We must get out of here,” he said, but Saleh’s words drifted away as his eyes focused on something behind Thomson.

  That was when the American knew he had made a big mistake.

  “You should have taken the Captain’s advice,” he heard Sayyid’s angry growl coming from the doorway behind him.

  Thomson turned his head and saw another Webley revolver pointing at him, no doubt a replacement for the one he had taken off the sergeant’s prostrate form at the bottom of the police station’s stairwell. Thomson remembered, and from the vicious look on the sergeant’s face, he remembered too.

  “You should have left Egypt a long time ago, Mister Thomson. Now it is too late for you. Put my Captain down.”

  Thomson did what Sayyid said, dropping Saleh’s head back onto the pillow.

  “No, Sayyid, no,” Saleh kept muttering. “You must help us.”

  That infuriated Sayyid even more. He closed the door behind him and locked it. “You cursed American,” he said as he turned back and came across the room with all the subtlety of a tornado. The wheelchair was in his path, so one of his paws swatted it against the far wall like a beach ball. “This is all your fault. I should have given the Captain another injection before I left, but I hardly thought it necessary. He would have kept sleeping if you had not come in and woken him… if you had not tried to interfere again. No, my Captain would have known nothing about this, not until afterward,” Sayyid said as the other paw lashed out and backhanded Thomson, sending him flying against the wall. “There, that is better,” he said, as his other hand picked up the Luger and stuck it in his belt. “If there is to be any shooting around here, I shall be the one doing it.”

  “Why are you doing this, Sayyid?” Saleh asked in disbelief, his eyes straining to understand. “Not you, too — not you. The voice I heard, I thought I was dreaming, but it was you, wasn’t it? Why? Why would you involve yourself in this? It is treason.”

  “Treason? Treason!” Sayyid spun around toward Saleh, bristling at the word. “I respect you deeply, my Captain; but you have no right to accuse me of such things. There is only one treason in this country. It comes from that abomination you call President; but, Insha’Allah, God willing, his hours are numbered. Allah be praised.”

  Saleh moaned and shook his head. “Sayyid, this is wrong. I beg of you.”

  “He is a traitor to his faith, and there is no greater crime a man can commit. He has set himself up as a false prophet, gaining the confidence of his people and then compromising it away until we have nothing left. Well, no more. We shall strike a blow that will purify our land with fire. We shall rid ourselves of him and the Jews, but that is just the beginning. Today begins the rebirth of the Moslem people, so how can you dare call it treason?”

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sp; “Those are not your words, Sayyid. I know you too well,” Saleh groaned. “It is the Ikhwan again, isn’t it? The Moslem Brotherhood? Has their secret society infected you with this venom, Sayyid?”

  “Infected? We are the people, not him. Nasser has tried to blot us out twice, but he can no more do that than hold back the sun. No one can. This time, we shall be the ones who survive, not him; because we have a true leader with the vision and pure heart needed to govern this land. When those rockets soar into the sky at noon and begin their downward arc toward Tel Aviv and Haifa, a million Arab voices will rise as one, shouting the name of Colonel Ali Rashid. As his oldest friend, you should be honored. He is the one who spared your life, Captain, not I.”

  Saleh stopped listening. He raised his hands and pressed the palms against his ears, trying to block out the words. When he couldn’t, his eyes flared; and he screamed an oath in Arabic, suddenly bolting upright on the bed and lunging at Sayyid. The sergeant’s pistol pointed at Thomson, and he never expected a threat from this new quarter. Before Sayyid could react, Saleh sprang forward, wrapped his arms around Sayyid’s chest, pinned his gun arm to his side, and hung on. Stunned, Sayyid stepped backward, dragging the Captain off the bed. As he did, the big man stumbled and lost his balance; and the two men crashed to the floor with Saleh on top. Sayyid’s elbow hit the hard floor, and his revolver skittered away.

  Even if he had been healthy, the frail Captain would have been no match for the burly sergeant, but the little man seemed possessed. Sayyid pushed himself up to his knees and tried yanking his arm free to no avail. He roared and slammed Saleh up and down, bouncing him against the metal railings of the bed before the Captain’s grip was finally broken and Sayyid could pull free. Thomson tried to join in as soon as Saleh grabbed Sayyid’s arm, but he had too far to go. He leaped on Sayyid’s back, just as the big sergeant broke Saleh’s grip, and immediately became the new object of the sergeant’s fury. Sayyid was a powerful man and knew how to use every muscle. He swung his arm around and caught Thomson in the ribs with an elbow that seemed to be the size of a small ham. It lifted Thomson off his feet and tossed him back across the room. It was only a glancing blow, but with his bruised, damaged ribs, it took his breath away. For a moment, all he saw were bright, flashing lights inside his head.

  Sayyid rose to his feet and could have finished the American right then. There was nothing Thomson could have done to stop him, but Sayyid didn’t. He took a step toward Thomson and then stopped. He straightened up and threw his chest out, content to rub his sore elbow as he looked down on his two conquests. There was no question that he intended to kill Thomson, but he intended to do it his own way — slowly, with his bare hands and the time to savor the moment. Thomson got up, bent over in pain, as Sayyid looked at him and laughed. He turned away and took a confident step backward as his eyes searched the floor for his revolver. He saw it lying under the bed and bent down to pick it up.

  In his misspent youth, Thomson played football on his high school team. Too small for the line and too slow for anything actually having to do with carrying or catching a football, he became a more than adequate kicker. As Sayyid’s fingers touched the barrel, Thomson blocked out the pain and took one long, desperate, stride toward him. He swung his leg back and gave the sergeant a monstrous kick in the face. His old coach would have been proud to see the stretch, the focus, and the follow-through. His form was flawless as he got all his leg into it and felt shoe leather meet bone. It snapped the big man’s head back and staggered him. Sayyid took two steps backward and sat down hard on the floor, stunned but still very much conscious. He looked up and growled like a wounded animal, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs as he tried to get back up. Thomson was not about to let that happen, though. He grabbed the front legs of the steel nightstand and swung it toward Sayyid. Bottles and metal trays flew across the room, but Thomson didn’t care. His attention focused on Sayyid as the corner of the table caught him on the temple. This time, the sergeant’s eyes rolled up in his head and he toppled sideways onto the floor, out cold.

  Thomson stood there, holding the nightstand in his shaking hands as he looked down, ready to bash the big man again if he moved. He did not, but Thomson swung his leg back and gave the sergeant a kick to the side of the head for good measure.

  “If you are finished amusing yourself with the sergeant, Mister Thomson, help me up,” Saleh called to him from under the bed. “We must get out of here. With all the noise you are making, you will soon attract every guard in the building.”

  “All the noise? It’s a good thing you reminded me, Captain,” he muttered as he lowered the nightstand to the floor, grimacing from the sharp pain in his side. “I’d have never thought of that on my own.” Saleh could not be more right, though. Thomson staggered back to the side of the bed and leaned against it as he reached down to help Saleh up to his knees. That was the best he could do. Saleh was not doing much better; but before long, he was upright and leaning against the mattress next to Thomson, both men surveying the damage.

  “I must apologize to you, Mister Thomson,” Saleh gasped. “I have been very stupid. You came here to get me out, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, and I was trying to be nice and quiet, too.” Thomson smiled as he saw the wheelchair against the far wall and got back to his feet. He was bone-tired, but he managed to limp over and roll it back to the side of the bed. “Come on, Captain,” he said as he helped Saleh off the bed and pushed him to the small closet near the lavatory. Saleh’s suit was there and so were his shoes. Thomson scooped them up and dropped them in the Captain’s lap, then wrapped a blanket around him. Saleh looked deathly pale. “You aren’t going to pass out on me, are you?” Thomson asked.

  “I… I don’t think so.”

  “Well, don’t,” Thomson ordered as he picked up the old Luger and Sayyid’s Webley revolver from the floor and slipped them beneath the blanket. “Sit up straight and smile, because it’s going to take both of us to talk our way out of here.” He looked down at Sayyid and said, “I’d love to stash him somewhere, but he’s way too much load for the two of us right now.”

  There were several cardboard signs written in Arabic available on the back of the room door. Thomson pulled them out and held them in front of Saleh. “Which one says, ‘stay the hell out’?”

  Saleh pointed to one in yellow and black. “Infectious Disease,” he replied.

  “Perfect,” Thomson said as he wheeled Saleh out of the room and then posted the sign on the door, pulling it closed behind them. Trying to act nonchalant, he steered a slow path down the center of the hall, keeping his eyes straight ahead until he reached the elevator. He pushed the down button and waited, watching the floor indicator and sweating out each second as the elevator slowly rose in its shaft.

  The bell chimed. As the door opened, a thin, dark orderly stepped out and greeted them. “Here,” the man smiled and held the door open for them.

  “Shukran jazilan,” Saleh replied, thank you very much, and returned the smile as he saw the orderly’s gaze drop to the floor, to Thomson’s battered leather shoes. The orderly frowned, then looked up at Thomson’s face and frowned again.

  “Where do you work?” the orderly demanded suspiciously.

  Before Thomson could answer, the barrel of the Luger poked out from beneath the blanket and jabbed the orderly in the groin. “Get back in the elevator,” Saleh told him, poking him again for emphasis, “and be careful that your flapping mouth does not make you a eunuch.”

  The man’s eyes grew round. He swallowed hard and began to sweat, but he did what he was told and backed into the elevator, his eyes never leaving the barrel of the gun.

  Thomson followed with the wheelchair. When the door closed, he pushed the stop button and turned to the orderly. “Help him get dressed,” he added as he pulled out Saleh’s clothes and Sayyid’s revolver from under the blanket. With the terrified orderly’s help, the Captain was able to stand and get into his pants, shirt, and suit jacket.
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  Saleh finally flopped back in the chair and looked up at Thomson. “Well?” he asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” Thomson remembered as he landed a passable right on the orderly’s chin. Thomson’s ribs flashed with pain again, but the orderly crumpled in a heap in the corner. When the elevator reached the first floor, Saleh pushed the fifth-floor button; and they headed toward the first street-level door he could find.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Colonel Ali Rashid stared vacantly at the maps lying before him on his desk, pretending to listen as General Rafiq al-Baquri droned on and on about the re-positioning of his troops. He felt as if his body were trapped here behind his desk sitting as straight and rigid as a steel girder, while his mind floated in a different world a thousand miles and nine hundred years away. He had always believed he was the philosophical descendant of the great warrior and sultan General, Salah ad-Din Yussuf ibn Ayyub, or Saladin, as he was known in the West. Like the great one, Rashid was a born leader of men and a deeply religious Muslim. A year ago, as he stood in front of Salah ad-Din’s bronze statue in the Cairo museum, he realized he was far more than a mere descendant. He was his reincarnation, sent to this place and time to drive the infidel Crusaders out and purify his kingdom as Salah ad-Din had done at the Battle of Hattin.

  Rashid knew he should be more attentive to al-Baquri, but he simply had no patience for small men. He was a cretin like the rest of them, and Rashid could no longer concentrate on the minor operational trivialities that al-Baquri was placing before him. Besides, the plan was in Allah’s hands now. He would strike down His enemies at the same moment He raised Rashid up, all in His Name, as he had done for Salah ad-Din. Al-Baquri was incapable of comprehending any of that. That was not his fault; it was Allah’s will. He only blessed a few men with His gift, and Colonel Ali Rashid was one of them. There was no question. He had been chosen, one of those very few to be given the vision; and he had understood his Gift and his Destiny since he was a young man. Rashid rested his chin on his fingertips and stared across at the General. In his heart, he knew he did not need al-Baquri. If need be, Rashid could do it all by himself, because he had very special powers. They burned inside him with a force stronger than all the tanks, rockets, and atomic bombs they could marshal against him. Nothing could stop him now, because he was the Chosen One.