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

by William Brown

  Rashid glanced around at the others. Fengler sat in a nearby armchair, cleaning his fingernails, bored, fidgeting, and paying even less attention to al-Baquri than Rashid did. That was to be expected. Fengler was a German. He had neither the imagination nor requisite field of vision. All he wanted to do was return to his precious hangar. That could wait, Rashid thought as he looked around the room and frowned. Where was Grüber? He was essential to the plan, yet he was late. That was most unlike him. Grüber was a compulsive paranoid, and he rarely showed the impertinence or the courage to be late when summoned.

  Rashid looked at his watch. It was already 10:00 a.m. In less than two hours, his dream, the dream he had been born to fulfill, would be a reality. He ran his fingers across his forehead and could feel the heat. He was on fire, but these cretins could not see it. They never would or even could, not that it mattered. All that mattered was that they carry out the orders he gave them. That was when the telephone on his desk rang. He stared at it, feeling irritated at anything that would dare interrupt his thoughts. Finally, he moved his hand the few inches it took to reach the receiver and raise it to his ear.

  “Yes,” he said quietly as al-Baquri stopped his blathering and paused. Even Fengler looked up at him, curious. “No, no, that is all right,” Rashid said, as a faint smile crossed his lips. “If the fool insists on seeing me, then by all means allow him to come in.”

  The door swung open; and Ambassador Kilbride, accompanied by Collins, entered Rashid’s spartan office. “Colonel!” The big white-haired Irishman feigned his usual bravado as he smiled and thrust a meaty hand toward the Egyptian. Rashid did not respond or even rise to greet him, which seemed most out of character. Instead, he sat steely-eyed, with his long, expressive fingers knit beneath his chin. The time for playing games with ignorant infidels had long since passed, Rashid thought. It was time Kilbride understood that.

  “Yes, well, uh,” the Ambassador mumbled as his smile faded and his hand dropped to his side. “Look, Colonel, I know it’s damned rude of me to barge in on you like this, but I wonder if I could take a few minutes of your time — alone, perhaps?” He winked as he cocked his head toward Fengler and al-Baquri.

  “Alone?” Rashid asked, his tone of voice rejecting the idea out of hand. “There is no need for us to speak alone, Mr. Ambassador, no need at all.” He glanced briefly at the other two men and chuckled, observing that they were even more nervous than Kilbride. “Permit me to introduce you, Mr. Ambassador. This is General Faisal al-Baquri, the distinguished Commander of our elite Third Armored Regiment. Seated in the chair is Professor Ernst Fengler, the noted German physicist. They are two of my closest associates.”

  “Uh, yes.” Kilbride frowned and turned a noticeable shade of gray. “Fengler — the uh, physicist?” he muttered. “From — uh, Haigerloch?

  Fengler looked up and replied with a curt nod, but said nothing.

  Kilbride took a deep breath and looked across the desk at Rashid. “You know, Colonel, that’s one of the things I really wanted to talk to you about.” Kilbride was speaking to Rashid, but his eyes went to a long, curved scimitar sword hanging on the wall behind him. The sword appeared to be very old but brightly polished and honed to a razor edge.

  Rashid turned his head, his eyes following Kilbride’s. “Ah, you are admiring my sword. It is an antique, you know. Reportedly, it belonged to the great Salah ad-Din himself and is the very one he used to execute the infidel General Raynald de Chatillon after the Battle of Hattin, for insulting Islam. They say that with one sure stoke, Salah ad-Din lopped the man’s head off as if he were cutting a melon from a vine, or so the story goes.”

  “I, uh… yes, I can see that,” Kilbride replied as Rashid stood and lifted the long, heavy sword down from the wall.

  Holding it with both hands, Rashid raised it over his head and swung it first left and then right with a loud Whoosh! Whoosh! as Kilbride quickly backed away. Rashid’s lips formed a thin smile as he lowered it and laid the long, gleaming blade on the desk between them. “Oh, I doubt it was actually his sword,” he said, “but one can always dream, can’t one?”

  Kilbride could not take his eyes off the sword. “Uh, look, Colonel,” he began again, trying desperately to regain his “serious Ambassador” form. Serious was usually his best, and it had always worked for him in the past. “You’re a busy man, but I know you’re the kind of guy a fellow can talk straight with. Am I right?”

  “Quite true,” Rashid conceded pleasantly.

  “Damned straight.” Kilbride smiled, reassuring himself. “Now the way I see it, you and I, we’ve got a lot going for us right now; and we’re going to have a lot more going for us real soon, if you know what I mean.” Kilbride edged even closer to the desk, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I know I don’t have to beat around the bush with you, Colonel; but there are some really wild stories floating around town right now.”

  “Wild stories?” Rashid smiled. “Oh, you know what these third-world countries are like, Mr. Ambassador. In the Souk, one can always find stories about a new conspiracy, a war someone wants to start, spies, foreigners, or a coup by a band of Moslem fanatics out to overthrow the government. Are those the kind of wild stories you have been hearing?”

  “There! You see,” Kilbride clapped his hands together in relief. “That’s exactly what I told State! I knew there wasn’t…”

  “Then again,” Rashid interrupted, “one cannot always dismiss every rumor that lightly. Deep down inside, they sometimes carry a kernel of truth. For instance, I am sure you have heard the wild story about a secret base someone is building out in the desert. That is where this group of fanatics is supposedly making their rockets and even an atomic bomb. A little people like us? A-rabs? Wogs? Now, is that not ridiculous, Mr. Ambassador?”

  “Uh, yes,” Kilbride answered awkwardly, turning his eyes toward Collins for help. The young agent continued to stand there smiling as if the entire conversation went right over his head. “Yes, ridiculous,” Kilbride finally answered. “Naturally, I didn’t believe a word of it; but we have this troublemaker over at the embassy…”

  “Ah, you must be referring to your discredited CIA agent Thomson.” Rashid nodded fondly. “Clearly he was the best man you had, Mr. Ambassador — very resourceful, very persistent, and undoubtedly the only person in your Embassy with a brain in his head,” Rashid added as he glanced at Collins. “However, you asked me about rockets and atomic bombs. What would we do with such things? A small, backward people such as us?” he looked at Kilbride and smiled. “Well, I suppose we could use them to annihilate the Zionist cancer you Westerners visited upon us; or we could use them to push all the foreign devils out of the Middle East, even you ignorant Americans. We could do something like that, could we not?” He paused to focus the full power of his eyes on the Ambassador and added, “You know, when you stop and think about it, perhaps you do have a reason to be concerned, Mr. Ambassador.”

  Kilbride shrank back in confusion. “Yes, yes, — well, I can see what you boys are getting at. You want a little ‘clout,’ that’s all. Sure, I get it! Stir things up a little, get some attention, make a few threats so the other folks in the neighborhood will sit up and take notice. I guess we all gotta keep up with the Joneses, so to speak.” He chuckled, convincing himself that he was right as usual. “Isn’t that about the size of it?”

  “If you say so, Mr. Ambassador,” Rashid leaned forward, toying with him like a large cat with a very small mouse. “After all, you were the one who told me that no one ‘at your end’ would shed a tear if our ‘dear President, Gamal’ was no longer ‘in the picture’? Were those not the very words you spoke to me, Ambassador Kilbride?”

  “Well, yes, but…”

  “And did you not say that ‘those Jews should be taught a lesson,’ one that will put them ‘in their place’?” Rashid’s voice bore in.

  Kilbride became flustered. “Well, sure, but I never figured…”

  “Figured? You ne
ver figured what — that anyone would ever take a drunken buffoon like you seriously?” Rashid mocked him. “Well, you need not worry; I do not and never did. As for the stories you heard, you will find out how true they are at noon today. You need not fret about our making new military pacts with the Russians, however; because that will not happen. We shall not be making any with you, either. Those days are gone forever. After noon today, the Zionist menace will trouble us no more. Professor Fengler’s warheads will see to that. Will they not, Professor?”

  Fengler quickly sat up and nodded, swallowing hard.

  Rashid turned his full attention back on Kilbride, and watched the Ambassador twist and turn under his powerful gaze. “Once that task is complete, General al-Baquri’s troops and tanks will move on Cairo. They will seize the barracks, the bridges, the key government offices, and the radio tower. Then, when my message is broadcast to the Army and the people, once they understand what we have accomplished, there will be dancing in the streets from Morocco to Teheran.”

  “Do you think Nasser’s gonna just sit there and let you take over?”

  “Oh,” Rashid smiled, “our beloved President — you need not worry about him. He will already be dead,” Rashid said as his hand reached out and his fingertips caressed the blade. “Were you not the one who said the only thing standing in my way was Gamal Abdel Nasser? In fact, was this whole thing not your idea? Like the British king who asked, ‘Will no one rid me of this cursed priest?’ ”

  Kilbride’s face turned beet red. The man was near panic. “I — I never meant rockets or nuclear bombs, Rashid. You can’t be serious.”

  “Serious? Do you think this is some game we are playing?” He sat forward and glared across the desk. “Today is the day I redraw the map of the Middle East, Kilbride. When those rockets lift into the desert sky, they shall signal an uprising that will sweep the Moslem lands clean,” he said as his hand closed around the leather handle of the scimitar. “That is when all the foreign devils in our midst shall die, including you.”

  The Ambassador went wide-eyed. Rashid watched his reaction and smiled. “Meanwhile, you shall remain here as my guest until this business is completed. After all, I would not want you spreading any more of those ridiculous rumors of yours, would I?”

  That was when the door to Rashid’s office flew open, slammed against the wall, and Grüber stomped into the room. Head bandaged and uniform filthy, he dragged Ilsa Fengler behind him. She wore a man’s suit jacket and her leg was wrapped in a bloody bandage.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Her father exclaimed as Grüber dropped her on the floor in the center of the room.

  “Oh, you need not worry, Herr Professor,” Grüber taunted him. “Your darling daughter will live. She helped the American escape, and it appears she got in the way of a bullet. Afterward, she had the misfortune of getting caught — by me.”

  “What of the American?” Rashid’s voice silenced them.

  Grüber’s arrogance immediately vanished. “I had him — but he escaped again.”

  “Oh, thank God!” Kilbride moaned.

  “And he will stop you,” Ilsa Fengler shouted defiantly as she rose to her knees. “Papa, this is madness. Can you not see that?” she pleaded, but all her father would do was turn his eyes away, too embarrassed to look at her.

  “Take them away!” Rashid ordered Grüber in a fit of rage. “Lock them in the blockhouse, all of them — Kilbride, his lackey, Fengler, and the girl, all of them. And Major Grüber, as your reward for letting Thomson escape yet again, you shall stay inside with them. Al-Baquri’s men will be posted outside. If there is even the slightest mistake in there, none of you will leave that bunker alive — none of you! Do you hear me, Herr Doktor Professor Fengler? If those rockets do not fly at precisely noon, you shall all die!”

  Thomson drove the old Fiat back through the city, keeping to the side streets, so he would not attract any attention. Attention? One quick look inside the car by the Cairo police was all it would take. They would see two disheveled men — bandaged, bruised, and bloody — and that would be the end of it. He turned into a narrow alleyway and drove the car halfway to the end before he stopped and turned off the engine.

  “Where are we?” Saleh’s groggy voice asked as Thomson helped him out.

  “At the last friendly watering hole in town.” Thomson answered as he took the Egyptian by the arm and carried him to a back doorway. “Jeremy, for God’s sake, open up.” He banged on the wood until his knuckles were raw.

  “Is this the Englishman’s bar?” Saleh mumbled as he heard footsteps and a heavy steel bar being lifted on the other side. The door swung open a few inches and Saleh smiled. “I knew I should have had that man deported.”

  “Now, that’s gratitude for you,” Jeremy snorted as Thomson pushed the door open and carried Saleh past the surprised English bartender. “Are you bonkers, Thomson?” Jeremy fumed, but he did not stop them. “You’re the hottest ticket in town, and that’s one trouble I bloody well don’t need.” He took a long, hard look at the condition of the two men and an even longer look at Saleh. “And who’s the Wog? Is he in as much trouble with the coppers as you are?”

  “Jeremy, he is the coppers, or at least he was. Meet Captain Saleh of the Metropolitan Police, so try to be nice.”

  “Oh, bloody hell,” Jeremy groaned and closed the door behind them.

  “What is the time?” Saleh’s rasping voice asked, ignoring their chatter.

  “Uh, it’s after eleven o’clock, I guess,” Jeremy answered.

  “We have less than an hour. A telephone, I must have a telephone.”

  “Whatever you say, Captain, whatever you say,” Jeremy said as he grabbed Saleh’s other arm, and quickly led them into the bar, still not sure. “Right here in the corner.”

  Saleh leaned heavily against the wall and lifted the receiver. He tried to focus his eyes as he stabbed a shaky finger at the dial and waited impatiently for someone to answer. When he spoke, Saleh’s voice was hoarse and angry. The words were Arabic, spoken quickly. Thomson didn’t understand, but he could see the disappointment written across Saleh’s face as he got his answer.

  Slowly, he lowered the receiver into its cradle and hung up. “I have failed.” His voice cracked. “Gamal has already left for Heliopolis.” He suddenly turned toward Thomson and pleaded, “You must take me there, now! I must stop him before it is too late.”

  “Saleh,” Thomson shook his head, “look at yourself. You can’t even stand up.”

  The small detective would hear none of it. “Take me there, Mister Thomson. I know you intend to go there yourself, but you will surely fail if you try to do this thing alone. You need me, because I’m the only one who can get you through the gate.”

  Thomson looked at him and rolled his eyes, regretting what he was about to do.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The guards snapped to rigid attention as the motorcade drove through the gate. The lead car was a long black Cadillac, the one that had formerly transported King Farouk on his infrequent excursions into the countryside. Now, two small pennants flew from the Cadillac’s front fenders. One was the red, green, and black flag of Egypt. The other bore the gold seal of its President. Inside, a small writing desk and a basket of fresh fruit had replaced the car’s once well-stocked bar and were far more befitting the lifestyle of its new owner. Still, the big limousine had its uses. With heavy-duty tires and a reinforced suspension, it easily carried the extra weight of the steel plates hidden inside its door panels and beneath its floorboards.

  As the car swept past, the guards could be excused for turning their heads and stealing a quick glimpse of the unmistakable square chin, jutting hawk nose, and round, dark profile of their President, Gamal Abdel Nasser, in the rear seat. Following behind the limousine and trying to keep up were two smaller staff cars filled with the President’s aides and personal bodyguards. The short convoy did not stop or even slow at the gate. Instead, it sped through, leaving the guards s
tanding in a cloud of choking dust as it continued down the road toward the open field in the center of the air base, where a reviewing stand and an expectant crowd waited.

  Nasser glanced at his watch and smiled. It was eleven-fifty. By design, he was always early or late but never on time. There had been too many narrow escapes over the past seven years, and they taught him that lesson all too dearly. The more beloved the politician, the greater the hatred he generated among the malcontents. Therefore, a modest degree of unpredictability was preferable to being politely correct and dead.

  As the Cadillac approached the reviewing stand, he surveyed the large, handpicked crowd that gathered and waited impatiently beneath the scorching noonday sun. The group was larger than he expected. Most were government functionaries or old comrades in arms, that network of friends and allies that any leader must rely upon, particularly in the fragile arena of rifle-barrel politics. To even his surprise, Ali Rashid must have invited them all, and they had all showed up. That was a good thing, Nasser reluctantly admitted to himself, because he needed them as much as they needed him. Still, it never hurt to remind them who ran Egypt — Nasser, the desert, and the sun. The order did not matter.

  “Park behind the reviewing stands,” he said quietly to his driver. The big car rolled to a stop only a few feet away from the horde of assembled Generals and politicians. Before they could lunge forward to open the door and greet him, his personal bodyguards had arrived and pushed them back, clearing a wide circle around the car and a path through the crowd. To add to the expectant drama, Nasser waited a long, well-timed moment before he stepped out. He rose to his full height and returned their greeting with a wave of his hand. Everyone in the crowd immediately recognized the curly black hair and broad shoulders of their President, and broke into enthusiastic applause. Nasser glanced around at their faces and smiled. This was a proud moment for them. They knew why they had been invited, and it put each of them in elite company. More importantly, they knew what this day would mean for Egypt.