Spy Zone

by Fritz Galt

  “When you disappeared in Geneva, I became worried. I called Monsieur O’Smythe. He told me to find your brother and his wife. They might know where you were. He gave me their address at a hotel in Montreux. Of course, I wanted to find you.”

  “Did I fool Mick and Natalie, too?” he said with a rueful grin.

  “Nobody knew where you were. I understood that at once. O’Smythe even sent a man to follow Natalie and to try to find a transcript of your dying words. Anyway, as soon as a woman seduced Mick—”

  “Seduced my brother?” He jumped to his feet and felt like he had just slammed into the ceiling. He sat down abruptly.

  “Yes. I don’t know where she took him. So I talked to Natalie, who is a very nice lady, and let her use my apartment while we looked for you and Mick. And then I guess her affection grew for Khalid.”

  Alec’s brother had been seduced? His sister-in-law had run off to Morocco to have a fling? The sheer implausibility of it all was making him dizzy. He needed fresh air. He got to his feet, steadied himself and made his way to the window.

  His belt-less pants instantly slid to his knees. With a graceful sweep of the hand, he caught them and pulled them up.

  “Khalid Slimane,” he said. “He’s the last person in the world that Natalie should be with.”

  “Why do you say that? I introduced them.”

  “Anaïs,” he said, glaring at her. “Khalid is a killer.”

  “Our Khalid is no killer.”

  “He might not seem like one, but under all that ineptitude and bumbling, he’s an assassin. I’ll bet he’s the one behind the plot to kill the president. Did you know that his name isn’t even Khalid? It’s Brahim Abbad. The real Khalid told me the whole story just before he died.”

  She scooted back in shock. “Who died?”

  Alec’s thoughts returned to the sailboat accident on Lake Geneva where Omar Naftir had revealed that his real name was Khalid Slimane, but he had assumed the false identity of Omar Naftir when entering Switzerland in order to avoid detection by Swiss immigration.

  As he watched his friend die, Alec had seized the opportunity to plant his identity cards on Omar and go underground to undermine the fake Khalid’s plan. “Khalid was a friend who gave his life to pass information on to me. The wrong information as it turns out.”

  “What information?”

  Alec eyed her carefully. Was she as innocent as she appeared, or was she trying to find out how much he knew? Hell, she had knocked one of the captors out. He could risk telling her more.

  He parted the curtains and looked out at the city. They were on the Champs Elysées, with l’Arc de Triomphe on their left. That meant they were at the Hôtel Georges V.

  “The killer must have set me up,” he said. “Your friend Khalid told the real Khalid that a package would pass hands on the square in front of the Sorbonne at sunrise. So that’s what sent me here to wait for the transfer. You made the transfer. I was the package.”

  “Alec, you’re confusing me.”

  “Your friend Khalid suckered me into coming to Paris, to this square to kill me. Only I’m not dead…”

  Creak. Someone was trying the door handle.

  “…yet, that is.”

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” she said. “They’re coming back.”

  Natalie rushed into the mother’s kitchen where she had seen a phone. The old woman was there, packing up food.

  Natalie asked in French if she might use the phone, but the woman didn’t understand.

  Natalie picked it up anyway.

  But who to alert? Her SATO connection seemed dubious by now. She no longer trusted a mechanical voice that wasn’t interested in the information she felt was vital to relate. She could visualize that conversation in an instant:

  “Hello, someone’s going to shoot the president.”

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  In the case of an assassination attempt, theoretically she would inform Paul Schroeder, the Regional Security Officer at the embassy in Bern. But Everett Hoyle had sent in the police to capture her at Khalid’s hotel in Geneva, and the thought of giving away her new location made her uneasy.

  On the other hand, whose phone number did she know? The embassy in Bern was her only option.

  Dialing frantically, she glanced out the window to make sure Khalid wasn’t approaching.

  “Guten Tag. Amerikanishe Botschaft,” a woman answered. “American Embassy.”

  “Paul Schroeder, please,” she said.

  Paul’s phone rang for a full thirty seconds before someone picked it up, but didn’t answer. In the background, she heard Paul issuing orders.

  Finally he came on the line. “Yes?”

  “Paul, it’s me. Natalie Pierce.”

  Paul sucked in his breath. Before he could respond, she continued.

  “I’ve uncovered an assassination plot. Got a pen handy?”

  Out the window, Khalid was kissing the two sheiks good-bye.

  She spoke as clearly and succinctly as possible. “The assassin is Moroccan, and he seems to have two names, Brahim Abbad and Khalid Slimane. He plans to kill President Damon within a week, somewhere in Switzerland. He works for the Proteus Jihad, which seems to be directed by a man named Trevor O’Smythe, also in Switzerland. Right now I’m here with Brahim in Morocco. I don’t know any more details. Do you have all this?”

  “Got it.”

  She saw the sheik’s car pull away.

  “Quick question. Have you found Mick?”

  Khalid’s dark hair passed under the kitchen window.

  Before Paul could respond, she had to hang up the phone.

  “Let’s go out the window,” Anaïs whispered. She sprang to Alec’s side and pulled the window open for him.

  He stepped gingerly onto the red tiles of the Hôtel Georges V’s roof and offered her a hand.

  “You watch out for yourself,” she said. “You’re not well yet.” She stepped through the window frame with the agility of a gymnast.

  The fresh air helped Alec erase his thoughts about his brother and sister’s infidelities. And the sheer angle of the rooftop helped sharpen his focus. The key to walking on terracotta tiles was to reach the peak of the roof…and not to lose his pants. He also realized that if he ever got away from Khalid’s men, he would have to fly to Morocco to stop Khalid once and for all.

  His knees still felt weak. With gingerly steps, he climbed toward the top of the roof. Tiles broke underfoot and clattered down to the edge and fell to the ground eight floors below. He bent over to use his hands for balance. Then he heard the door crash open in their hotel room.

  He looked back. Anaïs was following close behind.

  “To the fire escape,” she said.

  He was surprised by the calm and confidence in her voice. Had she done this sort of thing before? He looked ahead. An iron ladder extended down the other side of the roof to a fire escape. That led to a back alley.

  Behind him, an angry shout arose from the open window.

  Alec eased a foot onto the ladder, and soon he and Anaïs were clambering down its rungs. That let them off at the fire escape, an exterior set of metal stairs.

  He put aside the stiffness in his joints and began to race down the steps. He didn’t bother to muffle the clanging sound that his shoes made.

  He reached the bottom and looked up. Several men appeared on the rooftop and headed for the fire escape. He heard the squeal of tires. A powerful sedan roared in from the far end of the alley.

  “This way,” Alec cried.

  He grabbed Anaïs by the hand and hobbled past several trash bins along the wall of the alley in the direction of the onrushing car. He hoped to reduce the time that the driver had to react.

  The driver jerked in their direction, but too late. He overshot them and had to jam on the brakes. The brakes locked and the heavy car fishtailed into the hotel’s trash. Bags of garbage spilled out at the foot of the fire escape.

  Alec and Anaïs arrived at the Cha
mps-Elysées, the busy boulevard on the Right Bank.

  It would be easier for them to escape down small, one-way roads. So he headed away from the crowds. Feet pounded behind them as their legs carried them downhill. Ahead, the river blocked their way.

  A shot whistled overhead.

  Since there was no bang, they must be using silencers.

  “Take the bridge,” Alec cried, and led Anaïs to the nearest bridge over the Seine.

  Now in public, they kept their heads low and ran. They must have outpaced the gunman, because Alec heard only two more bullets whistle past.

  On the other side of the river, they headed for cover in an upscale residential neighborhood. They took several turns through the maze of streets and suddenly came upon a large, open park.

  In the sudden quiet, Alec heard a man running up the sidewalk. He looked at the park for a place to hide. It was more than a park. They were on the grounds of the Eiffel Tower.

  Alec glanced over his shoulder. The man had turned the last corner and waved his gun at them.

  Alec yanked Anaïs in front of him and turned toward the grassy field on which the tower sat.

  A tour group had just climbed out of a bus and was crowding together to take a group picture.

  Alec pushed Anaïs through the mass of people, only to encounter another tour group. This one was lying in the grass and smoking cigarettes. Alec plunged into the cloud of smoke.

  “Tar and nicotine,” Anaïs said. “It is bad for your health.”

  Alec heard a metallic ping, and a bullet crumpled the side of the group’s bus.

  “That isn’t good, either,” he shouted.

  They wove in and out of a line of buses to avoid a direct shot from behind. The access road ended, and there was only grass between them and the Eiffel Tower.

  “Think we need a ticket?” he said between strides.

  He broke for one of the tower’s four legs.

  “Are you crazy?” she said.

  She hesitated and Alec came back to pull her after him.

  A woman sat behind a window at the ticket office and protested loudly as they vaulted over the turnstiles and began to mount the steps.

  Fifteen seconds later, the assailant’s hard-soled shoes began to ring on the iron stairs below them.

  The staircase spiraled upward endlessly.

  Alec tried to keep pace with the man’s footsteps, but had to cling to a loop of his jeans with one hand and Anaïs with the other.

  Panting heavily, he took a moment to glance back over his shoulder. Anaïs had exhilaration written all over her face. While his thighs were burning, she was just warming up.

  When they reached the first landing, nearly twenty stories above ground level, he searched about for an elevator.

  A line of people had formed at the elevator doors, but there was no elevator.

  “Next platform,” he grunted. “Coming through.”

  He forged a hole through the line of visitors. Then he began the long sprint up the next set of stairs. But he was exhausted. He could use the railing for support, but neither hand was free. He either had to let go of his pants or Anaïs.

  “Why are you still holding my hand?” she said, sounding annoyed.

  He let her go and grabbed the railing.

  Soon, she was ahead of him, pumping her athletic legs as if on an aerobic step machine.

  An elevator arrived at the next landing and passengers stepped out.

  “Jump in,” he said.

  He steered Anaïs by the shoulders, and they bounced against several people inside the car as the door began to close.

  “Going up?” an American man asked.

  Alec looked through the glass ceiling. Pigeon droppings obscured the tower’s needle-like tip. They were running out of options.

  He grabbed the door just before it slammed shut and jerked Anaïs out.

  He had heard no footsteps for some time, but he did hear a crowd below shout angrily. An elevator began grinding up toward them.

  “Go down,” he shouted above the clanking noise.

  Anaïs smiled and wiped some perspiration away. Their sneakers skidded downward. Their knees rose and fell with the steps.

  As he neared the next landing, he heard another angry shout. This time it erupted above them as the elevator spewed out the gunman and a car full of panicked passengers.

  Another elevator had just arrived for Alec and Anaïs. Luckily, it was going down. He yanked her inside and they began to descend.

  “You’re grinding your teeth,” she said.

  They finally reached solid ground.

  “Do you have anything left in you?” he asked.

  “More than you have.”

  “I believe that,” he said, and sprinted onto a pebbled path with Anaïs running smoothly by his side.

  He heard a whisper by his ear. Pebbles jumped up on the path like water dancing in a fountain.

  He turned to look back. Silhouetted against the bright, noonday sky, a figure bent over a pay telescope on the observation deck and aimed his shooting arm straight at them.

  Two more shots whizzed past, this time much closer.

  “His aim is improving,” Alec said. “Keep your head down.”

  “This way,” Anaïs cried.

  She veered to one side and Alec lurched onto the grass. He saw where she was headed. Steps away was a thick grove of pines.

  More bullets thudded into the grass.

  Alec dove forward and skidded headlong into the pines. He came to a halt with pine needles impaled in his stomach.

  Anaïs stopped running, bent over and rolled onto her back, her chest heaving heavily.

  After a few seconds, she crinkled her nose.

  “Oof!”

  Then he caught a whiff. It emanated from the trees. It was so pungent, he had to cover his nose with his sleeve.

  Nearby, a door creaked open. A woman in a babushka stepped out of a public latrine and adjusted her skirt.

  Her eyelids flared when she saw the two of them on the ground, and she uttered an expletive in some language.

  “What’s she complaining about?” he whispered to Anaïs.

  Her eyes traveled down the length of his back.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Absolutely nothing.”

  Then she slapped him on the posterior. The exposed crescents of his derriere stung like crazy.

  “Okay. I get it. No belt. No underpants.”

  Then he looked at his girlfriend more closely.

  “Say, you’re pretty cool under fire. Want to come to Morocco?”

  “Hold the presses,” Paul Schroeder said, and hung up the phone after the aborted call from Morocco.

  Natalie Pierce had dropped a bombshell.

  The group was just picking up their papers to leave his office. They sat down again, Everett Hoyle, Darcy Quierrar and Alfred Mann, head of the political section. Their chairs were arranged haphazardly around his small, chipped desk.

  “That was Natalie Pierce.”

  “The traitor,” Everett said.

  Darcy shot him a look.

  Paul held up both hands to prevent a repeat of the past half hour. “Let’s not get into that again.”

  “Why did she call?” Alfred asked in his mild-mannered way.

  “She’s reporting on the same assassination plot that Mick reported to Everett last night. The two stories seem to mesh. I’m going to pick up the phone and call Washington. This should cancel the visit.”

  “What did she say?” Everett asked.

  “Like Mick, she says someone named Proteus from Morocco is behind the plot, and the target is President Damon. She did add a few more details to flesh out the story.”

  They pulled their chairs closer.

  “For one thing,” Paul read from his notes, “it will take place somewhere in Switzerland…”

  The three looked at each other.

  “That’s us,” Everett said.

  “…within a week,” Paul continued.


  “That’s now,” Darcy said.

  “And he has one of two names,” Paul said. “It’s either Brahim Abbad or Khalid Slimane. Where have we heard that name before?”

  He looked at Everett.

  Everett was madly scribbling on his clipboard.

  “Furthermore, Proteus seems to be directed by a man named Trevor O’Smythe. Has anyone heard of him?”

  “Who hasn’t?” Darcy said. “Major arms dealer, all sorts of connections with the pariah nations of the world. He’s a total scumbag. Lives and works in Saas Fee.”

  Everett dropped his clipboard. “Mick was just in Saas Fee. I wonder if O’Smythe was the one who kidnapped him.”

  Paul shrugged. “It fits. Okay, now what are we going to do about Natalie running around Morocco?”

  He looked expressly at Darcy.

  She pursed her lips. “Let’s just pray she knows what she’s doing.”

  Chapter 32

  Hanging back with other women in black chadors, Natalie ambled behind a donkey-drawn litter bearing Mustapha Skah’s shrouded corpse.

  That morning, after Khalid and the men in the surviving family had washed the body, they had wrapped it in three white cloths, one cloth covering the lower body, one wrapping the torso and the third hiding the face.

  The body bounced along the pitted road, absorbing bumps as if it were still alive. The hazards of the world still exacted their toll on him even after death.

  All around Natalie, women howled and ululated, their tongues fluttering, their shrieks piercing the hot afternoon. Of course, they were paid for the wailing, and they were weeping for a terrorist, a maker of bombs.

  Yet somehow, when she saw his family walking separately and awash in tears, her heart crumbled.

  Ahead of her, men stepped off the curb toward the funeral procession. They greeted the family and friends and tenderly kissed both cheeks while holding each other’s arms.

  Death was never easy to take, no matter where one lived or what one believed.

  Mustapha’s inner circle seemed to have spanned the entire Islamic world. They also seemed to have truly loved him. Friends had gone to tremendous expense and traveled great distances to mourn him in person.