by Fritz Galt
“No.” Eli didn’t even know what a superconducting chip was.
“You’ve heard about SATO?”
“Only just a few minutes ago.”
There was a long pause.
“I’m afraid I can’t talk with you about this, sir.”
Eli found himself on a dead line.
It was one of the strangest things that had ever happened to him. Aside from making him mad, it aroused even greater suspicion.
He phoned back Daniel Pryor, the DDI, right away. “Your man just hung up on me.”
“What was his name?”
“Jeremy Watts in Research. He refused to divulge the information I needed.”
“I’ll have him sent over to you at once.”
Ten minutes later, Daniel Pryor appeared in person at Eli’s office door.
“Where’s Jeremy?” Eli asked.
“We’re looking for him right now.” Daniel took a seat across from Eli’s desk. “He appears to have bolted. Left the building in a hurry. We’re sealing off the exits in the parking lots.”
“No kidding. I only wanted to talk to the guy.”
“Nobody hangs up on you,” Daniel said. “Nobody.”
At that moment, Eli realized why the high-browed, barrel-chested, black lawyer had made such a damned good Assistant Attorney General during President Damon’s first term. Daniel Pryor was decisive.
Eli took the opportunity to ask the same question to Daniel that Jeremy Watts had put to him. “What do you know about SATO?”
“You mean NATO?”
“No, I believe it’s called SATO, with an ‘S.’”
Daniel furrowed his heavily creased brow. “I can’t think of anything. Is it something we should know about?”
Just then there was a polite knock at the door.
Dwight Goode, Eli’s assistant, stepped into the office. He was still holding the note with the SATO cable number on it. “If you’ll pardon me, sir,” the young man said. “This cable didn’t come from us. It’s a fictitious cable number.”
“How did a top secret classified cable from the Agency reach Bern if it didn’t come from us?” Eli asked.
“Someone has access to our equipment, sir.”
“If that’s the case, we’re in big trouble,” Eli said. He thanked his assistant and dismissed him.
Just as Dwight was leaving, a breathless security agent appeared in the doorway.
“Mr. Pryor, sir. The compound is sealed off. We believe the subject is trying to scale the fence.”
“What?” Daniel exclaimed.
“Looks like Jeremy Watts saw us closing down the gates, so he’s driving across the grass toward a far corner. We’re giving chase.”
“I want him brought back, alive,” Daniel thundered.
“Yes, sir,” the man said with a salute, and spun about to leave, a radiophone pressed to his lips.
“Damnit,” Daniel said. “What’s going on here?”
Eli licked his lips. “I think it has something to do with a superconducting chip and the president’s life.”
Chapter 34
After his chat with the deputy director of operations, Everett Hoyle set the high-security phone down and sighed. What more could he do? Mick and Natalie were attacking the problem in Morocco. There wasn’t much he could tackle on the sidelines in Bern.
However, he had jotted down a few leads to follow. For one thing, using the resources at his disposal, he could find out more about the man named Brahim Abbad.
Checking his printed list of embassy phone numbers, he found a number for Rabat, the capital of Morocco.
His phone call to Morocco caught Gus Carlucci at a bad moment. It was the start of a Brewers double-header.
“Sorry to take you away from the game,” he apologized to his fellow station chief in Morocco. It was a Thursday afternoon, for God’s sake. Not like he was impinging on sacred evening hours.
“That’s okay,” Gus said. “The game’s on tape anyway. A buddy mailed it to me.”
“Oh, I see. So let me explain the situation.”
Everett didn’t know Gus personally, but he assumed that the station chief was somewhat on the ball. After all, Rabat attracted the best talent and was a plum post for many reasons.
Morocco was one of the biggest beneficiaries of American aid. Its control of the strategically important Strait of Gibraltar and its moderate voice in the Islamic world all made it a key ally of America.
Furthermore, it was a gem of a posting for anyone serving in Africa. Bidding for any job in Morocco was fierce. To scramble to the top of the heap, Gus not only had to serve plenty of time in Africa, he had to master both French and Arabic, which was no small feat.
After Everett explained the search for a potential assassin in North Africa, Gus summed up. “I gather you need me to contact local authorities and get the scoop on Brahim Abbad.”
“That’s it in a nutshell.”
“Fine. I’ll get back to you.”
The two hung up.
And that was that. Gus Carlucci was on the case.
Everett glanced down at his clipboard. There were two more leads he needed to pursue before heading home.
Maybe Tobias had gotten somewhere with the Khalid Slimane that Estrella had caught at the Reithalle. And maybe Interpol had something on Brahim.
Everett picked up the phone. First he would dial Tobias.
“Federal Police,” a bright, female voice answered.
“Inspektor Bürgi, please,” he said. The police seemed calm enough, considering the crime wave that had swept over Switzerland.
“Ja, what?” a low, despondent voice said.
“Hi, Tobias. It’s Everett. Any repercussions from last night?”
“Well, I’m writing up an award for your wife.”
Everett had to laugh. “I’m sure that’s not what’s keeping you busy.”
“Our Khalid spent the night in interrogation. We’re still working on him. We found a few links, but nothing helpful. He seemed to be loosely connected with someone named Brahim Abbad in Geneva.”
“Bingo.”
“Bingo?”
“That means—” Everett searched for the right term. “Bingo.”
He flipped through his clipboard for his notes from Natalie’s call to Paul. She had come up with a goldmine of information. The assassin, from Morocco, had one of two names. It was either Brahim Abbad or Khalid Slimane. He worked for the Proteus Jihad, directed by Sir Trevor O’Smythe in Switzerland. And, at the moment, she was staying with Brahim Abbad in Morocco.
“We’ve learned that one of our operatives,” Everett said carefully, “is staying with Brahim Abbad, somewhere in Morocco. The question is, is he an assassin?”
“Well, we’ve already checked our files and those at Interpol. Abbad is a common name in that region of Africa. But there are no past or present cases against a Brahim Abbad in Europe.”
That gave Everett some measure of relief, but not entirely. He was glad that Gus Carlucci was tracking down more information about Abbad from the embassy in Rabat.
Everett picked up the report he was writing back to the Agency about Suzy’s death.
“Did you determine why your suspect killed Suzy?”
“He didn’t reveal any motives,” Tobias said. “Which tells me something.”
“Me, too. He’s been told to be quiet.”
“Would it help if I came in and interviewed him?”
Tobias took a deep breath. “You’ll need authorization from the Foreign Ministry. It might take a few days.”
“Christ, I don’t have a few days.”
Tobias cleared his throat. “What’s your feeling?”
“My feeling is that someone had to leak news of the presidential visit to Proteus, and the most likely source was Suzy, poor woman.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Tobias said soberly. “Only I didn’t want to make the accusation. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not your fault.”
Everett set his report on Suzy’s death down and returned to his notes on Natalie’s conversation with Paul. It appeared that Proteus, named either Brahim Abbad or Khalid Slimane, was being directed by a man in Saas Fee, the character who may have kidnapped Mick.
“One more thing, Tobias. What do you know about Sir Trevor O’Smythe. He’s an arms dealer living in Saas Fee.”
“That’s not exactly my territory, but ja, he has a reputation. I’ve heard of him.”
“It looks like he’s connected with Proteus, and likely directing things behind the scenes.”
There was silence on the other end.
“Are you still there?” Everett asked.
“Ja. I’m thinking. We could wiretap O’Smythe’s phone.”
“That would be excellent.”
Everett decided not to ask about privacy considerations or the need for court orders. Boy, he loved Switzerland.
“Let me know what you find out.”
Chapter 35
The Muslim equivalent of an Irish wake took place at Mustapha Skah’s three-room flat. Stepping around puddles from a rare afternoon rain shower, an endless line of friends and relatives arrived from all over Settat, and beyond.
Natalie helped carry in one steaming aluminum platter of food after another. The smells of cooked almonds and raisins and chicken blended into a wonderful aroma.
She paused to observe the late afternoon sunlight that flooded through rain-streaked windows. It fell on a tile pattern on the living room wall. The pattern, full of symmetry and complexity, apparently represented an Islamic view of the world. In submitting to death, Mustapha had found his final niche in the incomprehensible pattern of Allah’s creation.
Khalid had introduced her to Mustapha’s widow and her small children. If she hadn’t seen her in tears at the funeral, Natalie wouldn’t have guessed that the plump woman, now busily serving tea and coffee, was in mourning.
Natalie felt like she was discovering a key to a beautiful, locked box. She was beginning to realize that food was life to Moroccans. One welcomed friends with food, one celebrated religious festivals around the table, and by sharing one’s culinary efforts, one commemorated a life.
In the house, most women removed their heavy djellabahs, revealing blue jeans and sequined blouses. They generally stood in two small, noisy rooms. In a larger room, men sat joylessly on banquettes that lined the apartment walls. Their numbers overflowed onto a laundry terrace on top of the building.
Natalie waited for the right moment to get free and read the letters that Mick had passed to her.
She slipped through the crowded room and descended the stairs to an outhouse that she had discovered earlier.
Straddling a hole in the concrete, she stared over the door at a faint rainbow. Both Mick’s Scotch-Irish and Native American sides would appreciate the omen. Then she carefully opened his unsealed envelope to Proteus.
A typewritten message addressed simply to “Proteus” read that a sample of an “irradiated superconductor substrate” had already been obtained, “which was sufficient to fulfill your contract.”
“Don’t do anything unnecessary,” the letter went on. “Don’t take any measures against the American president. And release the female diplomat when you see fit.”
The typewritten signature read, “Trevor.”
She liked the “release the female diplomat” part.
But, given Khalid’s determination earlier in the day to assassinate President Damon, she doubted if the letter would be sufficient to persuade him to stop. Did Sir Trevor O’Smythe have that much pull with the Proteus Jihad? She couldn’t count on the letter to call off the assassination attempt. And she wouldn’t.
She also wondered how many others besides Khalid belonged to the Proteus Jihad. Would the letter ever reach all of them in time?
Then she fingered the envelope from the Women’s Clinic. It seemed surreal that the slip of paper inside could hold such heavy news. Whenever she found Mick again, she would break the seal and read it. Until such time, whatever the letter said would simply make her sad.
In the midst of the profound issues of life and death surrounding her, she was standing in a latrine.
She slipped the envelope unopened into her blouse and pretended to push a lever.
“Glub, glub, glub,” she said aloud, imitating the sound of flushing.
Then she pushed the door open and mounted the stairs to the crowded apartment. Passing through the room where people brought in food, she discreetly propped the letter, with the name “Proteus” clearly visible, against a cone-shaped bowl.
The deed was done.
A moment later the room was filled with chattering voices and clanking dishes. When she glanced once again at the table, the letter was gone.
She wasn’t able to see who took it, or pick up its trail. But she imagined that a woman had passed the envelope into the room full of men, and then, from one couscous-smeared hand to the next, it worked its way out the door and up the steps, perhaps all the way to the rooftop terrace, until it reached the right person.
She assumed that most men at the wake knew for whom it was intended.
Alec and Anaïs were able to book a direct flight from Paris to Casablanca. With news that Natalie was shacked up with Brahim Abbad, aka Khalid, in Morocco and knowing that Khalid was a trained killer, Alec wanted to waste no time in rescuing his sister-in-law.
But the initial impact of the enormous arrival hall at Mohammed V Airport, with the confusing array of bank windows, car rental booths and information desks, rocked Alec back on his heels.
“What’s the exchange rate here?” he wondered aloud.
“What’s the currency even called?” Anaïs asked.
“Another good question.”
The two passed several bank windows and compared exchange rates for French francs. As Alec should have guessed, the dirham-franc exchange rates were identical from window to window.
“Want a better rate? Come with me.”
Alec tried to ignore a pesky, Peter Lorre-type voice behind him. The man had an awful smell.
“Good rate. Trade American dollars.”
Alec turned to tell the vermin to shove off when he realized that the joke was on him.
“Mick?”
“Dr. Livingstone, I presume?”
Not only was it a familiar face in a strange country, it was his own brother. Alive.
He gave Mick an enormous bear hug. Mick didn’t protest, but didn’t exactly reciprocate.
“Sorry to say this,” Alec told Mick. “But you really reek. Don’t you ever change your clothes?”
“Don’t you like these expensive duds? I got ’em cheap.”
“I’d appreciate them more if you found a dry cleaner and maybe took a bath.”
“Yeah,” Mick sighed. “Maybe someday I will. But more importantly, what are you doing here?”
“What do you think I’m doing here? I came looking for Natalie, and I find you.”
“You didn’t find me. I was never lost.”
Yeah. Mick always had a way with words.
Alec stood back and looked at his elder brother. Mick looked like a wreck. He hadn’t shaved recently, his breath stunk and his suit was covered with red dust. “So, are you coming or going?”
“Going.”
“Where’s Natalie?” Alec asked.
“Long story. She’s still here.”
“Bummer. Let’s grab a seat and talk.”
Mick glanced at his empty wrist, then at the departure board. “I’ve only got a few minutes.”
“Then we’ll make it quick.” While he herded them up a flight of stairs, Alec introduced Anaïs to his brother.
Like any other airport in the world, Mohammed V contained restaurants selling Coke, dried-out tuna sandwiches and other uninteresting approximations of Western cuisine.
They found a dark restaurant glittering with round chrome tables. Alec noticed that Mick positioned himself so that he
could keep an eye on the terminal through the tall panels of smoked glass.
A waiter came to take their order.
Alec nodded at Mick. “You know this country better than I do. You order for us.”
“Yeah. I’ve been here for all of twenty-four hours,” he said. “Orange juice for everybody.”
The waiter nodded and left.
Alec was bursting with news, but the questions came first. “Did you find Natalie?”
“Yes.”
“Great. Where is she?”
“I saw her in a town called Settat, an hour’s drive south of Casa.”
Anaïs leaned forward. “Then why didn’t you bring her out?”
Mick looked at the young woman and shrugged. “Perhaps I could have, if I’d put a gun to her head. But she seemed perfectly content to stay there.”
Alec studied Mick’s dejected expression. His brother wasn’t aware of the enormous dangers at hand. “Do you have any idea who we’re dealing with here?”
Mick sounded tired. “I know he’s dangerous. And so does she. But she’s not being held hostage. I gave her the opportunity to leave with me, and she told me to take a hike.”
“She told you to take a hike?” Alec could picture his sister-in-law saying that to a lot of people, but not to Mick.
“Not in as many words,” Mick admitted. “She doesn’t want me mixed up in this, and I don’t intend to interfere.”
The waiter dropped off three tall, sweating glasses of orange juice, with seeds still floating on the froth. Mick pushed his across the table to Alec and checked the departure board.
Desperate, Alec pressed his brother with more questions and learned, to his surprise, that the president’s life was at stake.
“Good God, the president. Just so the Japs can control the market for microchips?”
“That’s what I heard,” Mick said. “Why don’t you tell me what you know?”
So Alec shared all the information he knew. It turned out that they were working both ends against the middle. He was trying to track the would-be assassin down, and Mick was trying to head the assassin off.
“Why did you stick me with that corpse in Montreux?” Mick asked.