by Fritz Galt
“Don’t apologize,” Mick said. “You’re doing your job.”
In the cafeteria, he ensured that the explosive was securely lodged in his molars before biting into the softest food his could buy. A jelly-filled donut.
It was glorious.
He washed it down with a cup of coffee, while tilting his mouth slightly to one side to prevent the saliva from getting diluted around the tiny battery in the plastique.
At last, he took the elevator to the top floor. The hallway was carpeted, the décor swank.
“Eli Shaw,” Mick read aloud from the nameplate on Eli’s door. “Deputy Director, Operations.”
Mick stepped into the office and grinned at his brown-haired friend with the graying temples.
“Mick Pierce, reporting for duty.”
Eli threw down his paper and rushed over to shake Mick’s hand.
“Sorry to bring you in on a Saturday,” Mick said.
“Are you kidding? Eli said. “I’ve had my staff working around the clock ever since your call. You’ve destroyed my life.”
Mick didn’t doubt that it was true. He looked his old friend in the eye. “Beijing wasn’t that long ago.”
“And Victoria Peak. I’m still trying to forget that one.”
Mick bumped him on the shoulder, like a lineman congratulating a painfully modest punter. “You pulled it off. And got a major promotion out of it.”
“Yeah. And now I’m back home with my wife and kids. Just watching the kids grow up puts the meaning back in life.”
“Well, let’s get this visit over with fast. This place gives me the creeps.”
“First, the simple things,” Eli said. “Let’s take care of your transmitter.”
They trotted down a stairwell to the hardware shop for TSD, the Technical Services Division.
They were taken to a technician who sat in a room full of machines. Looking from Eli to Mick, the young man lost all color.
“Which one of you has the bomb in his teeth?”
Mick peeled back his cheek and lower lip and pointed to the device with his tongue.
“Okay. I see it.”
Meanwhile, Eli lingered by the door.
“I don’t expect you to remove or deactivate the bomb,” Mick explained. “But I would like you to duplicate the signal transmitted by this box.”
He patted the transmitter in his suit jacket.
“Give me a pair of scissors,” Mick said.
The young man found him some office scissors and Mick sliced through several stitches in his suit coat’s lining. The transmitter slid into his palm.
It was a slim, gray plastic box with no buttons, lights or markings.
He placed it in the young man’s hands. “Don’t go far with that thing,” he said. “There’s a ten-foot maximum you can put between that box and this explosive.”
For effect, he once again exposed the putty-like substance molded to his teeth.
“Walk further away,” he continued, “and we’ll be splattered all over this room like tomato paste. They’ll be cleaning us out of the carpet for weeks.”
The man positioned Mick right beside one of his machines.
After fine-tuning the frequency analyzer for several minutes, he said, “The transmitter’s emitting twin signals. One’s a continuous beacon for satellite detection. The other’s a weak signal that, when too weak or broken, will activate the trigger mechanism. That would be the one in your mouth.”
Mick nodded.
“Are you sure that the thing in your mouth is for real?”
“Would you like to test it?”
“No.” He stared into Mick’s mouth. “It does have all the necessary components. Without the alkaline in your saliva, it’ll go off.”
“That’s what I was told,” Mick said. “Do you know how much I’d love a glass of water?”
The technician smiled wanly, his eyes shifting to the water cooler.
Mick was growing tired of all the melodrama. “It’s not the signal to my teeth that I want you to replicate. It’s the satellite beacon. I need some freedom to move about the country without being traced. Is there some way to produce the same frequency with another device?”
“I can’t release equipment without specific authorization.”
Eli Shaw shuffled his feet by the far wall and lifted an eyebrow.
“Done,” the technician said.
“I’ll need three of them,” Mick said.
The technician spun away from his analyzer, picked up a telephone and jabbed in a preprogrammed extension. “Todd, bring me three PT6281Fs, pronto. Thank you.”
A few minutes later, the slim plastic boxes arrived and the technician set the frequencies.
“Here you go, sir,” he said. “Three Personal Transmitters. I adjusted them to broadcast at 471 kilohertz. That should fool ’em.”
“Thanks,” Mick said, and stuffed the new boxes and the original into his pocket. “I’m leaving now.”
He saw a look of relief spread over the young man’s face.
Rising in the elevator with Eli, Mick said, “Did you find out anything about the CERN experiments?”
“Ever since your call last night, I’ve been browbeating my staff to get their hands on more information. Anything.”
“And?”
“They’re still working on it. The experiments are a joint Defense and Energy project. It’s highly classified. They’re telling us to keep our mitts off and that we’ve got no business poking around. I’m trying to work through the top brass to find out more.”
They stepped out of the elevator.
Eli showed Mick to a leather seat. “It’s more private in here. I have a few things to tell you.”
“Shoot.”
“First of all, have you heard of the SATO organization?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Mick said.
Eli sat down behind his desk and examined him closely. “Ever receive a cable from them?”
“Nope.”
“Know anyone who works for them?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Well, something worries me about this whole CERN project: its secrecy, its need-to-know basis. The whole thing seems fishy to me, so I’ve been looking into it. SATO is a shadowy organization that might be connected with CERN and pulls levers in the U.S. Government.”
Eli seemed uncomfortable the longer he talked.
“I mentioned SATO over the phone and a CIA mole comes out of the woodwork and we have to shoot him as he tries to escape.”
“Wait a moment. Someone was shot?”
Eli hung his head dolefully. “You don’t want to know. It’s been hell around here.”
“And not so pretty in Switzerland, either. Listen, I’ll keep my ears open for a SATO, but the main reason I need to talk to you is to convince you that the president must cancel his trip.” He enumerated all his concerns.
Eli listened carefully, then shook his head. “It’s too late to change the president’s mind, or even his itinerary,” he said. “He’s already at the G8 summit in Paris.”
“Listen. Is there anything we can do? Everett Hoyle, my station chief in Bern, shook the crap out of an accomplice of Proteus who killed our secretary. The killer confirmed that the president is a marked man, and that he couldn’t reach Proteus. The assassination plot is irrevocably set in motion.”
“I tell you,” Eli complained, “we don’t have any file on a Proteus. Interpol has nothing either. We can’t verify who this guy is. How can I say for sure that there is a threat? Did the accomplice supply that information?”
“You know how these things work,” Mick said. “Each man’s a cell. Each person only knows a small part of the total picture. Once the plot is set in motion, if someone in the chain is killed or lost or compromised, the plan still proceeds. That’s how it’s designed to work.”
“The Secret Service needs more than what we’ve presented,” Eli said. “It’s all conjecture.”
“How about this?
” Mick said. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a letter addressed to Proteus.
With a confused look on his face, Eli unfolded the letter and read it with skepticism.
Mick paraphrased it for him. “It advises Proteus to both steal a superconducting substrate and to knock off President Damon to fulfill the terms of his contract.”
“Who’s this Trevor that signed the letter?”
“Sir Trevor O’Smythe, a Brit living in Switzerland. He’s coordinating the industrial espionage for a Japanese firm. He’s also the one who rigged me up with this explosive charge.”
“Let’s nail him and the Japanese firm.”
“There’s no time. The president signs the agreement in three days.”
Eli refolded the letter and set it on his desk. “This is enough evidence for the Secret Service to begin an investigation, but not enough to call in the cavalry.”
That was disappointing. Mick needed a different approach.
“Listen,” he said. “This Proteus Jihad tried to take Alec’s life. They killed our station secretary. Now they’re after Natalie. Bodies are lying all over Switzerland. Proteus wants to protect the mission. It’s going to happen.”
“Okay, Mick. The Secret Service needs more evidence before they buy our story. And even if they bought it, the president has a reputation for shrugging off threats and telling the Secret Service to deal with them and leave him alone. So all I can say is, we’ve got to take care of this ourselves.” He leaned forward. “Now, what resources do you need? Name anything.”
“May I use your telephone?”
Eli laughed. “That was easy.”
Mick reached Everett in Bern and told him that, despite all their efforts, the president would still go to Switzerland.
“Sorry. I tried,” he said.
“On our end,” Everett said, “the president will take a whirlwind tour of the Alps on Monday. It’s a security nightmare.”
“How about CERN?”
“We managed to reduce the visit to a low-key signing ceremony,” Everett said. “The ambassador’s pissed off, but what can you do? We cut out the accelerator tour, and there’ll be no formal dinner.”
“Like what, paté de smashed atom?”
“No, I’ve heard from the advance team that the food’s quite good. I’m told the quarks come in several flavors.”
“Pause for laughter. Any news on Natalie or Alec?”
“Not a peep.”
“Well, I’m still working on the research angle,” Mick said. “I can’t find who’s behind this CERN project. It’s DoD and DoE research cloaked in the highest security classification.”
“They won’t open their door to us either,” Everett said.
“Damn it. If I only knew what the experiment was all about…”
“Good luck.” The line clicked dead.
Mick stared at the laptop sitting beside Eli’s desk. “I need a few more things.”
Eli followed his gaze. “You’ll need permission to take that out of the building.”
“Does it have a modem?”
“Yes.”
“Get me permission.”
Eli glanced at the nameplate on his office door for reassurance. Then he handed Mick the laptop.
“You’ve got permission. Anything else?”
“Yeah. How about a mobile phone?”
Eli reached for his belt. “Here, take mine. I know the number, so I can reach you.”
“Does it have international access?”
“Hey, this is the CIA,” Eli said with a laugh.
Mick studied the small device. “Then I’d better learn what these buttons are for.”
“Nothing that dangerous. They just dial numbers. Anything else you need?”
“Yes. Let’s get this explosive out of my mouth.”
Chapter 44
The bashful merchant named Ben waited for Natalie in the Souk Semmarin, the textile souk of Marrakesh.
“He will take you on a tour this afternoon,” Khalid told her.
Natalie wasn’t in the mood for a tour.
“Go with him,” he urged.
Suddenly, he planted a kiss on her lips. It was the first time that they had ever kissed, and she wasn’t able to muster a response.
There was no affection in his embrace. From the self-satisfied twist on his lips as he pulled away, it seemed more like a kiss of conquest.
Then he turned and vanished in the crowd.
“This way, please,” Ben said.
“I’m not going on any tour.”
“We have time to kill.”
That was what she was afraid of. Unfortunately, she had nowhere else to go, no hotel to go to and no one else she knew in Marrakesh. So she went along with Ben.
It turned out that the rotund merchant had a feel for history. He dwelled particularly on the French occupation.
“Each French army barrack was surrounded by hordes of women living in military brothels. By independence, over sixteen thousand prostitutes lived in Marrakesh.”
She stared at the veiled women around her. They weren’t exactly wearing “For Sale” signs around their necks anymore.
Ben took her on a wandering tour through the mellah, the Jewish quarter. Cramped and impoverished it bordered the open expanse of El Badi Palace.
“The king said he kept the Jews close to protect them,” Ben said. “In fact, he wanted to keep an eye on them.”
They wandered into the palace.
“This was built in the sixteenth century from raids on Timbuktu and the caravans of the Sahara,” Ben said.
The few buildings that remained surrounded a long and wide courtyard.
“Why are these trees and gardens sunken in holes?” she asked.
“That way they can reach the underground waterways that crisscross below our city,” he said with pride.
They continued strolling toward the western gate.
“Here’s the palace of my dreams,” he said. “Khalid has reserved a room for you.”
With each footstep, she felt like she was walking into the set of a Hollywood movie depicting Morocco in the Roaring Twenties. The gallery of the Hotel La Mamounia enshrined the visitor in a garish version of Rennie Mackintosh’s geometric art nouveau. The Mamounia Gardens outside the window were an absolute delight to the eye.
“The room is prearranged, Ms. Pierce,” the receptionist said, and handed her the key. “Just sign here.”
Khalid was up to something, but she didn’t know what.
Up several stairs, she found her room. She opened the door into a luminous pastel bedchamber.
“I’ll pick you up at six,” Ben said. “And please wear the dress in the armoire.”
He smiled politely and left.
He’d pick her up? What about Khalid?
Someone had stocked her room with roses, which she allowed herself to smell. There was a bucket with chilled champagne, which she allowed to melt.
She peeked into the armoire and found a soft, white crêpe de Chine dress, strapless, fashionable and exactly her size.
Arriving in Marrakesh was nothing new for Gus Carlucci. He had traveled to the exotic imperial city, both on business and for pleasure several times before.
The key to finding Brahim would be following the tip given him by Brahim’s mother.
“He always meets his friends at the Café Royale.”
Unfortunately, as his taxi driver explained, there were more than a handful of Café Royales in Marrakesh.
“Just take me to the nicest one.”
“There are two nicest ones,” the taxi driver had replied. “One’s in a hotel and the other’s in the Medina.”
“Take me to the Medina.”
He arrived in a sweat just as the restaurant proprietor was chatting with a group of men who were leaving. Among their group was a fiery foreigner, who shuffled her feet temperamentally and more or less behaved like an ignored child.
The owner extracted cash from the men and gl
eefully returned to his cash register.
“How can I help you, monsieur?” he asked, apparently sensing another wealthy patron.
“I’m looking for a man named Brahim Abbad.”
The man jerked a thumb toward the departing group. “That was him.”
Gus trotted outside into the crowd and shielded his eyes against the sun.
The group he had just seen had already disappeared.
There were too many damned alleyways.
Only the woman was left. He studied her curvaceous figure in her loose blouse as she swung her ankle-length skirt impatiently from side to side. This could be interesting.
She was talking with a fat, old slob who seemed to be her tour guide for the afternoon.
The whole setup intrigued him, so Gus followed the two around the old city. They stopped and looked at virtually every tomb and building on their way. It would have been annoying, had he not had a wonderful view of her shapely legs silhouetted by diffused sunlight glaring through her skirt.
Finally, the man took her to the classy Hotel La Mamounia within the walled city.
Now he was getting somewhere.
As the woman checked in, Gus performed a tried and true procedure straight out of the CIA’s surveillance handbook. He drew up to the counter to eavesdrop. He was close enough to smell the jasmine perfume emanating from her damp, clinging blouse.
“The room is prearranged, Ms. Pierce,” the receptionist said. In the glint of a pin light, Gus caught the number on the key: 208. “Just sign here.”
A Western woman traveling alone. All the more intriguing. And why did the name “Pierce” ring a bell?
Then the receptionist turned to him. “May I help you?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’d like a room for the night.”
The cushy carpeting felt positively luxurious under his weary feet as he climbed the staircase to his room.
He heard a huffing sound above him. Looking up the steps, he saw the fat tour guide descending toward him.
They passed without a word or sign of recognition on the man’s face.
Gus reached the second floor and paused briefly in front of room number 208. Inside, water was running into a bathtub.
It was a reassuring sound, if not somewhat stimulating.
He was just one door away from Ms. Pierce.