by Nick Carter
"Not right now, thanks." I returned the favor.
"Listen, honey, has there been anybody here? Has anybody called?"
"No… I let Kazza go home when I came from the clinic. Why, are you expecting company?"
"I hope not. I mean, no. But things aren't so good right now and…"
"Doctor Rabul said it would be better if I didn't come in tomorrow. I think he's being silly and so are you. Don't you agree, Mr. Cole?" We were still looking each other over.
"I'm just a stranger here, Miss Gueyer. But I suppose things could get a little out of hand. Good excuse to have a day off anyway, isn't it?"
"The doc's right. Hey, how about a cold beer and some grub?" I didn't know whether Hans was asking me or telling her.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I can't stay." My regret was genuine. "You might be smart to take the day off, too, Hans."
"What happened?" Erica said, looking from me to her father.
"Now, don't you look at me like that," he bridled. "I didn't do a damned thing, did I?"
"Not that I know of." I winked at her. "I'll check with you both in the morning. I don't want to leave that car out there too long. It might lose its essentials."
"I'll open the gate and you can bring it into the courtyard." Hans was not eager to have me depart, either.
"I'll come for breakfast, if you'll invite me." I cocked my head at Erica.
"How do you like your eggs?" She cocked her head back at me, the gesture a copy of her father's.
"I'll take the specialty of the house. What time?"
"Whenever you come, I'll be ready."
"A bientôt," I extended my hand. It was a handshake I hated to give up.
"A bientôt." We both laughed and Hans looked puzzled.
"I'll see you off," he said.
At the car I gave him some quick advice. "You better tell her everything. If you have some friends where you can spend the night it wouldn't be a bad idea. If you do stay here, tell Thor to keep his teeth sharpened. Do you have a gun?"
"Yeah. Anybody tryin' to come over that wall will set off an alarm that'll wake the dead. I rigged it myself."
"See you in the morning, Hans."
"Sure. And, hey, thanks for everything, but I didn't earn this dough yet."
"Stay loose and you will."
I drove away wishing I could stay. I had no time to protect them, and the odds were solid that the goons would come hunting again.
Chapter 8
Driving back into the center of the city, I went over what had been a long and not very productive day. Except for the direct attempt to remove me in Rome, I had little more to go on now than when Hawk had scooped me up from my idyllic lake retreat.
Most everything that had happened since pointed toward internal troubles for the NAPR but damned little toward it having become a hide-away for a nuclear weapon. The car that had nearly run van der Meer and myself down could have been a lousy driver or a welcoming committee for an unwelcome American. So far, all Sutton had offered was a girl named Paula, who wasn't a bad offering if you had nothing else to do.
The only suspicious angle on the attack on Hans was, why the numbers and why the place? The answer could be that they wanted to keep things buttoned up, and what better place than a field under military control. The numbers could mean they hadn't planned to kill him until they'd scared him into talking. The influx of mercenaries was the only slim lead. Guerrillas brought in by someone and trained somewhere to carry out the theft. The obvious someone was Tasahmed but the look and manner of his troops only reinforced what AXE files indicated, no professional capacity. Of course, at Rufa things could be different. A dozen Soviet instructors could make it different. It looked like a visit to Rufa had a high priority. The only positive thing about the DC-7 was that it had gone much farther afield for its maintenance than was necessary. Add it all up, and it made a nice pile of sand.
To park the Fiat in the alley where I'd picked it up was no good. To leave it on the street was no good either; it was a good way to lose it.
With the city buttoned up, pedestrian traffic was almost as thin as car and horse traffic. I headed for the central square. Next to the central Bureau de Poste was the Commissariat de Police. In front of its faded facade there were a half a dozen cars angled in. I angled in beside one, a Volks bug that looked no more official than my own vehicle. The two gendarmes at the building entrance gave me a cursory glance. It seemed like a good parking place until Ali supplied something better. An ancient Lamanian proverb says, "If you don't want to be noticed, park your camel in the herd of your enemies."
The hotel's bar was called the Green Room. Green because it was walled with ancient green drapes. There was no bar but an assortment of equally aged Morrocan chairs grouped around hardwood tables. A half century ago it had been an elegant French saloon where the gentlemen sniffed their Courvoisier or slugged their cognac. Now it was a side pocket where the non-believer could still get a drink because Mohammedan law had to accept economic reality. The reality was four times the cost of a normal drink. At least that was one of Henry Sutton's complaints.
I could have spotted him in Grand Central at five on a friday afternoon. He was Taft, Yale, and probably Harvard Business School. Well-bred features, tall, angular with an air of wealth showing in his clothes, watch, bracelet, class ring, and that indefinable manner of bored assurance that borders on smugness. He was stamped State Department. Why he had CIA tagged to it, I leave to the experts.
The Green Room was full of cigar smoke and little clots of businessmen, feeding each other the latest rumors. I spotted the pair of Britishers among them. Sutton, whose real name was undoubtedly something like Duncan Coldrich Ashforth the Third, was sitting alone in a corner, dividing his time between sipping his beer and glancing at his watch.
I sat down beside him, extending my hand. "Mr. Sutton, I'm Ned Cole. Sorry I'm late, the traffic."
Momentary surprise gave way to quick appraisal. "Oh, how do you do. We heard you were coming." He was with their own nittering. The sound level was strong speaking for the assembled, but the assembled were busy enough so that we could talk in absolute privacy.
"I'll be making some newsworthy notes," I said, smiling, taking out a pocket notebook. "You answer some questions."
"I think it would make more sense if we went to the embassy." He had an adenoidal voice that went with his lofty nose.
"I've already been to the embassy, Henry. I heard you were busy. Did you bring the reply to my AZ Priority?"
"It's in my pocket, but see here…"
"You can give it to me when we walk out. Do you have anything on the purpose of the meeting between Mendanike and Petersen."
He stared at me, upset, glacial. "I don't report to you, Cole. I…"
"You do now, and you'd better get to it damned fast." I smiled and nodded, making a note on the page. "Your instructions came via the White House, so let's cut out the crap. What about Petersen?"
"Ambassador Petersen," he underlined the first word, "was a personal friend. I feel personally responsible for his death. I…"
"I couldn't care less." I signaled the waiter, indicating Sutton's beer bottle and holding up two fingers. "Save your wounded feelings and give me the facts." I scribbled another nothing in my notebook, letting him catch his breath.
"The truck that hit the Ambassador's car was an unmarked truck." He said it as though he was spitting teeth. "I've located it."
I looked at him. He was puffed up with annoyance, fast on his way to becoming enraged. "Bully for you. Have you located who owns it?"
He shook his head. "Not yet."
"Is that your only lead as to the purpose of the midnight meeting?" My tone stamped the color deeper in his tanned face.
"The meeting took place at 0100 hours. We still don't know its purpose."
"If you had said so in the first place, we could have saved a minute. As I understand it, Mendanike had no regard for the Ambassador."
"He didn't understand the Ambassador
. The Ambassador tried and tried to…"
"So the nature of Mendanike's call to Petersen was unusual."
"Yes, you could say that."
"Who exactly did Petersen talk to before he left for the Presidential Palace?"
"Only his wife and the Marine guard. He simply told his wife where he was going, and he also told the Marine guard. He should have had his driver. If he had called me…"
"Don't you have any contacts inside the Palace?"
"You think that's easy?"
The waiter brought the beer, and I thought what a complete bust this rover boy was. One AXE back-up agent from the R section stationed in Lamana, and I'd have had my answers.
There's something you'd better know right now," he said, as the waiter walked away. "We have information that there's going to be trouble here tomorrow. You'd be wise to spend the day inside the embassy. Things could get very ugly."
I sipped my beer. "The guerrilla types that have been coming in here, who do they belong to?"
"My hunch is that they were brought in by Mendanike to use against Osman in the south."
"You go by hunches, hey?"
He'd had it. His eyes narrowed down and he leaned toward me. "Mr. Cole, you're not an officer from my agency. You're from DIA or some other operation. You may be important back home, but I run the station here, and I've had all the guff…"
I stood up, "I'll walk out with you," I said smiling down at him and pocketing my notebook. He followed me out of the room into the lobby corridor.
"Just one thing," I added, as he stiffly fell into step beside me. "I'll probably be checking with you tomorrow. I want a written report on the Ambassador's death with all details; no hunches, just facts. I want all you have on the mercenaries. I want to know what contacts you have in this city and this country. I want to know what Osman is up to, and…"
He stopped. "Now, you see here…!"
"Henry boy," and I was through with the smiling act, "you'll do just as I say or I'll have you shipped out of here so fast, you won't have time to pack your dancing pumps. Now suppose we step into the salon des hommes, and you can give me my AZ-Priority. You've just been given yours."
He departed under a full head of steam, and I ambled toward the elevator, thinking the agency should be able to do better even in a garden spot like this.
Previously, I had noted that Lacoute, the concierge, had been relieved by the night man. I nodded at him, and he gave me a glassy I-know-something-you-don't know-smile. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ali's head pop up from behind a potted palm. He gave me a quick signal, and I strolled past the cultured tree, happy to make contact. Maybe my Aladdin could summon up some etable food.
"Master!" he hissed, as I stopped to tie my shoe, "don't go to your room. The police pigs are there. The head man and his tough guys."
"Old friends of mine, Ah," I said, "but thanks. I want some place where I can be private for a little while."
"Get off the elevator at the second floor."
I straightened, thinking of what Ali would do with Henry Sutton's job. Maybe I could get him a scholarship at Yale.
He met me on the second floor and guided me to a room similar to my own two floors above. "You will be safe here, Master," he said.
"I'd rather have a full stomach. Can you get me something to eat?"
"Couscous?"
"Yeah, and coffee. Incidentally, where's a good place to park that car?"
He grinned fit to bust. "Maybe in front of the police commissariat?"
"Get out of here." I aimed a playful boot at his rear.
He swiveled away. "Master is not so stupid."
I locked the door after him and sat down to read the AXE response. It added up to two zeros. Dr. Otto van der Meer was exactly what he professed to be and highly regarded as well. His mother had been a Zulu. Africa was his agricultural beat. Satellite and aerial photo-recon over the NAPR had come up with nothing.
I had no shredder to destroy the AZ, but I had a match. I burned, then flushed it, and thought about my guests waiting above. I was not surprised at their arrival. Whether Lacoute had called them or not. Customs would have passed the word. I could avoid them if I chose. I did not choose, but they'd have to wait until the inner man had been restored.
Ah was right, the couscous was good, and so was the heavy black coffee. "Does Master wish the car to be brought here?" he asked.
"You think it's safe where it is?"
"I don't think it will be stolen." He played it straight.
"Can you suggest a more private place?"
"Yes, when Master brings it, I will show him."
"That's apt to be much later."
"Stay in this room tonight, Master, and you will sleep well. Those above will get tired and leave. That pig's bladder Lacoute, he brought them."
"Thanks for the tip, Ali." I brought out some bills. "Close your eyes and take a pick."
"Master is not too bright about money."
"This is for more than a tip. This is for information. You know the American Ambassador was killed. I want to know who killed him."
His eyes widened. "You could fill your hand with ten times what you hold, and I could not give you the answer."
"Not now, but you keep those sharp ears open and who knows what you'll hear."
He shook his head. "I don't want them cut off."
"Listen quietly."
If I hear something, then you pay me. Not now. You have already paid me twice too much. It's no fun that way. You must bargain."
When he had left I unloaded Wilhelmina, Hugo, and the French passport. The luger went under the mattress, Hugo in the toilet chamber, and the passport at the rear of the closet shelf. It was time to get acquainted with the opposition and, as the saying goes, I wanted to be clean.
I entered my room, registering the proper surprise at the reception committee. The room would have been crowded with three in it. With five, it was nearly SRO.
The door was slammed shut, locked, and I was frisked by one of the uniformed intruders. Whereas the army boys sported khaki, my visitors were decked out in olive green. The colonel seated in the chair facing me received my passport from my frisker without taking his eyes from me.
"What's going on here!" I managed to get out. "W-who are you?"
"Shut up," he said in passable English." I will talk, you will answer. Where have you been?" From the nearly filled ash tray, it was obvious he was an impatient waiter.
"What do you mean, where have I been?"
A brief command was given, and the bull on my left backhanded me across the mouth. I tasted sulfur and blood. I gasped and tried to act duly stunned.
"I said, you will answer, not make stupid sounds." The colonel tapped a fresh cigarette against his silver case. He had sinewy fingers. They went with the rest of him; a coiled snake from blackjack boots up. The acquiline face was handsome in a murderous sort of way — thin-lipped, thin-nosed, thin-eyed. Obsidian eyes; merciless, intelligent, humorless. From the neatness of his uniform, it was apparent he was fastidious, well organized, not like the military types I had seen so far. In desert garb he could have played Abd el Krim in his prime.
"Now where have you been?" he repeated.
"At… at the U.S. Embassy." I bottled my lips with my handkerchief. "I… I was there to pay my respects. I'm a newspaperman."
"We know all about who you are. Who invited you here?"
"I shook my head stupidly. "N-nobody invited me. I-I just came… to… to write about your agricultural projects."
"We are flattered," he exhaled a cloud of smoke, "but you are a liar." He nodded at the mound of meat on my right. I had just enough time to tense my stomach muscles and give with the blow. Even so, the agonized cough and the doubling over was not all play-acting. I went down on my knees clutching my gut. I was yanked to my feet by my hair. I sobbed for breath, sagging under the scalping.
"What the hell!" I gasped weakly.
"What the hell, indeed. Why did you come here?"
"To write about the Prime Minister's death." I got it out while pretending to gulp for aid.
"And what could you possibly write about it, other than your stinking CIA killed him?" His voice crackled angrily. "Maybe you are from the CIA! How do I know you're not?"
"No, not CIA!" I held out my hand.
I didn't see the blow coming from the third man behind me. It was a rabbit punch, and this time I really did go down. I had to fight hard not to come up with Persian rug in my eye. The easiest way was to pretend to be out. I went still.
"Fool!" the colonel snapped in Arabic. "You probably broke his neck."
"It was only a light blow, sir!"
"These Americans can't take much," the belly-puncher muttered.
"Shut your face and get some water."
The water felt good. I stirred and groaned. Hauled again to my feet, I tried to rub my neck with one hand and my stomach with the other.
"Listen to me, uninvited writer of lies," a hand back in my hair jerked my head up so I'd give the colonel the proper attention, "there is a flight leaving Lamana at 0700 for Cairo. You will be at the airport at 0500 so that you will have plenty of time to be on it. If you are not on it, your stay here will be permanent."
He stood up, and standing he had even more of a razor-like quality. He shook my passport before my nose. "I'll keep this, and you may have it returned when you pass through customs. Is that clear to you?"
I nodded dumbly.
"And if you would like to write a story about your pleasant stay here, say that Colonel Mohammed Doosa was the man who entertained you the most."
He went past me, and the dandy who had given me the rabbit punch gave me a boot in the tail and a shove that sent me across the room on to the bed.
At the door Doosa said. "I will leave Ashad here to assure your protection. We like to show our hospitality even to uninvited guests."
Besides a stiff neck and a sore gut, I didn't have much to show for having thrown myself to the lions of the desert. I had met Doosa and learned that he didn't know Nick Carter from Ned Cole, which meant he had played no part in ordering my assassination. He didn't see me as a problem, and that was a point for my side. He wouldn't be on guard against me until I didn't show for the flight. It was just 2100, which meant I had nine hours leeway. I had a couple of more stops on the agenda, and it was high time I got going. If they turned out as dry as the rest, I might stage a coup of my own.