Oil Slick

by Warren Murphy

  M. Jaurin was surprised to see General Ali Amin return to the waiting room, anxious and flustered.

  “He wants to see you,” said the general.

  “In person?” asked M. Jaurin.

  “Yes. In person.”

  “But that’s an official room. An official meeting. You know I am not supposed to be there. Never. It would be…well, official.”

  “The colonel ordered.”

  “As he wishes, but you had better be right, Amin, or…well, you had just better be right, or else.”

  “I am right. I am definitely right, M. Jaurin.”

  “We will see,” he said and entered the main conference room as General Ali Amin opened the door for him and closed it behind him.

  Colonel Baraka examined the man whose yearly salary could not have been borne by the entire income of the colonel’s tribe a generation before, but was now a sum routinely spent on acquiring information about what other countries were doing. Colonel Baraka often judged this to be misinformation. The Frenchman’s eyes were black, his skin pocked, and the hair precisely combed. Men with precise hair tended to hide things well.

  “You’re Jaurin and you run our intelligence service,” said Baraka and saw Jaurin blink. The Frenchman did not expect this sort of truthfulness from an Arab.

  “Well, I am an associate of a business firm with a license to, to…”

  “Stop the nonsense. I hear too much of it. I called you in for some answers. What does the European ‘T’ mean?”

  “Terminate, sir.”

  “Fire, kill, stop paying, what?”

  “Kill, sir.”

  “We kill, they kill, who kills?”

  “I assume it is the Mobley and Philbin terminations in America you are referring to. That was the file I sent for.”

  “From home, no doubt.”

  “Well, on occasion the air conditioning at the intelligence building…”

  “Enough, Jaurin. You keep our intelligence files at home so they won’t get lost and so you can clear everything with your own headquarters. I know what you do.”

  “Let me say, Colonel, that M. Jaurin has served Lobynia with a devotion, courage, and perseverance that…” started Ali Amin, but was interrupted by the sound of Baraka’s hand slamming down on the table.

  “Shut up. Shut up. Shut up,” yelled Colonel Baraka. “Jaurin, where did my people’s money go? For what?”

  “I am glad you asked that, Colonel. I am especially glad you picked this small item. It illustrates the honor of France and the French people who love you and your Arab brethren. The money went for death benefits. Death benefits paid to the families of two men who were terminated while working in the glorious cause of Arab unity, Colonel. Men who died for Lobynia.”

  Lt. General Ali Amin stood slightly more erect, trying in some way to cadge some of the glory of the fallen dead. The council of ministers nodded solemnly. For a moment all were caught in the deep significance of the never-ending battle of international intrigue. One general suggested a moment of silence. Another proclaimed that neither Mobley nor Philbin died in vain, and would indeed live as long as any Arab could raise a gun for final vengeance, blood, and justice.

  Only Colonel Baraka seemed unimpressed. He drummed his long fingers and M. Jaurin felt his palms become very wet, as they had the day he emerged from St. Cyr as a second lieutenant destined for Algeria where he became one of his nation’s Arab experts, which was really what he was still doing in Lobynia—spying on it.

  “Everyone but the Frenchman leave this room,” said Baraka. The order was met by murmurs, until he slammed his open palm down on the table and there was a race for the door.

  “Now, you insidious little French weasel, what the hell are we doing killing people in America?”

  “I didn’t say we killed someone. I said two of our men were terminated.”

  “I don’t believe you, weasel. There has been talk in the diplomatic community about American scientists being killed to prevent the discovery of an oil substitute…don’t interrupt me, weasel…let me draw you a little scenario.” Colonel Baraka rose from the table, a trim, immaculately dressed man in light tan battle uniform. At his right was a polished black leather holster, containing a .38 caliber Smith and Wesson revolver. Baraka showed the revolver to Jaurin. Barrel first. He cocked the revolver. Jaurin looked at the barrel then at Baraka. He smiled wanly.

  “Now, let me tell you what is happening. American scientists die. They do not produce a substitute for oil. America becomes more dependent on foreign imports, despite the price…no, no. Don’t interrupt. These things tend to go off when I am interrupted. Now, as America gets more dependent on imports, Arab power becomes greater. As Arab power becomes greater, French power vis-a-vis America becomes greater. But France doesn’t want to risk responsibility for this, so why not have the crazy Lobynian leader, Colonel Baraka responsible. Eh?

  “Why not? Why we can even get that filthy wog to pay for it. Eh? Eh?”

  “But, your excellency, that doesn’t make sense. Why would France want to weaken the West? We are a Western nation.”

  “Because you are shortsighted idiots with the moral fiber of the surface of the Seine—scum to be exact. Yes, it is a stupid, shortsighted self-serving policy, which means it must be French. The very flavor is French. Like cheese. It has a French aroma. Yes. Kill American scientists with Baraka’s money. And if a few assassins are killed along the way, why, pay off their families. Call it death benefits and the filthy wog will never even guess what is happening.”

  “If, Excellency…if, Excellency, we are doing that, then don’t you profit?”

  “I profit right up until the United States of America traces the deaths to me. I profit right up until then, you little weasel. Now, you scummy little spy, I am ordering you on penalty of your life to call off that assassination mission.”

  “Certainly. Right now, your Excellency. Immediately.”

  “You’re not dealing with General Ali Amin now. I want to watch you write out the order. I want to know the exact chain to reach the operatives. I want to see it done.”

  “There is a little problem, your Excellency. The operative who runs that American system contacts us; we don’t contact him.”

  “Are you telling me we have an operative running around a nation with nuclear power, killing its top scientists, losing his own men in the process and we cannot even reach him? Is that what you’re telling me, Jaurin? Is that what you’re telling me? I’d like to know.”

  “Could you lower that gun, your Excellency?”

  “No.”

  “We tried calling him off. He had a postal drop. We didn’t even want the second scientist killed. But it got out of hand. We couldn’t reach him. And then the second one was killed. Finally he did contact us. I personally told him to stop. He said he could not stop because it was not time yet to stop.”

  “Then why did you pay the death benefits for Mobley and Philbin? If the man was disobeying your orders?”

  “That was strange, Excellency. He told me they were going to have accidents and he wanted the money. When I refused to pay, he said it would be terrible if they talked and told that they were working for the…Lobynian government. So we paid. And a third scientist was killed, and Mobley and Philbin were killed, too.”

  “I am glad to see that Lobynia does not have a monopoly on incompetence. Why did you hire this nut?”

  “He came to us with the proposal. It seemed very carefully thought out. And we learned he was capable of doing it because he comes from a tradition of assassins. The finest assassins in the world. That is why we did it.”

  “No. You hired this nut whom you can not control because if anything went wrong, I would be blamed. The Duixeme, your intelligence, would never have an operative it could not call off. Oh, no, that would be too risky for the French. But not for the crazy Lobynian leader. One can do anything in his name.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “The Islamic law is the law
of our land. We cut off the hands of people who steal. For people who lie to chiefs, we cut out tongues.”

  “Your excellency, I will serve you instead of France. Let me serve your greatness. I deny Christ for Allah, your excellency. Look at me on my knees. I am getting on my knees. In the name of Allah, I beg your mercy. You cannot refuse this plea.”

  “Good. Since Islam is the one true faith, I now send you in glory to Allah,” said Colonel Baraka and pulled the trigger. There was a loud bang, and the white forehead snapped back as though it were on a pulley. The bullet made a dark red hole above the nose and took off the back of the head, spraying dark reddish brain on the rug and chairs. Then Baraka put the gun back in his holster, opened the conference room door and invited back his ministers and their foreign aides.

  “Here. Come in here and look. See what happens to him who tries to risk the lives of my people. Come. Come in here when you think you can play with the lives of my people like so many pawns.”

  Soon the colonel left them and went out into the desert, which really began at the shacks that marked the outskirts of the capital city. He rode a white horse, and guided it miles away to a watering place his people had known for many generations. There he prayed, begging guidance from Allah. He went to sleep, thinking of the wealth beneath the ground and how it kept diminishing and all he had for it were planes that rusted, buildings that collapsed, and assassin lunatics who might get all his people killed. He had tried. No one could dispute that he had tried. He had tried to make the Army efficient but it still resembled a girl scout troop, except that girl scouts had more discipline. He had tried to make the economy work, but an economy would not work unless the people worked, and he had not found the secret yet to make that happen. He had tried to interest Egypt in a merger of the two countries with Egypt supplying brains and Lobynia supplying money, but Egypt had responded with speeches that were really patronizing pats on the head. Oh, if only Nasser were still alive.

  Baraka thought these things and finally fell asleep, only to dream of the revolution four years before. He awoke suddenly because he heard old King Adras’s voice repeat that foolish prophecy designed to enslave the peasants. He looked around and he saw that he was alone. The king was not there. Perhaps it had been the talk of assassins that made him think he heard the prediction over again. The king was gone. There was a new government, this one dedicated to the people’s welfare. In the old days, the king took all the wealth and let the oil companies even ruin the watering holes, leaving nothing and giving nothing back to the people.

  He thought of this and remembered how he had gotten so many officers to follow him. He had taken them to an important oasis and bade them drink. The water tasted waxy from the refuse of crude oil.

  “Lo, I say unto you. Your sons and their sons will be denied good water. For taking out oil destroys the water. I say unto you King Adras will allow us to be left without water. We must force the oil companies to take oil in such a way as to leave water for our sons.”

  After the revolution was successful, the first thing Baraka did as president was to call in all oil company presidents and lay down the first of his unalterable laws.

  “You shall not take water from my people. You shall not make our water unfit to drink.”

  As one, the oil company presidents rose and swore to keep the water pure at all costs. Later, Baraka found these costs were deducted from royalties per barrel paid to Lobynia.

  But it was only money. No matter. So he had not straightened out the economy, the armed forces, the health problems, the illiteracy. If he had done nothing else but preserve the water for the future, he was doing more than any other ruler had ever done. He was doing what a good chief must do for his people. It made him feel satisfied.

  Colonel Baraka went to the watering hole and on his knees lowered his hands into the dark water, watching the moon’s yellow reflections on its surface. The water felt cool from the deep spring that was its source. He felt the water soak the knees of his trousers, and that was good. How could a Bedouin tell anyone else how good water felt. Impossible to tell. But it was water and it was good. It was good to get down on your knees to drink.

  He put his face into the little pool and drank deeply, feeling reassured. Until he tasted it. The water was waxy. And for the first time, Colonel Baraka wondered how King Adras liked Switzerland, and whether he might enjoy it there himself.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE BODIES OF MOBLEY and Philbin were claimed by two black-garbed, grieving widows. The smell of their perfume was so overpowering that the FBI agents questioning them tried to breathe without taking in any of the surrounding air. It wasn’t easy. They retched every once in a while, but finally the women agreed to go outside the city morgue with them and talk downwind.

  Well, they weren’t exactly wives, the two women said. They had been hired by this guy they hadn’t seen. He gave them money and told them to claim the bodies.

  “You met him where?” asked one of the agents.

  “At work,” said the one whose hair was the yellow of bad lemon candy. Her lipstick was thick red paste, glistening under her black veil. The heavy ropy eyelashes touched the veil on every blink. The agent estimated her age at thirty to fifty, give or take ten years.

  “Where do you work,” asked the agent. He heard his partner snicker.

  “Kansas City,” said the woman. “Kansas City, Kansas.”

  “What kind of business I meant.”

  “Exotic massage and body counseling.”

  “I see. Tell me more about this man who hired you. Was he tall, short? What?”

  “What would you say, Carlotta?” asked the blonde.

  “He was about average for a short kind of guy. You know?”

  “No. Is that five-ten, five-seven, what?”

  “You know, come to think of it, I didn’t get a good look at him. He was like shorter. Maybe five-two, I guess.”

  “How can a man appear average and be five-two?” asked the agent.

  “It was strange, he sort of moved in shadows.”

  “What color hair?”

  “Black. I think he was Japanese.”

  “No. No, remember,” said the blonde. “Somebody said Japanese and he said Korean. Remember?”

  “What did he want you to do with the bodies?”

  “Well, that’s the strange part. He said we’d never have to worry about bringing them anywhere. Just claim them and say, what was it, Carlotta, both fat and thin.”

  “Yeah, that was it,” Carlotta agreed exuberantly, as if she were solving everything. “Fat and thin.”

  “Well, we done our part,” said the blonde.

  The FBI did not detain the two women. They added the obscure conversation to a growing list of peculiarities about Mobley and Philbin, two Kansas City hoods whose descriptions fit the men who had been seen leaving Ravelstein’s office, going into the science building at Berkeley before it blew up, and leaving Rensselaer Polytech just before Dr. Erik Johnson took a header down a stairwell.

  The murders had all been well planned and executed. The work was certainly not sloppy. But why then had they carried metal badges? That was sloppy; anyone could find out that the FBI carried identification cards.

  And the way they had died was strange. At a meeting with some unknown man, Philbin with half his hand ripped off, and Mobley by some unknown poison. And who was the unknown man?

  They had no answers. They put all the questions in their reports. When they considered how crucial the energy shortage was, the two real FBI men were stunned when the case appeared to have been dropped.

  “Sir, we don’t understand.”

  “We have our orders. I imagine another bureau is handling it.”

  The FBI men shrugged. It must be international, a project for the CIA. Over at the CIA in Langley, Virginia, those concerned thought the FBI was handling it.

  And everyone was satisfied, except for a man in a small office facing Long Island Sound—Dr. Harold Smith, the head
of the secret agency CURE . He was handling the case and he was stumped.

  He walked from his office down to the small wharf at the back of the Folcroft Sanitarium grounds. It was evening and it was dark across Long Island Sound. The case had too many questions in it. At first he had thought a foreign country was behind the assassinations. Then he had changed his mind and decided that one of the big American oil companies was probably financing the killings. Either might still be correct.

  But why the FBI badges? That was stupid—almost as if whoever was running the killings had wanted Mobley and Philbin to be unmasked as fakes. And what of the nonsense of “fat and thin”? What did that mean? It nudged something deep inside his brain, but he could not remember what it was.

  Mobley was fat and Philbin was thin. Fat and thin. Apart from that, they were two ordinary small-time hoods with sudden skills and competence.

  And Remo had found out nothing from them before they died.

  Smith smelled the salt of the sound and felt the cooling moisture bathe his face. Who was behind it?

  The Arab states? Estimates eliminated most of the large oil producers, and the wild man of the region, Colonel Baraka, who one day wanted to merge with Egypt and the next day with Tunisia and the next start a holy war against Israel, well he wouldn’t dare conduct assassinations in America. Or would he?

  But there were the oil companies. There was definite proof that an oil company had promised Arab states it would deny fuel to the American army. And hadn’t they, from the outset of the oil squeeze, rigged prices to gouge the American public? It had been the oil companies that had begun the crippling price increase, even before the Arabs had started slowing down oil to America to make the increases even more crippling.

  If there was an industry in America with a chilling contempt for American citizens, it was the oil industry. From the oil-soaked corpses of little birds washed up on scum-coated California beaches, to the multimillion-dollar propaganda that came out of New York City agencies, spent to convince the suffering that the oil companies were good guys, there was blatant disregard for the welfare of the world.