Cold War Trilogy - A Three Book Boxed Set: of Historical Spy Versus Spy Action Adventure Thrillers

by William Brown

  He walked on, focusing on the street around him, while blocking out the alcohol and all his frustrations. He kept mental notes on each car he passed, certain he would find the same one waiting for him around the corner in the next street. The Egyptian General Intelligence Service, the GIS or Mukhabarat, was newer than its sister agency in Damascus, no more effective, but just as heavy–handed. With Military Intelligence and the civil police, they were three legs of the same stool that stomped on foreign threats, real or perceived, just as heavily as it did on homegrown dissidents. If two men could effectively tail someone, then the GIS would usually send ten, as much to watch each other as their target. That, plus the cheap clothes, the black Army dress shoes, and the buzz cuts made them predictable and easy to spot.

  As pedestrians passed by, Thomson kept his head down and appeared distracted; but he made mental notes of their coats, their hats, and even their shoes. Amateurs never remembered the shoes, but he did. He would suddenly stop and look into a store window, trying to catch the reflections of suddenly panicked GIS agents in the glass. He would cross the street and cross back again, change directions, and use every trick he knew, determined to blow their covers and embarrass them. If they wanted a game, he would give them one. He would force them to make a mistake, one after another, until they quit or he had “made” every one of them. That was how he would show them he was still better at it than they could ever dream. Finally, he gave them his patented dipsy-do. He turned a blind corner, counted to ten, and came storming back around, head down and shoulders set. He was certain he would catch some poor clown racing to catch up and knock him flat. However, no one was there.

  Thomson stopped dead in his tracks, his confident expression slowly fading as he realized no one was following him. He leaned against the building, suddenly feeling older and more tired than he had ever felt before. Was he set up? The more he thought about that, the more it made him laugh. Imagine the incompetents screwing with the King of the Incompetents. That was incestuous.

  All they had to do was ask Kilbride.

  “Mr. Ambassador,” they would gloat, “we’ve arrested your man, Thomson…”

  “My man? You can keep that moron!” Click!

  Well, this time he had not done anything wrong, not here anyway, and all he wanted was to be left alone. No, that was not what he wanted. He wanted to be back in the game, back in the real game, and not the bush leagues; but that was not too damned likely to happen. True, he had lost a step or two, but not too many. Starting with those suicide jumps into Germany in ’44, he had given them eighteen years. None of that mattered anymore, however, and it had not for a long time. He could probably blame it on the Bay of Pigs. That was Allen Dulles’s last stand and Custer got a better reception. When it all blew up, the smart guys saw what was about to come down and grabbed a gray-metal government desk in Virginia. It was like a spook version of musical chairs. No one wanted to be left standing when there was nowhere left to sit. That was where Thomson found himself. He was the dumb schmuck who stayed out in the field far too long; and when the roof fell in on him in Damascus, the rest of the old crew could only shake their heads and smile. The truth was, however, that he did not want one of their damned desks and neither did they.

  Before he realized it, Thomson found himself standing in front of the small, backstreet hotel where they had stashed him just the day before. It was a dump even by Egyptian standards, but he was obviously on borrowed time here and no one at the embassy gave a damn what he thought. He turned around and slowly scanned the street behind him one last time, squinting into the dim shadows, but they were empty, as he expected. Still, he could swear he felt eyes on him. If so, where were they? On the other hand, did he just want it that bad, like an old junkie with the twitches? Well, he needed his fix too, and all the gin in Cairo could not make him forget.

  The hotel’s glass front door had so much accumulated grime that it looked frosted. He pushed on through into the small, empty lobby, and got even more depressed when he saw the sign hanging on the elevator door. “Out of Order,” it read, making the day complete. It figures, and with the Brits gone, nothing in this damned town ever worked right or often, he thought. The Egyptians? They could not fix a camel in heat.

  There was no one at the front desk, so Thomson reached across, grabbed the key to his room, and trudged toward the stairs, knowing it was five flights up. He had asked for a high floor when he checked in. Not for the view but because it put him above the worst of the city stink. Now, he would pay the steep price by climbing all those stairs. Tonight, with the way his head felt, it wasn’t worth it. Why not just give in and get out? Why fight it? He had asked himself those questions a hundred times a day over the past two weeks, but get out and do what? Become a “security consultant” in some banana republic? Join an “import-export” company running guns to “officially approved” third-world dictators? Maybe go back to the States? Then what would he do? Guard the door of the First National Bank of Omaha? No, this was the only game he knew, and the only one he had ever done reasonably well; so, Thomson would stay on their merry-go-round. He would keep riding until it threw him off, because it had the only brass ring in town. One more time around was all he asked, one more time around; so he could stretch his fingers out and grab for the ring, even if he fell flat on his ass again.

  Thomson reached the third-floor landing and paused, wheezing and dripping with sweat. It was hard to believe this was the same body that finished jump school at Benning special ops training, and then ran across half of Bavaria one step ahead of the Gestapo. When was that? Eighteen years ago? Look at him now: jumping at shadows and huffing up three flights of stairs. Thomson, my good man, it has been a lousy trip; but you got here all by yourself.

  When he finally reached the fifth floor, he doubted he would ever breathe again. As he walked the hundred exhausting steps down to his room, he managed to drop the cheap, gaudy hotel key fob twice before he reached his door. Finally, he shoved the key into the lock and gave it a twist. He turned the knob and stepped forward, but the door did not open. He bumped a knee, his elbow, and forehead into it with a loud Thump! Embarrassed, he looked at the key. It fit and turned all right, but the door did not open. But how could it still be locked? Had he taken the wrong one from the desk? He looked at the number on the fob and the number on the door and saw they were the same. Perhaps this was one of those damned double locks. Thompson put the key in the lock again, turned it, and kept turning until the key would not turn anymore. He tried the knob again, but the damned thing still would not open. Thomson stared at it. He was in no mood for crap like this. The elevator and now the door, even the mechanical world was lashing out at him. The door remained locked. He stepped back and frowned. If it was still locked now, then it had been unlocked when he got here. That was the only explanation; but it sure as hell wasn’t unlocked when he left the room earlier that evening.

  As he stared at the door, the sweat on his back turned cold, and he sobered up fast. How could he be this incredibly stupid? When he did not take their bait in the bar, there was no need to stake it out and follow him, because they knew where he was staying. All they had to do was go straight to his hotel room and wait inside. Is that what they did? Thomson’s mind raced. Maybe they left him a present inside. What had they planted? Drugs? Incriminating documents? Maybe more of those damned photographs? If he stepped through that door, would a squad of security men pop out of the woodwork and grab him?

  He backed away, knowing that the smart move was to turn and run as far and as fast as he could. However, his feet would not move and he wasn’t sure he wanted to leave. Maybe it was the gin, the fat Egyptian with the gold tooth, the eyes on that Kraut in the photograph, or those two gorillas in the doorway. Maybe it was Cairo, Damascus, or the whole damned thing rolled into a big ball of camel dung. Whatever the reason, it had become an insane challenge to him. This was their game, their field, their rules, and their ball; and Thomson wanted to pick it up and ram it down thei
r throats. Besides, what did he have to lose? What more could the Agency do? Send him to Cairo?

  Instinctively, he slipped his hand inside his jacket until he remembered he wasn’t carrying a gun. That was another of Kilbride’s stupid rules. “No incidents!” the Ambassador decreed from the top of his mountain. “No trouble, no guns, no nothing — you got that, Thomson?” Moreover, he had been looking straight at him when he said it. Unfortunately, the big Mick was not the one wondering what was waiting for him on the other side of his hotel door tonight. The son-of-a-bitch was probably in a reception line, sipping martinis with the Russian Ambassador, comparing notes on the best shopping buys in Rome.

  No gun? So be it. Thomson bent down and slipped his shoe off, slowly cocking his arm as if he were Sandy Koufax thinking fastball high and inside. Some weapon, he thought as he stepped toward the door, with an old oxford shoe with a worn heel at the ready. It wasn’t much; but if there was a welcoming committee, he could throw it and run like hell. What if they were quicker? Well, it would be a swell way to go: stretched out on the worn hall carpet of a third-rate Cairo hotel with a bullet in his back, one bare foot, and a wry smile.

  “Incidents!” He spat as he slowly turned the key. He twisted the knob, kicked the door open, and threw himself inside, somersaulting across the floor and coming back up to one knee in the center of the room. His arm was cocked with his shoe at the ready, as his eyes searched the room for the most immediate threat. He expected to hear gunshots, angry shouts, or something; but he heard nothing but dead silence. Nothing — not until he felt his nose twitch and he smelled the strong aroma of an acrid Egyptian cigarette.

  That was when he heard the voice.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Mister Thomson, if you are quite finished with the theatrics, stop making such an ass of yourself.” The voice was Egyptian: mild, cultured, and arrogant, and Thomson knew he had never heard it before.

  He quickly scanned the dimly lit hotel room, his shoe still held high and arm cocked, just in case; but the scene before him did not appear immediately threatening. A small, thin, dark-skinned man in an immaculate white-linen suit was sitting in front of the open window in the only decent chair in the room. He was perched on the front edge of the chair with one leg thrust awkwardly in front of him and both hands gripping the top of an ebony cane that stood between his legs. He held a thick, aromatic Egyptian cigarette between his fingers. Slowly, he raised it to his lips and inhaled deeply as he looked down at Thomson with an expression of utter contempt, before he blew the smoke in his direction. For a fleeting moment, Thomson considered grabbing the little jerk by his lapels and tossing him out the window, but the man had not come alone. Flanking him in opposite corners of the small room were two huge men. They were even bigger than the two in the bar. Must be the little man’s muscle, Thomson thought, because he had their undivided attention.

  “Comfortable?” Thomson finally asked, trying to sound calm.

  The man in the white suit paused to glance around the shabby hotel room. “Not particularly. You kept me waiting here for almost an hour. If you had not returned soon, I would have sent Sergeant Sayyid to find you. He would have enjoyed that immensely, but I am afraid you would not.”

  Thomson shrugged. “You knew where I was.”

  “I did?” the man asked, sounding mildly amused.

  “Oh, knock it off,” Thomson said, his frustration creeping into his voice as he put the shoe down and stood in the center of the room. “We both know I’m not playing, and you aren’t half good enough to make me.”

  “Playing?” The Egyptian’s eyes narrowed angrily. “Neither am I. I have come here for answers.”

  “And I suppose you have a search warrant,” Thomson held out his hand, “or did you forget about my diplomatic immunity?”

  The man’s eyes flared. “Mister Thomson, do not make me angrier than I already am. Diplomatic immunity?” His words were calm and precise, but Thomson sensed there was a burning frustration behind them rivaling his own. “I do not concern myself with the shams you Westerners use to protect your spies.”

  “Maybe not, but you and your GIS can’t touch me. Call the Foreign Office.”

  “GIS? Is that what you think I am?” he replied with a thin smile. “No, I am not with them, nor am I with the cursed Foreign Office. My name is Captain Hassan Saleh. I am with the Cairo Metropolitan Police, where I have the honor to serve as its Chief of Homicide. If that means nothing to you, perhaps a few nights in our drunk tank will cure you of your diplomatic immunity and your clever mouth.”

  Homicide? From the look in the man’s eyes, Thomson could see Saleh meant it; so he shut up, no longer certain what was going on.

  Saleh waited, too. When the American did not answer, he actually appeared disappointed. “Good. Perhaps you are smarter than you look, Mister Thomson. Now, please tell me where you have been this evening.”

  Thomson heaved a disgusted sigh. “In a small bar over on Shari Rushd, the Tin Whistle, I think it’s called. I was there all night, and we both know it. Your own men saw me there, and I have witnesses. So, go ask Jeremy the bartender.”

  “Ah, yes, the establishment of our old friend Mister Throckmorton,” Saleh nodded. “Do not be too surprised, Mister Thomson. There are very few foreign low-lifes in Cairo who have not crossed my path at one time or another.” Still, Saleh looked faintly puzzled. He turned away and began to rub his front leg, deep in thought. Finally, he motioned to the man on his right. He quickly walked over and bent down as Saleh whispered something in his ear. The man glanced at Thomson, nodded, and left the room.

  “I think we shall ask Mister Throckmorton what he saw tonight, Mister Thomson,” Saleh eyed him suspiciously. “While I am waiting, you will please tell me everything you know about Mahmoud Yussuf.”

  “Who? I never heard of him.” Thomson shrugged, hoping Saleh was only fishing.

  “Permit me to refresh your memory. Yussuf was scum, one of those pathetic creatures that you people drop behind you like so much excrement. Calling him a spy would be a compliment. A generation ago, he would have been a back-street pimp; but the fellow was so crude that I doubt the whores would have anything to do with him. So, he stooped even lower. If he could not sell women, drugs, or contraband, he would sell information… anything and everything to anyone who would pay him. It did not matter what it was or the damage it might do to his people. All the man cared about was the money,” Saleh said as he glared at Thomson and rubbed his leg even harder, his face lined with pain. “He was a fat, crude, greasy lout. It is easy to heap blame on someone like that; but without those Americans and the Russians and British before you, men like Mahmoud Yussuf would never exist. You are the ones who created him.”

  “As I said, the name means nothing…”

  “And we both know that is a lie,” Saleh swept the argument aside with a sweep of his hand. He reached inside his jacket and handed Thomson a small photograph. “Examine the face. I know you met with him, and this time I want the truth. This really is your last chance.”

  Thomson knew it wasn’t, but he pretended to study the photograph anyway, knowing Saleh’s eyes were looking for the slightest reaction. It was a police mug shot, front view and side, and the face was Yussuf’s, all right. Nevertheless, why? What was Saleh up to? The man was no fool. If he was going to this much trouble, Thomson knew he had better tread softly.

  “Take a long look,” Saleh said. “As you see, Yussuf was no stranger to us.”

  Why was he using the past tense when referring to Yussuf, Thomson wondered. When that came from a homicide cop, it was time to duck. “The bar was dark. Maybe it was him, but I can’t tell and he didn’t give me a name.” In all likelihood, Saleh could prove they had met, but not a whole lot more. If Thomson kept his story vague and straight, Saleh would have to work hard to catch him in a lie. “Look,” Thomson conceded sheepishly, “I had a lot to drink. We only talked for a minute or two, and then I shooed him away.”

  “What di
d he want?”

  Another question? Why not skip straight to the threats, Thomson wondered, since Saleh already knew the answers. It made no sense.

  “He tried to sell me something, like you said.” Thomson shrugged.

  “What?”

  “He said he had some photographs, but I wasn’t buying. I told him to get lost. Bip, Bap. That’s all there was.”

  “He was one of your agents, then.”

  “Him? Get serious. Like you said, he wasn’t much.”

  “Then why did he go to you?”

  “Me? I have no idea. No, that’s not true. After the fiasco in Damascus, I’m sure half of Cairo knows who I am, and that I’m CIA. It was in all the newspapers.”

  “Yes, but I don’t care about half of Cairo, just Mahmoud Yussuf and the photographs you said he sold you.”

  “Not sold, I said. He tried to sell me, but I’m permanently out of the market.”

  “Photographs of what?”

  “Again, I have no idea. I didn’t see them,” Thomson said as he lost his patience. “Look, he said they were interesting, that’s all. How should I know what they were? Maybe they were pictures of his thirteen-year-old niece waiting in the alley. The bar was dark, and maybe he thought I was Egyptian.”

  Saleh’s face turned crimson. He glanced sharply to his right and snapped his fingers. The one he had called Sayyid came across the carpet like an avalanche, big and quick. Before Thomson could ward off the blow, Sayyid gave him a monstrous backhanded slap across the face that seemed to erupt from the floor and lift his head to the ceiling. Thomson rocked back on his heels. Slowly, he straightened up, feeling the heat pulse through his cheek. That was with an open hand, Thomson realized as he wiped his fingers across his lower lip. Blood. Good thing Sayyid had not used a fist. Well, how did that old Polish proverb go, Thomson wondered as he glared over at Saleh. “Don’t get mad, get even,” he remembered. The little detective would go on Thomson’s “get even” list, but Sayyid didn’t have much to worry about, not unless Thomson found a spare tank lying around. He had Thomson by at least six inches and seventy-five pounds, but that little bastard Saleh had better stay out of dark alleys.