“Yes, sir,” Thomson said, barely holding his tongue.
Kilbride glared across the desk at him. He was waiting for an argument, but none was forthcoming and that sucked all the satisfaction out of it. Kilbride leaned back in the chair, probably to let his brain catch up with his runaway mouth, and then decided to dig a little deeper. “What the hell was going on last night, anyway? What were you doing with that guy?”
“Nothing. I never saw him before.”
“And you swear you didn’t have anything to do with this head business?”
Thomson just stared at him.
“I didn’t hear an answer, Thomson.”
Thomson had had enough. “And I don’t give a damn. You already got the answer,” he said as he took a step forward, right up to the desk, leaned on it with both hands, and stared down into Kilbride’s eyes. “You can believe whatever you want, Mr. Ambassador. I told you I had nothing to do with it. I never saw that guy before last night; and as far as I know, it wasn’t an Agency operation. He wasn’t working for me, I didn’t kill him, and I don’t know who did any more than you do. So, get off my ass!”
Kilbride looked up, wide-eyed, and blinked. “Well,” he coughed, not accustomed to people who talked back. “You didn’t, huh? Then what about those photographs he was selling? I suppose you don’t know anything about them, either?”
Thomson stared down at him for another second, and then backed off. “He only showed me one of them, but it meant nothing. It was an old wartime shot of some SS officer. Yussuf said he had a whole envelope full of pictures he wanted to sell that were taken by a guy named Landau out at Heliopolis. His price was $10,000 dollars, if we wanted them.”
Kilbride almost came out of his chair, his eyes wide open and scared. “Jeez! You didn’t tell that to the cops, did you?”
“No, of course not. He said they were for one of our Agency people, some guy named Evans, who I never heard of. I figured it was a setup, so I stayed away. I’ll tell you one thing.” Thomson looked straight at Kilbride. “If there is an Evans around here and if I get my hands on him, he’s going to have some questions to answer.”
“No, no!” Kilbride quickly shook his head. “As of right now, you’re done with this business, Thomson.”
“That guy almost got me killed last night. Don’t you I think I have a right to know why?”
“No, you’re out of it. Period!” He turned his head toward Collins and asked, “You ever heard of a guy named Evans?”
“Oh, uh, no, sir,” the young agent replied, a bit too quickly and too innocently.
“There, see.” Kilbride smiled and shrugged, sounding remarkably friendly. “The A-rab made all that crap up; and like you said, it was a setup. A penny ante crook like him… he was trying to con us out of a few bucks, that’s all. At the end of the day, somebody took him into a dark alley, just as they do back home in South Boston. It might have even been the cops … just like back home, too.” Kilbride drew his fingers through his white mane and tried to smile. “Look, Thomson, I’m a little cranky today; and I probably shouldn’t have yelled at you like that. After all, you said straight out you didn’t fall for it, so I should give you some credit. You smelled a rat and steered clear. That was quick thinking, and you did the right thing.” Kilbride was on a roll now, probably even believing his own story. “What I still don’t understand, though, is what that guy was doing, and why he hit on you in the first place?”
“He said this guy Landau never told him how to contact Evans. He remembered me from the newspapers as being CIA, so what else could he do? Knock on the embassy door? Still, if he was running a con, he was so bad that he was actually good at it. It didn’t look like he was pretending — and neither did the guy who cut off his head. No, I think Yussuf had some good stuff, whatever it was. Then, I think he tried to free-lance it, and he got burned. The rest is anyone’s guess. That’s why I’d like to go out to Heliopolis and sniff around.”
“Oh, no, you are out of it; and I mean it. Nothing is going on out there and I don’t want you to even mention it again.” Kilbride was suddenly so agitated he was nearly shouting, until he heard himself and quickly lowered his voice. “Look, Thomson,” he tried to smile, “you’ve been around. You can see who is behind this, can’t you? It’s those damned Israelis, that’s who. Stop and think for a minute… a photo of some old Nazi, a guy named Lan-dau, and now a dead A-rab? It’s clear as a bell that the Jews are in this up to their beanies. It’s them, the KGB, or both; but don’t worry. It’s not you they’re after, it’s me.”
Kilbride leaned forward and began to whisper, as if he was letting Thomson in on a dark family secret. “The Jews would do anything to drive a wedge between me and Nasser. They’re scared. They know what I’m doing, and they’re out to stop me any way they can.”
Thomson looked down at Kilbride in amazement, trying not to laugh. “Then tell me what’s going on out at Heliopolis?” he asked.
“Nothing! It’s an old RAF base, and that’s all you need to know.”
“Still, we ought to check it out.”
“You’re absolutely right! I’ll send Collins out there today. He can look around and ask a few questions. Will that satisfy you? As you said, your face is too well known now, and we can’t have you within ten miles of the place. No, no, you’re going to do exactly what you were told and stay away from there. Play it smart and do what I tell you, pretty soon we can forget all about that business last night.”
“And you’re not worried about that SS officer?”
“Good God, man, this is 1962, not 1942. No one gives a good rip about some old Nazi. The Egyptians have been hiring them for years. Oh, maybe some of them do smell; but who cares anymore,” the Ambassador said as he looked up and studied Thomson for a moment. “Unless there’s a few Hebes in the Thomson family woodpile?” he laughed.
“No, and that’s not my point…”
“Good, because if Nasser wants a bunch of goose-stepping Krauts around, that’s okay by me. I’d rather he use them than bring back the goddamned Russians.”
Kilbride leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “Let me read you into the larger picture, Thomson. Jack didn’t send me out here to take snapshots of the pyramids.”
Jack? Thomson wondered, but knew not to ask.
“That’s the President, Thomson, in case you didn’t realize. Well, he and Dean want to pull the A-rabs over to our side; and it’s my job to get them there, any way I can. He’s counting on me, and I am not going to let him down. It’s going to take some hard work, a lot of stroking, and a big fistful of dollars, but I’m going to get them, lad. Look,” he rambled on, pressing those long fingers together as if his hands were doing pushups against each other. “When Nasser overthrew that fellow Naguib in ’54, what was the first thing he did? He ran out and signed a big arms deal with the Reds. Now, that was mostly the Brits’ fault. They and the French really screwed the pooch around here, so that gave Nicki all the opening he needed. Two years ago, though, he overplayed his hand. He let the local commies stir up some trouble and try to dump Nasser; so the old boy slapped a bunch of them in jail. The honeymoon’s been over ever since. That is my opening, Thomson. If we kiss some butt and play this right, we’ll be the ones on the inside, and the Reds’ll be out in the cold again. Now, do you see what I’m trying to do, and why I need you people to behave?”
Kilbride looked up at Thomson again, giving him his best “Serious Ambassador” expression this time. “That’s why they sent me here, and you just watch. I’m going to reel Nasser in like a big, fat cod… not just neutral but full-blown treaty. A treaty, Thomson, with trade, a naval base in Alexandria, a couple of Air Force bases, the whole nine yards. And I’m not waiting too damned long to make it happen, either.”
“A treaty… with Nasser?” Thomson almost laughed.
Kilbride gave him a condescending little smile and spoke carefully. “It’s him or the next guy, and I don’t much care which. You know what these two
-bit banana republics are like. Colonels come and colonels go. One of them gets himself on top for a little while, and soon he forgets what his people, or the Army, or whoever really wants. Well, we’ve got a lot of friends here, and all I have to do is encourage the right ones. That and keep the damned Brits and the Israelis out of my hair long enough to get it done.”
Kilbride suddenly looked nervous, as if he had said more than he should; and he quickly changed the subject. “Well, you forget all that wishful thinking. I just want you to understand this is no time to rock the boat. I need you pulling on the oars with the rest of us, like Collins and my other boys. You do that, and we’ll get along fine. I’ll even put in a good word for you with Langley. So, you stay clean — no Nazis, no Jews, and no more dead bodies. If anything else comes up, you tell Collins. He’ll take care of it for me. You got that?”
Thomson knew there was no sense arguing with the man, so he nodded and kept his mouth shut. Kilbride was certifiably nuts and probably lying through his teeth; but there wasn’t much Thomson could do about it, not now anyway.
“Good.” The Ambassador flashed a broad, contented smile. “Then that is the end of it. State will be happy with me, and Langley will be happy with you. See how easy it’s going to be?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Major Ernst Grüber leaned against the fender of the black Mercedes sedan as the full fury of the noonday sun beat down on his head. This was July, and it must have been one hundred and thirty degrees in the searing heat of the crowded city square, without even a hint of breeze. Grüber could take the heat. He wore a nondescript beige Egyptian Army field uniform without a nametag, unit insignia, rank, badges, or any other marking. Tiny beads of sweat popped from every pore of his body and ran down his back, slowly soaking through the uniform; but he stood there as imperturbable as a rock and ignored the heat. He had known far worse heat in Libya and on the sweltering steppes of Russia, and he would be damned before he would show the slightest weakness to this Egyptian scum.
Grüber had always been an impatient man. Like most professional soldiers, he thrived on action and was bored by even the shortest wait, so he permitted his eyes to wander around the square. Cairo! He hated the place. Its old stone buildings were crumbling, sun-bleached and sandblasted to the same dull light brown as his uniform. Trash and dust were everywhere, as was the sour stink of the place. There were nothing but pushcarts, vendors screaming at each other, an infestation of flies, beggars, whores, pickpockets, and crowds of dark, filthy people who were not fit to lick his boots. Grüber was certain he was the only person in the square with socks and clean clothes. The harsh glare of the noonday sun hurt his eyes and had already given him an intense headache, but he stood there and ignored it. Thirty feet away there was an inviting patch of shade at the base of a tall building, but he stayed where he was. The shade might offer some relief from the merciless sun; but this relief came with filthy, eight-year-old beggars screaming the Egyptian national anthem, “Baksheesh, baksheesh!” Money, money, accompanied by the ever-present buzzing of flies.
The only reason Grüber was there that day was that he had been summoned. The Egyptian Colonel’s men told him to wait by the car, so that was precisely what he would do. “Zu befehl!” To obey — that was the SS motto. It was an absolute and had been his personal code of honor for twenty years, regardless of who had given him the order. The Egyptian Colonel knew all too well what the square would be like at high noon, but he enjoyed his sadistic little tests. Grüber would not fail them. Finally, he heard the wailing chant rise from the minaret on the mosque on the far side of the square and looked up. “Laa ilaaha illa llaah,” it went on and on, “There is no God but God. Mohammed is the messenger of God. Come to prayer. Come to salvation!”
Grüber looked at the entrance to the mosque. Its low stone steps were covered with long rows of empty shoes, neatly placed there by the faithful. His lips curled into a sarcastic smile. The beggars and thieves of Cairo would steal anything in Egypt, including the Sphinx or Nasser’s watch; but they would never touch a pair of shoes left outside a mosque. Through the wide front doorway, he could dimly make out row after row of men bowing, kneeling, and bending forward, touching their foreheads to the carpet in perfect unison. What a strange cross section of humanity, he thought — bus drivers and doctors, pimps and carpet merchants, bankers, and even army Colonels. Their bodies moved, rose and fell, knelt, stood, bent, and bowed together, as their individuality melted into the rhythms and emotions of the group prayers. How ludicrous, he thought. They were a filthy, undisciplined mob before entering the mosque; and they would be a filthy, undisciplined mob when they came back outside. During the minutes they spent inside, however, they miraculously became a homogenized whole. Or, was it an absurdly mongrelized one, Grüber questioned as he turned his eyes away from the disgusting scene. After all, race was race, class was class, and clean socks were clean socks. Life’s basic equation was that simple. Ask any German.
Finally, the chanting stopped. The dim shapes inside the mosque rose to their feet and their synchronized chant reverted to the raucous din of the mob. Outside, a crowd of the less than faithful surged forward to block the exit — to beg, sell, steal, pimp, or whatever.
The first worshipers stepped out into the blinding light. They groped for their shoes with one hand and clutched their wallets with the other, their eyes searching for a path to fight their way through the crowd. At the back of the column, Grüber saw the grim-faced Colonel towering a full head above the others. He stepped into the sun and paused, standing ramrod straight in his full parade uniform. While an aide fetched his shoes, the Colonel slowly put on his hat and surveyed the mob. As his head turned, the brass emblem on his hat caught the sun’s rays and flashed from the doorway like a bright beacon. As he lowered his eyes and looked down at the crowd of beggars and riff-raff in front of him, his eyes narrowed and his stern gaze cleared a path through them as if he had used a flamethrower. Without waiting, he strode down the steps, looking neither surprised nor pleased. It was expected, yet the crowd’s fearful reaction made Grüber smile. The German knew the resolute power hidden behind those black eyes. He had seen that look on other men and knew it was rooted in violence, fanaticism, and a touch of utter madness. Hitler had it, many of the front-line SS commanders he fought under like Joachim Piper and Otto Skorzeny had it, and this Egyptian Colonel had it, too.
The Colonel marched through the crowd at double time, leaving his three bodyguards scurrying to catch up. Halfway across the square, those black eyes looked up and came to rest on Grüber without a hint of surprise or even recognition. His driver had run out of the shadows and now stood next to the Mercedes at rigid attention, holding the door open. Without breaking his perfectly measured stride, the Colonel told Grüber, “Get in,” and slid inside himself. Grüber obeyed without uttering a word and got in the backseat beside him as the driver slammed the door shut. The car was as hot as an oven inside, but the Egyptian did not seem to mind. Another of his damned tests, Grüber assumed. Perhaps, but this time he saw an intense anger written across the Egyptian’s face.
“You failed me,” the Colonel began quietly enough as he looked absently out the car window into the small square. “I paid the exorbitant price your General Hoess demanded, because he said you were the very best. I did not haggle or barter like some rug merchant in the Souk. I paid his asking price. In return, Grüber, I expected competence. No, I expected perfection. That was why I placed you in complete charge of my security, because I could afford no mistakes. None!”
Slowly, the Colonel turned his head and his eyes locked on Grüber. “It was bad enough you allowed the Jew to penetrate the compound, but you did not even know he was there. He could have destroyed everything — everything — our entire operation and all my plans! Now this,” he hissed, as he tossed a thick envelope into Grüber’s lap.
Grüber was seething inside, but he did not want a confrontation with the man. He had put up with his insults for three months wi
thout exploding, so he sat quietly and said nothing. As he looked down at the envelope in his lap, however, his worst fears were confirmed. He knew what must be inside, but he was not a man who offered excuses.
“The Jew had a camera when you caught him. Why was I not informed?”
“The camera was empty; so I did not think it mattered.”
“You fool! What kind of spy carries an empty camera?”
“We think he hid the film in the hangar. We are searching the entire…”
“You shall never find it there, Herr Major,” the Colonel cut him off with a sweep of his hand, “because it isn’t there. He gave the film to an accomplice before you caught him. You would have learned that fact if you had not indulged yourself by killing him before he could be made to talk.” The sarcasm in the Colonel’s voice was not lost on Grüber. “You Germans,” he turned away in disgust. “You can kill, I’ll give you that; but you rarely think. So, you chased your tails in little circles all day yesterday and did not learn a thing.”
Grüber bristled. How much more of this outrage must he suffer? He had shot dozens of better men for far less. Unfortunately, Grüber had been ordered to ignore the insults and humiliation by General Hoess himself. This type of third-world mercenary work was very lucrative to the SS Brotherhood and critical to its rebirth and continued growth. Hoess knew Grüber’s temper all too well from the Eastern Front, and he was ordered to keep it in check. Hoess was very specific on that point. “Zu befehl!” Someday, however, those orders would change and he could re-visit his pent-up demons and release them on this Egyptian; but until then, he would reluctantly keep them in check.
The Colonel wasn’t finished, however. “Do you think I am idiotic enough to rely on your reports alone, Grüber? I have other sources of information, of course. The Jew had an accomplice, a local wretch named Mahmoud Yussuf, who attempted to sell the photographs to the Americans last night. We searched the Souk from one end to the other. We found him but none too soon. He had already met with the CIA. Fortunately, neither Yussuf nor the stupid CIA agent understood the value of what they had in their hands.”
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