The sergeant nodded as he stood up. Then, in an unusually formal and almost hesitant voice, he asked, “Begging the Captain’s pardon, but should we not refer this matter to State Security? Wouldn’t it more properly be in their…”
“Why?” Saleh turned and asked with feigned innocence.
“Well, it… it involves foreign agents. This man Thomson, we know he is…”
“A material witness in a murder case. Two murder cases actually, not espionage, and that makes it my business, not State Security’s. It is murder, Sayyid, nothing more, unless you know something that I do not know.”
“No! No, sir,” Sayyid stuttered. “It is just…”
“Good. You have your orders then,” Saleh snapped, looking deep into Sayyid’s eyes. “I have no intention of stopping this investigation now or ever, not until I have them all by their throats.”
Sayyid shuffled his feet and finally asked, “Do you want the American arrested?”
“No, he is merely a pawn. They would willingly sacrifice this fellow to us, if we allow them; however, that is not nearly enough for me, Sayyid. I want them all. I am confident that our arrogant American friend will return. When he does, I want him free to roam, but I want him watched and followed.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Certainly, but wherever Thomson goes, interesting things begin to happen. That is why I want him free to roam. He is my bird dog, you see. Let him raise the game for us, so have him watched closely, Sayyid,” he warned. “The only thing our friend Thomson is not free to do is to leave Egypt, not until I say he may.”
Saleh turned back to the body and dismissed Sayyid with a curt wave of his cane. This made one too many dead Egyptians, thanks to these accursed foreigners, he thought. He had seen good men clubbed to the ground by their batons in 1935, crushed beneath their tanks in the streets of Cairo in 1942, shot by their bullets in the riots of 1952, and bombed by their airplanes in the Delta in 1956. These cursed foreigners had shed a sea of Egyptian blood, and the time had come for retribution. Saleh was no longer a soldier, however. He was a police detective, and he had learned his new profession well. He was on Thomson’s trail now and nothing would shake him loose. The politicians be damned. Homegrown or foreign, Saleh hated them no less than he hated these cursed spies. They all had blood on their hands, and Thomson would lead him to them. He was the bait. They could swallow him whole for all Saleh cared. He would see they choked on him.
When he had it all wrapped up with a pretty bow, he would drop the proof at Gamal Nasser’s very feet. Gamal might be the only honest and honorable man left in this country, and he was no fool. Once he knew, he would not ignore it; he would act. He would throw the foreigners out — the CIA, the KGB, MI6 and all the rest of them. Not even the foreign minister would dare intervene then, not after Saleh gave Gamal the proof.
The foreigners must be taught a lesson, so they would never dare to do these things again. Never! Those days were gone. Saleh would cut them down like an avenging angel. He would have them all expelled: the bankers, the businessmen, the foreign “advisors,” the leeches, the spies, all of them. They would be banned for the next hundred years. Only then would their stench begin to fade, because Egypt belonged to the Egyptian people once again. The Pharaoh was back on his throne.
Sayyid hurried away into the night. Captain Saleh had that look in his eyes, and Sayyid was terrified thinking about where it might lead him. Besides, Sayyid had many things to do, and quickly. There were the fingerprints to take, photographs to distribute, a door-to-door canvass of the neighborhood to organize, and a phone call to make.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Well outside the city, the Peugeot turned down a narrow dirt road and into a small, walled farm compound, stopping at an old mud-brick house. Thomson was ushered through the rear door with the driver leading the way and the man with the Uzi close behind. The house was dark inside, but Thomson saw the dim outlines of several more men standing back in the shadows, watching him. Firm hands guided him down a short hall into a back bedroom to a hard-backed chair facing a table. Thomson’s eyes had just begun to adjust to the dark when a goose-necked desk lamp was switched on and pointed straight at his face.
“You guys have been watching too many George Raft movies,” he commented dryly as he tried to screen his eyes. They didn’t find it funny. Neither did he. The room was quiet, except for feet shuffling on the dusty floor behind him and a few muffled whispers as several men entered and left the room. Thomson didn’t know how many there were, but counting the guy with the Uzi, there had to be at least three or four in and around the room. He was about to ask what they wanted when a soft voice spoke to him from the shadows beyond the glaring lamp.
“What happened to Landau?” it asked.
The man’s voice was unlike any of the interrogators Thomson had ever encountered. It sounded tired and hollow, like an old man who should have been tending his garden or napping in the late-afternoon sun. More importantly, he was asking, not threatening. The threatening would probably come later.
“Who?” Thomson answered, trying to sound innocent.
“Mr. Thomson,” the old man sighed. “I have neither the time nor the patience for protracted conversation. Your answer is very important to us, so please spare us any additional anguish and tell me what happened to Landau.”
Thomson shifted uncomfortably on the chair. “You know,” he answered with an amused smile, “lots of people have been asking me questions like that today — strange questions about people and places I’ve never heard of, so welcome to the crowd. I don’t know anything about any Landau. I never met him or even heard the name before last night; and don’t bother asking me about Evans, either, or the Arab without the head, or Blondie, or the two Goons who tried to grab me tonight. I don’t know who they are or what’s going on. That’s the truth and you can do whatever you want with it.”
He folded his arms across his chest and sat back in the chair, expecting to get an angry reaction, and was surprised when none came. All he heard was another weary sigh from beyond the desk lamp. This time, it was the guy with the Uzi who broke the silence. He was standing behind Thomson and his voice was sharp and angry. “We did you a favor tonight. If we had not jumped in and pulled you away, you would be sitting in front of Grüber right now; and he is not nearly as polite as we are. It would not matter whether you know anything or not. He would pry the answers out of your skull with a tire iron and a blowtorch, because he enjoys doing things like that.”
“Who is Grüber?” Thomson asked.
“No friend of yours,” another voice snapped.
“East German or West?”
“Thomson, you amaze me,” the man with the Uzi said. “He is neither. He is SS — not was or maybe — he is, and he is a ruthless killer. He learned it fighting partisans in the forests of the Ukraine and in the streets of Warsaw during the uprising. We had a name for him back then. We called him ‘the Devil’s Bastard.’ He was one of Himmler’s pets. Since then, he has been a mercenary working for the Aryan Brotherhood, the SS fraternity run by General Hoess, where he has been able to hone and broaden his skills.”
“Sounds like a real sweetheart.”
“He is a sadist and a killer, Thomson.”
“So, why is he after me?”
“That is what we would like to know. Grüber is a ‘consultant’ now, working for State Security, for Colonel Rashid. You don’t want either of them to get their hands on you.”
“Why? Do you think they’d use bright lights and the boogey-man treatment on me?” Thomson waited, but the guy didn’t reply. It was the voice of the old man behind the desk lamp that reasserted itself.
“Mr. Thomson, please heed Jani’s advice. It can save you much pain. Surely, you see that we are not on opposite sides in this matter. Our interests are, shall I say, similar. We need your help, so please tell us what happened to Landau. We had given up all hope until we heard you met Mahmoud Yussuf in that bar.”
&
nbsp; “He met me. I didn’t meet him.”
“The distinction escapes me. What matters is that you met. As you know, Yussuf was nothing. He ran errands for Landau, and Landau worked for me. Yussuf was a stringer, a free-lance local we used when we had no other choice. I am told that even your CIA, with all its vast resources, uses such people from time to time. Do they not?” he asked with a soft chuckle. “We never trusted him, but he filled a need. He was available, and he was totally loyal… at least to the highest bidder. Landau understood that, so he paid Yussuf well and told him nothing. The situation was not ideal, but we do not live in an ideal world.”
Thomson nodded. He was in uncharted territory here, but he wasn’t worried. He found himself liking the old man, and he couldn’t disagree with what he was saying.
“Now, sadly, Landau is missing. We believe he found something, something so important that it cost him his life.” The old man paused, struggling for the right words. “Thomson, you are in the business. You understand how an agent and his control can come to know each other’s very thoughts. Well, Landau was not a good agent, he was the very best. I knew him like my own sons, and I trained him not to take unnecessary risks unless the prize was worth it. That was how he worked, and that is why I know Landau must have found something very important.”
“Who are you? Israelis?”
“Suffice it to say we are your friends.” He stopped the guessing game and added, “friends who happened to be in the neighborhood when you needed help. Call it ‘brotherhood week.’ ”
“I didn’t know Reggie Perper traveled in these circles.”
“We have many friends, some inside your own government. Friends, Thomson, I do not mean merely spies or informers. They choose to help us, because it is the moral thing to do. They are friends we have earned, Mr. Thomson.”
“Then why the bright lights? I thought we were on the same side.”
“Formerly, we were.” The old man’s voice grew sad again, “but now, who can tell? Let us say the bright lights prevent any temptation. If you cannot see my face, you will not need to lie about it, will you? Regrettably, we do not always know who our friends are these days.”
“Like Kilbride?”
“Ah, you know that answer as well as I do,” the old man conceded the point as he leaned forward, his hands stretching into the bright cone of light. They were old and brittle, white and wrinkled, and as they extended into the light, Thomson saw the old, faded blue numbers of a death camp tattoo on the inside of the old man’s wrist. As his soft voice spoke, those hands pleaded, adding a poignant emphasis to each word. “Mr. Thomson, I have seen your record. You served in Germany during the war. You saw what we were up against, what we continue to be up against, and you are neither naïve nor a fool. Look around. You have eyes. You can see Egypt drifting in that same dangerous direction, and so is your Ambassador. We must know where it will take them. Please tell me what Yussuf told you.”
Thomson couldn’t stop himself. “Look, it was late; and I was pretty drunk. He came into the bar and tried to sell me some photographs, but I wasn’t buying. I sent him away.”
“You fool!” the guy with the Uzi exclaimed.
“Silence,” the old man’s thin voice cut through the room like a razorblade. There were no more interruptions. “You must excuse Jani, Mr. Thomson,” he went on. “He and Landau were like brothers, and this business has us all very upset. Please continue. Did you look at these photographs?”
“Uh, no,” Thomson admitted guiltily as he slumped back in the chair. “I didn’t. The whole thing looked like a setup, so I steered clear of it.”
“Of course, the unfortunate result of your recent problem in Damascus.” The old man clearly understood. “A most lamentable development and I can certainly understand your reluctance to become involved. Unfortunately, those photographs might have been the best lead we have had. That is even more lamentable. But Yussuf said nothing to you? Nothing at all? Even a single detail could help.”
Thomson hesitated, and then said, “We only talked for a few minutes. I’ll admit, I wasn’t very friendly. He had an envelope of photos, maybe a dozen. He said they were the ones Landau took out at Heliopolis. If we wanted them, the price was ten thousand dollars.”
“Heliopolis… yes, I see now,” the old man said. Thomson could hear the shuffling of feet behind him, but no one else spoke. After almost a minute the voice behind the lamp finally asked, “But why did Yussuf bring them to you? Surely, he knew you of all people would be suspicious.”
“He was trying to get them to an Agency guy named Evans. Apparently, he was someone Landau was working with, but Yussuf said he couldn’t find him. Landau never told him how, so he was stuck.”
“Ah!” The fingers reappeared in the cone of light. “And because your picture in the newspaper identified you as CIA — yes, of course, it all fits now.”
“If you say so.”
“You do not agree?” The voice sounded puzzled. “Why?”
“Because it doesn’t wash — none of it does. Who is Evans, anyway?”
Now it was the old man’s turn to be puzzled. “Who? He was Landau’s contact with your CIA at the embassy, of course. They worked together for the past two months or so.”
“Didn’t you ever meet him?”
“Evans? Of course not. He was the conduit between Landau and your embassy… that is, until the reports ceased coming.”
Thomson stared at the floor, thinking. “And you don’t know what he looks like?”
“No,” the old man answered, sounding a shade less certain. “Landau made all the contacts from our end. That was the way your people — or Evans, to be more precise — insisted it must be, for security reasons, he said. It was all very unofficial.”
“Sounds that way.”
“From your tone, apparently you think something is wrong.”
“When I asked Kilbride about Evans, he bristled and said he’d never heard of him.”
“Kilbride?” the old man scoffed. “That man is an idiot. Isn’t it possible that he was not informed of the arrangement? Perhaps they kept it within a narrow CIA circle; perhaps Evans reported directly to your Langley headquarters; perhaps Evans did this all on his own — or perhaps Kilbride lied to you.”
“Oh, Kilbride lied to me all right.”
“Yes, but the real question is why.”
“We need to find Evans.”
“If there is an Evans — obviously, it is a cover name.”
“Yes, if there is an Evans.” Thomson had figured that much out a long time ago, but he did not have a damned thing more. So, he started asking some questions of his own. “What about Heliopolis, then? Doesn’t everything point to Heliopolis?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”
“True, but now it’s your turn to talk.” Thomson leaned forward. “Even Perper heard rumors about something, maybe a secret airplane factory.”
“Ah, rumors,” the voice laughed. “The Middle East would be a boring place were it not for rumors and intrigues, but an airplane factory? What sense would that make? Do you really think the Egyptians could make their own jet airplanes? The Egyptians?” The voice laughed even louder. “What kind of airplane? One that is good enough to fight us? How absurd, and why bother? Soon, the Russians will sell them as many as they want at bargain prices. Airplanes? That is another smoke screen.”
“Then what are they doing?”
“We do not know. It is something, but not airplanes.” The hands opened, reaching out to him for the answer. “Tell me. Have you heard any stories around your embassy regarding troop movements?” The old man paused, apparently studying Thomson for a moment. “That is why we sent Landau here originally. He knows their ‘Order of Battle’ and their equipment very well, and he is adept at blending in and checking for information of value. Last week, however, for no apparent reason, one of their best tank regiments, the Third, left its base in the Delta and disappeared.” He went on, as if he were thinking aloud. “That i
s most unlike the Egyptians. They are not very good at maneuvers, especially secret ones. Someone always gets lost, you see,” he chuckled. “So they usually repeat the same war games in the same places in the Western Desert, where they have road signs and can follow last year’s tracks,” he chuckled. “Well, they aren’t there. Neither is the Fourth Armored. We checked. They are not anywhere. Their tanks did not cross the canal. They simply disappeared, so you can appreciate our concern. One mystery we can handle, but this one is sprouting questions faster than we can answer them.” Those long, expressive fingers stretched toward him again, pleading. “Now, you see why we must have your help. We must, because there is too much at stake. Can you tell us nothing more?”
Thomson squirmed uncomfortably. “The chair’s hard,” he whispered, watching those fingers and feeling a half-dozen eyes pressing in on him. “I’m pretty sure those two Goons in the street are the same ones who came into the bar when I was talking to Yussuf,” he said as he cleared his throat. “He must have known who they were and recognized them, because he took off like his pants were on fire.”
“That explains why Grüber came after you tonight. If his men saw you with Yussuf, he thinks you know something; or he is not sure. Whichever, your life is in grave danger.”
“I remembered something else, too,” Thomson turned his eyes away, embarrassed to tell him. “Yussuf gave me one of the photographs. He said it was a sample.”
“Do you have it?” The man’s hand reached out anxiously.
“No… I, uh, burned it,” Thomson admitted, feeling guilty as he watched the hand slump onto the table. “Sorry,” he added pathetically. “I assumed it was a trap, and there was no way I could keep it on me.”
“Yes, yes, I understand. It is regrettable, but I understand. You saw it, though? You looked at it?” Thomson nodded. “Is there anything you remember about it?”
“That was the strange part. It was a photograph of a photograph, a portrait shot in a cheap wooden frame hanging on a wall somewhere. It showed a man from the chest up in an SS uniform. It wasn’t our friend Grüber, either. This guy looked like a bookworm: balding, middle-aged, and wearing thin silver-framed glasses. He must have been a staff officer, because he didn’t have much rank or many medals, either — not much to go on, is it?”
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