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

by William Brown

  He opened his eyes and looked around the dark storeroom. He was finally able to see the inside of the rear door he had been beating on. It was braced with three horizontal, half-inch steel bars. Lord! No wonder he could not get it to budge, he thought as he rubbed his sore shoulder. He slowly rose to his feet, ignoring the screams of protest from his aching body. With a soft sigh and a few threats, he made his old bones shuffle over to the door and push up on the steel bars, one at a time. Opening the door, he stuck his head outside and glanced quickly back toward the street. Thankfully, it was still empty; no one was there. He grabbed the two crates from atop the trash bin and tossed them back down the alley, so it would not look as obvious. He tried to shove the trash bin back where it had been; but his strength was completely gone. It would have to stay right where it was. Finally, feeling like an old, flat tire, he went back inside and dropped the steel bars back into place.

  He found a stack of boxes along the rear wall, and what he wanted to do more than anything was to curl up on top of them and sleep. The effects of the past two days were accumulating like body shots to the gut of an old prizefighter. Individually, he could take a punch; but the succession of solid hits had left him reeling. Funny, he thought, fifteen years ago when his body could take almost anything, he was too damned stupid to know it shouldn’t. Sleep would have to wait, however. After the days and weeks of relentless pounding it had taken, he was too damned stubborn to give in to it now. There was no stopping. Not yet. He staggered out of the storeroom into the more familiar haunts of the barroom itself and plopped down on a stool. Reaching across the bar, he grabbed a fifth of gin, pulled the cork with his teeth, and took a long pull. His throat exploded white-hot. His eyes filled with tears, and he was lucky to lower the bottle back onto the bar without dropping it.

  “God! That’s awful,” he rasped and shook his head, staring down at the fifth. It had

  been two days since he’d had a drink and could not remember when he had gone that long between transfusions. It must be a modern record, he thought, a TPB… a Thomson Personal Best. Strange, though, he should be crawling the walls by now but wasn’t. Instead of satisfying his need, all the warm gin did was turn his stomach and give him the dry heaves. He looked at the bottle again and saw his own reflection in the dusty glass. Who was that guy? Not even a funhouse mirror could make someone look that bad. It had to be a mistake, he thought, as he pushed the bottle away. Surely, he would wake up any second and find this was all a bad dream.

  At the far end of the bar, he saw a telephone. He stared at it for a long minute, thinking. Finally, he slid off the barstool and made his feet walk the ten paces. Mechanically, Thomson lifted the receiver and dialed the number. “Is Perper there?” he mumbled, wondering if Kilbride had bugged the entire embassy yet. When Reggie finally came on the line, Thomson said quietly, “Hey, guy, remember me?”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Perper answered, his normal sarcasm completely gone. “Uh, yeah,” Perper tried to sound casual. “How’re you doin’, Uncle Rich.”

  “I’ve been better. Is this a good time to talk?”

  “Wouldn’t be wise. You know how it goes sometimes.”

  “Yeah, I think I do.”

  “I thought you were taking a little vacation.”

  “I decided to stick around a few more days.”

  “Not a really good idea, but Cairo can do that to a man. In fact, some people never do leave,” Reggie, said, beginning to regain a touch of his old form. “Too bad you didn’t.”

  “Well, I ran into some of your old pals. We had a nice chat, and I just couldn’t drag myself away.”

  “The word’s out, you know,” Perper warned, his voice sounding deeply concerned.

  “I can imagine.”

  “No, no, I doubt you can. They say you crossed over to the other side and sold out. Do you know what that means?”

  “Headhunters?”

  “You got it… and they put a real big price on yours; so, if I were you, I’d come in and give it up. If you don’t, you’re going to end up very dead and soon.”

  “It isn’t true, you know.”

  “Of course it isn’t; but that don’t mean shit, Cisco. It’s as true as they want to take the trouble to make it. So come on in. Maybe I can find you a good Republican lawyer, and you can plead insanity. Who could doubt you?”

  “I need your help, Reggie,” Thomson said quietly.

  There was a long pause before Perper replied. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  “A little research, that’s all. Check the pedigrees on a Kraut named Ernst Fengler.”

  “Is he part of the comedy team out in the desert?”

  “Yup, during the war, he worked at a place called Hechingen in the Black Forest. It was some kind of research lab. Cable Bonn and find out what they did there.”

  “You are freakin’ amazing, Thomson. Here you are floating in a toilet bowl, somebody’s just pulled the chain, and you want me to jump in with you.”

  “We can do laps, maybe practice our backstroke together, Reggie. Besides, you’re already in it, whether you want to be or not.”

  “Bullshit! You’re the one they’re after, not me.”

  “This is big, Reggie. I know it is, and I’ve got to find out about Fengler before it is too late. Besides, what do you have to lose? You only live once.”

  “That’s what bothers me.”

  “Meet me tonight at 8:00 p.m.,” Thomson pleaded, “where we met the last time, but out in back in the alley.”

  “I’ll try. That’s all I can promise… I’ll try.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The sun had set hours before; but Captain Hassan Saleh continued to sit in his desk chair staring out the window into the Cairo night, content in knowing that he had been right all along. Of course, this was a CIA plot. Now there could be no doubt of it. The plot was devilishly clever, and the American, Thomson, a superb liar. He was cast perfectly for the role of a broken-down field agent, and Saleh knew how close he had come to falling for it — almost, almost. He lit another of his long, aromatic Turkish cigarettes and drew the smoke deep into his lungs. The red glow from the tip of his cigarette was the only light in the office now. He knew it was a vile habit, but he had acquired it years before while in the hospital. The Turkish tobacco was far stronger than the mild Egyptian, European, or American blend; but it was what he preferred now. The first deep drag would make him gag and cough, sending a racking pain through his chest; but for that brief moment, it made him forget about his leg.

  From the very beginning, he knew Mahmoud Yussuf had been one of Thomson’s agents and part of a monstrous CIA plot. The first conclusions he reached about a case were invariably the correct ones. It was when he began to second-guess, when he allowed emotion to replace his instinctive gut feel for a case, that he got into trouble. Experience had taught him that, if nothing else. Believe your nose, not your brain. The American had hired the fat Arab to spy for him. They had had a falling out, undoubtedly over money; so Thomson had the poor fellow killed. The American, however, underestimated the police. Criminals always do. He had not expected Hassan Saleh to be in charge or the police to unravel his story so quickly; so he staged the rest to cover his tracks… the phony kidnapping, the chase from the airport, even the manhunt, and his unfortunate escape from Sayyid. Yes, this Thomson was very clever, and Hassan Saleh would see that he hung for it.

  Saleh sat there smoking, thinking, and wondering why was he still letting this case rattle around inside his head. If it was now open and shut, why was he still sitting here in the office instead of at home with his wife and children, confident that the matter was solved? Why, he kept asking himself. Why? The truth was that no case had gotten inside his skull the way this one had and inside his gut, too. In his few short years with the police, Saleh had matched wits with every type of criminal the sewers of Hell could spew up, but this American was different. The man’s cover was so complete, so pat, that it was either a brilliant fabrication or the
real thing. That was the dilemma Saleh faced. Was Thomson’s story all lies or all truth?

  A soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

  Saleh looked up to see Sergeant Sayyid peering cautiously around the corner of the doorframe. Saleh motioned for him to enter, frowning when he saw that Sayyid’s face was bruised and his head was wrapped with a thick white bandage.

  Saleh frowned. “Did they permit you to leave the hospital so soon, Sayyid?”

  “I chose not to stay,” the sergeant replied sternly. “It is a place of illness.”

  “Still, you should not have left. It was a vicious fall, and you should have listened to what the doctors told you.” From the expression on Sayyid’s face, it was clear that the sergeant had no intention of listening to doctors or police Captains for that matter. “Well, it is good to have you back anyway; and have no fear, we shall find your American. When we do, I will give him to you as a present. Would that make you feel better?”

  One look into Sayyid’s hate-filled eyes was answer enough. Thomson was as good as dead already.

  “Go home now and rest, Sayyid,” Saleh added. “There is nothing for you to do here. The net is out. He cannot use the airport or the border crossings. He shall not escape us.”

  Sayyid nodded. “And there is nothing you need for me to do?”

  “No. In the morning, I shall take a drive out to that old RAF base to satisfy an idle curiosity. We can talk more then.”

  Sayyid stared at him for a moment, and then he turned and quietly left the room. Good, Saleh thought. He was too bone-tired for an argument. Well, at least this business gave him a chance to speak with Gamal. It seemed like ages ago when the three young men sat on that riverbank, wondering what the future would bring them. They were adolescent revolutionaries fighting the boredom of those days with fiery rhetoric and endless debates. When was that… 1936 or 1937? They could not have been more than nineteen years old. Looking back, those days seemed such easy ones. Each of them in his own unique way had all the answers…

  It was sunset. The three young men continued to argue as the big, orange ball of a sun dropped behind the palm trees on the opposite bank of the great river. Beyond those trees and the thin fringe of green farmland around them lay the great western desert. It dominated everything, filling the air with a thin veil of dust that refracted the waning rays of the sun and turned the evening sky into a rich kaleidoscope of purples, reds, and yellows. Sunsets like that were for poets, he thought; and Hassan Saleh, Ali Rashid, and Gamal Nasser had far more serious matters on their minds.

  “Gamal, have you gone mad?” Hassan’s mouth hung open. “Why would you join the army?”

  A faintly amused smile crossed Gamal’s face and he shook his head as a schoolteacher would to a backward pupil. “I have not gone mad, Hassan. The past few months in Cairo have opened my eyes to many, many things.”

  “But the army? They sleep with the British. Is that what you want to do, Gamal, be one of their whores? What of the law? I thought you wanted to study the law.”

  Words like that would cause a violent argument with anyone else except Gamal. He never showed his emotions with words. Instead, he used those powerful brown eyes and broad smile to win any argument. The effect was disarming, and the man was someone you simply could not argue with or stay angry with for long.

  “I know it is hard for you to see, Hassan, sitting here in this wretched village…”

  “Has Cairo improved your vision?” Ali Rashid broke in. To him, life was absolutes and sharp edges. “Cairo is an abomination — neither Arab nor Moslem. Our people strut about in Savile Row suits, trying to pass themselves off as European; but they are not European. They can never be. The British laugh at this silly masquerade; and in the end, they are nothing. We are Moslems,” he stated flatly. “Our destiny lies in the Koran. There is nothing in Cairo, the army, or your cursed civil law that is any greater than that.”

  “As usual, Ali, you are right,” Gamal apologized. “Cairo is not Egypt. This is,” he said, as he patted the rich black soil of the riverbank. “Since antiquity, our roots have been watered and nourished by the Nile. Our village and thousands of others like it are the true Egypt… ageless and unshackled, complete with barefoot children, dirt streets, sugar beets, camels, and water buffalo. It is a place where survival depends on the next good crop, and that hasn’t changed since the days of the Pharaohs or the time of Mohammed.”

  Ali’s eyes narrowed as he studied Gamal. “Then you agree — Cairo is an abomination.”

  “Certainly, but it is much more than that, Ali. Cairo is power and control. He who controls Cairo, controls Egypt; and he who controls Egypt, controls the Middle East. Never forget that.”

  Ali nodded, still suspicious. “But control it to what end, Gamal? I judge a man by his dreams, not just his actions. What are your dreams? What will you do the morning after your revolution?” he demanded to know.

  “Still breathing that fire, Ali? Good.”

  “Yes! I want to drive the Crusaders out at the point of a sword. I want to bring back the Caliphate, purge the unholy, and institute Sharia Law, not more of your Western shams.”

  Gamal laughed as he turned toward him. “I am not sure if I would go that far; but, yes, I want to change it, too. Eventually, I shall get it, if I have men like you beside me, not against me or standing on the sidelines. No wall is too high for you, my friend. You would tear the bricks apart with your bare hands if you had to.”

  “If that is Allah’s will. No wall built by man would ever stop me, Gamal, nor would any man.”

  “Gamal does not claim to receive His daily messages, Ali,” Hassan joked. “He does not sit on his prayer rug and scowl, waiting for the lightning bolt.”

  “Do not blaspheme!” Ali’s eyes warned. “I have less use for heretics than I do for politicians. Tell me what you would do with the wall, Hassan. Would you negotiate with it, read it the law, or perhaps you would convince it to tear itself down?”

  Gamal placed himself between them. “You are right, of course, Ali. At the present, however, the wall is too high and too strong for any of us to tear into it, not yet anyway. Besides, our timing is all wrong. That is why I have decided to join the army. Why waste the time and sweat trying to tear the wall down, when we can simply go around it. As I said, I learned a few things in Cairo.” Gamal raised his hand and pushed his hair back from his forehead. “See that scar?” he asked. “It is pink and fresh, I assure you. It came from a policeman’s bullet.”

  “A policeman’s bullet,” Hassan said excitedly, “so it has begun. The police actually fired on their own people.”

  “Yes, but they cannot shoot very well, as you can see.”

  “Allah be praised for that, if nothing else,” Ali answered.

  “Allah had nothing to do with it,” Hassan jeered. “It was bad marksmanship.”

  “Do not blaspheme!” Ali warned.

  “We must take up arms,” Hassan said. “You can pray all day long, Ali. When you look up from your prayer mat, however, Farouk will still be on the throne, the army and the police will still be guarding his fat backside, and a British regiment will still be behind them. Still, can you imagine such a thing?” He grinned. “The police actually dared to fire on their own people. If it is civil war they want…”

  “Oh, hush, both of you,” Gamal said, silencing their bickering. “You sound like you are the ones who got shot. Someday it may come to guns but not for many, many years. The timing simply will not work. You forget that I was there. I was part of the protests and the riots. We showed that we could fill the streets with people, and the police showed they could fill the streets with blood just as quickly. In the end, what did we gain except more martyrs?”

  “Then what will work?” Hassan demanded to know. “We must drive the British out. Without them, the army and the police are nothing. Farouk’s government will collapse, and we can begin the real revolution.”

  “Mark my words, one day, the British wi
ll leave on their own.”

  “Do you think they will just walk out of here?” Hassan scoffed.

  “That is exactly what I think. They will haul down their Union jack and sail away into the sunset,” Gamal answered patiently. “You see, we have a new and powerful weapon on our side. Europe is racing toward another war. The signs are everywhere. The Italians are in Ethiopia, bleeding like stuck pigs. The Germans are testing their new war machines in Spain, while the British and French bury their heads in the sand telling themselves Hitler is not serious. Well, I have spoken with his people in Cairo, and I believe he is very serious. War will come. When it does, Hitler will do our job for us. Win or lose, if it is at all like the last one, the British will have no strength left for the burdens of empire. That is why it is merely a matter of time, Hassan. Time is our new weapon.”

  “How much time, Gamal — how long must we wait?”

  “Not long, but when that day does come, we must be ready. The bullet taught me that much.” Gamal turned to each of them, asking, “Was it the will of Allah that the bullet missed, Ali…or was it merely a soldier’s bad aim, Hassan? I accept them both. Next time, however, there will be a gun in my hand, too.”

  The other two nodded and smiled as the tension lifted.