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

by William Brown

  “Oh, you may be sure of that,” he heard Sayyid reassure her.

  Sayyid is here, Saleh thought. He managed to look up, and saw Sayyid’s dim shape leaning over him. Saleh tried to smile. He wanted to say something to him, but he could not talk. His lips would not move, his tongue seemed frozen, and his eyes slowly closed again.

  “Is he waking?” Sayyid asked, sounding concerned.

  “Soon,” the nurse answered. “He was given a sedative, but it will begin to wear off any time now. Then he will need rest and time.”

  Time… Saleh silently cursed himself. He tried to say something, but he could not. His eyelids had become so very heavy. He wanted so much to talk. There was something he wanted desperately to tell Sayyid. It was important, but he could not remember what it was. Something about a car — was that it? Did a car hit him? He could not remember. He heard the door swing shut, and the room fall quiet again. Then he heard footsteps and the sound of a telephone being dialed.

  “Yes, sir,” he heard Sayyid say softly. “There was nothing I could do, I swear it. A police cruiser came into the parking lot before we could lift him into the van, so we had to pretend we found him lying there. If we hadn’t, there would have been questions.”

  Saleh strained, trying to listen and understand, but it was difficult to hear.

  “The Mahdi Military Hospital… Yes, sir,” he went on. “I will stay here, and I can assure you he will talk to no one. He has a skull fracture, so there is no way he can interfere with our plans now. By noon, it will not matter anyway, will it?”

  Saleh did not understand. None of it made sense. He opened his eyes and saw Sayyid put the phone back in its cradle. The sergeant turned and looked down at him. His hand reached inside his jacket and he pulled out a small leather case. He stepped toward the bed, unzipped it, and pulled out a small vial and a hypodermic needle.

  No! Saleh wanted to speak. He wanted to stop Sayyid, but he could not. All he could do was watch helplessly as Sayyid filled the needle and bent over him. Saleh looked into Sayyid’s eyes. They seemed so cold and so hard. They were the eyes of a stranger. Saleh wanted to say something, but the words drifted away. His eyelids closed, and he could not remember. He was lost again, tumbling slowly about inside that thick white cloud.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  As they approached the house, Thomson got a sick feeling in his gut. Perhaps he was tired, or perhaps it was simply nerves. Nevertheless, he told Ilsa to circle slowly through the neighborhood twice, and then had her do it again. She gave him a perplexed look but did what he instructed. “I see nothing,” she finally commented.

  “That’s the whole point Ilsa. Humor me and keep driving,” he said as he scanned the dark alleyways of the working-class neighborhood. Even if it was simply his nerves, Thomson didn’t care. The truth was that everything looked calm and quiet, far too calm and quiet. They found the address easily. The house sat by itself, hidden in the trees near the side of an old brickyard. He had to hand it to the Israelis. It was quiet and secluded, making it the perfect place for a ‘safe’ house, a place to hide and use for the occasional meeting location. There was not a single car on the street, and no lights were on inside the house. Still, no matter how hard he looked, he could find no signs of surveillance or the hint of any guards… none. The Israelis were good, but nobody was that good. There did not appear to be a thread out of place. It looked perfect, very much as that street in Damascus appeared that night.

  Damascus! Perhaps that was what set off the little alarm bells in the back of his head. No, not little… they were clanging like the bell on a hook-and-ladder racing to a four-alarm fire, telling him to get away from here as fast as his feet could carry him. Carry him? Where? The place reeked of a setup, and the alarm bells were probably right; even so, there was not a damned thing he could do about it. He had to go inside and get their help, because there was nowhere else for him to turn.

  He told Ilsa to park the car two streets from the house. “Do you have a flashlight in this thing?” he asked as he struggled with the latch on the glove compartment.

  “Do not bother. That lock has been broken since Papa got the car. Here,” she said as she dug into the clutter beneath the front seat and found it. He tried to take it from her, but she would not let go. “I shall carry the flashlight,” she said as she shook her head. “You carry the gun.”

  “That would be nice,” he replied with a polite smile, “if you were coming along — but you’re not.”

  Ilsa got out of the car anyway and stood in the road with her arms folded across her chest, looking back at him through the front windshield, watching as he struggled to get out the other side by himself. Finally, she walked around, took his arm, and helped him out. “I am not staying here alone.” She was certain about that. “Not after what I have been through tonight. And you need me. In your condition, if you go stumbling around out there in the dark, you will wake up half of Cairo. Besides, it is you they are after, not me.”

  “After what happened back in the hangar, I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  He shook his head and stared at her. “This is my job, Ilsa; and I don’t want to get you hurt while I’m doing it.”

  Her expression softened and she smiled. She ran her hand down his cheek. “I know and appreciate the sentiment, truly; however, I am coming, and that is that.”

  Reluctantly, he turned away and led her on a slow, limping course between two houses, down a narrow alley, and up to a thick hedge, where they had a clear view of the rear of the house. He peered through the bushes and studied each door and window, probing the dark shadows but not learning a damned thing he had not already known. There were no lights inside the house, no guards that he could see, and no signs of life. He pulled the old Luger from his belt and made sure the safety was off, the clip of bullets was set firmly in the butt, and a round was in the chamber. “Now, stay close,” he said as he took her firmly by the hand and set off for the rear door.

  The yard was in complete darkness, but he immediately sensed something was wrong. The screen door hung open, sagging as if it had been kicked off its hinges. Nearby, a window frame had been knocked out onto the ground. It looked as if someone had tried to get inside quickly and didn’t particularly care how he did it. Thomson eased up onto the porch and listened intently at the rear doorway. All he heard were the soft sounds of the Egyptian night but nothing from inside, except the animated buzzing of flies. He peeked around the doorframe, but it was too dark to see anything clearly. He tightened his grip on the Luger and held it out waist-high as he leaned forward, looking into the house. Finally, he flicked on the flashlight. In the dim circle of light at the end of its narrow beam, he saw snatches of a kitchen, as if he were peering through a keyhole. The room had been turned inside out, upside down, and shot to pieces. There was a cheap wooden table and a matched set of chairs, broken and lying on their sides. The floor was littered with pots and broken crockery. The far wall was stitched with a line of bullet holes, and huge chunks of plaster were gouged from the archway that led to the front rooms of the house.

  Ilsa began to whisper something, but Thomson put his finger to her lips and hushed her. “Stay behind me,” he turned and whispered as he stepped carefully over the debris and worked his way toward the next room. That would be the living room, he thought; and it was there that he found the first body.

  Thomson almost tripped over it as he groped his way through the debris. He bent down and held the beam low, studying the body for a moment. It was a young man dressed in a cheap brown suit, and he had three awkward bullet holes in his chest. From the look of total shock on his face and the angle of the body, it looked as if he had been shot from the rear door, probably before he even knew they were there. Could he be one of the men with Jani last night? Thomson wondered, but there was no way to tell. There was an Uzi submachine gun with a long silencer screwed onto its barrel lying next to him. Thomson picked it up and sn
iffed the barrel. It had not been fired. Whatever hit him had come quickly, Thomson thought grimly; but at least he had not suffered.

  “Richard,” he heard Ilsa softly moan. She was kneeling behind him in the corner. When he turned the flashlight in her direction, he saw more bodies. He quickly helped her move to the side and propped her against the wall, facing the other way. The last thing he needed right now was a sick woman on his hands. He checked the magazine on the Uzi, made sure the safety was off, and hung it over his shoulder, knowing it would be a heck of a lot more useful than the old Luger if he needed a weapon. He turned the flashlight back on the bodies, looking for the two men he prayed would not be there.

  There were five in all, lying where they fell like sides of beef on a slaughterhouse floor. The man in the brown suit might not have known what was coming, but the others did. Someone had lined them up, gunned them down, and shot them to pieces. The wall was full of bullet holes, splattered with blood as if it were a set in a cheap Hollywood gangster movie. Thomson had seen his share of killing, but this massacre threw his stomach right up into his throat. On the left side of the stack, Thomson saw Jani’s body. He was lying on top of someone else, as if he had tried to shield him from the bullets. How sadly futile that was. Thomson reached out and touched the hand of the man on the bottom. It looked old and wrinkled. Thomson turned the hand over and recognized the numbered tattoo on the wrist. The fingers were lifeless now, but he remembered how eloquent and expressive they had once been. He turned the flashlight beam on the old man’s face and frowned. He looked so very ordinary now. Twenty-four hours before, he had been something very special — he had been alive.

  “Rest in peace,” Thomson mumbled. “You should have stayed back on the kibbutz, because you deserved better than what you got here.” He stood up, ignoring the sharp-edged pain in his chest and side. Pain? He wanted it then, to feel both the pain and the hurt. Perhaps, if he was in enough pain now, he could forgive himself for not doing something sooner — for being the one still alive, when other, better men had died.

  The list was getting long and heavy, too long and too heavy for one soul to carry. There was the old man, Jani, and the rest of the men here. Before them, there was Reggie Perper and that fat slob Yussuf, the one without the head. He counted, too, albeit not for much. Finally, there was Landau. He had been the first and a long way from the last. Thomson shook his head. Someone had left an awful trail of bodies behind him. Was it Grüber, he wondered? Whoever, someone would pay for this. Thomson was white-hot angry now, and he could feel the adrenaline pumping. The old engine had worked the roughs out and was running steady now with all cylinders firing on time, flat-out, and without a twitch. The old reflexes were on full alert, too. Maybe the bodies and the blood had done it, but each of his senses seemed heightened to a fine, cutting edge. He turned off the flashlight and stood silently in the dark room, listening intently.

  He swore he heard a faint rustling in the front yard. He bent down, picked up several spare magazines for the Uzi, and jammed them into his pants pocket before he stepped away and took Ilsa’s trembling hand. “We need to get out of here,” he whispered, as he pressed the Luger into her fingers and led her back to the rear door. The rustling sound was followed by footsteps and a soft voice in German telling someone to go around the back, so Thomson pulled Ilsa through the kitchen until his foot bumped against a chair in the dark. The footsteps near the front door became louder, and then he heard someone enter the house. If they did not move fast, he knew they would be surrounded and trapped inside.

  He kept her behind him and stepped outside onto the rear porch. Dropping into a low crouch, he saw a soldier dressed in combat fatigues with a rifle in his hands walking toward them in the dark. It was hard to tell who was the more surprised, but Thomson was the one who was ready. Taking a quick step forward, he swung the Uzi in a compact arc and caught the soldier in the base of his throat, crushing his larynx before he could even break stride. He let out a soft gurgle and crumpled to the ground, immediately ending that threat. Dropping even lower, Thomson brought the Uzi down to waist level and scanned the backyard.

  He saw nothing. Quickly reaching back inside the kitchen door, he grabbed Ilsa’s hand and took off in a painful loping run across the yard. Looking back, he saw a dark shadow step through the rear door of the house. Thomson did not think twice. Holding the Uzi out at arm’s length, he pointed it at the door and pulled the trigger, firing a muffled burst across the narrow doorway. The barrel jumped, and the shadow fell backward inside the kitchen. Two down, he thought. That would do for a modest down payment on the debt, and maybe it would slow them down for a few moments.

  Holding her with one hand and the Uzi with the other, Thomson headed for the hedge as he heard angry shouts in German converging on the house from several directions. The Germans had laid their little trap with skill. In the dark, even running as slowly as they were, he and Ilsa might have made it, if it hadn’t been for the man who came plunging through the hedge, heading directly toward them. They saw each other at the same time, but Thomson’s Uzi remained pointed at the house. He tried to bring it around as the other man raised his automatic rifle, but Thomson immediately knew he would be too late. The German had his gun at waist level and was about to shoot when a loud Bang! split the night. It was the Luger. Ilsa had pulled the trigger and a heavy nine-millimeter slug hit the German, lifting him off his feet. It was a clean hit, dead center in the chest; still, the German managed to squeeze the trigger on his automatic rifle as he fell. The short burst missed Thomson, digging up the ground behind him; but he felt a sudden, heavy pull on his arm that almost made him lose his balance as Ilsa stumbled. As she fell, her hand slipped from his grasp. His head whipped around and he looked back at where she lay on the ground.

  “Richard!” she gasped as she rolled onto her side, holding her thigh with both hands. Thomson looked at her in desperation and then back at the house. He raised the Uzi and fired off the rest of the magazine at the rear doorway. That might buy them another minute or two but not much more. He dropped to his knees and tried to get his hands under her to lift her to her feet. “Come on, I can carry you.”

  “No!” She pushed his hands away. “Get out of here. Go before they catch you, too.”

  “I can’t leave you here,” he insisted.

  Her hand lashed out and slapped him across the face. “You must. If you care for me, then you will keep going and stop them. I shall never forgive you if you do not. Please! I know these men, and they will not hurt me.”

  He heard more voices and the sound of running feet. He looked down at her and hated her for forcing him to make the choice. “I’ll come back and get you out of this,” he said. He stood up and began moving as quickly as his injuries allowed. The ache in his heart was greater than the one in his side as he limped through the backyards and side streets, trying to fight off the anger, frustration, and tears.

  Ilsa lay on the ground, her eyes filled with hate as the soldiers surrounded her. She ignored the pain as she looked up at the men with the dark faces and guns. Finally, she heard the voice, the one voice that made her blood run cold.

  “My, my, what do we have here,” Grüber asked as he looked down at her, gloating. “Won’t Papa Fengler be pleased to learn what his darling daughter has been doing this evening?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Even painted in the saffron glow of a midsummer sunrise, the Mahdi Military Hospital in Cairo appeared somber and imposing. Four stories tall and built of a dull, reddish-brown brick, it covered an entire city block, looking more like a medieval fortress or a prison than a hospital. Thomson slowly circled the building three times and then parked the Fiat down the road where he could study the building’s front and side facades. Saleh was in there somewhere, but where? Thomson knew he must find out, because the fastidious police detective could be his last chance.

  As his eyes scanned the street, he caught his own reflection in the rear view mirror, but he barely rec
ognized the haggard face staring back at him. The eyes were a dull, bloodshot red, set above dark bluish-black pouches. It needed a shave, and its hair was in bad need of a combing. There were enough blue-green bruises on its cheek, forehead, and chin to color a hockey team. Worse, the fellow looked too exhausted and battered to even stay awake, much less stop a war. Look at his clothes. The slacks and shirt were torn and stained with dirt and grease. Was this what he wore to the airport that morning? Was it just that morning? Hell, he groaned, that was yesterday morning; and the man in the mirror was no illusion, it was his new harsh reality. Clearly, he could not simply walk up to the information desk of the hospital with a bouquet of flowers in his hand and ask for Captain Saleh’s room.

  He turned the key in the ignition and started the car’s engine, pulling out slowly into the thin morning traffic. Circling the old hospital again, he searched for any chink in their armor and found none. On the fourth pass, he heard the high-pitched wail of an emergency siren. Coming toward him down the street in the opposite lane was a khaki-colored army ambulance with a bright red flasher on its roof. It roared past him and made a sharp turn into the hospital driveway, nearly tipping onto its side before it skidded to a halt at the emergency room entrance. Two white-clad attendants jumped out and ran to the rear door of the ambulance. Together, they hauled a stretcher out and made a mad dash toward the emergency room door. Thomson smiled. He made a U-turn and followed the same route, parking behind the ambulance. It was still early, and the street was deserted. No one noticed a seedy-looking man climb into the back of the ambulance or the somewhat scruffy attendant emerge a few minutes later dressed in a long, white smock and a hospital orderly’s cap. He carried a medical bag in one hand and a clipboard in the other. The trick was to keep his eyes straight ahead, walk fast, scowl, act as if he knew what he was doing, and pretend he was far too important to be bothered with stupid questions. Then again, batting five-hundred will get a guy on the All-Star team.