Six Bloody Summer Days

by Nick Carter

  "Thanks, but I'm afraid the press is something that won't wait, not even on funerals."

  Over the complaining of the badly used engine, I heard a new sound. I glanced back. Through the gray screen of our dust another vehicle was coming up fast. It was a two-lane road. I knew if the oncoming driver wanted to pass, he would have already swung into the passing lane. There wasn't time for a briefing. I came over the seat, knocking the driver off the wheel, hauling the Chevy hard to starboard then to port. I fought to stay on the road as gravel spewed and rubber shrieked. There was a single wrenching clang of metal against metal as the other car shot past. He'd been going too fast to brake and correct his aim.

  There was no chance to get a look at him, and once past, he didn't slow down. The driver began howling in rage as though calling the faithful to prayer. Van der Meer's sound track seemed to have gotten stuck in the groove. "My word! My word!" was all that came out. I returned the wheel to the driver, feeling better, hoping the near miss was an indication of something more than someone in a killing hurry.

  Chapter 5

  The doctor bid me a worried farewell at the hotel entrance. He would send a message as soon as he returned from Pakar. Telephoning would be impossible. He hoped I would be cautious, etc., etc.

  As we had driven along the Hadrian Pelt, rimming the harbor, there was plenty of evidence that General Tasahmed had his forces on display. When we pulled up before the dirty white face of the hotel, troops were scattered among the palms and cypress like weeds. Their presence only seemed to add to van der Meer's concern for me. "Je vous remercie beaucoup, Docteur," I said, getting out of the cab. "A la prochaine fois. Bon chance en Pakar."

  "Oui! Oui!" He stuck his head out the window, nearly losing his hat. "Mon plaisir, a bientôt, a bientôt!"

  "You bet." The driver was never going to forgive me for saving his life, but the baksheesh I handed him produced my luggage, and I went quickly up the stone steps into the dim recess of the hotel's foyer.

  Forty years ago the Lamana Palace had been the best the French colonists had been able to offer themselves. The old patina remained, as did the coolness. But the smell was more recent, as was the concierge.

  The pressure of time no longer permitted the luxury of playing games. When he found I could speak French he went into the routine of not having received a request for a reservation. Unfortunately, all the rooms were booked. He had a moon face with spiked black hair and limpid black eyes to match. The perfume he bathed in went with his gestures, as did his fawn-hued vest.

  I was the only arrival at the moment, and the foyer was large enough so that no one appeared to be paying any attention to us. I brought forth my confirmation telex with my left hand while my right fastened on the vest. Then I brought the two close together, hauling him partially over the counter.

  "You have a choice," I said quietly. "You can eat this confirmation of my reservation or you can give me the key to my room right now."

  Perhaps it was the expression his bulging eyes saw in mine. He indicated he was not hungry. I let him go. Preening his ruffled feathers, he produced a key.

  "Merci, bien." I smiled pleasantly.

  "You must fill out the identity card and leave your passport," he rasped, rubbing his chest.

  "Later," I said, taking the card. "When I've had some sleep."

  "But M'sieur…!"

  I walked away, signaling a boy to carry my bag.

  Whenever I want information or service in a city I have two sources: Taxi drivers and bell hops. In this case, it was the latter. His name was Ali. He had the face of a gamin and blue eyes a million years old. He spoke a fine brand of pidgin French. Right away, I saw I had made a friend.

  He flipped me a knowing glance as we walked to the baroque elevator. "Master has made an enemy of a bad man." His face lit up in a wide grin.

  "I found his manners poor."

  "His mother was a pig, his father a goat. He will cause you trouble." His voice came out of his belly.

  Going up in the stable size elevator Ali told me his name and informed me that the concierge, Aref Lacoute, was a police spy, a pimp, a queer, and a mean bastard.

  "The Master has come far," Ali said, unlocking the door to my room.

  "And still farther to go, Ali." I moved past him into the dimly lit cubicle Lacoute had assigned me. Ali flipped on the light, which didn't help much. "If I have need of a car, would you know where one can be found?"

  He grinned. "Whatever Master wants Ali can find… and the cost will not make you curse me too much."

  "I want a car that runs better than an old camel."

  "Or a new one," he laughed. "How soon?"

  "Now would be a good time."

  "Ten minutes from now and it is yours."

  "Is there a back exit?"

  He gave me a critical look. "Master is not going to bring trouble?"

  "Not today. Why are there so many soldiers about?" I noticed his concentration as I took a fist full of rials out of my wallet.

  "That is the doing of the general. Now that the Boss is dead. He will be boss."

  "Was the dead Boss a good man?"

  "As any boss," he shrugged.

  "Will there be trouble?"

  "Only for those who are against the general."

  "Are there many?"

  "There is word there are some. Some want the fine lady of the dead Boss to rule in his place."

  "What do you say?"

  "I don't say. I listen."

  "How much of this do you need?" I fanned the bills out at him.

  He squinted at me. "Master is not very smart. I could rob you."

  "No." I smiled down at him. "I want to hire you. If you cheat me — well, in-shallah."

  He took what he needed, then told me how to reach the hotel's rear exit. "Ten minutes," he said, winked at me, and was gone.

  I locked the door and pulled up the blind on the room's single window. It was actually a door that let out on to a small balcony. It offered me a view of flat top roofs and a glimpse of the harbor. It also let in some fresh air. As I cushioned Wilhelmina in my shoulder holster and secured Hugo to my forearm, I gave some thought to Henry Sutton, the CIA resident. Had our positions been reversed I would have had someone at the airport to check on my arrival, a driver who would have been alert and a contact here at the hotel to smooth my entrance. There would have been a message indicating the availability of a car. Henry was not showing me much.

  The rear entrance of the hotel let out on to a stinking alley. It was just wide enough for the Fiat 1100. Ali and the car's owner were waiting for me, the former to receive my benediction and the latter to see how much richer I would make him.

  "You like it, Master?" Ali patted the film of dust on the fender.

  I liked it better when I got in and fired it up. At least all four cylinders were operating. The owner's day was ruined when I refused to bargain, gave him half of what he quoted for four days' rental, and drove out of the cul-de-sac, calling on Allah to bless them both.

  Lamana was more like a large town than a city. The French had laid out its streets in a fan shape and interlaced them with a number of floral parks, thanks to the acquifer on which the area rested. The mixture of Moorish architecture and French planning gave Lamana an old world charm that even its liberators had not been able to erase.

  I had committed its streets to memory during the helicopter ride to Montreal, and I moved along in the thin flow of traffic, heading toward the outskirts and the U.S. Embassy on Rue Pepin. At the main intersections there were armored cars and crews taking their ease. I purposely swung past the Presidential Palace. Its ornate gate was draped in black crepe. Through the gold colored bars I could see a long, palm-decked drive. The lay out, exterior and interior were also fixed in my mind. Protection for the Palace was not greater than at any other point. It could be Tasahmed had his troops out to make an impression, not because he expected trouble.

  The embassy, a bit white villa, sat behind a long high whi
te wall. The flag on its roof was at half staff. I was pleased to see the Marines on guard at the gate and even more pleased with their no nonsense manner. My passport was checked. The Fiat was checked from hood to trunk. A call was put through to Sutton. A response came back, and I was instructed where to park and to report to the Sergeant upon entering the embassy. It all took about two minutes, very polite but nobody was missing a trick.

  Inside the door I found the sergeant. He would have been hard to miss. I was glad we were on the same side. He did his rechecking, then directed me to take the left arm of the sweeping twin branch staircase. Room 204 was my destination.

  I went up the carpeted stairs amid the smell of flowers, the quiet of the place funeral. The stillness was not only a measure of the occasion but also the hour. It was after five.

  I knocked on 204, and without waiting for a response, opened the door and barged in. It was an outer office, and the auburn-haired woman who was waiting to receive me did something to soften the head of steam I had been building for Sutton. Elegant was my first reaction; no ordinary secretary, was my second.

  I was right on both counts.

  "Mr. Cole," she said, coming toward me, "We've been expecting you."

  I hadn't been expecting her, but our brief handshake said something good for the unexpected. "I came as soon as I could."

  "Ouch." She winced at my sarcasm, her pale green eyes crinkling. Her smile was subtle, like her scent, the color of her hair something special, Yeats and Cathlin ni Hulihan all rolled into one. Instead, she was Paula Mathews, assistant and secretary to the missing Henry Sutton. "Where is he?" I said, following her into her office.

  She didn't answer until we got seated. "Henry — Mr. Sutton — is working on a lead… with regard to the Ambassador's death."

  "What's that going to solve?"

  "I… I don't really know… Except it might answer why he was killed."

  "There's nothing on that?"

  "No." She shook her head.

  "When will Sutton be back?"

  "He thought by seven."

  "Has anything come in for me?"

  "Oh, yes, I almost forgot." She handed me the envelope on her desk.

  "Excuse me." Hawk's coded response to my Rome query was brief and offered no real answers: Ownership of NAA 60% Mendanike, 30% Tasahmed, 10% Shema. If Tasahmed or Shema wanted to kill me, it certainly could be done more easily here than in Rome.

  I looked up at Paula, noting the full swell of her breasts against her blouse. "I need the use of your communications office."

  "Whatever help we can be." Her gesture was a graceful motion.

  "Let's go talk to communications."

  The communications section and its chief operator, Charlie Neal, offered a bit of reassurance. The equipment was the latest, Neal knew his business. Using a different dummy address, I encoded an AXE-Sp. for Hawk: Need all on FAO Dr. Otto van der Meer.

  "I should have a reply on that within a half hour, Charlie." I said. "You'll let me know."

  "We'll be at my quarters," Paula enlightened us both.

  Within the walled grounds of the embassy compound there were a number of small bungalows for members of the staff. Until recently, living in such a residence had been optional, Paula informed me, but terrorist actions against U.S. personnel had made it mandatory that all women, particularly single women, assigned to the NAPR, be domiciled in them.

  "Not a bad idea," I said as we walked up the path to her cottage.

  "It has its points, but it is confining."

  The surrounding cypress gave the place a nice feel of privacy, although there was a similar cottage close by. The red bougainvillea against the white facing added an air of tranquility, as illusory as all the rest.

  "Ordinarily I'd be sharing my estate with someone I probably couldn't stand, but for once, being short-handed has paid off." I liked the way she tossed her head.

  There was a small patio in the back off an even smaller kitchen, and we sat on it and tried some gin and tonic. "I thought it would be more comfortable here," she said.

  "I like your judgment. Let me indulge with one of my indulgences." I offered my cigarettes.

  "Hmm… gold lettering, how very fancy."

  "You'll like the tobacco. You are in the same business as Henry?"

  She nodded as I extended the lighter.

  "When does the roof blow off?"

  "There will be trouble tomorrow at the funeral. But General Tasahmed has no real opposition."

  "What was going on here before Mendanike and the Ambassador died?"

  She gave me a careful speculative look. "Maybe you'd better wait and talk to Mr. Sutton about that."

  "I don't have time to wait. Whatever you know, let's have it right now."

  She didn't like my tone. "Listen, Mr. Cole…"

  "No, you listen. You received instructions to cooperate. I like the way you cooperate, but don't go all official on me. I need to know, and right now." I held my eyes on her, and I could feel the sparks.

  She looked away. I couldn't tell if the color in her cheeks was there because she wanted to tell me to go to hell or because the effect we were having on each other was mutual. After a moment her eyes came back to mine, cool and faintly hostile.

  "There are two things. One, I'm surprised you don't already know. Since August we have been sending information to Langley on the arrival of professional terrorist types from different locations…"

  "Arriving singley and in twos and threes." I finished for her. "The question is — where are they?"

  "We're not sure. They just arrive and disappear. We thought the Prime Minister was behind it. Ambassador Petersen wanted to discuss it with him."

  I felt sad that van der Meer had more answers than these people did. "Are they still coming in?"

  "Two arrived on the twenty-fourth, from Dhofar."

  "You feel Mendanike was bringing them in to beef up his push against Osman?"

  "We've been trying to verify the possibility."

  "What kind of a relationship did Ben d'Oko have with the General?"

  "Kissing cousins."

  She had all the standard answers. "Is there any evidence to show that they might have stopped kissing, that Tasahmed got rid of Mendanike?"

  "Naturally, it comes to mind. But we have no evidence. If Henry can learn the identity of the driver who killed Ambassador Petersen, perhaps we'll find that out, too."

  I winced into my glass. "Where does Colonel Doosa fit in?"

  "In the general's pocket. He does the dirty work and likes it. When you look at him you see scales."

  I put down my empty glass. "What's the second item you mentioned?"

  "It may be nothing. There's a man named Hans Gueyer, wanting to make contact with Mr. Sutton."

  "Who is he?"

  "He's the chief mechanic for North African Airlines."

  My ears pricked up. "Did he give any indication of what he wanted?"

  "No. He wanted to come around. I said we'd call."

  From the point of view of my sex urge, Paula Mathews was a smashing success. As a CIA operative or assistant operative, or whatever she doubled at, she put me in mind of her missing boss. "Do you know where Gueyer is?"

  "Well, there's only one NAA hanger at the airport. He said he'd be there until eight."

  I stood up. "Paula, I'm sorry there isn't time to talk about the color of your hair and the smell of jasmine. I'd like to have a rain check on it. In the meantime, would you ask Henry to meet me at the bar in the Lamana Palace at eight and to bring the reply to my cable?"

  As she rose, the color was back in her cheeks. "Mr. Sutton may have an appointment."

  "Tell him to cancel it." I put my hands on her shoulders. "And thanks for the drink." I kissed her forehead chastely and moved off, smiling at her puzzled stare.

  Chapter 6

  The light was fading from the sun-baked sky as I approached the airport. The field lights were on and the tower beacon was fingering the heavy red
twilight. There were now three armored cars parked in front of the drive instead of two. I knew the hanger entrance would be similarly attended. I had not been followed from the city, nor had anyone observed my access to or from the embassy. The blockade ahead would be a bit more difficult.

  I swung off the main drive onto the short length of road leading to the hanger. At road's end was a guard box and beside it a French AMX command jeep and a TT 6 armored personnel carrier. Some of the personnel were lounging about until they saw me approaching. Then they snapped to as though I was the invading force they'd been waiting for. I was waved to a stop a good fifty feet from the gate.

  A sergeant led out a squad of four, their FNs at the ready. The greeting was harsh and in Arabic. I was in forbidden territory. What the hell did I think I was doing!

  My response was in French. I was a representative of the Society Aeronautique de Paris. I had business with M'sieur Gueyer, le chef de Mecanicien des Avions Africque Nord. Was this not the correct place to enter? With that question I presented my duly stamped official French passport.

  The sergeant took the document and retreated with it to the guard box where two officers concentrated on turning the pages. My four guards eyed me without love. I waited for the next step, knowing pretty well what it was going to be.

  This time a lieutenant accompanied the sergeant. He was a shade less unfriendly and addressed me in French. What was the purpose of my visit? Why did I want to see M'sieur Gueyer?

  I explained that NAA was having trouble with the avionics of its new Fourberge 724C, and I had been dispatched from Paris to correct the problem. I then took the lieutenant into my confidence and described in technical detail with gestures what was involved. I waxed enthusiastic. He finally had enough, handed me back my passport and waved me on, giving the order to let me through.

  "Allah maak!" I called and saluted as I passed the gate. The salute was returned. We were all on the same side. May Allah bless lax security, as well.

  There were only two cars in the parking area beside the hanger. I had expected to run into additional guards, but there were none. Once through the perimeter, it appeared you were in. On the flight line were a pair of old DC-3s. Inside the hanger was another, with its engines disembowled. Aside from a Caravelle and several smaller twin engine jobs, there was a spanking new Gulfstream jet. Beneath the cockpit window was the emblem of the NAPR. This had undoubtedly been Mendanike's version of Air Force One. Why take a DC-6 to Budan when you had a sweet crate like this?