Six Bloody Summer Days

by Nick Carter

  "Is the fire extinguisher system in the DC-6 special to it?"

  "There are others pretty much like it, but both planes were DC-6Bs, and when I heard the details right away I figured it might be a repeat. That flight was secret, too, I just like Mendanike's. Weather was clear, everything normal, and the plane makes a standard approach and flies right into the ground. There were three teams of investigators and the best they could come up with was that maybe the crew had gone to sleep. We knew the crew, and we knew they weren't the type to do that, so a couple of us began our own investigation and that's what we came up with."

  "Did you find any proof that that was how Mendanike crashed?"

  "Hell, yes! I had the damned proof! Doosa and those bastards took it from me. In the system there are four directional valves. In each there is a check valve, see? It holds things back until you're ready to let the CO-two flow. Take away the check valve and the whole smear will go through the line. I located the directional valve for the forward compartment. The check valve was gone from it, but not from the other three. Those peckers…" He threw up his hands.

  I sat back, looking out at the reddish haze. It was certainly an ingenuous method of sabotage. "When Doosa was questioning you, you admitted you knew how the job had been done?"

  "Yeah, sure. What else could I do? Erica was…"

  "But that didn't satisfy him."

  "No. He wanted to know who did it. How the hell should I know that?"

  "Did he ask you that again today when he had you picked up?"

  "Nope. I didn't see him until his goons brought me up on the mountain."

  "This first crash, the one you investigated earlier, did that happen here?"

  "Nah." He was wearing his grin again. "That was bigger news than this. That was when I was in the Congo before it became Zaire. I was in Leopoldville, working for Tansair. Albertina was the name of that plane, and a guy named Dag Hammerskjold was her number one passenger. Of course, that must've been before your time."

  I didn't react. I let him go on rambling. It was my fault for not having extracted the information from him sooner. I reached up and began to tune the frequency dial. "Did you tell Doosa about the Hammerskjold crash?"

  "No… No, I don't think so."

  I shut my eyes and drew on memory: Katanga, the break-away province in the Congo. Moshe Tshombe, its leader, fighting against U.N. troops. Hell to pay. British sore. Soviets sore about the bumping off of their boy Lumumba. Khrushchev had come to the U.N. earlier and had warned Hammarskjold that he'd better resign. Hammerskjold had gone to the Congo to put out the fire. Flies off to a secret meeting with Tshombe at Ndola. Not unlike Mendanike flying to see Osman. Plane crashes in landing. Verdict — no verdict. Cause of accident never found. Pilot error was the best they could come up with… Until Hans Gueyer came along. Question: What has ancient history got to do with a stolen nuke? Answer: Nothing — yet.

  "Are we close enough to contact friends in Lamana?" I said adjusting the earphones.

  "Give it a try. But what do you think of my story?"

  "You can sell it for a million bucks, but I'd wait until I was back in Hoboken. Now give me an ETA, and I think you and Erica had better plan to spend some time at the embassy until we can move you to a healthier climate."

  "Yeah, I guess it is time to move on, but hell, that bastard Doosa's on the other side."

  "Don't count on it. Does this strip we're going to land on have a name?"

  "Used to be known as Kilo Forty because it's forty kilometers from Rufa."

  "Okay, the ETA."

  "Say 1830. Who are you going to call, the Pope?"

  "No, his boss." I raised the mic. "Charlie, Charlie, this is Piper, this is Piper. Over." I repeated the call three times before a static response came back.

  Pig Latin is an out-of-date kid's language in which you put the last part of a word in front of it and then add ay, like, illkay the umbay — kill the bum. It works fine in places where its use is unknown. You're speaking in the clear — and your message is brief. I was sure Charlie at the embassy would be able to translate.

  I gave it to him twice, and got the answer I wanted.

  "Ilokay ortyfay — eeneightay irtythay," I said — kilo forty, eighteen thirty."

  The answer was: "Eadingray ouya oudlay and earclay — reading you loud and clear."

  "Ain't you the fancy one," Hans chortled. "I haven't used that ufstay since I was in ickersnay."

  "Let's hope no one else has either."

  What I wanted to send instead of a where and when signal was a call for AXE to relay its file on the Hammerskjold crash of September 1961. A long gone case, but I had seen the file on it once, and I knew it was listed under a special green card which meant — Probable Assassination. But even in pig latin I couldn't risk the request. Doosa had wanted to know if Hans knew who had sabotaged Mendanike's plane. If there was a connection between that crash and one almost fifteen years ago, my putting out the name Hammerskjold on an open radio frequency in any form couldn't be chanced. There was nothing third world or unsophisticated in the technique used to destroy both planes. It was the first indication that there might be someone in the NAPR with technical expertise — the kind that went with stealing a Cockeye and an RPV.

  "Hans, in the Hammerskjold crash, did you have any idea who was behind it?"

  "Nope. There were a lot of characters who wanted to get rid of old Dag. The plane was left unguarded for a long time before it took off. Any mechanic — "

  "Any mechanic could do it, but someone had to figure it out first. Have you ever seen anyone in Lamana you recognize from the Congo days?"

  "If there is, I haven't seen 'em. 'Course, that was a long time back. Hey, where are you goin'?"

  "To put on some more coffee, and to check on Erica."

  "God, could I use a drink! But I'll settle for the coffee."

  Erica was on the settee, curled up in a blanket. I started to move away from where she lay when her arm snaked out around my leg. She opened her eyes and grinned. "I wanted you to come."

  "You should have rung the call button."

  She threw off the blanket. In bra and bikini briefs, she would have cured anyone's sore eyes — just as a starter. "I want you to do me a favor…"

  I stood looking down at her. The smile was gone, her voice was in her throat. "I don't think we have much time," she said, her hand moving up my leg.

  I did us both a favor. There wasn't, after all, much time. I slipped out of my own clothes, as she slid out of the little that she was wearing. Gently, I lay over her on the settee and in a moment our bodies became one as we moved together, first slowly, then more urgently until we were both shuddering in union, cresting together…

  After I had tucked her in again she opened one languid eye and put her hand on the back of my neck. "Do you suppose I'll ever know who you are?"

  "When we have a chance I'll tell you." I said. "Want some coffee?"

  "That'll be nice." She grinned, smacked her lips, and closed her eyes.

  I made the coffee.

  Chapter 16

  As we approached Kilo Forty, Hans lost altitude and changed course. We came in hedge-hoping the dune tops, not only to avoid Rufa's radar control, but also to obscure possible visual sighting.

  Hans was as good a homing pigeon as he was a mechanic because suddenly we were flying over a ribbon of sand-drifted concrete. I spotted the strip after I saw the Land Rover parked beside it. There was an American flag whipping from its engine mount There were two people beside it, watching us.

  I had been monitoring Rufa Air Traffic Control, and as Hans made a fly by to look over the condition of the runway, I picked up a familiar voice. It was Doosa, barely within voice range. He identified himself and the call letters of the twin Beach. He alerted Rufa to be on the lookout for us, and to shoot us down if we did not obey orders to land. If taken alive we were to be held for his arrival.

  "This may a bit rough," Hans said. "Maybe you better go back and si
t with Erica just in case those cracks are bigger than they look from up here."

  "Just put her down, chum I'll handle the gear and flaps on your command." He had enough to think about without my telling him we could have company.

  He brought the old bird down in a wheel landing with plenty of power so he could get off again fast if he found the strip was too broken up or drifted over.

  As we came to a bumpy stop half way down the eroded runway, I said, "Hans, you're a real pro. Now cut those switches and let's get out of here."

  Erica was already at the cabin door, swinging the latch as I came down the aisle. "Don't leave anything that belongs to you, honey," I said.

  "I didn't bring that much." She smiled at me. "What now?"

  "Now we ride, instead of fly."

  "Anywhere with you," she said and we swung open the door.

  Sutton was standing below, looking up at us, Corporal Simms behind him.

  "Glad you could make it," I said, hopping down. I held my hand for Erica.

  "We better move," he said, his eyes taking her in.

  As we piled into the Land Rover the light was going fast, which was one good thing to be said about eventide in the desert.

  "I don't think you were spotted." Sutton swung around to face us so he could re-examine Erica.

  "This is Miss Gueyer and Mr. Gueyer," I made the introductions. "They'll need to be quartered at the embassy for the time being. They may want a quick flight out of here. I'll explain later. What's the situation in Lamana?"

  "About as we expected, a lot of hell raised at the funeral, a mob outside the embassy. Things are quieter now. I suppose you know Osman took Budan. Tasahmed is making plans to retake it He seems in firm control here."

  "Anything going on outside?"

  He pulled his eyes away from Erica. "Not anything that is generally known," he said heavily. It was obvious his own headquarters had filled him in, probably because of the stink he had raised about my being on the scene. But whatever he knew and whatever he thought only one point interested me. Whoever had stolen the Cockeye and the RPV hadn't made a public announcement of the fact as yet.

  We had been bumping along over what had once been an access road. In the fading light the Corporal hauled the Rover up over a Up of hardpan on to a better road. "Corporal, can you pick up Rufa on that thing?" I asked.

  "Yes, sir. We were monitoring it," he said, his hand moving to the tuning dials on the pedestal receiver. A voice blared in, speaking in French and then repeating in Arabic, alerting a fighter element to be on the lookout for us south of Lamana.

  "Looks like you arrived just in time," Sutton's attempt at dryness was slightly damp.

  At the embassy it was Paula who escorted Erica and her father away to somewhere that had hot water and food. She also informed me that I had received a special invitation to interview Madam Mendanike at the Presidential Palace at four o'clock tomorrow afternoon. It appeared that Shema was looking for a return romp.

  Then I was alone with Sutton. "You could have told me," he said, his tone indicating things would have been different had I done so." Of course, I think the Cockeye being anywhere in a radius of a thousand miles of here is pure nonsense."

  "Then what would have been the point of telling you?"

  "There's absolutely no connection between Ambassador Petersen's death and the theft," he said. "We've got the truck, and the police found the driver. He's confessed everything. It was a damned fool accident."

  "Life is full of them, isn't it. Thanks for picking us up." I turned away and went up the stairs, heading for the communications room.

  Charlie Neal left me alone in a soundproof cubicle with a scrambler while he went to make the proper connection. The scrambler is a great invention. It works electronically, chewing up your words into unintelligibles and then spitting them out on the other end good as new. The scrambler has one defect. If monitored by a third party the words can be unscrambled in route by an even more ingenuous electronic device. In such manner a great many state secrets have become known to a great many. The counter to that is to have a constantly changing code within the scrambler. That makes monitored translation impossible. At least so far.

  AXE had such a code and by giving Charlie Neal a special dial sequence I knew Hawk and I would be talking privately, though at length, because of the long pauses necessary for the scrambling to take place.

  I didn't waste time on salutations. "The Hammarskjold crash." I said. "Conclusions with regard to motivation and individual involvement."

  Even strained through a scrambler, Hawk's voice had that driving quality. "Request being checked. Meanwhile, no positive indication from any sources as to location of missing equipment. German press reporting rumors of disappearance. Bundeswehr and SHAPE have denied. Kremlin is threatening to go public with announcement at 1200 hours GMT tomorrow if missing problem not solved."

  He stopped speaking; and I sat there with nothing to say, waiting for him to come up with the answers to my questions. Nuclear theft — its growing possibility — has been written about at length. It has also been written that we in the West have become so conditioned to terrorist actions that threat of nuclear blackmail would simply be looked on as the next step in the rising scale of violence. I didn't buy it.

  The Kremlin making the announcement would be a deadly psycho-political blow for NATO and the U.S. It would mean global uproar. And the only thing that would top it was the question of who had the Cockeye, and where was it aimed. Out of it could come a nuclear confrontation that would make all the rest seem minor.

  Hawk's voice terminated my scrambler-produced thoughts. "AXE conclusion on Hammarskjold crash was possible sabotage by the use of undetectable gas. No mechanical proof located. Suspicions focused on Dr. Cornelius Mertens, Belgian national. Mertens, a long time KGB operative specializing in technical areas, doubled as a United Nations security officer. Mertens not given to discipline. He may have been acting on his own in the Congo. He was reported killed in Egypt during the '67 War."

  As Hawk had relayed the report, my hopes had opened an eye. It was closed again. I sat there with my own eyes shut." How accurate is the report on his death?"

  I waited. "Known to have been at Mukhabarat headquarters in Port Said. The building was leveled, no reported survivors. Mertens has not been observed since."

  It looked like a dead end. I had one last duce. "Was Dr. Otto van der Meer in Egypt during the '67 War?"

  That was the longest wait. When Hawk spoke again, even over the scrambler the sand paper was a lighter grade. "Affirmative on van der Meer. He was there in June. He was reported to have been taken ill. After the war no one saw him until he turned up in September in Algiers."

  "I'll keep in touch," I said.

  Chapter 17

  While I showered and shaved in Sutton's quarters, a native-born embassy driver recovered my Fiat intact. He had been supplied with all the right answers if questioned, but there was no one around to ask them.

  Sutton was anxious to be clued in and to polish the apple for past sins. All I wanted from him was a map of the city. While I studied it the phone rang. It was Paula. Dinner was ready if we were. I hated to forego the pleasure. I told Sutton to make my apologies. Then I got out of the place. I was tired of having people in my way, official or otherwise. When I have a job to do, I prefer to do it solo.

  Van der Meer's villa was on Rue Flagey, several blocks from the central square. Once again I parked in front of police headquarters. I wanted to check out Lamana's atmosphere the day after the big funeral. Quiet was the word for it. The troops were gone. The police guards lazed in the archway, smoking cigarettes and chatting. They gave me no more than a glance. It looked like Tasahmed's only worry was Shema's wrath, and in Budan, Osman's occupation. The first he would enjoy taming, and the other he could recapture when he was ready.

  I crossed the park in the dimly lit darkness, knowing that if this fling led to nothing more than soybeans and cotton, I'd have to signal failu
re to Hawk and get out. That Mertens could be doubling for van der Meer was perfectly feasible. Disguise and skin dyes would be no problem for a professional. Agriculture expertise could also be acquired. Since Africa and the U.N. had been their joint areas of operation, Mertens might well have cultivated van der Meer, and if van der Meer had died by either accident or direction during the Six-Day War, taking over his identity would have been a real coup on Mertens part. Nobody could ask for better cover.

  Rue Flagey was in darkness, and there was no light on van der Meer's front gate. I had to go over the wall again. But first, to protect my hands from broken glass, I used my coat in a sweeping action. I made quite a haul. After I shook it out I checked Wilhelmina and Hugo, happy that Pierre's twin was in residence. Then I lept from a crouch.

  The other side of the wall was just as dark. There were no lights on in the villa. It was too early for bedtime. The Doctor was not at home. Neither was anyone else. The place was shut up and shuttered like an Egyptian tomb, the windows above as sealed as those below. The silencer, tucked in an inside arm pocket, fitted Wilhelmina snugly. One shot on the rear entrance lock, and I was inside.

  The air was as heavy as the darkness. No one had been home for a while. The thin ray of my flash picked up furnishings, rugs, tapestries, artifacts. There was a big central room, dotted with ottomans. Adjoining it was a dining room, then a hall and off of it, the Doctor's den. That's where I hit pay dirt.

  The walls were lined with books, but it was the massive table in the center of the room that held me. The beam of my flash played over the papier-mâché miniatures. It was not a model of an experimental agriculture station, but a made to scale display of the ruins of Portarius.

  In the briefing papers Hawk had given me to study there had been mention of the ruins. Mendanike had closed them to the public four years ago, following an accident during a light and sound performance in which a column had fallen and killed a couple in the audience. At the time I had read the item the thought had brushed by that the incident hardly seemed important enough to shut up the ruins and thereby cut off one of Lamana's few tourist attractions. Now I could fault myself for not having fastened on the obscure point. Obscure like a Roman chariot race on a hot Saturday afternoon.