Operation Flashpoint

by Dan J. Marlowe

  Glaring light dazzled my eyes. I blinked and tried to focus. It was another moment before I could make out three women and two men in a room that looked like a photographer’s studio. Cameras on tripods and high-intensity lights on standards with wires trailing from them were deployed seemingly at random. Along one wall was a backdrop depicting a beach scene. In front of the flat was a metal beach chair in a sandbox.

  “When you said photos in the nude, you didn’t say it was a gang job!” the girl’s voice spoke up again. I could see her now. She was a frosted blonde with flippy curls and tight waves that made up a short, bouncy hairdo topped with short bangs.

  “Look, Marcia,” the younger-looking of the two men said. “We’re paying you forty an hour and we thought we were buying a pro. Now either strip or bug off. The door is right over there.”

  The frosted blonde bit her lip. Her companions, a cynical-looking brunette and a chubby brownette, were already removing skirts and blouses. By the time the brunette peeled down a girdle and stood there rubbing at the red pressure marks on her slim flanks, the blonde was pulling her dress off over her head.

  “That’s better,” the man said.

  The brownette stripped to garter belt and stockings, the blonde to canary-yellow bikini panties. The second man, the photographer, held a light meter against each of the girls’ bare bodies in turn. “That’s a real nice piece of meat you’ve got there, Ginger,” he said to the brownette as he removed the meter from the vicinity of her broad, nude buttocks. “Okay, Edna,” he addressed the brunette, “get into the beach chair. I can’t shoot your tail till those girdle marks fade out.”

  The brunette sauntered to the sandbox with an exaggerated hip flourish, tested the sand delicately with a toe, then sank down into the chair. Immediately she bridged with shoulders and heels, thrusting her stomach upward. “Goddammit, that’s cold!” she cried out.

  “Here’s a blanket,” the younger man said soothingly. He arranged it beneath her arched form and the brunette relaxed again. The man patted her bare belly. “That’s the girl, Edna.”

  “Pants off, baby,” the photographer said to the blonde. “We’re all girls together here.” He waited while the canary-yellow panties were removed. “A real blonde, hmm? When we do the black-and-whites, we’ll have to touch up your bush with a little lampblack or there won’t be enough contrast. That pale fleece of yours’ll come through good in color, though. Now—”

  “You’re not going to put any dirty old lampblack on my—on me,” the girl said indignantly. “I didn’t come here to—”

  “Oh, shut up, will you?” the younger man said wearily. “Get them posed, Ted. This is running into money.”

  “Stand behind the beach chair so your tits are aimed right at the camera over the top of Edna’s head, Marcia,” the photographer instructed the blonde. “Ginger, you squat down at the dividing line—no, make it at the foot of the chair with your butt aimed right at me and your—”

  The sound of a warning buzzer jerked me to attention. I closed the door reluctantly and threw the bolt over quietly. When I turned around to look at the television monitors, a green light on the side of them had turned red. I went to the padded stool and sat down.

  Erikson was admitting two men into the outer office. As they crossed the threshhold into the larger office, one of the fluorescent tubes above my head flickered momentarily. At first glance both men looked more like insurance agents than Israeli counter-intelligence agents. The older man was stocky, with a dignified bearing and thinning gray hair. He had a wide mouth but thin lips, and his deep-set eyes appeared to lack warmth.

  His companion was younger, taller, and muscularly lean. His small eyes were close set, like two rivets holding in place an elongated nose that was almost sharp at its end. His sandy hair had a reddish tint which was more pronounced in his thin, straight eyebrows. His entire face had a foxy, streamlined appearance.

  Erikson thrust out his huge hand in welcome. The older man took it, but the younger one merely nodded. He turned and walked into the outer office again. When he disappeared from the left-hand television screen, I knew he was reconnoitering the corridor outside Erikson’s office. He came into view again on the monitor almost at once.

  “Sit down, gentlemen,” Erikson invited the pair. The gray-haired man nodded and sat down so erectly his back didn’t touch the metal of the chair. The younger man folded his arms and remained standing. “What can I do for you, Mr. Bergman?” Erikson continued.

  “What I have to say, Mr. Erikson,” Bergman began in a resonant voice, “will take as little of your time as possible because I’m convinced you have little time left. We appreciate that you are forced to work under what we consider to be unnecessary restrictions, and we will curb our impatience a little longer. We have, after all, agreed to cooperate to the fullest degree. We sacrifice this important element of time, however, only to urge you to act without delay.”

  Bergman spoke with a clipped, British accent which reminded me of Ronald Colman in his heyday on the screen.

  “Act?” Erikson responded blandly. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “Must we always play cat and mouse?” Bergman’s tone had an undercurrent of harshness. “You know to what I refer. It’s the matter of the airliner forced down by fedayeen commandos in Nevada.”

  He paused to gauge Erikson’s reaction. “I see that you are not surprised that we know about this bold attack against your airplane,” he went on. “We have ways and means of looking after our interests even in your country. It should suggest to you that if correct response on your part is lacking, we have all the information necessary to react in our own defense.”

  “The investigation isn’t complete at this time,” Erikson answered. “So it’s impossible to verify your suspicion that foreign elements diverted the aircraft. At this time no one can officially name the saboteurs.”

  The younger man took a quick step forward but was stopped by a motion from Bergman in his chair. “Your government may choose to be as blind as it wishes, sir,” Bergman replied. “We know that a quarter million dollars was acquired by Palestinian raiders from the passengers of the aircraft, and we know that this money will most certainly be used for purposes detrimental to the security of the state of Israel.”

  “That’s quite a presumption,” Erikson said.

  “I know of what I speak,” Bergman said firmly. “The same pattern has been practiced in the past. There is nothing new in this piracy of aircraft. This time it involves the cold-blooded murders of members of the Jewish faith. We have every reason to believe that this money will find its way to the El Fatah to reappear in the form of arms to be used against the defenders of the homeland.”

  “I don’t mean to belittle your beliefs, Mr. Bergman,” Erikson began, “but on today’s underworld market even the sum of money you say was taken would buy few significant illicit weapons.”

  “Every bullet and every grenade is a threat to my people, sir, but that is not the point. You misjudge the situation, Mr. Erikson. The Palestinians will use this money as working capital to finance a more insidious operation. They will purchase drugs smuggled into your country and dispose of them right here in Harlem at a tremendous profit. It is happening every day, and I can only conclude that your government is blind to the fact or is deliberately averting its eyes from it, for whatever reasons I cannot understand. Why do you refuse to act when these facts are so plain?”

  “I can understand your concern, but I’m one man with limited resources,” Erikson said. I judged that his tone was intended to be placating. “And my task is primarily investigative. If the evidence warrants it, of course, I can call upon other agencies who will be happy to cooperate. In the meantime I must remind you that the U.S. government cannot willfully jeopardize delicate relationships with other major world powers who have an interest in the Middle East.”

  Even on the monitor screen I could see the sneer on the face of the younger man. “If you are as concerned as you
say, why don’t you put a stop to the recruiting of Americans by fedayeen?” The harsh question was bulleted directly at Erikson.

  “Quiet, Ravish,” Bergman said curtly. He made a gesture of apology to Erikson. “Like many of our young warriors who fought so well in the Six-Day War, Ravish is impetuous. I apologize for his outburst.”

  “You have proof of the recruiting of Americans by the fedayeen?” Erikson asked Ravish.

  “We have,” Ravish snapped. “There are seven documented cases in which discharged members of the United States Army, principally Green Beret officers, men qualified as instructors in infiltration and sabotage techniques, have become mercenaries for the fedayeen. All are in training camps in Syria.”

  “I will ask for details later,” Erikson said.

  “It’s of small importance, actually,” Bergman said mildly. “Such a meager effort in view of our own strength is like a man who throws a handful of sand at the desert. Since we pursue this line of thought, however, what about Dr. Emil Shariyk, who unaccountably is no longer at his post with the Physical Sciences Research Group at Los Alamos? It should be beneficial to both of us to verify the present whereabouts of Dr. Shariyk.”

  “Shariyk?” Erikson repeated.

  “Let’s be honest with each other, Mr. Erikson,” Bergman said stiffly.

  “My understanding is that Dr. Shariyk is on a sabbatical with the Atomic Science Foundation in Paris, Mr. Bergman.”

  “I know that is your government’s official position.” Icicles dripped from every syllable. “But it is not a true position. Your FBI has secretly requested Interpol assistance in locating Dr. Shariyk, whom we strongly suspect is working in a guarded laboratory in a country sympathetic to the Palestinian renegades.”

  “Can you substantiate your reasoning?”

  “There is no need!” It was an explosive roar from the younger man, Ravish. “Your government knows it as well as we do! We waste time with this eternal fencing! I demand—”

  “We ask again that your government take immediate steps to put a stop to the activities of the terrorists operating in your country,” Bergman interrupted his companion. “You seem to take too lightly their battle cry ‘Death to All Jews!’.”

  “Recognizing that I’m one man with limited prerogatives,” Erikson wedged into the verbal assault, “what is it that you’d have me do?”

  “Eliminate the terrorists,” Ravish said quickly before Bergman could reply. “By any means. Or we will be forced to take matters into our own hands.”

  “We can maintain this informal liaison only as long as it promises fruitful results,” Bergman added.

  “Please don’t think that we—” Erikson stopped speaking. Ravish reached into a jacket pocket and drew out a small leather case about the size of a cigarette pack. He thumbed a switch, silencing the tiny buzzer which had caused Erikson to fall silent.

  Bergman rose to his feet. “An important telephone call,” he said. “You will excuse us, please?” Erikson pushed his desk telephone toward the stocky man who smiled wryly. “You jest, my friend. We prefer to accept the call in privacy. Shalom.”

  The two men left Erikson’s office. The fluorescent tube above my head blinked a goodbye as Ravish crossed the threshold. The red light near the monitors turned green, and Erikson opened the wall panel and looked in at me. “Come on into the office.”

  I followed him inside after turning off the switches on the television and tape-recorder monitors. “Wasn’t that whole business a waste of time?” I asked him.

  “It depends on how you look at it. By letting them sound off, I may have prevented their doing something.”

  “I doubt you’ve prevented that Ravish from doing anything he made up his mind to do. He looks like a handful.”

  Erikson smiled. “If it came down to guns, I’d bet on you. Let’s see what sort of gun he carried.”

  “What the hell do you mean, what sort of gun? How do you know he was carrying one at all?”

  “You noticed the flickering fluorescent light? It’s not a bad tube; it’s a signal. The frame of the door has an imbedded sensor wire. If there’s a concentrated metal mass on an individual passing through the door, which could equate to a pistol or a knife, the sensors trigger the light tube. It’s only a warning, of course, but in the split second during which a person walks through the door, other data are fed into a computer across the hall. Let me show you.”

  Erikson took a ring of keys from a locked drawer in his desk and led the way from his office. While crossing the hallway, he took out his wallet and extracted from it what appeared to be a white, plastic credit card. I could see that the card had only a network of thin copper wires imbedded under the surface.

  “Printed-circuit code lock,” Erikson said as he inserted the card into a concealed slot at the edge of the doorframe. An inner latch clicked, after which he used a normal key.

  “Too fancy for a country boy like me,” I commented.

  “Don’t ever try to pick one of these, as I’ve been given to understand you do occasionally with conventional locks,” Erikson said with a smile. “Without the coded card release to disarm the lock, you’ll set off an alarm. And if you persist in forcing it, there’s a shaped explosive charge which will blow off your hands.”

  The room inside wasn’t much larger than a janitor’s closet. Erikson and I almost filled it when we entered. On a sturdy shelf extending from the far wall was a machine that looked like a teletypewriter. “Did you ever see either of those agents before?” Erikson asked as he closed the door.

  “Never.”

  Erikson removed the cover from the machine and punched half a dozen buttons. A whirring, thumping noise followed; then a sheet of yellow paper blossomed jerkily from an aperture at the top. A dozen lines of squarish print covered the paper.

  Erikson quickly decoded figures and symbols that were meaningless to me, as I leaned over his shoulder. “Well, here it is. At nine-twelve, Bergman and Ravish entered the office. The first man through the door, Bergman, was clean. The second, Ravish, was armed with a 7mm. Luger, validity factor eighty-three percent. The weapon was carried between the waist and the shoulder. Ravish is six feet, one and one quarter inches tall, weighs one hundred and eighty-six pounds, and has steel lifts in his shoes.”

  Erikson ripped the printed sheet from the machine and dropped it into a chrome-rimmed receptacle. Flashing knife-blades chewed the paper into tiny, pinhead-size confetti, and a rush of water through the receptacle flushed even that fragmentary evidence away.

  “That bit of science fiction won’t hold enough water to float a teacup,” I told Erikson.

  He smiled.

  “Admit it,” I said. “You’re putting me on.”

  “Nary a put,” he insisted. He patted the machine as he replaced the cover. “Maxine here is getting more sophisticated all the time. It’s getting harder to fool her now, although a year ago she registered a man with a 37mm. rocket launcher entering the office. Turned out to be the maintenance man with a file cabinet on a hand truck. And another time Maxine blew it was when I had a visit from a CIA man who had been a polio victim. Maxine interpreted his leg braces as a bulletproof vest. At that time she couldn’t distinguish the placement of metal except between the shoulders and feet. Now she can.”

  We left the room.

  I couldn’t help thinking that if banks were half as well equipped as Erikson’s office, my former career wouldn’t have lasted nearly as long.

  Back at his desk, Erikson lit a cigarette. “It’s interesting that the Israelis feel that the fedayeen are buying up high-priced scientific talent. And they really touched a sore spot with Shariyk. We’d like to know what’s become of him, too. A couple of years ago he was a contender for a Nobel in physics. His specialty was mesons and antimatter. You know, digging into the guts of the atom.”

  “With that name, what was his nationality?”

  “American born, of Armenian stock. He spent the three years prior to the Six-Day War teachin
g at Beirut in the American University. What do you suppose Bergman would have said if I’d told him that?”

  “Bolt the doors before you lose any more.” The thought of bolted doors reminded me. “Who’s your next-door neighbor on this side?” I waved in the direction of the photographer’s studio.

  “A girly-magazine publisher’s office. Why?”

  “Just curious. Well, what comes next?”

  “I want you back at the Alhambra to try to get a line on the hijacker, Hawk,” Erikson frowned. “You’ll have to get yourself a place to stay, too, so I can reach you when I need you.”

  “Okay. I’ll call you when I have a phone number.”

  I rode down sixteen floors to the street and caught a cab to within a block of the Alhambra. I stood on the sidewalk on Lexington Avenue, running my eyes up and down the street in the direction of lighted hotel marquees, wondering where to come to roost. Then on a hunch I decided to try the Alhambra again first, to see if Hawk had made an appearance.

  There were fewer people under the billowing canopy when I entered the cocktail lounge, and I was able to corral a corner booth for myself. I waited for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting before I began what I hoped was an unobtrusive inspection of the bar customers. Then I examined the occupants of the booths. There were plenty of dark faces—even no shortage of hooked noses—but there was no Hawk. It came to me again, as it had in Tucson when Erikson first proposed it, that this search was really far out.

  “Hello, again,” a little-girl voice said beside my booth.

  I looked up to see Chryssie, the flower child. Her blond hair was in a tangled mass, and her burnt-orange sari looked dirtier and more wrinkled than before. “Sit down and have a beer,” I invited her. She was evidently a regular in the place, and I would attract less attention if I sat with her.