“When?” Hazard asked.
“The day after tomorrow. Before they can transfer the gas to the pods,” Gabil said. “I have a favor to ask you.”
“I owe you a few.”
“Go to Tel Aviv for me, to the Mosad. Tell them about all this.”
“Don’t you have a contact here in Cairo?”
“None that I can trust, not landsmen, only opportunists who may be working both sides. Those I could be sure of were recently exposed and arrested.”
“I’m not a landsman.”
Gabil grinned. “You might be, if you looked deep enough.”
“Why not just phone a contact in Paris or Rome and have him relay the information?”
“Telephone service here is under Government control. Every international call is strictly monitored by security people. If they hear one questionable word, they cut you off.”
It made Hazard realize how little he knew about this business. “Anyway,” he told Gabil, “what can the Mosad do?”
“If I fail at least they will be alerted.”
Hazard said he would see that the Mosad was informed.
Gabil thanked him. He took a final gulp of the coffee that was cold by now.
“Do me one more favor,” Hazard said. “It might help if I knew the layout of that house.”
“You still want Mustafa.”
“More than ever.”
After Gabil left, Hazard sat on the edge of the bed for a few minutes. Maybe, he thought, that was the last he’d ever see of the Israeli—the big, ugly son of a bitch. It made Hazard depressed.
He shaved, finished dressing and left the hotel at noon. It was even hotter outside than he’d thought, an arid heat that reminded him of a long ago July in Needles, California, when he was on the road thumbing at cars all day and finally got a ride from a wife on her way to a Tiajuana divorce, so eager for freedom she couldn’t wait.
He went up the short, steep rise to the plateau of the Pyramids. Immediately he was set upon by a swarm of dragomans, Arab guides with their camels and donkeys in bleached, dusty trappings, wanting to show him around for a price. One in particular was persistent, followed, kept selling and stopped him. Hazard asked him where the Sphinx was and gave him two dollars just for pointing the way.
The heat made it seem a longer walk than it was, and Hazard wished he’d thought to get some dark glasses because everything reflected the sun harshly. He passed by the much smaller satellite pyramids on the eastern side of the Grand one and continued down to the large excavated recess that held the Sphinx.
It didn’t appear as impressive as he’d imagined. Not wise as legend had it nor as large and mysterious, really. Baking and biscuit-colored, it looked like something that had come crumbling unsuccessfully out of an oven. Hazard remembered a sphinx was also an ancient symbol for female lust, but he saw no reason for that, unless it was the preying, ready-to-spring posture. Standing between its extended paws, he realized the reason for his apathy. He was just too distracted to appreciate anything at the moment. His mind was taken up with thoughts of Gabil and those canisters of nerve gas bearing the serial numbers like a trademark, made in the U.S.A.
By the time he returned to the hotel and air conditioning, perspiration was dripping from his nose and trickling down his back. He found the bar and ordered another of those generous gin-and-tonics. Except for the bartender and an older foursome at a table, he had the place to himself. Music was coming from somewhere. An old Beatles song. He dug the section of fresh lime from his glass and sucked on it without making a sour face. Those serial numbers came to mind again, kept intruding, the last three digits especially standing out from the others. Serial numbers. He supposed there was one on every bomb, every grenade, every weapon. And somewhere there were clerks who kept an accurate corresponding record, a death-dealer’s catalog.
Just for the hell of it, a small challenge, he started to try to translate the serial numbers of the canisters. USACC was obviously United States Army Chemical Corps.
After twenty minutes and another gin he felt he had most of it deciphered. United States Army Chemical Corps—Fort Detrick (Maryland)-December, 1970-Batch number 2046.
USACC–FD–12–70–B2046–
But those last five digits:
ABV–10
had him stumped. Assuming v–10 represented the type of gas, why had they left out the x? Was it army shorthand or army oversight? But then, what did the AB stand for? What difference did it make, anyway?
He gave up on it, went up to his suite and decided on a bath in that big brass tub. He was in the water, observing his distorted, yellow image in the curvature of the tub when he got back to it again—because it was taunting, eluding him like a critical word in a New York Times crossword puzzle.
ABV–10
Look at it from a different angle, he told himself, a fresh approach. If he’d never heard of vx–10, what would he have thought? Well, B could stand for base, or battle, or booster, or biological. Only the last seemed plausible, although chemical and biological were two distinct categories. CBW were initials he’d seen in articles, short for Chemical-Biological Warfare. A biological v–10 nerve gas didn’t make sense. But he felt he was on the right track and should keep on it. He associated biological and got bacteriological, and then it occurred to him there probably wouldn’t be an adjective in a serial number. The noun was bacteria. That could be it. Assume it, work from that. What could the A stand for, an A-Bacteria? The first, and worst, one that came to him was Anthrax. Anthrax bacteria? Sure, why not?
But if it was anthrax bacteria the v–10 couldn’t be a nerve gas. Not both. It had to be one or the other. Was that why the x was missing? If so, what did v–10 signify? The number 10 could be a rating or type designation. That would mean there were other types, a variety of them numbered from one up. A variety. Variety? Variant? Same thing. He settled for variety and put it in sequence:
Anthrax Bacteria Variety 10
He felt as if he’d accomplished something. But was it possible that Pinchon and the Arabs didn’t have what they thought they had? When they’d retrieved the canisters from the ocean floor, in their hurry and eagerness, had they been misled by those last three digits? The United States had dumped all kinds of chemical and bacteriological stockpiles into the Canary Basin. The Arabs could have made that logical error.
So what? In many ways anthrax was even more horrible than nerve gas.
Anthrax, also called Black Bain, Charbon, Malignant Postule, Splenic Fever, Woolsorter’s Disease. One of the most dreaded of all infectious diseases. Caused by a rod-shaped bacterium or spore, Bacillus anthracis. Infects the bloodstream. Can cause death within eighteen to twenty-four hours when inhaled.
Another ugly fact Hazard recalled about Anthrax—its extreme resistance. As a spore it could contaminate the earth, remain alive in the soil, and be capable of causing the disease for as long as a hundred years. The promised land could suddenly become a disappointment—a vast, diseased wasteland.
He felt futile. Nothing had been gained from his mental efforts. Besides, he was probably wrong about the serial numbers. He had only been playing a game with himself, following a hunch.
At six o’clock a hotel boy delivered an envelope. It was from Gabil—the plan of the house and other useful information. Gabil had drawn, freehand but carefully, a detailed overhead view with everything indicated, including approximate measurements. He had marked Mustafa’s room with a red circle. One notation said that no one was allowed in or out of the house from dark to dawn. Hazard examined the plan briefly and then tore it into small pieces that he flushed down the toilet.
At nine o’clock he sent to Keven.
His first message told her to stand by for further messages he would be sending every fifteen minutes exactly on the quarter hour.
For accuracy, he sent only four words at a time. He did it with confidence, drawing assurance from past successes, telling himself it was undoubtedly possible. His mind was lucid, his
concentration good. Despite the pressure, or maybe because of it, he was able to superimpose and hold the required images in position for longer than before. It took him an hour and a half to complete the transmission, and not until he was done did he realize how much energy he’d used. It left him thoroughly drained.
He lay on the bed in the dark, his body sapped but his mind racing. He tried to bring his mind to rest, but it was charged with impressions of Mustafa, Pinchon, the canisters, the situation. A stray thought came through. It seemed only another piece of triva from his mental storehouse. He passed over it but it returned for attention:
The disease anthrax may be contracted through
the eating of inadequately cooked meat.
It set him to thinking in a new, possibly more hopeful, direction.
20
AT A FEW minutes to nine that night Keven was on a hillside rock a short distance from the Auberge des Noves.
She had returned to Avignon because she felt it would be easier for her to do her waiting there. Not that any place could really reduce her aloneness or her fear for Hazard, but at least there she had a residual of recent happiness with him that she could draw on.
Now that it was almost the hour they’d set for their nightly communion, she wondered what his message would be. Maybe he’d send her a romantic thought, like the one he’d sent from the plane, which she, out of hurt and pique, had denied receiving. Happiness was born a twin. She’d liked that. Or maybe he might send something erotic, which wouldn’t be at all bad.
It was time. She took a deep breath. The Provençal air offered the fragrance of wild-growing spices. Her mind began its usual race, all sorts of thoughts in rapid succession. She’d come to think of this phase as a sweeping away—a stirring up of old impressions like particles of dust in her mental atmosphere. Suddenly there was the clearing, the opening of the inner envelope to disclose a white whiter than any other white.
She got the message.
Realizing its tone of urgency, she hurried to the Auberge and when it was 9:15 exactly she was in the suite with pen and paper ready to record whatever came to her.
It didn’t come with absolute precision, not as though she were a human teletype. It came in various ways and with different degrees of difficulty. Some parts of it graphically, in the form of pictures. Other parts letter for letter, spelling out. And some words came whole.
Altogether it was something like a rebus that she had to interpret. She wasn’t sure of a couple of things but used common sense to fill in and construct a continuity.
ALERT ISRAELI INTELLIGENCE
PINCHON ARAB EXTREMISTS PLAN
VX–10 ATTACK GAS NOW CAIRO
TRANSPORT SOMEWHERE SUNDAY
ISRAEL TARGETS UNKNOWN
She printed it out neatly on a sheet of Auberge stationery, folded it once and took it downstairs. She found Monsieur Feldman alone at the reception desk. She said nothing as she handed the piece of paper to him. He read it without reaction.
“Should this mean something to me?” he asked politely.
Keven remembered Hazard’s opinion about Monsieur Feldman’s affiliation with Mosad. She had to depend on that now. “Doesn’t it?” she said.
He asked where she’d gotten this strange piece of information.
“From a travel agency in Cairo,” she said, surprised at how she sounded, very much like a regular spy. “I assume you can make the necessary arrangements.”
Monsieur Feldman scanned the message again. After a thoughtful moment he looked up and told her yes.
Keven went back to her suite. For a while she sat there in the dark gazing out, her thoughts prayerlike, asking for her man’s safety. Then, deciding she possibly hadn’t done all she could, she placed a trans-Atlantic call to Kersh.
As soon as he finished talking with Keven, Kersh called DIA district headquarters. A secretary told him that Mr. Rich-land wasn’t in and wasn’t expected until next week.
Was there any way of reaching Mr. Richland?
No.
It was very important.
Mr. Richland’s orders were he was not to be disturbed except in case of extreme emergency. Was this an emergency?
Yes, but never mind, Kersh told her.
He called Washington, the Pentagon.
After several misconnections and long waits he finally got through to Mumford.
Mumford listened for only a few moments before interrupting. “I’m in an important conference,” he said. “If what you need is more than a yes or no you’ll have to call back.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“This can’t wait. It’s vital that-”
“Call back,” Mumford said.
“Is there anyone else I can talk to?”
“I think not.”
“I’m coming down,” Kersh told him.
It was then almost five o’clock. Washington would be gone for the day by the time he got there. He took the shuttle at seven the next morning. He was at the Pentagon at nine. He got in to see Mumford at ten.
Mumford had a different office now, slightly larger than the previous one but no less sterile. Same cheap gold-fringed Stars and Stripes, same framed photographic line-up of Chiefs on a wall, except for Nixon, a new one of Nixon. Mumford himself had changed. He’d had his suits taken in and then gained back all the pounds he’d lost, so that now he couldn’t even button up. He didn’t stand for a handshake when Kersh entered because he had his trousers undone at the waist.
Kersh got right to the point by showing Mumford a typed out copy of Hazard’s message. Mumford mumbled the words aloud as he read them. “Where’d you get this?”
Kersh told him.
“You put a man in there?”
“He’s there,” Kersh said.
“Who? What’s his name?”
“Hazard.”
Mumford cleared his throat. “One of your telepathy spooks, I suppose.”
Kersh resented that.
Mumford explained that spooks was the normal term for agents. He asked Kersh, “Is that how he got the message out, using telepathy?”
“Yes.”
Mumford seemed a bit relieved. A secretary came then with a cup of coffee, a heavy white G.I. cup. Asked if he wanted some, Kersh impatiently declined. Mumford took a swallow and placed the cup down on the message.
“You don’t believe it,” said Kersh.
“Anything’s possible. You know, of course, you were out of line sending someone in without first getting an okay. Way out of line.”
“I didn’t come down here to be chided like a schoolboy.”
“Just so you know.”
“What I want to know is what you’re going to do about that.” Kersh indicated the message.
“Our Plans Section will get right on it. They handle this sort of thing.”
That sounded much too routine for Kersh. “What will they do?”
“Well, seeing it’s Middle East, chances are this won’t be news to them. For obvious reasons we’re tight in on that picture. Anyway, leave it to me.”
“I’m concerned about Hazard.”
“Naturally. He’s in over his head. But don’t worry, we’ll handle it.”
As a final show of reassurance Mumford took a pair of rubber stamps from his middle desk drawer. He inked and slammed them on the paper above the message. One was ROUTE TO PLANS SECTION. The other was PRIORITY ATTENTION.
Kersh thanked him.
After Kersh’s departure, Mumford initialed a thick sheaf of intra-agency memos that his secretary brought in. Then he picked up the Hazard message and went over it again. He reminded himself that just the week before a white directive had come from the Chief regarding Information Overkill. Too much information was being collected by the various intelligence agencies, most of it was redundant and/or trivial. With all the new surveillance gadgets at work, such as the Project 674 Satellite and high-spying SR–71 jets, the intelligence community was being inundated with perishable,
unsifted information. The Chief wanted less raw stuff and more analysis.
Mumford considered routing the Hazard message to the Information Sifting Unit for routine evaluation, but then …
… well, for one thing, vx–10. That had to be an error. There was just no way anyone could get vx–10.
Also, there was this telepathy angle. What a crock.
Mumford decided it wasn’t even worth feeding into the Possibility Computer. He crumpled the message and dropped it into his wastebasket.
The morning of that same Friday Hazard was up early.
He made out a list of the things he’d need. Then he went down to the lobby. At the desk he changed fifty British pounds into five hundred twenty-six Egyptian pounds and arranged for a car with an English-speaking driver.
A half hour later he was in downtown-Cairo traffic—a crush of nervous taxis, impudent, overloaded buses, and pedestrians daring to dodge across for their lives.
At Ezbekyia Garden near the Opera House the driver pulled over. He gave directions to Hazard and said he would wait there, effendi.
Up a lane too narrow for cars, then right and left brought Hazard to a section of old Cairo known as El Muski. All along there were stalls and small shops, some no more than yard-wide slits between buildings. Barrow and cart vendors by the hundreds, selling all sorts of second-hand things. Motors, plumbing fixtures, electric fans, odd wheels, cooking pots, shoes, batteries. Hazard thought that even the food being sold there smelled second hand. By no means was it a fashionable bazaar, nor could it be called quaint or colorful. It was dirty, teeming and stinky.
In Shari’ el Khiyamiya, Hazard came onto a stall that looked promising. It displayed a great variety of junk, all of it used, most of it stolen. The moment Hazard paused the fat stall-keeper came scurrying over. What had caught Hazard’s interest was a strip of metal hanging high up. The stallkeeper got it down, handling it as though it were precious.
Hazard recognized it immediately as a piece of magnesium alloy—an extrusion about five feet long, six inches wide, with slightly raised edges like a shallow trough. It weighed only a few ounces. Despite its thin gauge it was stronger than steel, had no give to at all. Hazard noticed Russian lettering stamped into the metal at one corner and guessed that the piece was intended for the fuselage of a jet fighter or bomber.
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