Shah-Mak

by Alan Williams

  Later that night a man strolled past the house, noticed the plain-clothes agent just inside the front door, and went on to a café at the corner, where he asked for a jeton and shut himself into the phone booth. Next morning, when the engineers arrived at the house to disintegrate the scrambler, they found the line had already been disconnected.

  The DST, as well as the authorities in the Rue du Palais, provoked by the wide Press coverage, which was now degenerating into reckless speculation — including reports of a clandestine police operation against Arab terrorists in France — were working desperately to break the case.

  But after five days the only further information they had obtained was the method by which Monsieur Bloch — who was again unknown to either the DST or Interpol — paid his rent. This was settled by a regular banker’s draft drawn on a small independent bank in Basel. The DST contacted the Swiss Police Financière, who replied that the money came from a numbered account, and that the payments had been stopped two days previously — on the same day that the scrambler had been disconnected.

  The only consolation left to the authorities was the fact that the Press, also starved of further facts, was becoming bored with the story; and finally dropped it altogether.

  The file marked ‘Chamaz/Bloch/Michel’, however, remained open but unsolved.

  CHAPTER 13

  Marmut bem Letif sat small and listless behind an enormous desk, which was bare except for a platinum pen set, a dictating machine, and three telephones — black, green, and red. From the wall opposite, the Ruler gazed impersonally down at him out of a heavy gilt frame.

  He glanced at his watch yet again, and looked nervously at the red telephone. It was past seven o’clock: there must be news soon. He licked his lips and swallowed hard. He was still unacclimatized to the air-conditioning, which dried his nose and mouth and gave him a sore throat.

  Behind him, beyond the huge picture window, the city lay nine floors below in the red haze of evening. Through the bulletproof glass the roar of rush hour traffic reached him only as a muted hum. He turned in his swivel chair and looked out across the flat baked brown roofs to the sweep of high sugar-white buildings rising along the old Front de Mer — now renamed the Avenue of the Glorious Reawakening — and could see the great emptiness of the tideless Gulf, its surface broken for a moment by a tiny white trail in the wake of a waterskier.

  He spun back to the desk as the red telephone gave a single peal, and a green light began winking on the dial. He grabbed the receiver, listened, muttered something and hung up; then reaching into the desk drawer, brought out a bottle of Chivas Regal and poured himself half a tumbler, which he swallowed neat. It was a dangerous luxury, but one which seemed to fit the occasion. While alcohol was not officially outlawed in the country, it was severely disapproved of — particularly among the Ruler’s servants — and could only be obtained, at extravagant prices, in the more exclusive hotels and restaurants that catered for foreign tourists.

  He sat sucking a peppermint to clear his breath, and waited for Colonel Sham Tamat, Chief of NAZAK and the Incorruptible Guardian of the Nation’s Public Safety.

  Either from deference to Letif’s rank, or to emphasize his civilian as well as military status, the colonel was not in uniform. He wore an English suit of grey worsted, silk tie by Pucci and shoes by Gucci, while his big fleshy face bore an expression of smug contentment. He strode across the deep white carpet and clasped both hands round Letif’s limp wrist. Only the width of the desk seemed to prevent him embracing the little man.

  ‘Fortune smiles upon us today, Minister!’ He sank into a chair under the portrait of the Ruler. ‘The dirty Levantine — the one they call Chamaz — is departed this day to his maker. It was not easy — particularly at such short notice — but I had my best men on the job, and they cooked the cur good and proper! Roasted him, to be exact — with half a litre of white phosphorus. Chamaz and the two Embassy guards — shnouf! —’ he pinched his finger and thumb together as though snuffing out a candle — ‘cremated on the spot, with no funeral expenses for the French taxpayers.’ He swung a leg over the arm of the chair and gave Letif a sly white grin.

  ‘My chief man in Paris has also reported some interesting background information. It appears that Monsieur Chamaz — who also carried a French passport, incidentally — had not been very clever. He had apparently been assigned to follow someone in the north of France. But that someone seems to have spotted him, beaten him up, and robbed him of some very important photographs he had been taking. He then travelled to Paris and took asylum at our Embassy where his case was handled by that crafty lizard, Second Secretary Ashak — who, as we well know, has no love for my Organization. I might add, my dear Minister, that it is an outstanding tribute to my men in Paris that they were able to find out so much so quickly.’

  ‘Most of this I know already,’ Letif replied, with quiet authority. ‘What else did they find out?’

  The colonel’s face darkened. ‘You must appreciate, Minister, that my men were operating under extremely adverse conditions. As you know, the Diplomatic Corps is notoriously uncooperative with my Organization, and Second Secretary Ashak has lips as tight as a snake’s arsehole. When Chamaz turned up, Ashak was careful not to talk to him at the Embassy. But one of my men works on the desk, and has sharp eyes and a long memory. He recognized the Levantine as an errand boy for the Almighty’s Inner Circle, and was able to alert his Chief.

  ‘Meanwhile, Ashak questioned Chamaz in a nearby café, where it was not easy to follow all of the conversation. However, my man did gather that the films would have helped to identify certain foreign individuals who are plotting against the State.’

  Letif sat forward, sucking his soft fingertips. ‘Did Chamaz say how many individuals — and what nationality they are?’

  ‘There are at least three men involved, and one of them is French. He is said to be very fat and to have a beard. My man reports that several times he heard Chamaz use the phrase “le gros barbu”.’

  ‘And the other two? Are they foreigners too?’

  Colonel Tamat shook his head impatiently. ‘I do not know the nationality of the others. As I said, the conversation took place in a café — and you know what those cafés in Paris are like. It was surprising that my man was able to overhear anything at all.’

  Letif appeared unimpressed. He had lowered his head, as though to avoid those two sets of eyes staring at him across the room. He wondered whom he could trust: which meant, who was the more likely to win — Tamat or His Imperial Highness? They could not both win, that was for certain. When he spoke, his voice had that shy, slightly apologetic tone which his colleagues misinterpreted as a sign of weakness.

  ‘You mentioned, Colonel, that these individuals might be plotting against His Serene Imperial Highness’s life. Are you implying that in a matter of such grave importance, Second Secretary Ashak has been deliberately withholding information from NAZAK?’

  The colonel replied, with a polite layer of insult, ‘Minister, you are new to your office, but even so, the niceties of the present political situation cannot have entirely escaped you. Relations between myself and His Imperial Highness have recently become — shall we say, chilly? I am a loyal public servant, as you know, and where duty is concerned, I acquit myself not only with ability but with passion. No one in the State can doubt this — least of all, my enemies.’

  ‘Do I detect, Colonel, that you make a subtle distinction between your loyalty and duty to the State on the one hand — and to His Imperial Highness on the other?’

  ‘That is an impertinent suggestion, Minister. His Highness and the State are one. It is a lesson that our children learn from the moment they are born; it is shouted from the radio, from the television, from every loudspeaker in the streets. It is engraved in marble above the entrance to my office. I am surprised you do not have it inscribed on the wall of this room.’ His voice was like that of a man delivering a sermon.

  There was silence. The r
ed sky was darkening outside the window, and Letif’s head appeared as a narrow silhouette, its expression invisible. ‘The Ruler no longer trusts NAZAK, Colonel. And, as you well know, he does not trust you.’

  Tamat removed his leg from the arm of the chair and took out a big polished Dunhill pipe, which he began to fill from a leather pouch. His movements were slow, methodical, giving him time to think.

  ‘You are accusing me of treason, Minister? That is a grave affair —’ he tamped down the tobacco in the rosewood bowl, then struck a match and held it between his fingers — ‘but it is your affair, Letif. Your own personal affair.’ He blew the match out, stood up and dropped it in the base of the pen set on the desk; for Letif, outwardly loyal to the Ruler’s every whim and prejudice, kept no ashtrays in his office.

  The colonel stood looking down at Letif’s sleek black head and sloping shoulders, and noticed that the white suit which had been hastily ordered from Rome, to embellish his new appointment, already looked worn and baggy. Marmut bem Letif, the colonel reflected, filled his high office about as well as he filled his clothes.

  ‘We are both aware that every word of this conversation is on tape,’ Letif said in a dry whisper. ‘I also know that those tapes will be handled only by you, or by those closest to you, in whom you have complete trust. I am therefore not fearful of what I am now going to say, Colonel.’

  Tamat had returned to his chair, where his big powerful body sat relaxed, his eyes showing mild amusement. ‘Yes, Minister?’

  ‘His Imperial Highness’s life is in danger, Colonel Tamat. As I have already informed you, a plot is being organized abroad, recruiting foreign mercenaries to assassinate our Head of State and overthrow the regime.’

  ‘Well? There have been attempts before on his life. It is a national hazard we have to put up with, like sandstorms and cholera. The Ruler is well enough protected, I assure you.’

  ‘I am not so sure,’ said Letif. ‘No man is inviolate. And how well is he protected against his protectors?’

  There was a pause. Colonel Tamat lit another match, this time putting it to his pipe and sucking until a flame jumped out of the bowl. He breathed smoke in a slow haze in front of his face. ‘You will please explain that last remark, Minister.’

  ‘There are many people in our country who wish His Highness dead. They are not all revolutionary riffraff and Baathist scum. Some of them are respectable and highly favoured.’

  Tamat put another match to his pipe, and this time dropped the burnt end on the carpet. ‘What is your point, Minister?’

  ‘You have contacts — very close contacts, sometimes — with some of these favoured people.’

  ‘Give me one name, Letif.’

  ‘Dr Zak, for example.’

  Colonel Tamat choked on his pipe, and hastily spat into a silk handkerchief which he folded back into his breast pocket. ‘You have no proof,’ he said, with forced arrogance.

  ‘I do not require proof,’ Letif replied, ‘any more than you require proof before you submit one of your prisoners to the bastinado, or the electrodes, or your favourite barbecue a cheval. But if I did need proof, I would question why the good doctor is still alive and well.’

  He gave a faint smile, which Tamat could not see. ‘When I took tea with him two days ago,’ Letif added, ‘the old man seemed in excellent spirits.’

  ‘I can assure you, Minister,’ Tamat said in a low voice, ‘that Dr Zak’s file is clean.’

  ‘No doubt — since you are responsible for the file,’ Letif murmured; and his doe eyes looked steadily back at the colonel. ‘But we are straying from the point. We were discussing a matter of national urgency — a plot to assassinate our beloved monarch. There is one factor, Colonel, which you seem to have overlooked — or perhaps you have forgotten? In the matter of the agent, Chamaz, you admit that your men were operating under highly difficult circumstances. Not only did they receive no cooperation from the Inner Circle — as you call it — but they appear to have been actively excluded from the whole affair. Yet this man Chamaz claimed to have photographs that might identify the would-be assassins. So what do you do? Do you attempt to kidnap Chamaz and interrogate him yourself? Or, better still, hold him until the moment is ripe for him to recognize the assassins? For that is what Ashak and his friends were surely trying to do — tuck Chamaz away in Dr Hubei’s house in Basel and wait for an opportune moment. Are you still with me, Colonel?’

  Tamat did not reply. His pipe had gone out, and he stared out at the dark blue, maroon-streaked sky. Letif’s soft cloying voice went on: ‘I ask again, Colonel — what did you do? And I will give you the answer. You did the one thing that, for any Security Chief, is the ultimate and unpardonable sin — you destroyed the evidence. You eliminated the star witness — the only witness — who could have identified these would-be assassins of His Imperial Highness.’

  The colonel flushed darkly and his eyes showed flecks of orange. He was renowned for his dangerous temper, and Letif watched him warily. For several seconds Colonel Tamat did nothing; then he deliberately unscrewed the stem of his pipe and poured several gobs of brown dottle on to the white carpet. Letif looked on impassively, knowing that this room, with its expensive fittings, might well be a passing luxury.

  ‘You are suggesting —?’ Tamat’s voice broke, and he spat again into his handkerchief, which this time he folded and used to wipe his forehead. ‘What are you suggesting?’ he added hoarsely.

  Letif spoke with gentle persuasion. ‘I am not interested in your motives, Colonel. It is your tactics which concern me. While your strategy is bold and effective, it lacks subtlety. You have attacked, Colonel — but not on your own initiative. You were drawn into that attack. It is my opinion that you have been drawn into a trap.’

  He waited, but the colonel was silent. ‘It is my opinion that the Ruler and his friends intended you to kill Chamaz. They despatched him across France like a fat worm on a long line and a big hook. You swallowed that worm this afternoon. You also swallowed the hook. You must now, my dear Colonel, expect His Highness to start pulling in the line.’

  Colonel Tamat’s expression had become choleric; but when he spoke, the sneer in his voice was warped by suspicion. ‘Why would the Ruler want Chamaz dead?’

  ‘You are sure Chamaz is dead?’

  ‘Don’t play the monkey with me, Letif!’ Tamat roared. ‘I have a good sense of humour, but I do not appreciate jokes at my expense.’

  Letif ignored the outburst. ‘You say the men were carbonized?’

  ‘That’s what my confidential source reported.’

  ‘Did your source state that Chamaz had been positively identified?’

  Tamat drew in his breath, and this time his voice was barely in control. ‘The man who organized the operation did an excellent job. He had just two hours in which to make his plans. He assures me there was no mistake. And I trust his word. He is a good man — one of my best.’

  ‘I do not doubt it,’ said Letif. ‘They certainly did not make it easy for him — or for you, otherwise you would have been suspicious. You see, Colonel, they were relying on your man’s expertise. And they have been rewarded.’

  ‘Who?’ Tamat barked.

  ‘Ashak, for instance. And His Imperial Highness, of course.’

  Tamat sat in uneasy silence. At the back of his arrogant mind, a doubt was beginning to stir.

  ‘Why did you have Chamaz killed?’ Letif said at last. ‘Or rather, why did you want him killed?’

  ‘You still doubt that he is dead?’ Tamat growled.

  ‘I don’t know that he is dead any more than the French police know. I suggest you contact your man in Paris and confirm that he made a positive identification of Chamaz before he bombed the car.’

  Colonel Tamat stood up. His eyes had grown tired with trying to read Letif’s expression across the darkening room. ‘I think your inferences are dangerous and without foundation, Minister.’ He spoke with none of his natural authority. ‘It is your privilege to have
your own opinions and suspicions. But I must warn you, if you are unwise enough to try and act on them I shall be obliged to report this whole conversation to the full Council of Ministers, and to His Highness himself.’

  ‘No,’ said Letif. ‘It is you who will not dare to act. You will not dare to, because today you have placed yourself under heavy suspicion. There is an international plot to kill His Highness, and yet this afternoon you attempted to liquidate a vital witness.’

  Tamat stood in the middle of the room, jaw muscles working as though trying to dislodge something from between his teeth. ‘You are being naïve, Minister. You should know that when an agent bungles his job he does not get rewarded with a reprimand — or a cosy bed in Dr Hubei’s house in Basel. What my men did this afternoon was standard procedure.’

  Letif lifted his hands in a small gesture of resignation. ‘I am not convinced that His Highness will see it that way.’

  Tamat, who had turned towards the door, wheeled round and peered angrily at the slight hunched silhouette behind the desk. ‘You dare accuse NAZAK of treason!’

  Letif cut him short. ‘Do not waste your breath, Colonel. You have already said enough this evening to merit a slow official death. Just take a little advice. From now on, do not act too hastily. You and I may soon need each other.’

  Colonel Tamat swung round and collided with the door, muttering ferociously, and marched out into the neon-white glare of the corridor, slamming the door behind him. Ten yards away a guard came to attention, smacking the butt of his rifle in salute. The colonel’s two plain-clothes bodyguards joined him at the lift. He rode between them and walked through the double security check, out into the dry heat of night, where a black armour-plated car with bulletproof windows and self-sealing tyres awaited him between two motorcycle outriders.

  Colonel Tamat sank into the back and listened to the rising howl of the motorcycle sirens as they sliced through the traffic, in the direction of his marble residence in the foothills outside the city.