The Deadly Orbit Mission. Van Wyck Mason

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      “The trouble is,” he continued, “we can’t be sure the Hot Line itself is any longer completely secure. You know about that Russian freighter in Denmark? Well, we checked that one out very carefully and it was clean. Just a dumb skipper who panicked and accidentally cut the cable. But Stockholm is a different story. We’ve spotted agents moving into Sweden at a rate which can only mean big trouble. The circuit there is quite as vulnerable as it is anywhere else.”

      Hugh would have bet his special allowances for the next six months that he could name the nationality of the agents General Armiston was referring to. It came as no surprise, then, when his superior said shortly, “Chinese and from White satellites.”

      Now North perceived why the President had been inclined to credit the Kremlin’s excuse of a malfunction and their offer of cooperation in neutralizing its own illegal satellite. Whatever the Russians came up with later it was sure that they weren’t inviting a show-down at this moment. And it was no less a certainty that this was exactly the kind of a provocation that Mao Tse-tung and his regime would delight in. It would not only stir international tensions but such a confrontation also would remove considerable internal heat from the Chinese Red boss.

      General Armiston nodded to the Defense Secretary whose controlled voice took over.

      “Colonel North, whatever we do here to contain this threat and prepare for the worst will be of no avail it the Hot Line fails to remain secure. Understood?”

      North nodded. “Yes, sir.”

      “I understand that in the past you’ve successfully handled some extremely delicate assignments. This one may well test your ability to the limit.”

      “Thank you, sir.” Hugh North stood up, aware that he was being told to get going in one Hell of a hurry.

      “General Armiston will accompany you, Colonel,” the Secretary arose and circled the table to offer his hand. “He will have a few final instructions.” He grasped North’s hand, shook it warmly. “A lot of people are counting on you, Colonel, though they don’t know it; uncounted millions of them.”

      Colonel North saluted, about-faced and made for the door. General Armiston would be following. He could well guess what those final words from the Defense Secretary portended.

      Back in the elevator, the General stoked his pipe and drawled, “Pretty obvious what we’ll have to do, isn’t it, Colonel?”

      North inclined his dark, narrow head. “I’d venture you’re going to ignore the cable line through Europe.”

      “Exactly. We’ll use said cable only for testing purposes, and sending a lot of misleading information—just to keep up appearances before the Chinese. The real material will go by radio telephone relayed through Tangier. I’ve already assigned more agents than you could count to England, Denmark, Sweden and Finland where they’re fairly swarming around the cable relay points. Expensive decoys but worth it. They’re going to raise all sorts of dust to keep the Chinese distracted and guessing. Meanwhile, you’re to protect the really strategic relay point.”

      North summoned a wry smile. “Is that all? What’s the next step?”

      “You leave at noon today and pick up your ticket and credentials at Dulles International. All arrangements have been made. I don’t want you to return to your hotel; you’ve been checked out already, so shop about and pick whatever you’ll need for Tangier and get cracking.”

      North shook hands and walked away without looking back. Even so, he heard General Armiston’s soft, “May God go with you.” The words trailed him as he cut through the beautifully landscaped central courtyard and toward the Pentagon’s outer ring.

      Hugh North appreciated what the Secretary of Defense discreetly had said through General Armiston. It amounted to this: Get this job done at all costs. Be diplomatic at all times except when you can’t afford to be. Be most discreet and take care not to involve the State Department so they won’t make trouble for the Defense Department.

      The Colonel stopped at the armorer’s quarters long enough to check out a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson .38, a single clip of cartridges and a chamois skin shoulder holster. Later he shopped for a couple of dark-colored lightweight suits and a few other necessities before boarding a taxi for Dulles Airport. With luck, he should arrive in Tangier before the sun rose again.

      Had Hugh North even suspected what he would discover in North Africa he’d have put in for an extra ration of luck.

      4

      A day earlier—quite by coincidence had anyone been interested—the cultural attaché of the Albanian Mission to the United Nations abruptly decided that he must be running short on his particular interpretation of American culture which might explain why a short, stout, almost bald man with an olive complexion flew from New York to Washington to observe some of that Capital’s sights—the architecture of Hugh North’s hotel for example. The little man was studying its lobby at the very moment the man from G-2 was hailing a taxi to report to his superior.

      And then there was the celebrated Pentagon to be visited. Equipped with a map obligingly supplied to tourists at a lobby desk he appeared to be in search of a men’s room on the fourth floor at the moment Colonel North was entering General Armiston’s office.

      Had Mr. Gregory been perceptive about such matters he might have noticed the fat little man’s heavy breathing behind him while following the General and North down the escalators. The little man in the baggy suit also found the private, well-guarded elevators a most interesting cultural fact. He didn’t need a new necktie, but bought one while North reappeared to select a new wardrobe.

      And finally the man from Albania became deeply interested in Dulles International Airport which never before had appealed to him. Nothing like it in Tirana, was there?

      Early in the afternoon while Colonel North was cruising at 35,000 feet over the Atlantic aboard a 707 Air France jet the little fat man was busy in Washington at the Embassy of an East European satellite reporting on his recent observations of the American scene.

      And an hour later said observations had been coded and were being transmitted overseas. Only in America, thought the little man, could one so freely transact such delicate business. It really was remarkable.

      CHAPTER TWO

      1

      Veteran Intelligence Officer Hugh North traveled so light that even if the Moroccan douanier in a dingy, silver-buttoned blue uniform had decided to search the Colonel’s luggage his examination couldn’t have required more than a minute of his invaluable time.

      Dawn was just breaking over Boukhalef Airport, twelve kilometers from the city of Tangier proper, when both Colonel North and his burly, Gallic-appearing taxi driver rubbed exhaust fumes from their eyes before departing in one of those “taxi-babies”—modern minicabs—which remain characteristic of Tangier.

      The man from G-2 was almost as anxious to wash off flight fatigue under a shower at the Hotel El Minzah as he was to establish contact with Mr. Gregory, the Voice of America’s electronics technician and chemistry hobbyist.

      “Vous-êtes Americain, Monsieur?” The driver suggested while clutching the steering wheel with bear-like paws. A cigarette waggled as it hung from his lower lip.

      North nodded and played the foreign-passenger СКАЧАТЬ