The Deadly Orbit Mission. Van Wyck Mason

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СКАЧАТЬ an order he must move as quickly as possible to make sure that American technicians would receive the proper unlocking information and with no Chinese inspired interference.

      The man from G-2 plotted moves he felt should have first priority. Gregory would have to be contacted immediately and unobtrusively and so learn the exact location of that Hot Line relay point reportedly situated high in Tangier’s seamy Casbah; and then make sure its functions remained secure from interference. The Lord only knew how many ways there might be to interfere with so complicated a device. How effective would radio jamming be? How would one locate a jamming station? Charles Gregory had better know his stuff.

      For all his seeming indifference the presence of that policier car in his wake worried Hugh North. If Inspector Potin knew he was here even before his plane had landed how many others might share such knowledge? It would be only wise to assume that several very wrong people must know. But who were the wrong people in this case? Grimly, he conjectured that he might be forced to employ a tried-and-true method of finding that out—which was to set himself out as bait and find out who was stalking him—provided he lived long enough.

      His taxi crossed the Avenue d’Angleterre and recognition returned as it chugged up the steep grade of the Rue du Statut. The driver pulled up screechingly before El Minzah and Hugh took in the huge Moorish type edifice shimmering in the heat like a regal white elephant.

      Two huge Moors in yellow-and-blue uniforms at the hotel’s heavy iron gates swung them open as effortlessly as if they had been balsam branches. The cab lurched up the driveway and halted. North climbed out into the pleasantly cool air, tipped the big driver a wad of dirhams, then surrendered his single, light bag to a pantalooned chasseur who led the way into the hotel’s ornate lobby.

      Hugh found suspiciously little trouble in securing a room overlooking the El Minzah’s famous patio—on which the first tourists had yet to appear. He was about to strip and shower when, not quite unexpectedly, footsteps sounded on the corridors carpeting and his suite’s door was smartly rapped upon.

      Expectedly, when North opened the door he found standing before it Police Inspector Potin, a small, wiry man with the complexion of an old walnut shell. His deep forehead was half eclipsed by his untidy crimson fez and his brown skin was as wrinkled as the limp seersucker suit covering his slight frame.

      “Mon Colonel,” intoned Inspector Ibrahim René Potin, representative of le Bureau de la Sûreté , “how pleasant after all these years to renew our acquaintance.” He grinned, sidled into the room to perch on the edge of a settee.

      “It’s always good to see you, Monsieur l’Inspecteur,” North replied cheerfully. “I am much honored that so high an officer as you should take time from his duties in order to welcome me.”

      “You are too kind, mon Colonel,” Potin replied, his grin hanging like the final words of a funeral sermon. “In fact, this is no reception. One only discharges his duties.”

      “How do you mean?”

      “Mon ami, this is what is termed as a visit of an official nature.”

      2

      Resignedly North shook his head remembering that stubbornness was one of Ibrahim Potin’s most distinguishing characteristics. He had to make sure that the Tangier police, if not recruited actively to his side, at least were going to remain neutral for the duration of this assignment. Gingerly he prepared to tread upon the eggshells of discreet conversation. How much dared he confide in this veteran professional who had served on the gendarmeries of France and Spain before rising to his present important position in Tangier?

      “Why don’t we drink café-au-lait?” he suggested as an opening.

      “Again you are kind, mon Colonel,” Potin sighed. “But the sun has risen.”

      “Aahh!” North exclaimed. He had been so preoccupied that he’d forgotten all about Ramadan the “dry month” for followers of Islam when abstinence from food, drink, tobacco, perfume, and even sexual contact or stimulation was the rule between sunrise and sunset.

      “Only the very old, expecting women, travelers on long journeys, and laborers are excluded from abstinence,” Inspector Potin reminded.

      “Of course.”

      “I definitely cannot join you, Colonel North, since I do not consider myself very old and,” a discolored tooth glinted, “I am certainly not expecting. Also, I am no manual laborer—just a police officer trying to, ehh, insure the continuation of peace and neutrality in Tangier.”

      Hugh ignored the thrust to telephone for coffee and rolls.

      Inspector Potin now was at his most inscrutable; he had decorated his face with that sleeping-fox look which reminded the Colonel of their last encounter. North doubted that Potin ever really slept very long at one time.

      “And just as certainly,” he droned on, “I am not preparing to take any lengthy journey—not while your esteemed self is in Tangier, mon Colonel.”

      That had an ominous ring. In his time Hugh had found many reasons to criticize the State Department’s expert mincers of words, but right now he’d have appreciated having one of these smooth talkers present at this moment. He raised one eyebrow, merely said, “Oh?” and felt somewhat foolish.

      Inspector Potin seemed still to be talking in his sleep. “How could I contemplate leaving Tangier with you here, mon Colonel? We have a very peaceful time here ordinarily. Not too much trouble. Once in a while there is too much marijuana in the cigarettes so we are forced to correct the situation.

      “Occasionally a certain tourist becomes overly excited in a House of Discretion and requires—er—calming. And—not very often, I am happy to report—one of our own people becomes too greedy for some careless tourist’s dollars so we must show him the error of his ways. A shooting now and then, a burglary, a petty misdemeanor.” Potin unlocked so wide a grin that North knew what to expect.

      “But whenever you join us, mon Colonel, such desirable tranquility disappears. Je me souviens that the last time you were here you spent all of seven days, during which—well, unusual excitement took place.”

      The Inspector studied grimy fingernails while the wail of a muezzin calling the Faithful to prayer filtered through the windows. Potin’s voice resumed without alteration in tone or intensity.

      “During that one week, mon Colonel, if I recall correctly there were two murders, one violent ‘accidental’ death and a suicide in Tangier.” The heavy eyelids drooped but from under them he watched North carefully.

      The man from G-2 shrugged and gazed at louvered doors leading to a terrace overlooking the patio. “If you remember, Monsieur I’Inspecteur, no one ever accused me of complicity in any of those, well, unfortunate events. In fact, if you will recall, you were at my side when the last death occurred and your bullets accompanied mine.” He summoned a convincingly cordial smile.

      “But that is not the point, mon Colonel. What I am trying to convey in my deplorably inadequate fashion is that where you go, there is—well, turbulence—and so I am prepared to stick to you like almonds to a honey cake. I trust you will not find my company annoying?”

      North regarded the dingy little man more carefully. He had to read Potin’s motivation carefully there was no need to hurry his answer—it being clear now that he was expected to think this out and answer in as simple and direct terms as possible.

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