Assault on England (2 page)

"Kill him! Kill him!" Ayoub was screaming now. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Gasim had pulled the gun out of his jacket and was aiming it at me.

The slug missed my head by inches and almost hit the second knife man as he came in. I grabbed his knife arm, twisted, and we went down together.

We hit the dock next to the corpse of Augie Fergus. We rolled onto and over the body, wrestling for the knife, Gasim dancing around us awkwardly, trying to get a shot off, but afraid to fire because he might hit the wrong man.

"Shoot! Shoot!" Ayoub shrieked at him.

I had to do something fast. The Jenifer was on top of me now. I squeezed my knee up, rammed it into his groin. He bellowed, fell to one side. I smashed a fist into his face as he fell. Gasim had stopped dancing now and was aiming carefully at my head.

I flexed my right forearm in a way I had practiced hundreds of times and Hugo slipped into my hand. The knife man was getting up and I hurled Hugo at him. The stiletto turned over once and buried itself in the Arab's throat. As Hugo left my hand I did a quick roll; Gasim's shot splintered wood where my head had been.

I rolled a second time as Gasim fired again. I came up, reaching for the Luger in my jacket.

My first shot missed Gasim's head by inches, but the second slammed into his chest, spinning him into the wall of the warehouse behind him. His gun went flying.

I turned and saw that Ayoub had decided to make a run for it. I didn't want to shoot; I wanted to find out what he knew about Augie Fergus, so I sprinted after him, dived for him headlong.

We went down, hitting the dock together. Unluckily we landed near an iron bar some workman had left on the dock. Ayoub grabbed at it desperately, swung it at me. He meant to crush my skull but the blow glanced off my neck and shoulder. It was enough, though, to knock Wilhelmina out of my grasp and send rockets of pain shooting up my arm.

Ayoub was back on his feet, still holding the iron bar. Wilhelmina had landed somewhere near the edge of the dock. I stumbled over there, spotted the Luger and bent to retrieve it.

But Ayoub, moving surprisingly fast for a fat man, charged me with the bar. He was going to end it once and for all — I could see it in his eyes. I couldn't bring Wilhelmina up in time, Ayoub was moving too fast. As he swung the bar, I stepped aside and let him move on past me. The next minute he was in mid-air over the black water and then he splashed into the Nile.

He came up sputtering. The current was taking him and he thrashed around wildly. Obviously he couldn't swim. His head went under but he came up again, choking. The kaffiyehed head went under once more. Only a few bubbles rose to the surface this time, then the river was tranquil again.

I walked back up the dock to reclaim Hugo. Both of the muscle boys were dead, but Gasim wasn't — I heard him groan. I slipped Hugo back into his sheath and, holding Wilhelmina loosely at my side, advanced cautiously to where Gasim lay near the wall of the warehouse.

When I saw the man's condition, I holstered the Luger and squatted beside him. He stared up at me with glazed eyes.

"What was Augie Fergus to you and Ayoub?" I asked. "If you don't want me to leave you to die, you'd better talk." He was dead already but didn't know it.

He groaned, moving his head from side to side in pain. "Fergus," he gasped, "smuggled… ancient treasures… out of country for us. He was overheard… say… intended leave without paying Ayoub… last consignment. Some… American was to fly him… Khartoum… private plane. Ayoub thought you… that man."

He coughed and appeared about ready to give up. I propped his head up. "And what about the information Fergus had for the British government?" I asked. "Was Ayoub in on that?"

Gasim's glazed eyes searched for mine. "British government?"

I saw no point in being coy about things now. "Yes, the telegram Augie sent the Prime Minister. The information he had about the assassination of Henry Wellsey. Was Ayoub to profit from that?"

"I know nothing… of this," Gasim gasped. "Neither… did Ayoub."

Suddenly he stiffened in my hands, then went limp. He was dead.

I lowered his head and knelt there for a moment in the blackness. By accident I had gotten mixed up in one of Augie Fergus's shady deals — had, ironically, almost gotten myself killed — and I still didn't know anything about the assassination. It was possible, of course, that Ayoub had known something without telling Gasim. But it didn't matter now one way or the other. Both Augie and Ayoub were beyond further explanation or conniving.

The next day I took a United Arab Airlines flight to Cairo and grabbed the next jet to Tangier. I arrived in Tangier and first took a room at the Grand Hotel, in the Medina, which Fergus had mentioned. I had lunch in a nearby restaurant, mechoui and a Stork Pils beers, then returned to the hotel bar.

I was sipping a Pernod, standing beside a barstool with my back to the dark-mustached bartender, when the girl came in. She was young, dressed in a black sheath and high-heeled sandals. Long straight dark hair fell over her shoulders. She was beautiful the way only young Arabian girls can be beautiful: a dark, earthy beauty with a hint of mystery. She walked in a way that made a man want to reach out and touch her, a hips-undulating, breasts-moving, sensual walk that made an erotic but not vulgar display of her body. I watched as she moved past me, avoiding my eyes, leaving a faint scent of musky perfume in the air. She sat on a barstool about halfway down the bar and ordered a sherry. After the bartender had served her, he moved down to me.

"Every day she comes in like this," he said, noticing my admiring glance. "She orders one drink — just the one — and then she leaves."

"She's lovely," I said. "Do you know her name?"

"It is Hadiya — in Arabic it means 'gift, " he said, smiling through his mustache. "She dances at the Miramar Hotel. Shall I introduce you?"

I picked up my Pernod. "Thanks," I said, "but I'll go it solo."

The girl turned to look at me as I sat down beside her. Her eyes, big and black, were even lovelier close up, but at the moment aloof and wary. "May I buy you a drink?" I asked.

"Why?" she said coolly.

"Because you remind me of five memorable days I spent in Lebanon," I said, "and because it pleases me to be near you."

She looked into my eyes and studied my face for a long moment. "All right," she said suddenly. "You remind me of three lovely days in Gibraltar."

We laughed then together, and her laugh was musical. We exchanged names and some small talk about Tangier, and then the bartender showed up.

"A call for you."

I groaned inwardly. It was Hawk, I knew. His plane must have arrived early. I asked Hadiya to wait for me and excused myself. I took the call in the lobby, for privacy.

"Nick?" The voice was brisk, businesslike, with just a hint of a New England accent.

"Yes, sir. I hope you had a good flight."

"The girls were pretty, but the food was terrible," Hawk grated. I pictured his lean, impatient face, capped by thick graying hair, as he sweated in the Tangier airport telephone booth. "I have only a few hours between flights, Nick, so kiss the girl goodbye, whoever she is, and meet me at the Djenina Restaurant for an early dinner in exactly… one hour and a half."

I acknowledged and the phone clicked in my ear. I stood there for a moment, wondering what Hawk had up his sleeve for me now and whether it would be a follow-up to the Luxor business. Then I returned to the girl. "I have to leave," I said. "Business."

"Oh," she said, pouting prettily.

"But I think I'll catch the floor show at the Miramar tonight," I said. "If it's at all possible."

"I would like that, Mr. Carter." She smiled at me.

I drew back. "I told you my first name, not my last."

"Augie Fergus told me you'd be here," she said.

"How the hell did…"

Her face grew solemn. "Augie called me yesterday afternoon from Luxor. He described you, then said if anything happened to him, I should give you a photograph he keeps in his suitcase in our room."

Somehow, the thought of this beautiful thing belonging to Augie Fergus took me by surprise, and I must have registered it. I opened my mouth to say something, but she cut me short.

"Something has gone wrong, then?" she asked.

I gave her the details. She took it all passively, then said, "It must have happened while he was on the telephone."

"What must have happened?" I asked.

"When he was killed. He was saying, 'Tell Cartel that… when the line went dead."

"That's all he managed to say?"

She shook her head up and down.

"Nothing more?"

"Nothing."

"I've got the money here," I patted the attaché case at my side. "Give me the photograph."

"It's in my room," she said. "Meet me tonight, after the show. I'll give it to you then."

"Now I know I'll catch the show," I said.

"Do that," she smiled, then slid off her barstool and walked out.

I walked to the Djenina Restaurant in the Casbah. Most of my meetings with Hawk were at his offices in the Amalgamated Press and Wire Services building on DuPont Circle in Washington. Rarely did we confer outside of Washington or New York, rarer still outside of the U.S. Hawk had no love for junkets about the globe and ventured abroad only on matters of the most extreme urgency. He apparently had classified his Johannesburg visit — and our Tangier meeting — as urgent.

Hawk arrived a short time after me and we took an outside table. He looked almost English, in a tweed jacket and gray trousers. His face was lined and looked tired and his spare frame seemed even slimmer than usual.

"Bad luck at Luxor, Nick. Damned bad luck. But maybe you'll get something from the girl." He pulled a long brown cigar from his jacket, stuck it into his mouth and chewed down on it without lighting it. "You probably haven't seen it in the papers yet but there's been another assassination in London." He removed the cigar from his mouth and watched my reaction.

"Another government official?" I asked.

"You might say so. This time it's Percy Dumbarton, Britain's Minister of Defence."

I whistled and stared out across the narrow cobble-stoned street, through the slow traffic of robed Arabs and donkey carts to the crumbling old buildings across the way. I started to comment, but just then the waiter returned to take our order. I ordered the Moroccan chicken couscous, and Hawk stuck to steak. Then the waiter was gone again.

"Dumbarton," Hawk continued not waiting for my response, "was one of England's most able leaders. The killer left another note, and it's clear now that the threat in the first note was no idle one."

"You haven't filled me in on that," I reminded him. Hawk reached into his pocket again and handed me two pieces of paper. "Here. I've typed out what the two notes said. Top one's the first one."

I read: "This is to prove we mean business. To prevent the death of other cabinet members, the British government must arrange to pay to us the sum of ten million pounds within the fortnight. Another execution will occur each fortnight until payment is made and the sum will increase by two million pounds after each succeeding death.

"The British government will save important lives, considerable anguish and millions of pounds sterling by immediate capitulation to our demand. When that inescapable decision is reached, a white flag must be flown below the Union Jack atop Parliament. At that signal, a further note will be delivered advising method of payment."

I looked up at Hawk. "Interesting," I said. Then I read the second note, the original of which had been found at the scene of the second assassination:

"You were warned but you did not take us seriously. Now your Minister of Defence is dead, and our demand has risen to twelve million pounds. Is the government of Britain too proud to capitulate? Let us hope not. We will watch for the white flag."

I shook my head slowly. "What do the British make of it?" I asked.

"They don't know
what
to make of it, N3," Hawk said grimly. "They're literally running around in circles. These were particularly bloody murders and panic is growing in high places. There is talk that even the Queen isn't safe. It's the biggest thing in years. It could literally destroy the British government if they don't find out what it's all about."

The waiter was back with the food. Hawk attacked the steak eagerly, talking as he ate.

"At first they thought it might be one of the international crime syndicates. Or maybe even an ex-con, recently released, with a grudge against official London. Now they think it may be the Russians."

I was skeptical. "Really?"

"It may not be as farfetched as it sounds. The Russians are at odds, bitterly, with several of Britain's top leaders. Dumbarton was one of them. They might be trying to effect a change of government in London — the direct way. It's been done before."

Hawk finished his steak and leaned back. "Maybe Russia is more edgy than we think," he continued. "Dumbarton was pushing the development of a fighter aircraft that would make a MIG look like Von Richtofen's Fokker DR-1. He was also pressing for a bacterial arsenal. British intelligence points to the language of the notes — the repetitive use of 'we' and 'us, the fact that the note paper is the same kind used by a Russian sub-agent in another matter. And, lastly, to the fact that Boris Novosty, who recently showed up in London, has now mysteriously dropped out of sight."

"He's one of KGB's best," I said thoughtfully.

Hawk nodded.

"And that's why you're here. The chief of SOE's Select Missions group and the Prime Minister got together and decided that since you're already in on this thing through Augie Fergus, and especially because Novosty and his people have never seen you, it would be nice if I loaned you to them for a while."