Inspector Potin indicated no resentment at the interruption, instead, he studied one of his pointed and highly polished brown shoes and then the other. Finding them inspection-proof after a while, he continued, “The men were armed. The policeman could see that they were wearing shoulder holsters.”
North was pleased that he was not wearing his own at the moment.
“That might have been overlooked. After all, these types might have carried permits; but of course that wasn’t all. You see, they gave peculiar answers when the policier struck up a conversation and slipped in some leading questions.”
North fidgeted so Potin came to the point.
“They told him they’d been in Tangier all of three weeks but when the officer told them he was looking for a fancy eating place to take a new girlfriend to lunch one of the men remarked on the emptiness of so many restaurants at that time on the day before.”
North caught Potin’s point and smiled.
“Ramadan has been with us now for over three weeks; so that if they had been here all that time they must have known that at midday restaurants, save for foreigners, are nearly empty. They would not have asked that yesterday, now would they, mon Colonel?
“My young policier, who may have the makings of a real detective in due time, questioned them no further. I instructed him to have their passports checked so when he reported the nationality of these types I hurried at once to the airport and arrived only minutes ahead of your plane.”
“But you did not know I was aboard?”
“No, mon Colonel. I waited until the passengers began to be cleared by the douaniers and watched. I did not have to wait for long when I recognized you—you have not changed very much in all these years I am happy to say. At once I sensed that you must be the object of these fellows’ interest. You are that kind of a person, Colonel North.”
The G-2 agent was bursting to ask a question, but bided his time.
“When they followed you to the taxi stand and then moved in behind your taxi-baby I signaled my men to cut them off. Their vehicle passed a routine check but at this moment I believe they still are trying to explain why they should drive around Tangier with concealed guns—which I doubt very much have been registered. Is all clear to you now?”
At last. “Almost, Monsieur l’Inspecteur. Although I’m sure I don’t know these men I wonder if you could tell me their nationality?”
Potin yawned extravagantly. “Albanian.”
Hugh was surprised, but only for a fraction of a second. Albanians, Chinese? A difference without a distinction. Mao Tse-tung’s buddies from the hill country. Which meant that General Armiston and the Joint Chiefs must be uncomfortably close to the mark in their calculation that Tangier would prove to be the key point in safeguarding the new Hot Line relay.
Then came the question that North had hoped he would not hear.
“Tell me, mon Colonel, why would Albanians, although ideological allies of the Chinese Communists, be gunning for you—to borrow one of your terms?”
At once Hugh North decided against evasion; he wasn’t going to fool René Potin for long in any event. Besides hadn’t there been a deeply significant point in the Sûreté man’s discourse? He’d hurried to the airport at the word “Albanian,” hadn’t he? And he had intervened quietly—for the moment, at least—by sidetracking the Albanians while personally shepherding himself to El Minzah.
The telephone rang. It was a call from a Sûreté operator who urgently needed to reach Inspector Potin. Hugh handed over the phone and ducked into the shower.
3
As Colonel Hugh North emerged from the refreshment of a cold spray the wiry little policier was replacing the telephone and an empty coffee cup. The man from G-2 wondered how conscientiously Potin, although a Moslem of Algerian descent, observed the fast of Ramadan. Somehow, such observances seemed incongruous with the life of a modern policeman.
When the Inspector turned to face him Hugh noted his tightened lips and depths of tension in those vitreous black eyes. Without any doubt this phone call must figure decisively in his own plans.
“Mon Colonel,” he said quietly while a muezzin in the distance repeated his summons to prayer, “I have asked you why armed Albanians, who probably represent the Chinese Communists, should have been waiting for you. I know you will give me the most truthful answer possible. You and I, Monsieur, are professionals, and although our connections and our interests are not identical I believe you have regard for the delicacy of my position while you remain in my country.”
“Monsieur l’Inspecteur,” North solemnly declared, “you have my word of honor that I will tell you all that I possibly can; also that I will remember, at all times, that I’m the guest of a friendly nation.”
“That is good,” Potin nodded. “But before you explain, I have received news which may be of interest to you. Are you acquainted with a Monsieur Charles Gregory of the Voice of America installation?”
North’s fingertips tingled. “Yes, I am. I met him only yesterday morning in Washington. He departed for Tangier a short time before me.”
Potin’s fez inclined and his manner became grave and official. “Monsieur Gregory arrived very late last night through Paris. Very early this morning he was picked up at his apartment by a young Arab, his chauffeur, Omar Djelbi, which it seems, is a regular custom. This morning, however, Monsieur Gregory drove, which proved fortunate for him—possibly your countryman felt jumpy after his flight.”
“‘Fortunate’? In what way?”
“Shortly after his car had entered the Medina from the Rue F. D. Roosevelt it was forced to slow to negotiate a narrow, sharp turn. Two men, posted in doorways on opposite sides of the ruelle sprang out and fired pistols at Monsieur Gregory’s car just as it turned the corner.”
North groaned inwardly.
“Is it not fortunate,” Potin continued, “that Monsieur Gregory escaped injury while Omar Djelbi occupying the passenger’s seat in front was killed instantly?”
“You say the gunmen jumped out after the car made its turn?”
“So I am informed.”
“Since it was Djelbi who usually drove the assassins could have had no opportunity to study the car as it proceeded toward them so had to snap-shoot without identifying their victim.”
“Exactly, mon Colonel. Omar Djelbi became an accidental victim; the intended target was your Monsieur Gregory. Hélas, it becomes obvious does it not,” he added with a touch of bitterness, “that violence invariably accompanies your presence, mon Colonel.”
North’s impulse was to retort acidly but checked himself. He did not live by violence—in fact, it had long been his policy to avoid the dramatic, the ready killings which too many people have come to include with an Intelligence agent’s major resources.
Over many years he had used a gun but very rarely and only when all other means had failed, or when his life clearly was at stake—which was considerably more than could be said of most of his country’s enemies.
Yet he could understand Inspector Potin’s feelings. Had not one of his own countrymen been murdered before Hugh North had been in Tangier an hour?
The man from G-2 slipped on a jacket and considered. For the moment, his only close contact with the Hot Line’s operation had been spared. Count that a plus on the scoreboard, but the Reds were here and already on the job. Count that a minus—even if an unexpected one.
Now what about allies—the British would call them “bodies”—to protect the site of the Hot Line’s relay point? Well, that was a first priority problem; he’d have to set to work right now. He drew a deep breath and plunged in. “My friend,