The Deadly Orbit Mission. Van Wyck Mason

which indirectly threatens the safety of all nations, but especially mine and one other, vitally. It is a matter of utmost seriousness and I assure you I wish I could tell you more at this moment because this threat is the most serious danger which has yet appeared to torment this World.”

      Inspector Potin allowed the lids of his yellowish eyes to droop in contemplation. He chose his words carefully. “Is this danger something my government is likely to hear about, directly or indirectly, before long?”

      “Not indirectly, mon ami. But should your government find out about it directly there’ll be very few people left to note that fact.”

      Potin’s thin, hawk-like features became outlined against the light of the window while he pondered. He turned and searched Hugh North’s wide-set, gray-blue eyes. At length he sighed and shrugged lightly. “For the moment, because I know you as a man of honor, I see no need to insist on learning further details.”

      Hugh breathed easier and, in a rare, impulsive gesture, shook the Inspector’s hand, saying simply, “For this I thank you, mon ami, from the bottom of my heart.”

      “Merci, mine is a small, poor country making its way in a vast and powerful world,” Potin resumed. “We know that there are many movements over which we can exercise little or no control so we must choose our way most carefully among nations. We cannot afford to become a no-man’s land. I will merely say this. I have deep personal faith in you, Monsieur le Colonel North. And so, I am certain, does the Commissaire de Police, my superior.

      “I am bound by duty to discuss with him at least the outlines of what you have told me. I believe he will endorse my position, which is this: if this affair in which you are involved reaches a point at which public explanations must be devised and offered, your presence in Tangier will then have to come to our attention officially and we will be forced to consider this matter in greater detail. This arrangement will take care of the necessities on our side and should also permit you sufficient latitude in which to, ehhh, carry on your business.”

      North smiled warmly. “I am certain you will suffer no regrets, Inspecteur Potin, and neither will Monsieur le Commissaire. Considering this understanding, I have but one request to make of—”

      Potin held up his hand firmly. “Un moment, Monsieur.” He removed the dull-red chéchia from his head and bowed. “I have just taken myself off duty,” he grinned, “since I am weak with the hunger of Ramadan.”

      He revealed a set of teeth which might make a gold hunter suspect he’d discovered a mother lode. “How can I help you? But yes, go see Sam Stokey who operates the Ile de Joie—a nightclub of questionable reputation: but so far he has caused us no trouble in Tangier. In fact, Monsieur Stokey has been of assistance to us on a few occasions because he is familiar with the underworld of Tangier.”

      North thanked him then courteously ushered the Inspector out, after which he immediately telephoned the United States Embassy. No. No cables were being held for him; that there were no signals of any kind from anyone would seem to argue that, thus far, the Russians still hadn’t discovered a way of controlling their runaway hydrogen satellite’s orbit.

      Hugh North walked down into the Boulevard Pasteur and considered the latest oddity of this affair. The name Potin had given him belonged to a man who, as the Inspector readily had admitted, would be welcomed by jail-house wardens in any number of countries. “Sam Stokey?” Might he be an American? Or English or Irish or Canadian?

      Maybe he’d be of assistance on this particular occasion? North hoped so. In this kind of assignment one took his friends as he found them, especially in Morocco.