over the possibility of trouble. No Sûreté man—no policeman anywhere for that matter—wanted unpleasant happenings in his bailiwick without being somewhat in the know—which precipitated problems with superiors.
By the same token Potin was equally aware that whenever Colonel North appeared on the premises the United States Government’s interests must be deeply involved; also very probably the affairs of certain other governments. But which other governments? Hélas! that this no longer was an International Zone! Tangier, as a part of the Kingdom of Morocco, needed to keep up the appearance of respectability and neutrality before the world. It wouldn’t do to allow American agents to dash about, carte blanche, as if this country were their own.
North lit a panatela and stared through the window at porters on the terrace still cleaning up the remains of last night’s revelry. Um. René Ibrahim Potin was no stuffed shirt. He knew well enough that this planet had become so precarious a place in which to exist that the Free World had been forced to take serious and costly actions in defense of their own and of other free peoples.
But—Hugh watched his cigar’s smoke drift out into the clear air—how well had Potin resisted those enormously persuasive barrages of Red propaganda which for a long while had been saturating all Africa? Was he still trustworthy? The answer to that question would determine how much and in what way he might be cued in on the Colonel’s mission. Obviously Potin never could be told the full truth about the mass-death dealing satellite now orbiting the Earth. Involuntarily, Hugh glanced upward. Maybe Potin might be told just enough to inspire cooperation?
When a knock sounded at the door Inspector Potin immediately vanished into the bathroom. Good sign, Hugh felt: he sees no need to advertise that an American is involved with the police.
When the waiter left, Potin reappeared, mechanically adjusting his fez over his left eyebrow as he resumed his place on the settee.
North measured his words with the caution of a chemist. “Inspector, may I ask you a straight question?”
Potin bowed slightly. “Ã votre service.”
“How did you know I would be on that plane this morning?
“Frankly, won Colonel, I did not know.”
North couldn’t buy that—not without some explanation. “Was it just coincidence, mon ami, that an officer of your elevated rank should be posted at Boukhalef Airport at dawn?” He finished off the last croissant, washed it down with milky coffee.
“No, Monsieur, it was no coincidence. But as you observe, I am not ordinarily found at the airport at dawn. At such an hour I can usually be reached at my home. If not there, then at my mistress’s apartment.”
The Colonel wondered suddenly whether Potin intended to be difficult or only cute.
“Alors, Monsieur l’Inspecteur, would you mind telling me really why you met my plane, and why you sat on my tail all the way to El Minzah?” He smiled to remove any trace of demand from his question.
“Not at all, now that you ask in so many words.” Potin sighed, spread pink palms outward. “I will be nothing if not direct.”
That’s a laugh, Hugh thought.
“I went to Boukhalef because I received a telephone call at my mistress’s apartment. It was reported that a young policeman at the airport had been trying urgently to reach me. Ah, the thankless life of a police inspector!”
Grant me patience, North prayed. This is the pace at which conversation is conducted in North Africa; like good whisky it’s one of those things which can’t be hurried.
“Despite my mistress’s protests, I contacted the young policier and found him an alert observer of his surroundings. He had noticed two types lounging about Boukhalef who did not appear to belong there.”
North struck a match, studied its glow as if it were the Eternal Flame; waited.
“This young policier knew that no departures were scheduled until noon so the fact that these voyoux had no luggage did not at once excite his suspicions.”
The man from G-2 took a chance on speeding the conversation—he must contact Gregory without loss of time. “It was something else, then? Something these types said or did?”
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
