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, neither of us has time to waste so I’ll not beat around the bush. There’s no doubt that certain Albanians have come here on behalf of the Chinese Communists. Not a very clever cover, but probably the best they could arrange on short notice.
“For your benefit, Inspector, something diabolical is taking place right now 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
