The Deadly Orbit Mission. Van Wyck Mason
“Why don’t we drink café-au-lait?” he suggested as an opening.
“Again you are kind, mon Colonel,” Potin sighed. “But the sun has risen.”
“Aahh!” North exclaimed. He had been so preoccupied that he’d forgotten all about Ramadan the “dry month” for followers of Islam when abstinence from food, drink, tobacco, perfume, and even sexual contact or stimulation was the rule between sunrise and sunset.
“Only the very old, expecting women, travelers on long journeys, and laborers are excluded from abstinence,” Inspector Potin reminded.
“Of course.”
“I definitely cannot join you, Colonel North, since I do not consider myself very old and,” a discolored tooth glinted, “I am certainly not expecting. Also, I am no manual laborer—just a police officer trying to, ehh, insure the continuation of peace and neutrality in Tangier.”
Hugh ignored the thrust to telephone for coffee and rolls.
Inspector Potin now was at his most inscrutable; he had decorated his face with that sleeping-fox look which reminded the Colonel of their last encounter. North doubted that Potin ever really slept very long at one time.
“And just as certainly,” he droned on, “I am not preparing to take any lengthy journey—not while your esteemed self is in Tangier, mon Colonel.”
That had an ominous ring. In his time Hugh had found many reasons to criticize the State Department’s expert mincers of words, but right now he’d have appreciated having one of these smooth talkers present at this moment. He raised one eyebrow, merely said, “Oh?” and felt somewhat foolish.
Inspector Potin seemed still to be talking in his sleep. “How could I contemplate leaving Tangier with you here, mon Colonel? We have a very peaceful time here ordinarily. Not too much trouble. Once in a while there is too much marijuana in the cigarettes so we are forced to correct the situation.
“Occasionally a certain tourist becomes overly excited in a House of Discretion and requires—er—calming. And—not very often, I am happy to report—one of our own people becomes too greedy for some careless tourist’s dollars so we must show him the error of his ways. A shooting now and then, a burglary, a petty misdemeanor.” Potin unlocked so wide a grin that North knew what to expect.
“But whenever you join us, mon Colonel, such desirable tranquility disappears. Je me souviens that the last time you were here you spent all of seven days, during which—well, unusual excitement took place.”
The Inspector studied grimy fingernails while the wail of a muezzin calling the Faithful to prayer filtered through the windows. Potin’s voice resumed without alteration in tone or intensity.
“During that one week, mon Colonel, if I recall correctly there were two murders, one violent ‘accidental’ death and a suicide in Tangier.” The heavy eyelids drooped but from under them he watched North carefully.
The man from G-2 shrugged and gazed at louvered doors leading to a terrace overlooking the patio. “If you remember, Monsieur I’Inspecteur, no one ever accused me of complicity in any of those, well, unfortunate events. In fact, if you will recall, you were at my side when the last death occurred and your bullets accompanied mine.” He summoned a convincingly cordial smile.
“But that is not the point, mon Colonel. What I am trying to convey in my deplorably inadequate fashion is that where you go, there is—well, turbulence—and so I am prepared to stick to you like almonds to a honey cake. I trust you will not find my company annoying?”
North regarded the dingy little man more carefully. He had to read Potin’s motivation carefully there was no need to hurry his answer—it being clear now that he was expected to think this out and answer in as simple and direct terms as possible.
On weighing possibilities he decided that, on one side, Monsieur l’Inspecteur undoubtedly was sincere in fretting 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