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CHAPTER TWO

1

Veteran Intelligence Officer Hugh North traveled so light that even if the Moroccan douanier in a dingy, silver-buttoned blue uniform had decided to search the Colonel’s luggage his examination couldn’t have required more than a minute of his invaluable time.

Dawn was just breaking over Boukhalef Airport, twelve kilometers from the city of Tangier proper, when both Colonel North and his burly, Gallic-appearing taxi driver rubbed exhaust fumes from their eyes before departing in one of those “taxi-babies”—modern minicabs—which remain characteristic of Tangier.

The man from G-2 was almost as anxious to wash off flight fatigue under a shower at the Hotel El Minzah as he was to establish contact with Mr. Gregory, the Voice of America’s electronics technician and chemistry hobbyist.

“Vous-êtes Americain, Monsieur?” The driver suggested while clutching the steering wheel with bear-like paws. A cigarette waggled as it hung from his lower lip.

North nodded and played the foreign-passenger game. “Vous êtes Français, n’est-ce pas?”

The driver insisted, however, on extracting an English lesson from his passenger. “You ’ave been to Tanzheer before?”

North allowed as he had, but that had been long ago, during the days of the International Zone when Tangier, feeding on the disarray of a war-torn world, was the bountiful haven of nylon, tobacco and assorted smugglers of everything imaginable, including espionage agents, money changers and people with bank accounts they didn’t want folks at home to learn about.

Hugh was aware that all this skullduggery supposedly had come to a gradual halt since Tangier had become an integral part of the Kingdom of Morocco. He also remained aware that, nevertheless, Tangier remained one of the easiest-going ports in the world. Its residents still paid no income tax, no sales tax, no gift tax and no inheritance tax.

Rich Britons and others whose personal fortunes would have been all but wiped out by home-country income taxes were able to keep their estates fairly intact by establishing residence in this buzzing eternally picaresque North African city.

Any person possessing a valid passport—or perhaps an almost valid one—could become a legal resident simply by setting up housekeeping on this point overlooking the Strait of Gibraltar. He could also organize a corporation and not be bothered by regulations designed to protect stockholders. Therefore, for anyone inclined to dodge taxes, hoard gold or engage in other dubious ventures the City still presented opportunities unmatched elsewhere.

“Tanzheer is the same, still not the same,” the driver offered, as if reading his passenger’s thoughts. “Is different, but us Moroccans not so dumb. We have laws prohibiting smuggling and making funny beezness weeth money exchanges.” He leered over a patched shoulder. “Hélas, no more circuses or strange shows weeth acrobat sex ladies; but still we know when to look zee other way. Comprenez-vous?”

“Plus ça change—” the Colonel ventured.

“Plus c’est la meme chose. Zee touristes want strange excitements, bon. Zee government want les touristes.”

North remembered well the unique appearance of Tangier, that the centuries-old port tucked away on a bay hemmed in by rocky hills which then had been ruled, uniquely among the world’s cities, by a special Legislative Body of twenty-seven members comprised of six Moroccan Moslems, three Moroccan Jews with the rest of the seats distributed among Britain, Spain, France, Italy, Belgium, Holland and Portugal.

Neither French nor Spanish territory and only technically belonging to Morocco, it had had its affairs directed by a Committee of Control, established forty years earlier by a Convention of the Algeciras Conference. In actual charge during that period had been eight Consuls whose governments maintained missions in this supremely strategic city.

There had also been a Legislative Assembly whose members were appointed by the eight Consulates which prepared laws, but the Committee only accepted laws approved by it while blandly vetoing the rest. High-handed, perhaps, but few Tangerines seemed to mind; they enjoyed the efficiency with which their affairs had been conducted.

A truly international form of management also had been in effect; the Directeur de Police invariably was Belgian; the Directeur-Adjoint a Frenchman; the Commissaire de la Sûreté was English and the Chief Medical Officer was Spanish.

The system had worked. It discreetly administered a city that had become famous as an international headquarters for bartering—if one didn’t straightaway find what he wanted in Tangier all one had to do was ask for it—and pay.

All that had changed a decade ago when Tangier had passed directly under the control of the Kingdom of Morocco but, as the taxi driver agreed, the more things changed, the more they remained the same—more or less.

As the cab left the scrubby valley country in the brightening dawn and rattled between rows of gaunt and scabrous eucalyptus trees the big driver flicked his eyes from the rearview mirror to pick up North’s face. “You ’ad no deefeecultee with authorities at airport, Monsieur?”

“Of course not. Why?”

The driver shrugged, “Bien. Car behind been following us ever since we leave airport, is all.”

The Colonel assumed an air of indifference. “Guess he’s headed for Tangier, too. What’s so special about that?”

“Rien du tout. But never before ’ave a policier car follow me all zee way from Boukhalef to Tanzheer, is all.” He grinned into the mirror. “Is nothing, bien sûr.”

By the time the taxi had entered the city proper and made its way to the Socco Grande the driver had asked three times whether Hugh wanted him to shake the policier car. The G-2 man scoffed at the suggestion each time noticing that the driver was a little too eager to make a dash himself. Probably a well-earned case of guilty conscience over some misdemeanor of his own North ruminated.

Nevertheless, he felt a twinge of disquiet over this tailing, which by now was obvious. He did not often ask for active police cooperation on his assignments but he did appreciate freedom from interference from the same source.

Never one to fret unnecessarily he dropped the subject from his mind momentarily and enjoyed the familiar sights of the Socco Grande, or Great Souk, while his nostrils took in familiar if pungent aromas. Little had changed in the great Arab market place; its streets remained just as narrow, dirty and twisting as he remembered them, and a sea of white-robed humanity parted slowly and seemingly with indifference to let the taxi pass.

He recognized coal-black Moors, hawk-faced Berbers down from the mountains with their firewood or cactus-laden donkeys, their goatskins and baskets of produce. These mountaineers squatted in circles listening to storytellers and flute players and watching magicians perform age-old artful deceptions. The minty scent of Arab tea mingled with the vivid odors of spices, camels, manure, and the fumes of rank tobacco. Donkeys brayed and their heehaws clashed with the voices of barter in a mighty cacophony.

North took advantage of a lurching turn to glance swiftly back and at once spotted the police car behind. That peek was all he needed to be transported back a dozen years for beside the driver of an antique Mercedes sat an unmistakably familiar shape—that of Inspecteur Ibrahim René Potin, of le Bureau de la Sûreté . The glance also told Hugh that the wiry little man, caught in a burst of sunlight, was wearing his inevitable chéchia or dull-red fez, as usual tilted forward onto his forehead in the manner of a sodden sailor.

But there never had been anything dull or sodden about Ibrahim René Potin, as North recalled grimly. The Inspector had, in fact, given North a hard time during the man from G-2’s last visit to Tangier when he’d been preceded to Tangier by a slickly convincing double who’d been accepted as the Colonel himself.

No sooner had the real North set foot in Tangier than he’d been clapped into the calabozo at Maltabata Prison as an imposter. True, Inspector Potin finally had become convinced that he was being duped and had cooperated gamely in helping to bring the case to a satisfactory conclusion. Nevertheless Potin could prove troublesome if he chose to go by the book.

As the taxi suddenly reached an opening and spurted away from the Socco Grande into the Rue de la Liberté and the sharply contrasting modern city, North quickly made a résumé of the crisis that first had led him into this exotic corner of Africa. Here, in this blend of the Old World and the New, so many thousands of miles from the Pentagon and its National Military Command Center it was difficult to credit that he’d been conferring only a few hours earlier on a subject of stark, space-age immediacy. He would have to remain in the dark about the progress of events at home—and in outer space, for that matter—unless he received a message canceling his mission before tomorrow’s midnight deadline. This would mean the Russians willingly, or not, had managed to bring their double-crossing package of potential death out of orbit. Barring such an order he must move as quickly as possible to make sure that American technicians would receive the proper unlocking information and with no Chinese inspired interference.

The man from G-2 plotted moves he felt should have first priority. Gregory would have to be contacted immediately and unobtrusively and so learn the exact location of that Hot Line relay point reportedly situated high in Tangier’s seamy Casbah; and then make sure its functions remained secure from interference. The Lord only knew how many ways there might be to interfere with so complicated a device. How effective would radio jamming be? How would one locate a jamming station? Charles Gregory had better know his stuff.

For all his seeming indifference the presence of that policier car in his wake worried Hugh North. If Inspector Potin knew he was here even before his plane had landed how many others might share such knowledge? It would be only wise to assume that several very wrong people must know. But who were the wrong people in this case? Grimly, he conjectured that he might be forced to employ a tried-and-true method of finding that out—which was to set himself out as bait and find out who was stalking him—provided he lived long enough.

His taxi crossed the Avenue d’Angleterre and recognition returned as it chugged up the steep grade of the Rue du Statut. The driver pulled up screechingly before El Minzah and Hugh took in the huge Moorish type edifice shimmering in the heat like a regal white elephant.

Two huge Moors in yellow-and-blue uniforms at the hotel’s heavy iron gates swung them open as effortlessly as if they had been balsam branches. The cab lurched up the driveway and halted. North climbed out into the pleasantly cool air, tipped the big driver a wad of dirhams, then surrendered his single, light bag to a pantalooned chasseur who led the way into the hotel’s ornate lobby.

Hugh found suspiciously little trouble in securing a room overlooking the El Minzah’s famous patio—on which the first tourists had yet to appear. He was about to strip and shower when, not quite unexpectedly, footsteps sounded on the corridors carpeting and his suite’s door was smartly rapped upon.

Expectedly, when North opened the door he found standing before it Police Inspector Potin, a small, wiry man with the complexion of an old walnut shell. His deep forehead was half eclipsed by his untidy crimson fez and his brown skin was as wrinkled as the limp seersucker suit covering his slight frame.

“Mon Colonel,” intoned Inspector Ibrahim René Potin, representative of le Bureau de la Sûreté , “how pleasant after all these years to renew our acquaintance.” He grinned, sidled into the room to perch on the edge of a settee.

“It’s always good to see you, Monsieur l’Inspecteur,” North replied cheerfully. “I am much honored that so high an officer as you should take time from his duties in order to welcome me.”

“You are too kind, mon Colonel,” Potin replied, his grin hanging like the final words of a funeral sermon. “In fact, this is no reception. One only discharges his duties.”

“How do you mean?”

“Mon ami, this is what is termed as a visit of an official nature.”

2

Resignedly North shook his head remembering that stubbornness was one of Ibrahim Potin’s most distinguishing characteristics. He had to make sure that the Tangier police, if not recruited actively to his side, at least were going to remain neutral for the duration of this assignment. Gingerly he prepared to tread upon the eggshells of discreet conversation. How much dared he confide in this veteran professional who had served on the gendarmeries of France and Spain before rising to his present important position in Tangier?

“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 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 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, 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 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.