Hazard (37 page)

Altogether it was something like a rebus that she had to interpret. She wasn't sure of a couple of things but used common sense to fill in and construct a continuity.

ALERT ISRAELI INTELLIGENCE

PINCHON ARAB EXTREMISTS PLAN

VX
–10
ATTACK GAS NOW CAIRO

TRANSPORT SOMEWHERE SUNDAY

ISRAEL TARGETS UNKNOWN

She printed it out neatly on a sheet of Auberge stationery, folded it once and took it downstairs. She found Monsieur Feldman alone at the reception desk. She said nothing as she handed the piece of paper to him. He read it without reaction.

“Should this mean something to me?” he asked politely.

Keven remembered Hazard's opinion about Monsieur Feldman's affiliation with Mosad. She had to depend on that now. “Doesn't it?” she said.

He asked where she'd gotten this strange piece of information.

“From a travel agency in Cairo,” she said, surprised at how she sounded, very much like a regular spy. “I assume you can make the necessary arrangements.”

Monsieur Feldman scanned the message again. After a thoughtful moment he looked up and told her yes.

Keven went back to her suite. For a while she sat there in the dark gazing out, her thoughts prayerlike, asking for her man's safety. Then, deciding she possibly hadn't done all she could, she placed a trans-Atlantic call to Kersh.

As soon as he finished talking with Keven, Kersh called
DIA
district headquarters. A secretary told him that Mr. Rich-land wasn't in and wasn't expected until next week.

Was there any way of reaching Mr. Richland?

No.

It was very important.

Mr. Richland's orders were he was not to be disturbed except in case of extreme emergency. Was this an emergency?

Yes, but never mind, Kersh told her.

He called Washington, the Pentagon.

After several misconnections and long waits he finally got through to Mumford.

Mumford listened for only a few moments before interrupting. “I'm in an important conference,” he said. “If what you need is more than a yes or no you'll have to call back.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“This can't wait. It's vital that-”

“Call back,” Mumford said.

“Is there anyone else I can talk to?”

“I think not.”

“I'm coming down,” Kersh told him.

It was then almost five o'clock. Washington would be gone for the day by the time he got there. He took the shuttle at seven the next morning. He was at the Pentagon at nine. He got in to see Mumford at ten.

Mumford had a different office now, slightly larger than the previous one but no less sterile. Same cheap gold-fringed Stars and Stripes, same framed photographic line-up of Chiefs on a wall, except for Nixon, a new one of Nixon. Mumford himself had changed. He'd had his suits taken in and then gained back all the pounds he'd lost, so that now he couldn't even button up. He didn't stand for a handshake when Kersh entered because he had his trousers undone at the waist.

Kersh got right to the point by showing Mumford a typed out copy of Hazard's message. Mumford mumbled the words aloud as he read them. “Where'd you get this?”

Kersh told him.

“You put a man in there?”

“He's there,” Kersh said.

“Who? What's his name?”

“Hazard.”

Mumford cleared his throat. “One of your telepathy spooks, I suppose.”

Kersh resented that.

Mumford explained that spooks was the normal term for agents. He asked Kersh, “Is that how he got the message out, using telepathy?”

“Yes.”

Mumford seemed a bit relieved. A secretary came then with a cup of coffee, a heavy white
G
.
I
. cup. Asked if he wanted some, Kersh impatiently declined. Mumford took a swallow and placed the cup down on the message.

“You don't believe it,” said Kersh.

“Anything's possible. You know, of course, you were out of line sending someone in without first getting an okay. Way out of line.”

“I didn't come down here to be chided like a schoolboy.”

“Just so you know.”

“What I want to know is what you're going to do about that.” Kersh indicated the message.

“Our Plans Section will get right on it. They handle this sort of thing.”

That sounded much too routine for Kersh. “What will they do?”

“Well, seeing it's Middle East, chances are this won't be news to them. For obvious reasons we're tight in on that picture. Anyway, leave it to me.”

“I'm concerned about Hazard.”

“Naturally. He's in over his head. But don't worry, we'll handle it.”

As a final show of reassurance Mumford took a pair of rubber stamps from his middle desk drawer. He inked and slammed them on the paper above the message. One was R
OUTE TO PLANS SECTION
. The other was
PRIORITY ATTENTION
.

Kersh thanked him.

After Kersh's departure, Mumford initialed a thick sheaf of intra-agency memos that his secretary brought in. Then he picked up the Hazard message and went over it again. He reminded himself that just the week before a white directive had come from the Chief regarding
Information Overkill.
Too much information was being collected by the various intelligence agencies, most of it was redundant and/or trivial. With all the new surveillance gadgets at work, such as the Project 674 Satellite and high-spying
SR
–71 jets, the intelligence community was being inundated with perishable, unsifted information. The Chief wanted less raw stuff and more analysis.

Mumford considered routing the Hazard message to the Information Sifting Unit for routine evaluation, but then …

… well, for one thing, vx–10. That had to be an error. There was just no way anyone could get vx–10.

Also, there was this telepathy angle. What a crock.

Mumford decided it wasn't even worth feeding into the Possibility Computer. He crumpled the message and dropped it into his wastebasket.

The morning of that same Friday Hazard was up early.

He made out a list of the things he'd need. Then he went down to the lobby. At the desk he changed fifty British pounds into five hundred twenty-six Egyptian pounds and arranged for a car with an English-speaking driver.

A half hour later he was in downtown-Cairo traffic—a crush of nervous taxis, impudent, overloaded buses, and pedestrians daring to dodge across for their lives.

At Ezbekyia Garden near the Opera House the driver pulled over. He gave directions to Hazard and said he would wait there,
effendi.

Up a lane too narrow for cars, then right and left brought Hazard to a section of old Cairo known as El Muski. All along there were stalls and small shops, some no more than yard-wide slits between buildings. Barrow and cart vendors by the hundreds, selling all sorts of second-hand things. Motors, plumbing fixtures, electric fans, odd wheels, cooking pots, shoes, batteries. Hazard thought that even the food being sold there smelled second hand. By no means was it a fashionable bazaar, nor could it be called quaint or colorful. It was dirty, teeming and stinky.

In Shari' el Khiyamiya, Hazard came onto a stall that looked promising. It displayed a great variety of junk, all of it used, most of it stolen. The moment Hazard paused the fat stall-keeper came scurrying over. What had caught Hazard's interest was a strip of metal hanging high up. The stallkeeper got it down, handling it as though it were precious.

Hazard recognized it immediately as a piece of magnesium alloy—an extrusion about five feet long, six inches wide, with slightly raised edges like a shallow trough. It weighed only a few ounces. Despite its thin gauge it was stronger than steel, had no give to at all. Hazard noticed Russian lettering stamped into the metal at one corner and guessed that the piece was intended for the fuselage of a jet fighter or bomber.

It would do perfectly, Hazard decided. He asked the stall-keeper how much.

The stallkeeper told him, “
Etnen guineh.
”

Hazard didn't understand. The stallkeeper showed him with two fingers. Two Egyptian pounds. Hazard agreed. The stall-keeper glanced upward to Allah and shook his head in disdain of anyone who didn't care enough to bargain. He would have settled for half that, even less.

Now Hazard held up his fingers. He wanted six of these magnesium extrusions.

The stallkeeper understood and was momentarily at a loss. He had only this one. But he knew where he could get others. He rushed off and in a few minutes came back with five more of the same. Not precisely the same. Three were about a half inch less in width.

All the better, Hazard thought.

The stallkeeper bound the extrusions together with cheap string, and Hazard found his way back to the car.

Next stop was Hannoux, the large department store on Shari El-Tahrir, where Hazard bought:

a long black caftan robe

a black shirt

a pair of tennis sneakers

6 ordinary hot-water bottles

4 crystal vases packed safely in polystyrene

a ladies' compact containing black mascara

From there he was taken to a hardware store in the Bulaq district for:

2 empty gallon cans

100 feet of quarter-inch nylon line

15 bolts and nuts

an electric drill

a set of metal-working bits

a galvanized-tin funnel

several jig-saw blades

a can of flat black paint

a paint brush

a screwdriver

a pair of pliers

a toilet plunger

They then went to a used-car lot on the road to Alexandria, where Hazard bought a 1956 British-made Willys enclosed Jeep with four-wheel drive and special traction tires for desert travel. Hazard took it for a short test drive, and, although considerable black smoke came from its exhaust which meant it was an oil eater—it ran pretty well for a seventeen-year-old. Anyway, it should still be good for a sprint.

He paid the dealer six hundred dollars, drove the Jeep away and followed the hired car back to Mena House.

A hotel boy came out and carried Hazard's purchases up to the suite. All except the empty cans. Hazard took those to a gasoline station about a half mile down Shari Al Haram. He had the Jeep lubed, gassed, and its oil changed. He also filled the pair of gallon cans with gasoline.

When he got back to the hotel he took the cans up with him. The moment he entered the suite he noticed something new. In his absence the hotel had installed a television set. There was a note begging pardon for the inconvenience Hazard had presumably suffered until now without a
TV
.

It was quarter after five. He had a lot of work to do and was anxious to get at it. However his stomach was empty and complaining. He'd eaten nothing all day. Instead of ordering from room service he went down to the hotel restaurant for a thick steak and a double order of scrambled eggs. Steak and eggs, the traditional fare of boxers before big fights.

After the meal he stopped in at the gift shop off the lobby to buy a map of Egypt and a Zippo-type cigarette lighter that had the face of the Sphinx crudely painted on it. The woman behind the counter fueled the lighter for him.

Back up to the suite.

Before starting he got organized, laid everything out on the floor. He selected the proper-sized bit and locked it into the electric drill. Using the arms of a chair for support, he measured, marked, and drilled three holes, left, right, and center, a half inch from both ends of each of the six magnesium extrusions. He inserted the bolts to make sure they fit.

Next, he unpacked the vases. Placing them to one side, he removed the polystyrene from the cartons and took the chunks of that white, light stuff into the bathroom. Also the funnel, the hot-water bottles, the gasoline, and the toilet plunger. He kneeled down beside the bathtub and closed the drain.

First the polystyrene. He tore it into tiny shreds that he tossed into the tub. It covered the bottom of the tub with a four-inch layer. Then he poured in the gasoline. He used the toilet plunger to mash and stir until the mixture was a sticky viscous substance. Over the tub as he was, the fumes got to him, made him a little dizzy. He had to leave the bathroom for a short breather.

Getting back to it, he inserted the funnel into the neck of one of the hot-water bottles. With a hotel water glass he transferred some of the substance from the tub to the bottle. When the bottle was plumped out full he screwed its cap in good and tight. They were common red-rubber hot-water bottles with a little loop at the bottom for hanging up. He filled all six of the bottles and still had some of the substance left over. He drained the tub and rinsed it, as well as the plunger and the funnel and the glass. An oily film stayed on everything, but he hadn't made too much of a mess.

Bathtub napalm.

He thanked his memory for the formula that he'd seen in one of those
CBW
articles.

It was now ten to eight.

Plenty of time.

He placed each of the magnesium extrusions diagonally upright against the bathroom wall. He painted their bottom surfaces and outer edges black. He also painted the sneakers. It was a fast-drying paint—dull, flat black. Keeping things neat he put the lid on the paint can and discarded it and the brush in the wastebasket.

It was getting dusky outside. He switched on the bed lamp and took a look at the map. He saw that the entire area west and northwest of the Pyramids was, as he'd thought, nothing but desert—the Sahara. His eyes drew a line directly northwest to the Mediterranean and hit on the coastal village of Sidi Abdel Rahman. Most of the coast along there was uninhabited. Hazard mentally
x
'd a spot ten miles east of Rahman. The next nearest place, he noticed, was El Alamein, the famous World War II battle site.

At nine o'clock he sent to Keven. Telling her once more to stand by for messages on the quarter hour. Again he sent only four words at a time. He kept the total message to twelve words so it required only three transmissions.