“I can tell you where part of them are going,” I said. “The black market in human organs.”
“Yes.” Felix nodded. “Doubtless that nefarious trade accounts for some of the discrepancy, particularly in burial figures. But suppose someone were building up a secret force—and outfitting it with an enemy version of PAPA?”
“You can’t hide men in those numbers,” I said. “The logistical problems alone—”
“I know; but the men are going somewhere. I want to know where.”
“I’m afraid I’m beginning to get the picture.”
“You still hold your reserve Army commission, I take it?”
I nodded.
“Good. I have your recall orders in my briefcase. They’re perfectly legal; I made them myself. You’re a Defense Department observer. I’ve arranged for you to occupy one of our special rooms at the King Faisal.”
“I thought CBI assignments were on a voluntary basis.”
Felix raised the white eyebrows. “You are volunteering, aren’t you?”
“I suppose the fact that I’m here answers that one.”
“Of course. Now, there’s a battle scheduled soon. I haven’t been able to find out just when, but I did procure copies of the Utter Top Secret battle plans for both the Free Algerians and the Imperial Moroccans. Death penalty for possession, of course.” He took a newspaper from an inner pocket—a folded copy of the Belfast Messenger—and dropped it on the table.
“What am I supposed to do, stand around on a hilltop with a pair of binoculars and watch where the men disappear to?”
Felix smiled. “I have a few gadgets for you to field-test. Find out when that battle’s scheduled, and I think you’ll be able to take a look at just about whatever you want to.”
I took the newspaper. “So I’m back in uniform. I suppose I’d better check in with the UN Monitor General.”
“Send a card over; perhaps it’ll pass unnoticed in the daily mail. I want you to hold your official contacts to the minimum. Stay clear of the Embassy, the police, and the press corps. Your other instructions are within your orders. You’ll find a tight-band communicator with the rest of the equipment; keep in touch with me, John—but don’t try to contact me at the villa unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“You’ve made some pretty elaborate arrangements. This sort of thing costs money. Who’s footing the bill?”
“Let’s just say it comes from a special fund.” He finished his drink. “Go on over to the Faisal, get settled, and take a look around. I’ll expect a preliminary report in a day or two.” He stood, replaced the tabukuk on the table, gave me a quick handshake, and was gone.
I picked up the newspaper, leafed through it. There were sheets of flimsy paper folded between the pages. I caught a glimpse of tiny print, terrain diagrams, the words Utter Top Secret. I folded it and took the last swallow of my gin. I dropped a five cee note on the table, tucked the paper under my arm, and tried to look casual as I went outside to hail a cab.
* * *
The King Faisal Hotel was a two-hundred-story specimen of government-financed construction straight out of Hollywood and the Arabian Nights, turned slummy by five years of North African sun and no maintenance. I paid off my helicab in the shade of thirty yards of cracked glass marquee, managed my own bags through a mixed crowd of shiny-suited officials, Algerian and Moroccan officers mingling quite peaceably outside business hours, beggars in colorful costumes featuring wrist-watches and tennis shoes, Arab guides in traditional white lapel-suits, hot-looking tourists, journalists with coffee hangovers, and stolid-faced UN police in short pants with hardwood billies.
I went up the wide steps, past potted yuccas and a uniformed Berber doorman with a bad eye that bored into me like a hot poker. I crossed the lobby to the registration console, slapped the counter, and announced my arrival in tones calculated to dispel any appearance of shyness. A splay-footed Congolese bellhop sidled up to listen as I produced the teleprinted confirmation of my reservation that Felix had supplied. I asked for and received verbal assurances that the water was potable, and was directed to a suite on the forty-fifth level.
It was a pleasant enough apartment. There was a spacious sitting room with old-fashioned aluminum and teak-veneer furniture, a polished composition floor, and framed post-neo-surrealist paintings. Adjoining was a carpeted bedroom with a four-foot tri-D screen, a wide closet, and a window opening onto a view of irregular brickwork across a twelve-foot alley.
Behind the flowered wallpaper, there were other facilities, unknown to the present management—installed, during construction, at the insistence of one of the more secret agencies of the now defunct South African Federation. According to the long, chatty briefing papers Felix had tucked into the newspaper, the CBI had inherited the installation from a former tenant, in return for a set of unregistered fingerprints and a getaway stake.
I looked the room over and spotted a spy-eye in a drawer knob, a microphone among the artificial flowers—standard equipment at the Faisal, no doubt. I would have to make my first order of business a thorough examination of everything . . . as soon as I had a cold shower. I turned to the bedroom—and stopped dead. My right hand made a tentative move toward my gun, and from the shadows a soft voice said, “Uh-uh.”
* * *
He came through the sitting-room door with a gun in his hand—a middle-sized, neatly dressed man with wispy hair receding from a freckled forehead. He had quick eyes. An inch of clean, white cuff showed at his wrist.
“I was supposed to be gone when you got here,” he said quietly. “The boys downstairs slipped up.”
“Sure,” I said. “They slipped up—and I’m dancing tonight with the Ballet Russe.” I looked at the gun. “What was I supposed to do, fall down and cry when I saw that?”
His ears turned pink. “It was merely a precaution in the event you panicked.” He pocketed the gun, flipped back a lapel to flash some sort of badge. “UN Police,” he stated, as though I had asked. “Regulations require all military observers to report to UN Headquarters on arrival—as I’m sure you’re aware. You’re to come along with me, Mr. Bravais. General Julius wants to interview you personally.”
“When did the UN start hiring gun-punks?”
He looked angry. “You can’t make me mad, Mr. Bravais.”
“I could try. You don’t shoot anybody without orders from the boss, do you?” I advanced on him, giving him the kind of grin tri-D villains practice in front of a mirror.
“I could make an exception.” His nostrils were white.
“Oh, to hell with it,” I said in a careless tone, relaxing. “How about a drink?”
He hesitated. “All right, Mr. Bravais. You understand that there’s . . . nothing personal in this.”
“I guess you’ve got a job to do like the rest of us. You’re pretty good with that holding-the-breath bit.” I grinned happily, demonstrating that I was satisfied, now that I’d shown the opposition that I was nobody’s dummy.
“I planned to see the General this afternoon anyway,” I said. We had a short one and left together.
* * *
Brigadier General Julius was a vigorous-looking, square-jawed, blond-crew-cut type, with an almost unbelievably smooth complexion that might have earned him the nickname Baby-face, if two fierce, coal-black eyes hadn’t dominated the composition. The gray UN uniform he wore had been tailored by an artist, and the three rows of service ribbons on his chest indicated that, in spite of his youthful appearance, he had been at the scene of most of the shooting wars of the past twenty years.
He was wearing the old-fashioned Sam Browne belt and engineers’ boots that the UN High command liked to affect, but the hand-gun protruding from the holster at his hip wasn’t a pearl-handled six-shooter; it was the latest thing in pulse-energy weapons, stark and ugly, meant for murder, not show.
“American Defense Department, eh?” He glanced at the copy of the orders Felix had managed for me, laid them to one side on the bare, highly polished desk-top. He looked me over thoughtfully. It was quiet in the office. Faraway, a voice spoke sing-song Arabic. A fly buzzed at a window.
“I just arrived this afternoon, General,” I offered. “I took a room at the King Faisal—”
“Room 4567,” Julius said sharply. “You were aboard BWA flight 87. I’m aware of your movements, Mr. Bravais. As UN Monitor General, I make it my business to keep informed of everything that occurs within my command.” He had a flat, unpleasant voice, at variance with the wholesome, nationally-advertised look of him.
I nodded, looking impressed. I thought about the death penalty attached to the papers in my pocket, and wondered how much more he knew. “By golly, that’s remarkable, General.”
He narrowed his eyes. I had to be careful not to overdo the act, I reminded myself.