Betrayal in the Casbah

  Betrayal in the Casbah

  by Ted Kissel

  © Copyright 2022 Ted Kissel

  ISBN 978-1-64663-566-5

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters are both actual and fictitious. With the exception of verified historical events and persons, all incidents, descriptions, dialogue and opinions expressed are the products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Review Copy: This is an advanced printing subject to corrections and revisions.

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  1

  May 2000, Algiers

  Mitch never enjoyed attending the diplomatic receptions and dinners night after night. The fake smiles. The air kisses. The small talk. And of course, the lavishly decorated embassies. It all felt like a pile of artificialities among people whom, in the real world, he wouldn’t give the time of day. He had been a defense attaché for almost three years, following a career as a fighter pilot. Transitioning from that high-stress, in-your-face, no-bullshit environment to this courtly, finger-food, double-talk world was difficult. But he played the role, hiding his dissatisfaction behind smiles and handshakes.

  Ambassadors and senior members of the State Department had called him an outstanding diplomat. He protested, but they recommended to the secretary of defense that he be promoted to brigadier general. He didn’t want the promotion. Becoming a general officer would lock him into this diplomatic prison for another five years. He couldn’t see his life going down that avenue. He shuddered at the thought of struggling, on a daily basis, to be a combination of James Bond, Emily Post, Julia Child, and Walter Cronkite. Even if he pulled that off, his liver would never survive the nightly baths of alcohol.

  Nevertheless, one warm spring evening in 2000, he left his office at the US Embassy in Algiers and rendezvoused with the American ambassador outside the building.

  “Good evening, Mr. Ambassador. How has your day been?”

  “Fine, Colonel Ross, except for this reception we’re heading to,” the ambassador replied, shaking his hand. “I don’t dislike the Hungarian ambassador, but his wife . . . She’s such a pain in the ass. Always asking questions about Dallas and what to see when she visits this summer. Hell, I’ve never been to Dallas.”

  Mitch wasn’t sure how to respond, so he just agreed with the typical “Is that right, Mr. Ambassador?”

  The ambassador’s massive black Cadillac pulled up. Mitch climbed in, following his years of protocol training and taking the secondary VIP position behind the driver. Four security “gorillas” piled into a vehicle that looked more like an armored car than a Ford Crown Vic. With all their guns, radios, and body weight, he was in awe that their vehicle could even move.

  The two vehicles flew through the narrow streets of Algiers, the ambassador’s driver sticking close to the security vehicle’s back bumper. Mitch could never relax in these situations, often nervous that a cataclysmic pileup between the two vehicles would kill him rather than a terrorist’s bullet. He sat back and tried to keep cool, but he was thankful when they neared the gates of the Hungarian embassy and the waiting reception line.

  Mitch quickly adjusted his uniform and made sure that the badges and ribbons had not been dislodged. Then he ran his hands through his hair and checked his shoes for scuffs.

  “Oh God, Colonel,” the ambassador groaned. “There she is, waiting for me in the reception line. Just follow me, and when she begins to talk, try to distract her by saying something nice about her dress. That’ll give me a window to find the drinks—I need a stiff one to get through this evening!”

  Mitch glanced at the other man when the vehicle doors opened. “Don’t forget our plan,” the ambassador whispered as they climbed out.

  As predicted, the Hungarian ambassador’s wife was not shy with her questions. When she asked if Dallas had great shopping, Mitch felt a sharp pain as the desperate ambassador stepped on his foot.

  Mitch examined her, trying to think up a compliment. Actually, her dress was quite nice. Its spaghetti straps lightly touched her shoulders, while the neckline gently exposed the cleavage of her well-proportioned breasts. She looked lovely. A sharp elbow from the ambassador snapped Mitch out of his trance.

  “Ahhh, Mrs. Kovacs,” he sputtered. “Your dress is simply beautiful! Was it made in Hungary?”

  This seemed to break her hypnotic lock on the US ambassador. Her head jerked toward Mitch. There was a cold stare, and she said, “Thank you, Colonel, but it was made in Paris, not Budapest!”

  Turning away, Mitch saw that the ambassador had already distanced himself from the reception line and secured a whiskey sour. Now a Russian political officer seemed to have him trapped in an intense conversation. Scanning the reception, Mitch noticed a group of military attachés clustered in the corner of the garden, near a fountain that looked more like a swimming pool than a work of art.

  “Good evening, Colonel. How is America doing today?” The soft female voice caught him off guard. Mitch was immediately angry at himself for not noticing this woman approach.

  “America is A-OK today. And you?” he replied, looking her up and down.

  “Excuse me for surprising you, but I noticed your arrival and hoped to take a few minutes of your time.”

  Instantly his Defense Intelligence Agency training took over. Mitch mentally evaluated her accent, clothes, mannerisms, and facial color. One thing was clear—she was drop-dead gorgeous. There was nothing second rate about her appearance, with her long, silky, black hair, enticing dark-red gown, and delicate golden teardrop earrings. Rather embarrassed by his senseless initial comment, Mitch wondered if she thought that he was a complete jerk.

  But she smiled and mused, “‘A-OK.’ I love that about you Americans: you just get right to the point without a lot of extraneous words.”

  Mitch laughed, “Yes, but sometimes it comes across as being extremely rude.”

  “Oh no, Colonel, I don’t think anything you say could be considered rude, but I do have another question.” She reached out slowly and touched his hand. “Would you please help me obtain an American visa? Believe me, I’d make it well worth your while!” She looked deep into his eyes as she asked. It moved his soul.

  He had been confronted with many visa requests in the past, but never by someone so exquisitely beautiful. And her offer was something that only his libido could envision. Of course, helping her would be illegal. He wondered if she was playing a game and attempting to set him up in a diplomatic sting. Mitch tried to change the subject.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name. Are you from Algeria?” His eyes slowly undressed her.

  She laughed, shaking her head. “I’m so sorry, Colonel. Usually I’m not this direct, but I jumped at the opportunity. My name is Fatima Pahlavi. Public affairs officer, Iranian embassy.”

  His blood froze. This must be a trap. She was probably an Iranian intelligence agent. Mitch thought of the US military attachés who had been fooled by beautiful agents and photographed in bed after supplying the ladies with classified information. It was usually a ploy to embarrass the United States and, of course, ruin a military attaché’s career and life. As he prepared to respond to the femme fatal, he heard a familiar voice b
ehind him.

  “Bonjour, Mitch. It doesn’t surprise me that you’re with such a beautiful woman.”

  He turned to find a very tall, slim French Army colonel reaching for his hand. It was Yves Dureau, Mitch’s best friend in this unnatural world of diplomacy and intrigue.

  Mitch had warned him that most American men didn’t like the French custom of kissing other men during a greeting, so Yves grabbed his hand, shook it rapidly, and leaned in close. “Mitch,” he whispered, “we must distance ourselves from the lady. She’s poison!”

  Mitch nodded and then turned to the Iranian. “Ms. Pahlavi,” he said, “I’m terribly sorry, but Colonel Dureau has just informed me that the US ambassador requests my immediate presence.”

  Mitch attempted to avoid her piercing stare, but she knew his response was bullshit. In this strange diplomatic world, though, she also recognized that he had just been rescued by his savvy French friend.

  “Colonel Ross, don’t forget my offer. I will call you next week,” she curtly responded.

  Mitch smiled weakly and touched her hand as Yves pulled him toward the edge of the garden. Here the Mediterranean gently washed its warm waters over the fine sand.

  “Thanks for getting me out of that shitty situation, Yves,” Mitch said, shaking his head. “She was really intoxicating.”

  “I could tell from a distance that you needed help. It appears that the French cavalry rescued the defenseless American in the nick

  of time.”

  Mitch laughed and looked up at the Frenchman, whose rugged good looks in his legionnaire-style uniform reminded Mitch of Harrison Ford. Yves was smooth in his movements, never hesitating as he smiled while taking a glass of red wine from a passing waiter.

  “Mitch, I do have something to discuss,” he said, quietly. “It has to do with an Algerian submarine.”

  Mitch looked around, knowing that the conversation was shifting to classified territory.

  “Yves, perhaps we should walk along the beach. There are too many ears listening here,” he said, eyeing the Hungarian security guards, waiters, and guests standing just a few feet away in the garden.

  “I suspect you’re correct,” Yves agreed.

  They turned and meandered toward the darkness of the beach, leaving the security of the Hungarian embassy behind. Soon Mitch could barely hear the reception’s classical music over the pounding waves.

  “Mitch, there was a damaged Algerian submarine in the commercial harbor. It had a gaping hole on its starboard side near the stern. Do you know anything about it?”

  Mitch was somewhat surprised at how much Yves knew, but considering the French embassy had a population four times the size of the US Embassy in Algeria, Mitch should have assumed as much.

  “Yes, Yves, I knew that the sub had been damaged and had to surface or else it would have been lost at sea.”

  “How do you know that, Mitch?”

  “I have my sources at the embassy, but I can confirm to you that the submarine was rammed by another sub while playing a deadly cat-and-mouse game.”

  That was all Mitch could reveal. The embassy’s CIA chief of station had explained the situation to him earlier in the day. US surveillance had detected a Chinese attack submarine intentionally ramming the Algerian boat. Over the past few months, there had been a breakdown of relations between the Chinese and Algerian governments over the price of oil. That was followed by an embarrassing speech made by Algerian delegates at the United Nations. The delegates condemned China for its childish reaction over a few dollars more per barrel of oil. But for the Chinese the situation represented a loss of face, and they wanted revenge.

  Even among friends and allies, not all classified information could be exchanged, so Mitch looked at Yves and shrugged.

  “Sorry, Yves, that’s about all I know.”

  No doubt Yves knew he had more information but realized that by pressing the issue, he would be stepping over the diplomatic line.

  They continued along the beach, never imagining that with each step in the dark, moonless evening, their lives became increasingly at risk. How could they know that just ahead, hiding partially submerged along the shore, a terrorist had noticed them approaching?

  Within the protective blackness of the sea and the night, he had been waiting for a lucrative target from the diplomatic reception. Two unsuspecting infidel military officers were more than he had hoped for. Crazed by the teachings of al-Qaeda and Osama bin Laden, he was willing to sacrifice all for his beliefs. His heart pounded in his chest as his muscles tightened, anticipating the impending attack.

  They couldn’t hear him whispering, “Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar,” praising God’s greatness as he pulled the stiletto from his belt, slowly emerged from the sea, and prepared himself like a panther ready to strike his prey. They had no idea that this extremist could almost taste their blood.

  Walking beside Yves, Mitch heard the sudden sound of splashing water. A force like a freight train hit the left side of his body, slamming him onto the wet sand. A knife ripped through his uniform and sent a flash of burning pain through him as the blade sliced into his stomach. Mitch screamed when the attacker put his full weight on top of the knife, as if trying to push the blade completely through Mitch’s body.

  Mitch struggled to understand what the hell was going on. He grabbed at the man’s wet, bearded face, seeking eyes and a target for his thumbs. But then there was another violent impact as Yves slammed the attacker off of him.

  Yves began to scream, and Mitch thought he had been hurt, but he was desperately yelling for the embassy guards.

  Just as the bearded man gathered his footing, a Hungarian security guard arrived and smashed the attacker’s head with a metal rod. Mitch heard a sickening crunch as the rod dug deep into the man’s skull and felt a splatter of liquid as if a ripened melon had been ripped apart.

  “Mitch, Mitch, you’re covered with blood!” Yves yelled as he realized that his friend had been stabbed.

  Mitch lay back on the soft, wet sand and reached for the handle of the knife sticking out of his body. His mind, thoughts, and movements became a blur as he lost his grip on reality. So many voices yelling, people chaotically running, and the taste of salt on his lips from the sea. His world became surreal.

  “Don’t pull it. Leave it in or you’ll bleed out,” cried the US ambassador, appearing next to him.

  Mitch tried to get up, but the pain forced him back to the sand. The knife dug deeper. As he lost consciousness, he felt hands of a professional examining his body and directing security guards to carry the stretcher to the embassy.

  He heard Yves’s voice trying to reassure him. “Mitch, you must hold on. Don’t slip away. Remember, my apartment in Paris is yours. I’m sure that you’ll find a good wine and a lovely lady to share it

  with you!”

  Mitch slowly closed his eyes and felt his soul drift away.

  -•-•

  The beach became a distant shadow, and Mitch no longer felt the pain or heard the chaos. He was floating, floating between the huge, billowing clouds. He reached for the controls of the jet, but there were none. He was adrift amid the beauty of the brilliant sun, crystal-blue sky, and soft cotton clouds. It was warm, and he was content with the silence and security. This was where he wanted to remain, this was his nirvana, but it was not to be.

  Slowly yet inexorably, a powerful force guided him back to that time and place where he had felt pain and seen death. He didn’t want to return. He wanted to forget the ugliness of reality. The attack, the knife, the blood all rushed back to his consciousness, and he knew that he was not to remain in this heavenly paradise.

  No longer adrift, he felt again the ripping pain in his side. A distant voice pierced the silence,

  “Colonel Ross, vous voudrais un verre d’eau?”

  He slowly focused and saw a young, att
ractive woman in white with a red crescent on her collar. “Are you an angel?” he asked.

  “No, Colonel. Je suis Abella, et vous êtes dans un hôpital algérien.” She pointed to a plaque attached to the inside of his closed door which read, The People’s National Army Hospital of Algeria.

  She didn’t say anything else. But he knew that in time everything was going to be just fine. Abella seemed to notice his slight smile as he thought of Paris and Yves’s promise.

  2

  As the days turned into weeks, Mitch’s French improved. Each morning he anxiously awaited Abella’s arrival and her smiling face. This was more than just a patient–nurse relationship; Abella was becoming his reason to freshen up in the morning and attempt to comb his hair despite the pain. Yves had told him many times that the best way to learn a language was by using a long-haired dictionary. Mitch had never truly understood what he meant until now.

  “Bonjour, mon colonel, comment ça va?”

  “I’m doing very well, Abella, and you?”

  Abella frowned, shaking her head in disappointment.

  “En français, en français,” she scolded and then smiled and winked.

  “Okay, Abella, je vais bien, et vous?” he responded.

  She laughed at his terrible accent, but also because the back of his gown was wide open, exposing a portion of his butt. Mitch hadn’t noticed the untied gown. In his eagerness to move closer to her, he leaned beyond the edge of the bed to catch the scent of her perfume. His hands lost their grip on the mattress, and he awkwardly fell forward.

  He landed hard on his knees, the impact ripping the stitches from his wound. Pain shot through his body as if he had impaled himself on a picket fence.

  “Shit!” he yelled, grabbing his side and moaning loudly as he collapsed on the floor. Warm blood oozed from the reopened wound.

  Abella dropped the flowers she had brought and flung herself toward him. She held him tight, pressing her hand against his bloody fingers. He had dreamed of being close to her, but never like this.