Betrayal in the Casbah Page 4

  “This new intelligence information has been briefed to President Bush, and the likelihood of an American POW in Algiers is being factored into US policy toward future relations with this country. The president and the Senate Intelligence Committee have agreed that the investigation and whereabouts of Captain Seth Hunt must be kept at the highest classified level.

  “The White House, through State Department channels, has instructed me to work with US intelligence agencies to find Captain Hunt. That means I will be relying on you two to accomplish this task successfully. I don’t want fanfare or casualties. You can use all means available to rescue him, but I have also been instructed that no special ops will be a part of this mission. We cannot afford the political fallout if Navy Seals were sent in to rescue Hunt and there were US losses. Again, I must emphasize, I don’t want to see anything on the front pages of Algerian newspapers or The New York Times about what we are doing! I want that American pilot. As the president said to the secretary of state last week, ‘This has been going on too damn long. Get him back to the States now, alive!’”

  4

  Mitch never got his bourbon that evening after the verbal beating he took in the bubble. Greg attempted to make amends by offering to buy the first couple rounds at the embassy Marine bar, but the Marine bar was the last place Mitch wanted to be—he needed to distance himself from anyone that even smelled of the US State Department. He dragged his bag through the rose garden once again. He waved at a security guard standing on a platform overlooking the embassy wall and felt his mind gradually shut down from all the fatigue and stress. He followed his feet along the well-worn path to the door of his embassy residence. Fumbling as he attempted to find the lock in the dark of the moonless evening, Mitch stabbed at it, missed, and inadvertently dropped the key.

  He got down on his hands and knees to find the key and noticed a small, folded note partially tucked under the mat. He shoved the note into his pocket.

  “Screw it, I’m going to bed!” he said to no one as he dropped his bag in the entryway and proceeded up the dimly lit staircase. Entering his bedroom, he collapsed on the bed fully clothed. His mind spun like a jet out of control as Greg’s questions echoed. Mitch tried to force his eyes to close, but it was no good. Sleep would not be a part of this night.

  He lay like a corpse, staring at the dark ceiling, his mind refusing to quiet down. God, I’m beat. I’m not sure I can trust the ambassador or Greg. To hell with it, I need that drink, and I need it now!

  He sat up on the edge of the bed and looked across the room toward the small cache of booze tucked away in his closet. Just as he stood, the phone rang loud, piercing the darkness and scaring the hell out of him. He clenched his fists and glanced at the illuminated clock near the bed. Who the hell is calling me at 11:30 on a Friday night? The phone rang again, but he hesitated. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. He waited for the third ring and grabbed the phone. Jaw tightening, he sternly said, “Colonel Ross speaking.”

  There was silence on the phone, and he was ready to slam it down when a timid, soft voice responded, “Mitch? Mitch, is that you?” The fragile tenderness in her words quickly erased his anger. “Did you get my note? I asked an embassy guard to place it near your door.”

  Mitch stuffed his hand into his pocket and pulled out the note. It said simply, I will call you this evening. Abella.

  “Abella!” His weary mind and excited emotions collided.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” she said, “but I couldn’t resist hearing your voice again. I felt so alone when you departed the hospital, and I thought that we may never have an opportunity to talk or see each other again. We didn’t have time to make any plans—I was hoping you wanted to see me again.”

  “Believe me, Abella, I would love for us to spend much more time together. But I’ve had one hell of a day, and I need to get some rest.” He paused. “Out of curiosity, how did you get my number?”

  “It was very easy,” Abella laughed. “I contacted the embassy operator and told her I was your physician at the hospital. I made sure to sound very authoritative and she didn’t hesitate. She probably would have given me a key to your residence had I pressed her!”

  “Abella, would you come to my residence tomorrow evening for dinner? I’m invited to a reception at the Spanish embassy, but I’m going to blow it off since I was nearly killed at the last reception I attended. I’m sure the ambassador will understand.”

  “I would love to come, Mitch. That sounds wonderful!”

  “Great!” he said, thinking through the details. “I’ll take care of the security paperwork allowing you to enter the embassy and my residence. I’ll be waiting for you near the embassy security building. That’s where you’ll enter the gated compound. Can you come at 7 p.m.?”

  “I’ll be there. Sleep well, Mitch.”

  “You do the same, Abella, and thank you for being my angel.”

  He held the phone to his ear long after she had hung up. He wished they were still talking, even though he knew phone conversations were monitored by the Algerian military. Mitch was used to hearing a second phone hanging up after any call.

  -•-•

  The next morning was bright with anticipation that he would finally be alone with Abella. He finally took the shower he’d been waiting for, put on a clean uniform, grabbed some fruit, and departed for his office in the chancery building.

  An embassy office was not as glamorous inside as most folks might imagine. In fact, the chancery was rather dusty and in need of an interior decorator. This was not a location where foreign diplomats gathered but rather the working heart of this small, busy US embassy.

  Mitch’s military attaché office was located down a flight of stairs and behind a cipher-locked, thick metal door. When he arrived, he went through the routine he typically did three to four times a day. He pulled his identification card and swiped it over the lock, then punched in the coded numbers that allowed entry. His office was oversized and a bit ridiculous with its sofas and gigantic leather chairs that were used by no one. Two nine-foot shelves adjacent to his desk were full of intimidating-looking documents and books that he had never reviewed nor had the desire to read. The wooden desk was massive. He often thought that the lumber would have made an ideal sport canoe.

  It was obvious to him as a fighter pilot that the previous attachés had been ground pounders and not aviators. Their interests centered on decorations and creature comforts rather than on accomplishing the mission. The entire office was belowground, so there were no windows. Mitch had no complaints about the lack of natural light; the subterranean location provided natural air-conditioning. And during those long, hot, humid North African days, this was a precious thing indeed.

  Mitch didn’t have much of a staff because of the likelihood of a radical Islamic terrorist attack on the embassy. The State Department had reduced the embassy staff to essential personnel only, which meant the colonel commanded very few individuals but had a tremendous amount of responsibility. He enjoyed the fact that with fewer folks to worry about, he had more time to concentrate.

  His assistant was a US Navy commander who flew in from the embassy in Tunisia for a few days each month. Then there was Dave, the US Army warrant officer who seemed to devote most of his time to planning his post-military life. Even though Mitch’s rank was much higher, he could never get Dave to perform his administrative duties while the colonel was out of the office. And he was always out of the office.

  “Dave, how have you been?” Mitch yelled from his office. He hadn’t yet seen Dave, but given the time of day, he should have been at his desk. “Give me a rundown of what’s been going on in the office while I was recovering in the hospital.” Mitch sat in his oversized cave, waiting for the initial response. After a few moments he repeated himself, but with an abbreviated military approach: “Hey, Warrant, get your ass into my office right now, and that’s an order!”

  Still no response. He stood and walked around his desk to the door, proceeding down the hallway to enter Dave’s small office. Dave was not there, but the colonel found a note taped to the back of the computer monitor. It read, Sir, I noticed that you had entered the office, and I was going to say hello, but I realized I had a meeting with the embassy building-maintenance manager. My residence kitchen is overrun with roaches, and it needs to be fumigated. So I’m scheduling a time when that can be accomplished. By the way, is there any chance that I can stay in one of your extra bedrooms for approximately five days? I would need the room tonight and over the weekend.

  Mitch ripped the note from his monitor and wrote a response with a large, black permanent marker: About your request . . . not only no, but hell no, especially this evening. We need to talk!

  He was fuming and seriously thinking of calling DIA headquarters in DC to have Dave relieved of duty and shipped back to the States. He probably should have done that long ago. But then the phone back in Mitch’s office rang, snapping him out of his rage. He sprinted to his office and snapped the phone to his ear in hopes he hadn’t missed whoever was calling.

  “Bonjour, mon colonel Ross, it is that dastardly Frenchman, Yves, that should have visited or at least called while you recovered in the hospital.”

  Mitch chuckled when he heard the voice. Yves Dureau had that unique ability to add levity to a terrible situation.

  “Unfortunately,” Yves continued, “the Ministry of Defense in Paris requested my presence. I love Paris, but I detest that puzzle palace my country calls our military headquarters. I had to leave Algiers the morning after you were attacked. I truly hope that I find you well and recovering as each day passes.”

  Mitch struggled to respond without laughing at Yves’s description of the French Ministry of Defense. “I’m actually feeling great, and to be honest, this is my first day back in the office.”

  “That is wonderful to hear, but I have one request of my American friend. You must join me for lunch today. I am completely out of diplomatic protocol to request at such late notice, but I must make amends for my lack of courtesy while you were recovering.”

  Mitch considered giving some excuse because of dinner with Abella. But seeing Yves would afford him the perfect opportunity to probe his French military colleague concerning Captain Hunt. Any information Yves might disclose could help.

  “Yves, I would be more than happy to have lunch with you. But I must apologize now for the limited amount of food I will consume. I have planned a dinner this evening with a beautiful nurse that I met in the hospital.”

  Yves laughed. “Why am I not surprised to hear about you and beautiful women? If I recall correctly, it was a beautiful woman at the Hungarian reception who was attempting to entrap you. But as long as the nurse is not Iranian, I suppose I will accept your apology.”

  “No, I can guarantee that she is completely Algerian, but with an interestingly rebellious personality that I find quite fascinating.” Mitch was surprised to find himself responding from his heart and not his head. He assumed Abella was completely Algerian, but he had no proof of this. And then there was the matter of her perfect American accent.

  Yves was no dummy, and he picked up on his friend’s tone immediately. “Well, Mitch, I must say that I believe you find the lady more than fascinating. But that conversation is for another day. Does twelve noon sound acceptable to you?”

  “Absolutely,” Mitch quickly replied, eager to change the subject in light of the Algerians who were surely listening to their conversation.

  “Then twelve it is. See you soon, my friend. I will uncork a fine French wine to celebrate your recovery.”

  As the call ended, Mitch heard the familiar click of a second phone hanging up. Irritated with the Algerian military for recording everything Yves and he had discussed, he realized he shouldn’t have told the truth about his dinner plans. He should have made up a bullshit story about having dinner with the US ambassador and

  his staff.

  He quickly headed for security to arrange for a protection detail to accompany him to the French embassy. Arranging for protection each and every time he left the embassy was frustrating but necessary, given the hypothetical target emblazoned on his forehead, just waiting for a terrorist’s lead sedative.

  After finishing with security, he stopped by his residence to change into civilian clothes. He wanted to adhere to the unwritten rule Yves and he had established: if it was just the two of them, then it was max relax and casual all the way.

  There were a lot of rules, both written and unwritten, surrounding diplomatic appointments. One of the most important was to be on time—even if the other attendees were your friends. Mitch had learned that one the hard way. Therefore, at 11:30 a.m. he joined a two-man Algerian security detail—a driver and an armed guard—inside a bulletproof Toyota Land Cruiser.

  He buckled up and braced himself for a ride that he knew from experience would feel like an attempt to break the land-speed record. Fighter pilots liked to say, “Speed is life.” This saying also applied to security details chauffeuring diplomats around foreign countries. Of course, security workers had plenty of good reasons to speed through hostile territory. They had to assume that anyone walking the street might be an armed terrorist.

  As soon as the massive embassy gates opened, the security guard in the front passenger seat adjusted his grip on the machine gun he lovingly cradled. The SUV leaped forward, rear tires squealing, and the driver immediately wrenched into a left turn. Mitch felt as though he had just been launched off an aircraft carrier deck in the Persian Gulf. The buildings opposite the embassy compound became a blur as they shot through the broad boulevard.

  This street had once been a main artery of this former French colony. Yves had told him about how dreadful it was when France lost Algeria in the early 1960s during the Algerian War—a painful loss that still lingered in French society. He told Mitch to imagine the US losing Texas and all its resources. That, he said, would represent a similar impact as the one France sustained with the loss of Algeria.

  As they rounded another corner, the former colony’s grandeur was on full display. Powder-blue balconies adorned the beautiful, tall white buildings built by the French in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. This sight meant that they were nearing the French embassy. A moment later he felt the rapid deceleration of the SUV as they approached the entry gate.

  The French embassy was the largest diplomatic compound in this capital city. The steel walls loomed invincibly, topped off with concertina wire bundles. An Olympic pole vaulter might be able to surmount them, but then he or she would have to contend with ten to fifteen heavily armed guards on platforms overlooking the compound.

  Mitch’s vehicle slowly turned into the entrance and faced a twelve-foot steel wall. They waited for a moment. He glanced at the guard peering over the wall and aiming a very large automatic weapon directly at the passenger window. Mitch tried to act normal, but his survival instinct made him lean toward the opposite side of the vehicle, away from the window. His seat belt protested, digging into his right shoulder and abdomen. A speaker adjacent to the wall broke the silence as a voice requested their identity and business at the embassy. Mitch’s driver slowly rolled down his bulletproof window and announced them.

  There was no reply, but a moment later the large metal wall lowered into the ground. They were instructed to move forward to the second identical wall facing their vehicle. The first metal wall rose again, wedging their vehicle inside. Ten-foot brick walls flanked them on either side, each one almost scraping the SUV’s side-view mirrors. More French guards aimed their machine guns down from their vantage points atop the walls. Mitch’s driver slid each of their passports through a small metal slot. He then rolled the window up, and they sat in silence. A few minutes later the guards disappeared and the wall in front of them lowered.

  Now the stress faded and Mitch’s breathing became relaxed. He thought now, as he often did when entering the French embassy compound, of the biblical passage that mentioned something about passing from darkness into light. The arduous entry procedure was a price well worth paying for the end result.

  Once inside, he gazed out the vehicle window. It was truly the closest thing to paradise in all of Algiers. He no longer needed the bulletproof vehicle or his security guards. He didn’t wait for the formality of his driver opening the door. He quickly moved away from the embassy vehicle and stood, taking in all the magnificence, finally feeling free.

  He ignored the bland embassy buildings and even the large, stunning park beside them. What existed to the left of the park—that was truly breathtaking, as if Monet himself had painted the scene, with all the bright colors of a summer day in a small French village during the latter half of the nineteenth century. Mitch’s eyes took in the radiant hues of the flowers lining the path through the park to the quaint cottages. The French flag flew majestically from a large pole in the middle of the park. Children rode their bicycles and played with a small dog. Young French mothers shaded themselves with parasols while pushing their strollers and taking in the warm Mediterranean breezes.

  As he walked along the path, where no vehicles were allowed, he encountered more beautiful gardens. People sat at small tables surrounded by flowers and trees, eating lunch served by Algerian servants. The small but elegant old-world cottages were nestled amongst trees and a few grape arbores. It was a glimpse of what it must have been like when Algeria was the jewel of France’s colonial empire. Yves’s voice snapped him out of his time travel.