Checkpoint Charlie

I ran a trace on Bertine and the computers sent me to a forty-two foot diesel cabin cruiser the registry of which drew me along a course from San Juan to Tortola to St. Maarten to Nassau. She was tied up in a marina in the Bahamas when I arrived there and I disassembled her bewildered captain in a hotel room on Paradise Island with the help of two Agency stringers.

The captain was a hired charter operator who ran the Matthews boat for a Swiss company that belonged to Gerard Bertine. After a few hours’ defiance and ridicule he eventually saw the light and admitted the cartons of “ledgers” had been collected from him out at sea: a refurbished PBY Catalina flying boat had landed on the water and the transfer of cargo had been made by dinghy. Bertine had gone aboard the airplane with the cargo. A neat dodge, professional — it had the Dortmunder stamp. All this had taken place about 200 miles due east of Nassau four days ago.

Back to the computers. I dug up the registries of half a dozen boats and freighters that tied in with Dortmunder in one way or another. During that time-frame in question one of the boats had been in the Atlantic about halfway from Trinidad to Casablanca; another was a half day out of the Azores; and a third was off the Canaries. It suggested a possibility: midocean refueling for the flying boat. At low cruise a PBY has a range of nearly 2,000 miles. Plotting a course from ship to ship I found that it pointed toward the mouth of the Mediterranean. It persuaded me that the passports were somewhere between Gibraltar and Istanbul.

That was a bit of a help; it was a start. It still left a lot of ground to cover. A PBY can land anywhere on the open water; the passports could have been transferred to a fishing boat off any port in the Med — no customs inspections.

But I thought I knew where they’d gone.

Algiers is where the runaways go. Fugitives from politics and justice are drawn there because of a governmental no-questions-asked attitude. But it’s a drab bureaucratic place with little romance or comfort; if you’re not rich it’s oppressive. After a while the exiles begin to hate it. The place becomes their prison. That’s when they begin to inquire into sources of false passports. The trade in high-priced documents is brisk in Algiers.

Four thousand genuine U.S. passport blanks would be worth more than two million dollars on that market.

*   *   *

THE STATION STRINGER in Algiers was a passed-over veteran named Atherton who had no image left to polish. He was contentedly serving out his last hitch before retirement.

In Atherton’s travel-agency office I went through the station’s files of known dealers in black-market documentation. After several hours of it Atherton gave me a bleak look. “Is this getting us anywhere, Charlie? There’s just too damned many of them.”

“We can rule out the small ones. Whoever bought the shipment had to put up cash. Probably half a million dollars or more. It’s got to be a big dealer.”

“That still leaves a dozen names or more. You want to pin the list on the wall and throw a dart at it?” He made a face and pushed the files aside. “It won’t work. Hell, we’d do as well to canvass the fishing docks. The shipment had to come into Algeria somewhere — if it’s here at all. It could just as easily be in Marseilles or Alexandria or —”

“If I don’t tumble the goods here I’ll go to Marseilles next and then Alexandria and then etcetera. But my nose tells me it’s here. The odds are on Algiers.”

“If I had four thousand blanks to sell I’d bring ’em here,” he agreed. “But it would require an impossible amount of legwork to find them in this maze. The population of dealers is too big, Charlie. We haven’t got a hundred investigators on this staff.”

“What about Bertine? Has the trace come up with anything?”

“Bertine flew out of Gibraltar two days ago. By now he’s in Zurich.”

“Gibraltar — that’s another clue in favor of Algiers,” I said.

He sighed. “Twelve, fourteen, maybe sixteen dealers big enough to handle it. Well, I guess we can go to the cops and start having them tossed.”

“Canvassing won’t do it,” I said. “After we hit one or two of them the rest will get the word. They’ll all go to ground. No — we’ve got to hit the right target with our first shot.”

“That calls for fancy shooting.”

I said, “We’ll need a Judas goat.”

*   *   *

I WENT through all the station’s Immigration Surveillance Reports for the past week and selected a card from the stack:

Andrew Grofield — entered Algiers 10/17 via GibAir #7415, carrying U.S. Passport #378916642393 in name of Alan Kelp. Passport presumed forgery. Inquiry forwarded to Washington to dip bag 10/18. Algeria authorities not informed. Ident Grofield made by Peter McKay, personal observation airport. File #78BV8.

Atherton said, “Grofield. Yeah. Ran some small arms into the Philippines while I was on station there. We had to chase him out. He was supplying guerrillas with AK-47s. He’s a petty crook, not a big shot.”

“Does he know your face?”

“We never met. I know him from photographs.”

“He ought to do,” I said.

*   *   *

ATHERTON SENT four men out in two cars to look for Grofield. On the second day one of them found him. Atherton said, “It’s a girl’s flat in the casbah.”

“Has he got a hotel booking?”

“No. Staying with the girl. She’s a professional. He’ll be paying for the time. It suggests he doesn’t plan an extended stay in town.”

“Good. If he’s got appointments in another country he’ll be anxious not to be delayed.”

“When do we hit him?”

“After I have my di

*   *   *

WE SENT the two stringers around to cover the rear and posted ourselves in a cramped 2CV at the curb across the street from the stucco warren in which the Turkish call girl had her flat. Lights burned in her windows and I was hoping they’d soon emerge to go somewhere for a late supper; it was about ten o’clock. The street was emptying of pedestrians: burnoused bedouins, besotted beggars, business-suited bwanas. We were on the edge of the casbah, its tortuous passages winding away over cobblestones. The smells were pungent, the air heavy. One wonders if the Arab cities attract miscreants and evildoers because of their rancid foetid atmospheres or whether it’s the other way round.

They didn’t come out that night. We wasted it in the car, talking about the old days. Another team took over during the day and we were back the next evening at sundown.

Finally the girl and our mark emerged from the narrow dark entrance. Atherton said, “That’s him. Grofield.”

The man was burly in white seersucker; he walked like a sailor, a belligerent thrust to his shoulders. The girl had the opulence of a belly dancer: she’d soon be fat.

We gave them a lead and I got out to follow them on foot. Atherton trailed along at a distance in the car in case they snagged a taxi.

*   *   *

WE WERE at the bar when Grofield came away from his table to seek the men’s room. He was a little drunk; that was an aid to me. I stepped back from the bar talking heartily to Atherton with wide gestures: “So would you believe the lousy crook tried to sell me Cianti for Bardolino?”

My gesticulating arms made Grofield hesitate and then Atherton stepped out from the bar toward me: “Come on, Joe, you’re blocking traffic.” In reaching for my arm Atherton lost his balance and blundered against Grofield. I steadied Grofield and leered at him drunkenly, brushing him off. “S’all right, buddy, sorry, these freeways are murder, ain’t they.”

Atherton blurted apologies to Grofield in French and English. Grofield brushed us off with a stony glare and squeezed past and went on toward the gents. I had my hand in my pocket; I turned and walked out of the place. A few minutes afterward, having paid the tab, Atherton followed me out. “Okay?”