Checkpoint Charlie

“What are you talking about?”

*   *   *

ACCORDING TO PLAN ROSS made the phone call at nine in the morning from a coin box in the cable office. He held the receiver out from his ear so I could eavesdrop. A clerk answered and Ross asked to be co

“Two hundred thousand dollars, in gold, deposited to a Swiss account.” That was the opening line because it was unlikely she’d hang up on us right away after that teaser. “Are you interested?”

“Who is this?”

“Clearly, Mademoiselle, one does not mention names on an open telephone line. I think we might arrange a meeting, however. It’s an urgent matter.”

Ross’s palm was visibly damp against the receiver. I heard the woman’s voice: “For whom are you speaking, M’sieur?”

“I represent certain principals.” Because she wouldn’t deal directly with anyone fool enough to act as his own front man. Ross said, “You’ve been waiting to hear from me, n’est-ce-pas?” That was for the benefit of those who were bugging her phone; he went on quickly before she could deny it: “At noon today I’ll be on the beach just north of the fishing village at the head of the bay. I’ll be wearing a white shirt, short sleeves; khaki trousers and white plimsolls. I’ll be alone and of course without weapons.” I saw him swallow quickly.

The line seemed dead for a while but finally the woman spoke. “Perhaps.”

Click.

“Perhaps,” Ross repeated dismally, and cradled it.

*   *   *

DRIVING US NORTH in the rent-a-car he said to me, “She didn’t sound enthusiastic, did she. You think she’ll come?”

“She’ll come.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Without phone calls like that she wouldn’t be able to maintain her standard of living.”

“But if she’s in the middle of setting up a caper here —”

“It doesn’t preclude her from discussing the next job. She’ll come.”

“Armed to the teeth, no doubt,” Ross muttered.

“No. She’s a pro. A pro never carries a gun when he’s not on a job — a gun can get you into too much trouble if it’s discovered. But she’s probably capable of dismantling you by hand in a hundred different ways so try not to provoke her until we’ve sprung the trap.”

“You can be incredibly comforting sometimes, you know that?”

“You’re green, Ross, and you have a tendency to be flip and you’d better realize this isn’t a matter for frivolous heroics. You’re not without courage and it’s silly to pretend otherwise. But don’t treat this thing with childish bravado. There’s a serious risk you may end up facedown in the surf if you don’t treat the woman with all the caution in the world. Your job’s simple and straightforward and there’s nothing fu

*   *   *

WE PARKED OFF THE ROAD and walked through the palms toward the edge of the water. The beach was a narrow white strip of perfect sand curving away in a crescent. There was hardly any surf. At the far end of the curve I saw a scatter of thatched huts and a few dilapidated old piers to which were tethered a half dozen primitive outrigger fishing boats. It was pleasantly warm and the air was clear arid dry: the East African coast has none of the muggy tropicality of the West one. Two small black children ran up and down the distant sand and their strident voices carried weakly to my ears. The half mile of beach between was empty of visible life. A tourist-poster scene, I thought, but clearly a feeling of menace was preoccupying Ross; I had to steady him with a hand on his shoulder.

Out on the open water, beyond a few small boats floating at anchor, a pair of junks drifted south with the mild wind in their square sails. A dazzling white sport-fisherman with a flying bridge rode the swells in a lazy figure-eight pattern about four hundred yards offshore; two men in floppy white hats sat in the stern chairs trolling lines. Beyond, on the horizon, a tramp prowled northward — a coaster: Tanga next, then Mombasa, so forth. And there was a faint spiral of smoke even farther out — probably the Zanzibar ferry.

I put my back to the view and spoke in a voice calculated to reach no farther than Ross’s ears: “Spot them?”

Ross was searching the beach. “Not a soul. Maybe they didn’t get the hint.”

“The sport fisherman, Ross. They’ve got telescopes and long-range microphones focused on this beach right now and if I were facing them they’d hear every word I’m saying.”

That was why we’d given it several hours’ lead time after making the phone call. To give the Chinese time to get in position to monitor the meeting.

“They’ve taken the bait,” I said. “It remains to be seen whether the dragon lady will prove equally gullible.”

Ross was carrying the rifle and I crooked a finger and he gave it to me. We were still in the palms, too shadowed for the watchers on the fishing boat to get much of a look at us. I slid back into the deeper shadows and watched Ross begin to walk out along the beach, kicking sand with his toes. He had his hands in his pockets but then thought better of that and took them out again and I applauded him for that — he was making it obvious his hands were empty.

I saw him look at his watch. It was eleven fifty-five. Don’t get too nervous, Ross. He walked out to the middle of the crescent of sand and stood there looking back inland and I had some idea what he was going through: trying to ignore the fishing boat a quarter of a mile behind him, trying to talk himself out of the acute feeling that someone’s telescopic crosshairs were centered between his shoulder blades.

I watched him begin to walk around in an aimless little circle — perhaps he felt they’d have a harder time hitting a moving target. He hadn’t much to worry about, actually; they had no reason to take potshots at him — they’d be curious, not murderous — but perhaps Ross was no longer in a state of mind where logic was the ruling factor. I trusted him to do his part, though. I knew a little about him. He’d come right into the Company after college, seeking adventure and challenge, and if he’d been worried by the stink of the Company’s growing notoriety he’d balanced it with a naïve notion that the Company needed people like him to keep it clean. Mainly what I knew about him was that Joe Cutter gave him very high marks and there’s nobody in Langley whose judgment I’d sooner trust than Joe’s. This caper should have been Joe’s by rights — it was more in his line than mine, I’m more of a trouble-shooter and rarely get picked for front-line counter-espionage capers because I’m too visible — but Joe hates Myerson even more than I do and he’d managed to get himself posted out to the Near East away from Myerson’s influence.

I heard the putt-putt of an engine and watched a little outboard come in sight around the headland and beat its way forward, its bow gently slapping the water, coming at a good clip. Ross saw it too — looked at it, then looked away, back into the palm trees — probably wondering when the woman would show up. He hadn’t yet realized she was already here. I saw him do a slow take and turn on his heel again. Then we both watched the outboard come straight in onto the beach.

It was the dragon lady and she was alone at the tiller. She tipped the engine up across the transom, jumped overside and came nimbly ashore, dragging the boat up onto the sand a bit. Then she turned to look at Ross across the intervening forty yards of sand. I had a good view of her in profile. Ross was trying to meet her stare without guile. Her eyes left him after a bit and began to explore the trees. I didn’t stir; I was in among a cluster of palm boles and the thing she’d spot first would be movement.

She made a thorough job of it before she turned toward Ross. She walked with lithe graceful strides: petite but there was nothing fragile about her. She wore an ao dai, the simple formfitting dress of Indochina; it was painted to her skin and there was no possibility she could have concealed a weapon under it. Perhaps she wore it for that reason.