PEACE PIPE - CHAPTER NINE

Character Build

Peter Elkins III - American Mercenary
Paul Connolly - Irish Mercenary
Mary Murphy -Irish Widow Woman
Sergeant Thompson - Mercenary Recruiter
Major Alistair Leigh - Tough Guys
Archie Andrews - African Mercenary

Rashid Al-Mannai - Jordanian Ambassador
Officer Windrush - MPD Patrolman
Jerri Neighbour - Freelance Journalist
Kolé Cutter - American President
J A Metcalfe (JAM) - CIA/UK Liaison
Horace Lime - SO11/CIA Liaison
Philip Dalton - British Assassin
Morris (MO) Schlick - Film Director
Nicola Schlick - Mo's Wife
Tse Lin Yan - Chinese Miliary Attaché
Victor Miles - Secure Armed Services
Abdul Miandad - Syrian Lawyer

Rosie Hoare - Limes' Secretary
Lobb - Policeman

Alan Borg - MPD Homicide Detective
John D Elkins - Bank President & City Mayor

Maurice Le Clerc - Monaco Security Chief
René Dupont - Interpol

Mendy Wade - Chief of White House Staff
George Bartlett - Head of White House Security
Sam McDonald - Head of FBI
Charles Howe - Sam's No.1

Herbert Brown - Embassy Butler
Colonel Najeen - Head of Embassy Security

Aziz Alludashiij (Alluda) - Jordanian Junior Envoy

Fatima Windawi - Rashid Al-Mannai's Secretary
Khalid Haddad - Security Officer
Yaya Munchid - Embassy Chef
Abdul Nizzar - Kitchen Scullion
Hussein Mohammed - Embassy Chauffeur
Teddy Harbour - MPD Police Pathologist

9

Washington DC - August 07, 2013 - 13.20

‘You remember Peter Elkins?’ The question, directed at Metcalfe, came over the phone from Alan Borg, Head of Homicide at the Metropolitan Police Department.

The CIA agent smiled and nodded. ‘You know where he is?’

The detective chuckled. ‘Not yet I don’t, but I’m looking at a guy who might.’

Metcalfe figured the call to be unofficial, as his had been to Borg earlier in the year. It appeared the detective might be about to call in his favor. ‘Where are you?’ He heard Borg laugh again.

‘You’re at Langley, where would you think I am?’

‘In a morgue?’

‘As usual, you got it in one!’

Now Metcalfe laughed. ‘OK, so you’ve got a stiff and you think the stiff knows where our friend is hiding himself. Is that about right?’

Borg opened up. ‘Listen, JAM, something bad is happening. I don’t know what, but for sure, the vibes are not good.’

‘You wanna fill me in?’ Metcalfe handed Lime a phone extension.

‘I’ve got an experienced guy on duty outside the Jordan embassy. He witnesses an Arab courier walk under a truck. My man checks the ID and tells the embassy who deny he belongs to them. Maybe the name doesn’t belong to him? His passport says Iqbal A. Shamshall, diplomatic courier, but we think it’s a phony.’

‘I’m listening.’ Metcalfe had begun to get anxious.

The detective seemed baffled. ‘My guy, MPD Officer Windrush, claims he found an envelope addressed to Ambassador Rashid Al-Mannai. However, according to him, it contained nothing but a sheaf of blank paper.’

Metcalfe nodded, impatient for the rest. ‘Carry on, please, Alan.’

‘Shamshall, if that’s his name, wore old blue overalls over a fancy suit, clean face, bloody hands and carried a diplomatic bag containing blank paper. Nothing makes any sense. An ambulance collected him ten minutes ago. He's slabbed out at the city morgue. I'm with the police pathologist, Teddy Harbour, now.’

Metcalfe nodded. ‘OK, sounds fascinating. What’s this to do with Elkins?’

Borg laughed. ‘Sorry, JAM. Shamshall had a small diary among his belongings. In this last week he’s had a meeting with two guys and another scheduled for today. Just the initials; one’s PE…’

‘And the other is strictly PC.’

'You've got it.' Borg laughed while, at the other end of the line, Metcalfe chilled. His worst fears had been confirmed. ‘Listen, I’m grateful that you should call me.' He spoke quickly. 'You said you were at the morgue; mind if I bring a friend down? Off the record of course. We can make it in five minutes.’ Lime pulled on his jacket as Borg agreed. Metcalfe replaced the receiver and pressed a buzzer on his desk. An alarm in the transport section warned the duty sergeant. His limo would be waiting out front. Lime followed as he strode out and along the corridor.

* * *

Alone in the oval office, Kolé Cutter closed his personal diary and reached for the phone. He wanted to get over to the Jordanian embassy as soon as possible. He laughed at the thought of his friends, an Arab and a Jew, discussing a television documentary with a Middle East peace agreement about to be signed. He had now finalized the speech due to be delivered that evening at the Peace Pipe conference. He had also managed to excuse himself from a long-standing, potentially lethal meeting with the Senate minority leader. In the event that Jordan had concluded its consensus on the Israeli-Palestinian land agreement, a review would take place in late afternoon with the administration and World Bank officials to establish the settlement terms. But in a short time, and for a strict and limited period, he would be free.

* * *

‘I am sorry to interrupt, your Excellency.’ Fatima Windawi spoke on the intercom. ‘The American President is on line one.’ Al-Mannai's secretary represented the choice of a man educated in the West, ready to accept the more liberal attitudes frowned upon by many of his Arab contemporaries.

Al-Mannai gave an apologetic glance at the film director who had stopped in full flow. ‘Please excuse me, Morris.’ He strode to his desk, picked up the telephone, hit a button, covered the mouthpiece, turned and smiled over at Schlick. ‘An American President does not call every day!’ The ambassador sat down, attentive and alert. ‘Mr. President?’

Schlick watched the man’s face soften and his eyes turn towards him. ‘Yes, he’s with me now. You want to...’ Al-Mannai smiled at his guest and consulted his watch. ‘Ten to fifteen minutes? It’ll need to be a short one.’ He glanced at his diary. ‘I have another meeting at two fifteen. One moment please, Mr. President.’ He turned to Schlick and clasped the mouthpiece to his body. ‘Kolé wants to pop in and have a quick snack with us at around one forty-five. How's your time?’

Morris Schlick shook his head. ‘No problem, but I need to let Nicola know.’ Then he shrugged apologetically. ‘We’re supposed to hit the shops at two o’clock.’

Al-Mannai grinned into the phone. ‘I believe we may have a hen-pecked husband, Mr. President, but I’m sure it will be fine!’ He paused before responding a final time. ‘Yes, I will.’ He hung up and turned again to Schlick. ‘He sends your lady his best?’ The director grinned and nodded. Al-Mannai held his hand up before pressing the intercom again. ‘Excuse me, I'd better warn my man, Brown. The President will want a hamburger!’

* * *

Colonel Abdul Najeen, Embassy Head of Security, was worried. A dapper little man, the colonel favored an ordered lifestyle. For him, the job represented the perfect posting. Security Controller at the Jordan Foreign Office for the past 25 years, this would end his service. He viewed Washington with favor. Although his wife had died the previous year, his daughter lived close by in Pikeville, a suburb of Baltimore, with her family. Suitably compliant, she would serve his needs while on leave and, later, in retirement.

The Colonel, as everyone including his family were required to address him, suddenly found that he had a problem, the first since his arrival at the embassy six months earlier. Security had been compromised and, for the moment, he was unable to provide an answer. Experience had taught him that a problem disappeared with the cause rooted out. What he now needed to do was discover the cause.

Epicenter of the problem comprised a non-existent courier called Shamshall, yet his credentials had passed police scrutiny. The name, phony for sure, became far less important than the questions raised about the man himself. Why had he come? Who did he represent? If attempting to gain entry, why? What reason might he have had to be there and did he have inside help? The most important thing for the Colonel to do now was check out the embassy staff.

The list of employees he held in his hand did not help a lot. Many of the most senior staff were in Jordan, preparing to celebrate Ramadan. This, in his view, was a ruse to get rid of those who might have objected to this betrayal of Arab values. That some junior and domestic staff were also away was unimportant. There remained himself and, of course, the ambassador. He did not like Rashid Al-Mannai very much; the man had no sense of propriety. His mission to the Pentagon tomorrow morning, groveling to a bunch of Jewish gangsters, was only to be described as an outrage. Najeen crossed him out, together with Khalid Haddad, his own security man, a slow-witted bully. His other embassy staff, an ex-policeman with a large family in Amman, had also returned for Ramadan. Other than the cleaners, in for a half-hour each morning, only ten remained at the embassy.

The two senior envoys, cronies of Al-Mannai with high security passes, were at the Pentagon today with two other secretaries who had chosen to remain in Washington. This left minimum staff capacity in the embassy.

Fatima Windawi, also a secretary, a first generation American, with a big arse and even bigger tits, had stayed as part of the ambassador's personal property. She had graduated from Baltimore University; very unsettling for everybody.

Herbert Brown, another Al-Mannai appointment, was English. An aristocratic old butler, he was harmless except for his cruel sarcasm, something the colonel abhorred.

Yaya Munchid and Abdul Nizzar took care of the kitchen. Yaya had been the embassy chef for years. Little short of obese, he claimed to be diabetic, his reason for not fasting on holy days. His scullion, Nizzar, was nothing other than a little runt.

Hussein Mohammed, Al-Mannai's chauffeur and domestic help to Brown, would be worth talking to. Najeen had used him before as a source of information on unofficial embassy happenings. Last was Aziz Alludahiij, junior envoy, kin to the boss and, in any case, a slimy bastard and definite candidate.

Najeen placed his ruler under this last name and drew a thick red line. He drew a thicker line under the name Fatima Windawi, her with the big tits. She would also require a thorough checking out. The Colonel lifted the phone, dialled and waited.

‘Brrrown!’ Establishment English qualified as nauseous, even to most English people. The 'r' seemed to roll on and on and the colonel contained himself with difficulty. Trying to keep his voice calm, it still came out like a growl.

‘Is Mohammed with you?’

‘One moment.’ He heard Brown lay down the phone and summons Hussein. Footsteps could be heard echoing across the flagstone kitchen floor.

‘Yes, sir?’ Although the chauffeur had no knowledge of who wanted him, his appointment depended on making no enemies; at least, none of any importance.

‘Mohammed, please answer yes or no.’ The voice oozed like silk down the line and Hussein stiffened; if he had done anything wrong, he would be out. This man he fully recognized as a deadly snake. Beads of sweat sprang across his forehead.

‘Yes, my colonel.’

Najeen paused for a moment. ‘What does the name Iqbal A Shamshall mean to you?’

Hussein thought for a moment. Stick with the truth; he had done nothing wrong. ‘No, my colonel, I swear, the name means absolutely nothing.’

‘Shamshall is supposed to be one of our diplomatic couriers, but he doesn't exist. He’s an imposter. A truck demolished him half-an-hour ago.’ The voice continued, cold, concise and ruthless. ‘A yes or a no will do.’

Hussein shook his head, his voice refusing to respond as the colonel continued his tortuous questioning. ‘Have you been smoking hashish, Hussein?’

The chauffeur winced; the bastard was playing him like a fish on the end of a line. ‘No, my colonel, never, I swear!’ Hussein's hand, holding the telephone receiver, was now slippery with sweat. Then the question he had been dreading.

‘But you've been buying the stuff, haven't you?’

Not a question, more a statement - the final straw. The man knew everything. Hussein's voice broke. Somehow he had hung himself; just one last try. He was unable to prevent his voice shaking. ‘Not for me, my colonel, I swear...’
Najeen glowed. He had heard the rumors, now he was making use of them, requesting confirmation that Alludahiij as a junkie.

The trap was sprung. ‘Hussein, I want you to go and find the man for whom you have been supplying and bring him to me.’

Hussein fumbled. ‘I don't know who ...wha...’

Najeen's voice hardened. ‘Alluda!’ He hung up, then laughed and rubbed his hands together. Almost home on his chosen territory, he had, with unmatched professional guile, found the weak link. The question remained: Would this lead him to the traitor?

Confirmation would arrive in short order.

* * *

Eddie Harbour, pathologist, had a problem. Nothing seemed to add up and, as far as he had ascertained, Lt. Borg had no answers yet either. He bent down to smell the hair again, sweet and sickly, familiar in some way, back in the recesses of his mind. The phone rang and he answered it before replacing the receiver, rounding on the homicide chief and turning his hand into a gun. ‘Your super-dick’s in reception.’

The room had a strangely bare look, with shiny composite covering the floor. In the centre, large fluorescent lights spread cold blue illumination over a long marble table on which rested the half-shrouded torso of a dead man.
A stainless steel trolley, originally covered by a clean white cloth, now encrusted with congealed blood, contained a collection of knives and surgical instruments, plus a bowl of bloodied water. On one wall, a large, glass-fronted cabinet contained all manner of strange implements, bottles and receptacles. Beside the door, over the washbasin, a cracked mirror had been screwed onto the wall. In the corner, yet another trolley housed a pile of neatly laid out clothing. On the far side of the room, somewhat out of character, was an old wooden bureau. Open and inviting, it had been piled high with loose paper and stacks of files. Someone had covered the whole mess with plastic sheeting, like another cadaver, awaiting examination. An old swivel chair, probably from the same job lot as the bureau, completed the decor.

Metcalfe walked in, closely followed by Lime. Nodding to Borg, he wasted no time, his question leveled at the pathologist. ‘So what have you got then?’

Eddie Harbour looked up, laid a bloodied scalpel down on the table, jerked off his green rubber gloves, pulled his face-mask down and smiled to himself. If anybody could solve this mystery, according to his Head of Homicide, it was this man. In fact, pathology was a devilishly specialized subject and this was a complex case.

It would be a real opportunity to put this man in his place. The pathologist wondered where to start. There were so many inconsistencies. He stared at his would be interrogator, his voice dry and dispassionate.

‘The witnessing officer thought him dead drunk. Well he's dead, but certainly not a devotee of the God Bacchus so far as I can see.’ He pointed. ‘As you see a minor abrasion on his temporal lobe, torn and bloody fingernails that don’t make sense. No signs of external injuries other than some old scars and a recent finger replacement. His limbs were all sound.’

Glancing at the pile of clothing, Harbour continued. ‘He looked like an engineeer from the sanitary department: blue overalls, crap all over his hands and bloody fingers. Otherwise, the nails were perfectly manicured. Under his overalls, a smart, Italian designer suit, white, silk shirt, Gucci tie.’ He laughed. ’Alligator shoes, no less!’

The pathologist laughed again. ‘An elegant engineer, he dressed up for work!’ He drew off the body cloth and shook his head. ‘Under the clothes, more craters than a garden sieve!’ Scar tissue, accumulated in an armed conflict environment, was too evident to require further comment. ‘Preliminary examination shows no sign of alcohol within any area of the mouth, stomach or liver.’ Harbour indicated a bloody cavity at the centre of the man’s upper chest. ‘The heart valve is dangerously constricted, which could point to a severe heart attack but, more likely, it's some other reason. A full analysis must wait until we’ve carried out an autopsy.’ He shook his head, baffled. ‘At this moment, we have at least two, maybe three, men and I have no idea which one is the genuine article - on the assumption that anyone categorizes these days.’

Metcalfe leaned over the body and studied the man's face before looking back up at the pathologist. ‘May I?’ he asked politely. Harbour smiled, his voice full of condescension. ‘Help yourself.’

Leaning forward again, the CIA agent briefly examined the man's hands, sniffed at his hair, then his mouth and nose, before he prized open an eyelid with his fingers to study a pupil more dilated than would be considered normal.

Moving his fingers down the cold hard body, Metcalfe lifted the man's right leg and examined an unusual yellow-green tinge that extended down to the foot itself. The other leg bore no such discoloration. He lifted the foot from the slab and examined the heel; he could sense the others were also leaning forward.

Lime was first to speak. ‘What d'you reckon, Guv’nor?’

In answer, Metcalfe stared off into the distance, as if in a trance. Finally, he nodded as if he had made up his mind. Turning to face them, his voice was assertive and confident. ‘Lebanese or Syrian, of reasonably high rank, so should not be too difficult to trace. Possibly army, probably with the militia, Christian militia, I’d guess, but not anymore. Now he is, or was, some sort of business man.’

The agent turned to Eddie Harbour who stood, open-mouthed, in disbelief. ‘You said no alcohol, no recent broken bones, a possible heart attack?’

The pathologist nodded. ‘A heart attack, maybe.’

Lime smiled at Harbour. ‘That wasn't bad, though, eh?’

The man, far from convinced, glared at Metcalfe.
‘I don't suppose you'd like to justify your, er, conclusions?’ He desperately tried to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

Metcalfe nodded. ‘I believe it was, indeed, a heart attack. Why? He was relatively young and healthy; no sign of corpulence or high blood pres¬sure. The shock of the truck as it closed on him, yes, but this man was dying before he was hit.’ He lifted the dead man’s hand and pointed to the index finger. ‘That was put back nicely, but not exactly removed surgically. Maybe in the last six months.’ He lifted the remaining fingers and looked directly at Harbour. ‘You agree he made an extremely unlikely manual worker?’

Harbour was beginning to thaw out. ‘I would think it extremely unlikely.’

Metcalfe pointed to the fingernails. ‘You need to know what’s mixed in with the blood. You also need a shot at where it came from.’ He looked around at the others. ‘This part-icular damage occurred just prior to his death!’ Harbour regretted not mentioning these obvious factors himself but, now, the agent was in full flow.
‘Otherwise, hands are well kept and manicured. He was expensively dressed. A soldier once, but now he'd made the grade; he'd joined the élite.’

Harbour sensed the time had come to pounce. ‘So, explain, why the overalls?’

Metcalfe smiled and shook his head. ‘When he died he was, indeed, two men. He came out this morning to do two important jobs and knew he wouldn’t have time to go home and change.’

As Harbour tried to assimilate this idea, the CIA man was already developing yet another thought.
‘I have a feeling that he might not have been clear on which man he was supposed to be at the moment of death. He should not have been wearing those overalls at all.’

The man had gone too far. Harbour interrupted again. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said dismissively.
‘That's pure supposition.’

Metcalfe nodded and smiled wryly. ‘Yes, I guess it is.’

Now Harbour could reclaim his authority and put everyone in their place. He shook his head disparagingly, still aggrieved at the man’s apparent arrogance. ‘You mentioned the Christian Militia in the Lebanon? That was a long time ago.’

The agent scratched his nose carefully. ‘Probably Christian and probably the militia.’ He explained. ‘It was in the mid-eighties. The Muslims obtained a large consignment of P632s, armor piercing mortars, from the Americans.’

Pointing to a mottled, yellow-green scar at the side of the man's foot, Metcalfe traced the segments of skin missing around it. ‘It happens only one type of ordnance made that sort of fragmentation wound and colour stain: a chemical explosive they used.’ He looked up again.
‘Muslims don't usually shoot themselves in the foot, although I'm sure it must have happened.’

Harbour was starting to look impressed, but wanted to be sure. ‘What classifies where he came from?’ he asked, almost certain now that the man would be equal to answer.

Metcalfe gave him another of those long level stares. ‘Can you guess at the flavor of the month in Beirut at the moment?’ Harbour bent again and sniffed at the man's hair. Of course, that was it, Attar of Roses: The pathologist smiled and nodded his head. Yeah, Borg was right, this man knew his business.

A compact man with lank blond hair and sharp attentive features moved forward. Standing by the door, so far he had not said a word. His face, filled with admiration, was swiftly replaced by a rueful grin. ‘You’ve still got it, JAM.’ The homicide detective turned to Lime, holding out his hand, warmth lighting his features. ‘I’m Alan Borg.’ Lime took his hand but before he could introduce himself, the man continued. ‘1992, at training college. He was a year behind me.’ He laughed, turning to Metcalfe. ‘A legend. Nobody believed you were for real.’ Still holding Lime’s hand, he turned back. ‘I wanna tell you, this guy's some hotshot!’

Lime grimaced. ‘You’re telling me, mate. Back in the smoke, we call him the Guv’nor!’ The accent dispelled any doubt of his origin. ‘We’ve got the form on this one, don’t you worry!’ Borg didn’t worry. He’d long since been con¬verted.
Metcalfe studied his watch; it was coming up to 2.30. Nodding to Harbour, he pointed to the body. ‘Somewhere in that body is the answer. A heart attack - yes, probably - but why? What caused it? You need to find out quickly!’

Metcalfe turned to Borg. ‘Alan, listen. This is your case. You must ensure that the embassy is clear from trouble and we need be sure our guys are not involved. A man called Al-Mannai is about to change the face of the Middle East. Nothing can stop it happening.’

Borg nodded sagely. ‘Yeah, I’m aware of that. We got the full run-down a week ago.’

Metcalfe continued. ‘Listen, I have no choice. I’m gonna check the situation.’ His voice was heavy with emphasis. ‘Unofficially!’ Before either man could answer, he had left the room and was striding along the corridor … again.