Death of the Falcon Page 2

  There was no one inside, which made me a little wary; instinctively, I touched the outlines of my Luger and sheath to reassure myself that my best friends were along, then I settled back in the glove leather upholstery as the driver came around to take his place behind the wheel. He swung the big car around the circle and along the driveway to Virginia Avenue, where he bore right.

  When we stopped for a light, I tried the door and it opened without any trouble. That put me a bit more at ease, so I flicked up the panel lid in the armrest and pressed the switch that lowered the glass window separating me from the driver. “Are you sure you know the way?” I asked, trying to keep it light.

  “Oh, yes sir,” the driver replied. I waited a minute, expecting him to add something that might tell me where we were headed, but nothing came.

  “Do you go there often?”

  “Yes sir.” Strike two.

  “Is it far?”

  “No sir, we’ll be at the White House in just a few minutes.”

  Home run. Clear out of the ball park, in fact; visits to the White House weren’t in my usual itinerary. Well, I told myself, overnight you’ve moved up from the Secretary of State to the President. But why?

  But it was Hawk, not the President, who told me that I soon would be playing nursemaid to a woman who was called the Silver Falcon, and she was the most potentially explosive woman in the world.

  The Silver Falcon.

  “Her name is Liz Chanley and she arrives in Washington tomorrow,” Hawk said. “And your job is to make certain that nothing happens to her. I’ve told the President and the Secretary that we will undertake responsibility for her safety until such time as she no longer appears to be in danger.”

  As Hawk mentioned the two others in the room with us, I stared at each of them in turn. I couldn’t help it. The President caught me at it and gave a slight nod. The Secretary of State caught me at it, too, but he was too much of a gentlemen to add to my embarrassment by acknowledging the fact of it. My only chance for a comeback lay in looking smart, I decided, so I broke in with, “I know who Liz Chanley is, sir.”

  Hawk looked as if he could kill me right then and there for even giving an indication that one of his prize men might not know who everyone of importance is, but I was relieved when, before he could file it away in his mind to dwell on it later, the Secretary of State suddenly asked: “How?”

  “I’ve had several assignments in the Mideast, sir, and our backgrounders are quite thorough.”

  “What do you know about Liz Chanley?” the Secretary went on.

  “That she is the ex-wife of the Shah of Adabi. That her Arabian name is Sherima and that they had triplet daughters about six years ago. And about six months ago she and the Shah were divorced. She’s an American, and her father was a Texas oilman who helped set up the drilling operations in Adabi and became a close friend of the Shah.”

  Nobody seemed to want to stop my recital, so T went on: “Right after the divorce, Shah Hassan married the daughter of a Syrian general. Liz Chanley—Sherima is using her American name again—stayed on in the royal palace at Sidi Hassan until about two weeks ago, then she went to England for a visit. Supposedly, she is returning to the States to buy a place in the Washington area and settle down. She has a number of friends here, most of whom she met during the years she made diplomatic visits with the Shah.

  “As for this name you’ve been calling her,” I said, “I’ve never heard it. I assume this is classified.”

  “In a way, yes,” the Secretary nodded, and a barely perceptible smile crossed his lips. “The Silver Falcon is the name the Shah gave her after they married, to symbolize her new royal position. It was their personal secret Until this problem began.”

  The President elaborated. “We have been using it as a code, so to speak.”

  “I see,” I replied. “In other words, when it’s not wise to speak of her directly in some situations—”

  “She becomes the Silver Falcon,” Hawk finished for mc.

  I turned to the President. “Sir, I am sure that there is more I should know of the former Queen, and about Adabi.”

  “With your permission, Mr. President, I’ll fill in some details that Mr. Carter may not know,” the Secretary of State began. Receiving a nod of approval, he went on: “Adabi is a small, but powerful nation. Powerful because it is one of the richest of the oil-producing countries and because its army is one of the best trained and equipped in the Mideast. And both of those facts are thanks primarily to the United States. The Shah was educated in this country and it was just about the time he completed his post-graduate studies at Harvard that his father died of bone cancer. The old Shah might have lived longer if there had been adequate medical help available in Adabi, but there wasn’t and he refused to leave his country.

  “When Shah Hassan took over as ruler,” the Secretary continued, “he was determined that never again would one of his people want for medical care. He also wanted to make certain that his subjects benefitted from the best educational opportunities that money could buy. But there wasn’t any money in Adabi, because at that time, no oil had been discovered there.

  “Hassan realized that his land had essentially the same geological makeup as the other nations which were producing oil, so he asked our government for assistance in exploratory drilling operations. Several of the Texas-based oil companies formed a corporation and sent their drilling experts to Adabi, in response to a request from President Truman. They found more oil than anyone imagined possible and the money started to roll into the treasury at Sidi Hassan.”

  The Secretary went on to explain that Hassan’s former wife was the daughter of one of the Texas oil experts in Adabi. Liz Chanley had become a Moslem when she married the Shah. They had been unusually happy together with their three small daughters. She never had a son, but that no longer mattered to Hassan. The marriage contract had specified that the crown would pass on to his younger brother. “Who, I might add, also likes the United States, but not so much as Hassan,” the Secretary pointed out.

  “Over the years, particularly since the 1967 Arab-Israeli war,” he continued, “Shah Hassan has managed to bring a moderate voice into Arab councils. But the pressure on him has increased tremendously. Twice in recent years, fanatics have attempted to kill Hassan. Unfortunately for the plotters against the Shah, the assassination attempts only united his people more solidly behind him.”

  I couldn’t help but interrupt to ask why Hassan divorced Sherima.

  The Secretary of State shook his head. “The divorce was Sherima’s idea. She suggested it after the last attempt on Hassan’s life, but he wouldn’t hear of it. But she kept telling him that if he left her, the other Arab countries might take it as a sign that he was really on their side and call off their campaign to unseat him. She finally convinced him that he had to do it, if not for his own safety, for the sake of their little girls.

  “Sherima also was the one who suggested he remarry right away—and she insisted his new wife be Arab. In fact, she was the one who picked the girl after scouting -around for an alliance that might link Hassan to a powerful military man in another country.”

  “Why such concern for her safety here?” I asked. It seemed to me, I explained, that once she no longer was the Shah’s wife, she shouldn’t be in any danger.

  The President turned to Hawk and said, “I believe you’d better handle this part of the explanation. It was your agency’s sources who provided the information on the plot to kill former Queen Sherima.” He turned from Hawk to me, then back again before he said, “And your agency discovered the part of the plot to ‘prove’ that all during her marriage she was acting as a secret agent of the United States government.”

  Chapter 3

  “You’re familiar, of course, with the Silver Scimitar movement,” Hawk began. He didn’t wait for me to acknowledge the fact—and I couldn’t blame him for trying to impress the President with the assumption that his top agent was, of course, familiar wi
th all Mideastern goings-on; he was, after all, The Man when it came to getting us badly needed operating funds over the protests of the CIA and the Pentagon. He went on: “Since the time it originally was established as the enforcement arm of the Black September movement, the fanaticism of its members has increased almost day by day.

  “In recent months, the extent of Scimitar atrocities has alarmed even Al Fatah. It’s reached the point where Black September, which supplies Scimitar with operating funds, is afraid to try to stop the bloodletting. One of the September leaders who did try pulling back on the reins was found murdered in Baghdad. The Iraqi government has kept the lid on how he died, but our Baghdad office learned the details of his ‘execution.’ He was electrocuted. A length of chain was wrapped around his body, after he had been stripped, beaten, and mutilated; then the terminals of an arc welding machine were attached to the ends of the chain and the current turned on. Every link burned its way into his flesh. Since that time, Scimitar has had its own way; no more protests.”

  Hawk paused to chomp on his cigar, then continued: “The leader of Scimitar calls himself the Sword of Allah, and his true identity is known only to about two or three of September’s high command. Even they’re afraid to mention his real name. For some reason, he hates Shah Hassan and is determined to drive him from the throne. We know he was behind the most recent assassination attempt, and probably instigated the first one.

  “Our office in Sidi Hassan captured one of the Sword’s top lieutenants and persuaded him to tell us what he knew of Scimitar’s plans—”

  “How?” the President asked.

  “Sir?”

  “How did you persuade him?”

  “We used the arc welding machine technique,” Hawk admitted. “Only we didn’t throw the switch. The man had taken part in the execution of the September leader and had seen its effects. He started talking when our man reached for the switch.”

  There was a short silence, then the President said, “Go on.”

  “Sherima was picked as the target for the attempted destruction of Hassan,” Hawk said. “When the Sword learned she was returning to the States, he came up with a brilliant plan.

  “What if she were killed while she was in Washington? And at the same time, Hassan were presented with evidence—forged and false, of course, but almost impossible to disprove—that all during their marriage, Sherima had been a secret agent of our government.”

  “But wouldn’t the opposite be true?” I asked. “If she were a United States agent, wouldn’t she be safest here?”

  “That’s where the little kicker comes into the plan,” Hawk said. “From some source close to Sherima he has obtained a statement purported to be an admission. In effect, it says that she really came to Washington to tell her capitalist bosses that she was despondent over what she had done to the man she always loved and that she was going to tell Hassan the truth. Then, the Sword’s story would be that she was slain by the CIA before she could tell the Shah how she had used him. Her forged ‘admission,’ of course, would be in the Shah’s hands.”

  “Would the Shah believe it?” the Secretary of State wanted to know.

  “We know the deep extent of his emotional attachment to her—it’s hard to tell how a man that much in love will respond,” Hawk said. “If he could be persuaded that Sherima had pressed for the divorce as a means of getting out of the country because she no longer wanted to hurt him, he also might accept as logical the forged evidence of her involvement with the CIA.”

  “Mr. Carter,” the Secretary said, “can you imagine what would happen in the Mideast if Shah Hassan were to turn against us? For many years, Hassan has been regarded as one of our best friends in his part of the world. More than that, his military forces have become almost an extension of our own in the thinking and planning of the Pentagon, in so far as an all-out war effort is concerned. It is vital that he remain a friend of the United States.”

  On the way from the White House to AXE headquarters in the Secretary of State’s limousine, Hawk seemed preoccupied. He asked casual questions about my return flight, how I liked my room at the Watergate, and if the wardrobe he had ordered to be put together fitted me properly. I was pretty sure there was more he wanted to tell me, but he was taking no chances that the chauffeur might overhear, despite the heavy partition that separated us from him. The driver had been ordered to take us wherever we wanted to go, then to return to pick up the Secretary, who had more matters to discuss with the President.

  By the time we were seated in Hawk’s office—the only room where he really felt secure, because he had his electronics experts check it out daily for surveillance devices —he had chewed the Dunhill to the length he felt most comfortable with. I relaxed in one of the heavy oak captain’s chairs that sat in front of his desk, while he hurriedly went through the latest in a never-ending stream of dispatches, coded messages and situation evaluation reports that flowed through his office.

  Finally, the pile of papers had shrunk to three manila folders. He handed me the first, a thick dossier on Sherima that went back to her childhood in Texas and included just about everything she had done since that time. Calling my attention to the latest reports on the former Queen, he summarized them briefly, with instructions to memorize the information before morning. Shah Hassan had been exceedingly generous to the woman he divorced, Hawk said, pointing out that our Zurich office had learned that $10,000,000 had been deposited to her account on the day she left Sidi Hassan.

  From AXE’s office in London, where Sherima went first after flying out of Adabi on the Shah’s personal 747, was a précis of several hundred hours of tapes picked up by our bugs. It revealed that Sherima was, as I already had been told, planning on buying an estate somewhere in the horse-farm countryside outside Washington. The Arabian stallions and brood mares she had lovingly tended at the palace in Sidi Hassan were to be flown to her when she got settled.

  According to the report, Sherima would be arriving in D.C. in just two days. The Adabian embassy here had been instructed to arrange for a suite for her and her party at the Watergate Hotel. “It’s all set up,” Hawk said. “Your room is next to that suite. That wasn’t too difficult to arrange. However, we haven’t been able to bug that suite yet. The couple who are in it now won’t be leaving until the morning of the day she arrives and, unfortunately, the woman in it came down with a virus two days ago and hasn’t been out of the room since. We are going to try to get somebody in there before Sherima’s party arrives, but don’t count on the bugs for a day or two.”

  I flipped to the dossiers on the people who would be traveling with Sherima. There were two; a .bodyguard and a companion. An entire staff would be hired for her after she selected an estate.

  The first folder covered the bodyguard, Abdul Bedawi. He looked like Omar Sharif, except for the nose, which had a prominent bridge that gave him a typically Arabian hook. “He was personally selected for the job by Hassan,” Hawk said. “The man was a former palace guard who saved Hassan’s life during the last assassination attempt. We don’t have too much on him except that he became the Shah’s personal bodyguard after that and supposedly is very loyal to him—and to Sherima. We hear he protested when Hassan assigned him to the ex-Queen and sent him away, but finally did as he was ordered.

  “Abdul is supposed to be strong as a bull and an expert in judo and karate, as well as being a crack shot with every kind of weapon. He might come in handy if you get in a pinch. But don’t trust him. Don’t trust anybody.”

  Hawk handed over the next folder with a little smile, saying “I think you’ll like this part of the job, Nick.”

  I saw what he meant as soon as I looked at the picture stapled to the inside cover. The girl was nuzzling the mane of the white stallion. Her reddish blonde hair made its own mane as it fell well past her slender shoulders, framing a beautiful face accented by high cheekbones. Her lips were moist and full, and her large hazel eyes seemed to laugh at someone or something in the distance.


  The body that went with that face was even more magnificent. She was wearing a black turtleneck sweater, but its bulk couldn’t hide the curves of ripe, full breasts, high and almost straining to be set free. Slim-cut black and white checked slacks set off a narrow waist and outlined her graceful hips and long shapely legs.

  Hawk cleared his throat with a prolonged ahem. “When you’re finished looking at the picture, you might take a look at the rest of the dossier,” he said. Dutifully I moved on.

  Each of the accompanying sheets was headed Candace (Candy) Knight. The first contained the basics. Although she looked about twenty-three, she was actually approaching thirty. Like Liz Chanley, she was Texas-born, and her widowered father had been one of the oilmen who had gone with Chanley to Adabi, to undertake exploratory drilling operations. I was beginning to understand Hawk’s choice of wardrobe for me. Candace Knight’s father and Bill Chanley had been close friends, and Candace had become good friends with Sherima.

  The dossier told of another assassination attempt on the Shah; like Abdul, Candy’s father had saved the Shah. But unlike Abdul, his heroism had cost Candy’s father his life. He had thrown himself in front of the gunman. Hassan, apparently, never forgot it. Knowing that the young girl had no mother, he practically adopted Candy into the royal household. Her friendship with the Queen, I figured, eased that transition somewhat.

  Candy Knight had no family left after her father’s death. She was unmarried, and according to the report, apparently devoted to Sherima. After the divorce, the Shah persuaded Candy to accompany her to Washington.

  He set up a half-a-million-dollar account for the young woman in Zurich at the same time that Sherima’s account was established.

  According to observations in the Shah’s household, Candy had always appeared cold toward Hassan, despite his many material and human kindnesses toward her. Our investigator in Sidi Hassan reported that Candy was rumored to have once been in love with Hassan.