White Death Read online

  We were beginning to overtake the truck now, moving up steadily as we came past a long row of refineries. We gained more ground as the truck turned north onto the road along the docks. Soon we were beyond the outskirts of the town, traveling parallel to the Shatt-al-Arab. To the left, the tankers lay silent in their river berths; beyond them was the marshy northern end of the island.

  Flaherty’s only hope, it seemed to me, was to cross the bridge between Abadan and the mainland, and then to lose us in the narrow streets of Khorramshahr. But this was scarcely possible. We were no more than twenty yards behind the truck, and still gaining. In another minute we would overtake it.

  Suddenly all I could see in front of me was the gleaming metal side of the truck. Without warning, Flaherty had jammed on his brakes, spinning the truck sideways in front of us. Our driver tried desperately to stop, but he couldn’t avoid running into the truck.

  We were shaken but uninjured, and we hastily ran from the jeep and took cover. From the truck, a submachine gun opened fire. We returned the fire, spreading out and moving forward cautiously. It was evident that Flaherty was shooting blindly into the darkness, with very little chance of hitting anyone. One of the policemen fumbled in his pocket for a grenade. Before he could throw it, the machine gun stopped.

  Suspecting a trick, we moved very cautiously up to the cab. Behind the wheel we found Flaherty. He was still hunched over his gun, but his forehead had been shot away. There was no sign of the Arabs who had been with him.

  We searched the area and found nothing. Then we heard a faint splashing noise. The Arabs were on the river, about a hundred yards out, and paddling steadily toward the Iraqi shore. As we watched, their canoe vanished into the river mists.

  Clearly, this emergency method of escape had been prepared a long time ago. Flaherty must have expected to cross with the Habbaniya, and to stay with them until he found a means of leaving Iraq. If he had had a better start, his plan would have worked. As it was, only a lucky shot had ended his chances. I told this to Dain as we walked back toward the truck, and Dain nodded but gave no reply. His thoughts seemed a million miles away. I supposed that this was the natural letdown after a long and difficult case, and I didn’t press him for his views.

  We returned to the truck, and the Ma’di formally identified the dead man. That marked the completion of the most difficult part of the case. What remained was to question all of Flaherty’s friends, to check the records of the Virginia and Chesapeake Oil Company, and to search their premises. But that was no more than standard police procedure. The really important work was done.

  In the distance we heard sirens; the Abadan police force had finally discovered that something was wrong. Chitai looked haggard but pleased. I suppose he was already feeling the dollars in his hand, and I wondered how many of those dollars the Dushak tribe would ever see. Our Ma’di was muttering prayers over Flaherty’s body. Dain had bent down for a more detailed examination of the corpse.

  Abruptly, Dain straightened up. He played his flashlight over the roof and sides of the cab. Then he turned to me and asked, “Where were you during the shooting?”

  “Over there,” I said, pointing to a bush near the jeep.

  “Ask the others where they were.”

  I asked, and pointed out the positions to Dain. We had formed a rough semicircle around the cab.

  “Why do you want to know?” I asked. “Was there something wrong with our tactics?”

  “No, not that,” Dain said. “The trouble is, none of us could have shot Flaherty.”

  “We could and did, sir,” I said. “One of us shot Flaherty through the forehead.”

  Dain shook his head.

  “But the wound—”

  “It’s an exit wound,” Dain said. “The bullet came out through his forehead. If you look on the other side, you’ll see the point of entry at the base of his skull. Flaherty was shot from behind.”

  “Perhaps a ricochet,” I suggested.

  “There’s no mark in the cab to indicate a ricochet. Also, the skin around the entry wound is singed. Somebody held a gun to Flaherty’s head and pulled the trigger.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then it must have been the Habbaniya,” I said. “Their hatred of foreigners is well known. At the last moment they must have decided—”

  “The Habbaniya shot him,” Dain said, “but not out of hatred of foreigners. They had been doing business with Flaherty for years.”

  “Then it makes no sense.”

  “It makes sense if you sort out the roles differently,” Dain said. “We assumed that Flaherty was the top man, in control of the entire operation. But what if he wasn’t? Suppose he was only the front man?”

  “In that case,” I said, “someone must have planned to dispose of him if—”

  I was interrupted by an abrupt movement to my left. I turned quickly, reaching for my revolver. But I was already too late. One of the Iranian policemen had edged away from us and drawn his machine pistol. We had found another heroin smuggler; but the moment of discovery was singularly inapropos.

  We were all in a state of momentary shock. But the man most affected was the other Irani policeman. He stared at the machine pistol, and there was a sickness of betrayal in his eyes. Suddenly he lunged at his former comrade. At the same instant, our Ma’di threw himself forward.

  They had no chance at all. The policeman, his legs spread wide, cut down the Ma’di and his fellow Irani with a single burst. Then he pointed the pistol at us, and I was certain that our last moment had come.

  But he hesitated, for the sirens were very close now.

  “Drop your weapons,” he said. We complied. “Now go to the jetty. Move at a slow trot, and do not force me to shoot.”

  We trotted away from the truck, and away from the approaching police cars. We made no attempt to break away; he was too quick with that machine pistol, and too close behind us. I could taste death in my mouth, and I was too discouraged to curse my evil luck.

  But who could have foreseen it—that one of the conspirators would be an Irani policeman, and an English-speaking one at that? Well, I should have foreseen it, or at least been conscious of the possibility. More emphatically, Dain should have foreseen it. He had forgotten a truth that holds good anywhere in the world: when you look for criminals, you must also keep an eye on the police.

  Then I put aside these thoughts and concentrated on the all-important issue of saving my life. We were being hurried down a long pier. Above us loomed the darkened hull of an oil tanker. Far behind us, too far to help, several police jeeps had pulled up beside the truck.

  We came to a gangway leading up into the tanker. The policeman stopped us here and ordered us aboard. I followed the others, and tried to calculate my chances of leaping into the water. But the policeman was at my back, prodding me with his pistol.

  We came onto the deck. “Move over this way,” a man said. He spoke in English, and his voice had an American intonation. We moved toward him. Two other men came out of the shadows and took in the gangway. As they did so, I felt that my last tie with life had been severed. We stood silently, Dain, Chitai, and I, with the policeman behind us and the American in front.

  “Now,” the American said, “let’s go below and have a talk.”

  We went. But I already knew how the conversation would have to end.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  With the American in front of us and the Irani and two seamen behind, we were led down a flight of iron stairs and into a stateroom of moderate size. We were searched, and then ordered to stand against the wall farthest from the door. Looking at the four armed men facing us, I was sharply reminded of a firing squad; but we were granted a momentary respite.

  Turning angrily to the Irani policemen, the American said, “Are you crazy or something? Why in hell did you bring them here?”

  “Before God, Mr. Smith,” the policeman said, “it was the cleverest move possible.”
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  “A couple more of your clever moves and I’ll wind up in Sing Sing,” Mr. Smith said. “I don’t pay you to think up clever moves, I pay you to follow orders. Orders, you know what I mean?”

  The question seemed rhetorical, but Mr. Smith—the real and final Mr. Smith—waited for an answer. He was a very ordinary-looking person. In his fifties, I would judge, somewhat on the short side and slightly overweight, wearing a gray lightweight business suit and a dark tie. I knew he was a master-criminal; yet he fitted none of my prior ideas of such men. He was neither suave, brutal, coldly deadly, or fiercely murderous. He seemed, in fact, quite plain and unexceptional, and he had the look of a worried businessman. But perhaps this was his most terrifying quality.

  “Well?” Smith demanded.

  “Yes sir, I know, sir,” the policeman said. “But because of the very unexpected happenings, I thought—”

  “You thought,” Mr. Smith interrupted, and rubbed his eyes with the air of a man exasperated beyond human endurance. “Who in hell pays you to think? For Chrissakes, if there’s one thing I’ve emphasized maybe ten thousand times it’s that I don’t want any connection between the stuff and my ship. The cops find one connection and I might as well get myself a new business.”

  The policeman said, “There is no proof—”

  “Proof? Who gives a damn about proof? Just give those customs guys one good hint and they toss this ship every time she comes into port. They strip her down to bare plates and leave the mess for us to clean up. And they call in the vultures at Health and Immigration to hold us for suspected bubonic or some damned thing so we default on our shipments. And God knows what more. Proof? Those bastards don’t need proof. All they got to do is make it too damned expensive for a man to operate.”

  Mr. Smith brooded for a while on the inhuman behavior of American officials. Dain gave him something more to think about by adding, “There’s also the FBI and related organizations, as well as the Irani police. Heroin smuggling is bad enough, but the file is never closed on murder.”

  “I haven’t killed anybody,” Smith said indignantly.

  “You’re thinking about it now,” Dain pointed out.

  “All right, shut up,” Smith said. “I don’t want to talk to you yet. I gotta figure this thing out.”

  Dain shut up and Smith thought. The Irani policeman watched him, and the two American seamen, as silent and ominous as basilisks, watched us.

  Mr. Smith didn’t seem to like his conclusions, because he turned to Dain and said, “Goddammit, I never got mixed up in murder before. That’s a mug’s game, I swore I’d never get mixed up in that. But these clumsy bastards I got working for me, they think with their hands. … Look, you’re some kind of federal cop, right?”

  Dain nodded.

  “Okay, so where do I stand?”

  “I’m not an expert on this,” Dain said, “but I’d say you’re already an accessory to murder. Legally, that makes you just as guilty as the man who pulled the trigger. So, depending on who gets the jurisdiction, you could either hang in Iran or go to the electric chair in the United States.”

  “That’s fine,” Smith said bitterly. “That’s just great.”

  “However,” Dain said, “what happens depends on you. A charge of first-degree murder can be reduced. If you surrender right now, giving us valuable aid and information, I’m pretty sure you’ll be allowed to plead to a lesser charge.”

  “What about the narcotics rap?”

  “That will stand,” Dain said.

  “Just great,” Smith said. “When you offer a deal, you really offer a deal, don’t you, pal?”

  “This isn’t any deal,” Dain said. “I’m not empowered to make any arrangement with you. I’m simply telling you the customary procedure, and outlining your alternatives.”

  “Brother, you’re a great little salesman,” Smith said. “You couldn’t sell sterno to a freezing Eskimo.”

  But I could see that he was impressed. Dain’s meager concessions had convinced this suspicious man better than the promise of a full pardon would have done. Smith knew very well that he faced a long prison term, at the least. The question was whether he would accept this, or whether he would kill us and try to conceal his various crimes.

  Smith turned to the Irani policeman and asked him what had gone wrong. The policeman—we learned that his name was Fahad—explained that we had traced Flaherty much faster than anyone had expected. As for himself, he had only had time for one quick telephone call before he was dispatched to the scene. And to make matters worse, he’d been forced to bring along Mifleh Ali Zuweid, one of the stupid incorruptibles with which every police force is cursed. Mifleh had just been getting into the police jeep for a routine patrol of the waterfront, so there had been no unsuspicious way of getting rid of him.

  Fahad had managed to misuse the radio; but he couldn’t slow the jeep, since Mifleh was driving. Because of this, the jeep and the truck had reached the dock at almost the same time. There had been a fight, and the Habbaniya had been unable to do the last part of their work with skill. Their killing of Flaherty could not be considered good workmanship. …

  “Dammit,” Smith said, “I told you long ago I didn’t want Flaherty killed.”

  “Unless it was necessary,” Fahad said.

  “Well, naturally a guy’s gotta look out for himself. But those Arab buddies of yours could just as easily have taken him across the river with them.”

  “Perhaps,” Fahad said. “But there would have been difficulties. A thousand things might have gone wrong.”

  “So what? We knew the score when we started. I told you to give it to Flaherty only if it was absolutely necessary.”

  “In my judgment, it was,” Fahad said. “With Flaherty dead, no one could find a link between him and us. You pointed that out yourself, Mr. Smith. Don’t you remember?”

  Smith ignored the question and said, “Okay, so your trigger-happy pals shot down Flaherty and took off across the river. Then what happened?”

  “This one,” Fahad said, pointing to Dain, “realized that Flaherty could not have been killed in the fighting. He saw that Flaherty had been shot at close range in the back of the head.”

  “Sure he saw it. A ten-year-old child knows the difference between an entry and an exit wound. Those friends of yours are sure classy workers.”

  Fahad shrugged. “We used what was available.”

  “You told me they were good.”

  “They are, but not in your American way.”

  “Sure they are,” Smith said. “You’re good, too. The federal guy finds something suspicious, so you lose your head and gun that other cop—what’s his name, Mifleh?”

  “His name war Mifleh. I shot him because he tried to assault me. And I did not lose my head. And then …”

  “Go on.”

  “I was also forced to shoot a Ma’di who was with these men.”

  “You had yourself a busy night,” Smith said.

  “I did what was necessary.”

  “And then you brought these guys here. That was a real smart move, that was a beauty! Why didn’t you just put an ad in the newspaper?”

  “Mr. Smith, under the circumstances—”

  “Sure, circumstances. As long as you were playing cowboy, why didn’t you finish the job?”

  “The police were too close. I couldn’t be certain of killing all three men before they arrived. And if even one had been able to talk, everything would be finished.”

  “All right,” Smith said. “But you shouldn’t have killed anybody. So what if Flaherty’s death looked suspicious? Nobody would connect him with me.”

  “But they might have been able to connect him with me,” Fahad said.

  Smith sighed and wiped his forehead. “Well, it’s done. Now there’s the little matter of three missing guys and one missing cop. What about that?”

  “The missing cop,” said Fahad, “will turn up in Iraq under a different name. There will be no difficulties.”
r />   “And the three guys?”

  Fahad smiled. “I think they will have to be permanently missing. After a while, the authorities will assume that they were drowned in the Shatt-al-Arab while in pursuit of the Habbaniya.”

  “A pretty flimsy story,” Smith said.

  “Yes. But the authorities will find it better than no story at all.”

  I could see that Smith was squirming uncomfortably around the stark necessity of killing us. He knew that some kind of extenuating circumstance might be found for everything that had happened before. But if he had us killed now, by his own order and aboard his own ship, then no court in the world would show him the slightest leniency. Prison was an unpleasant thought; but execution was terrifying. It gave a man something to think about

  Smith sat down, loosened his tie, and lighted a cigarette. He took a few puffs and put it out. He said to Fahad, “It isn’t that easy, you know.”

  “It’s perfectly easy,” Fahad said angrily. “By God, if you can’t do it, I can!”

  He pulled his revolver from its holster. As he did so, Dain said, “The police are probably searching the dock area for us. What if they hear the shots?”

  “He’s right,” Smith said.

  “Nobody would hear those shots!” Fahad said.

  “I don’t know if they’d hear them or not,” Smith said. “But let’s play it safe.”

  “Then call in the rest of your crew,” Fahad said. “Call them in here and order them to strangle these men.”

  The two seamen standing beside Smith gave Fahad a look of cool contempt; evidently this was not the American way of doing things. Smith said, “I don’t think the boys would do it. Also just who do you think you are giving orders? I’m still running this, and a damned good thing, too. If you had your way you’d shoot up everybody. Christ, one little thing goes wrong and you blow the whole operation.”

  “I did what was necessary,” Fahad said. “At least I didn’t turn into a coward!”