Med Port

By Susan Saint Sing

The stunning opening of the Med Port in Tangier, Morocco in 2012 as the largest sea port and free market area in the Mediterranean is the focus of this fast-paced novel that shows the Med Port to be as much a hot seat of international intrigue in the 21st Century as it was when caravans crossed the desert. Mosques, dark alleyways, and a region and culture ripe with historical drama, lead to a transatlantic sailing to the Med Port and a visit to the Legation House in Morocco—the only U.S. National Landmark outside the U.S. borders. Curious? ABSOLUTELY!
Though a work of fiction, MED PORT weaves together a thread of plausibilities from news items and historical data, to create a realistic story that spans the lives and eras of John Paul Jones, George Washington, WWII, the Cold War, and the Space Lab. The suspenseful, intricate, 400-year-old trail is pieced together when two aging Cold War spies—once Russian and American counterparts—are called by their nations to team-up to find a way to stop a devastating point of national embarrassment for the United States from becoming a bargaining chip used by the Chinese to overthrow the global financial markets. In these carefully crafted pages, kings, presidents, old friends, murder, love, intrigue, history, and the environs and city of the Med Port etch their presence vividly into the reader’s imagination.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483575735

Book preview

Notes

He stood solemnly at the small informal ceremony. In front of him, his friend. A few others were there—the King for one. A surprising and tragic suicide had brought them here. The grave would be simply marked. No ornate headstone or monument. It all seemed so trivial for this to represent the last event of a life that had played such a pivotal role in a timeline of events that read like some mythic Gothic lore filled with treachery, lies, death, international intrigue, financial ruin—and love. If not for that, Brian’s burial would surely have been handled with much more ceremony, more honors, and more publicity. Bill’s son, after all, had been an international figure at one time. As it was now, no one, outside of this small group, would take note of his passing—as if he never existed.

How could this death—here and now—be so inexorably tied to events that had occurred centuries ago? He knew how, of course—as did his friend. They had been part of it. Not at the beginning so long ago, and their involvement was voluntary, to be sure. However, at the beginning there was no forethought as to where their starting point in all this might lead.

Might this tragedy have been avoided if they had done things differently? It didn’t seem likely. Many parts of the puzzle they were involved in were out of their control. They simply reacted, traveling down the only avenues of action available at the time, given the circumstances and resources available. One more day, one piece, one circumstance added, or subtracted—one less lie. Any one or all of these could have made this day unnecessary.

Bullets, Mystery, Secrecy, and Censorship Plagued Reporters of Casablanca Conference.

¹

Morocco, 1957. American Legation House (8 Zankat d ‘Amerique). Two men walked across the grass stride for stride. The sun was bright; as bright as it had been only a decade ago when the Allied powers of the world met on this very lawn they were crossing. Then, the future, though uncertain, at least appeared structured and unified, which was precisely the front that Churchill and Roosevelt wanted to present to the Axis Powers, and the image that was forced upon—the still wavering, Girauld and De Gaul. The same front of unity was being levied now, in 1957, against the Russians in the Cold War. As the two men continued past the pergola, they scarcely gave it a glance. Then, it housed news cameras that had churned away capturing the handshakes of the mightiest men on earth, authenticating their historic meeting. The pergola served as a backdrop in photographs of Churchill and Roosevelt seated casually in lawn chairs before their departure on heavily armed ships to return to their native soil signaling that these intelligence offices, then, as now, be officially opened and manned in the Legation House. Various allied intelligence groups over the years had seated themselves here to begin one of the most important tasks of war—listening. Then, turning dials, tuning in on a kaleidoscope of radio waves in an effort to break Axis enigma codes thereby sabotaging the enemy’s tactics—now, monitoring photos of Russian nuclear arsenals and the Kremlin’s ever-growing ring of spies.

In both eras, the world lived in fear.

Then, as now, normal everyday workers passed in and out through the Legation House doorway which proudly displays the seal of the United States of America. And today, as British Corporal, Basil Pennington, and U.S. Navy Lieutenant, William Bill Greenwood, passed inside, grateful for a reprieve from the scorching heat into the cool interior, they were flanked by scores of photographs of Presidents, heads of states, heroes, MacArthur signing Japan’s surrender papers on the Missouri—when Basil reached up and snatched a picture off the wall and shoved it in front of the young American.

You bloody Americans, honoring that rough’ian John Paul. Yeah, that’s his real name all right—when he himself forsook you and fought for the Russians! Which is what we ought to be doing now outright—Patton was right you know—look at us now, not even a decade later. The nerve of Stalin not comin’ere back then when our mates risked their lives to meet ‘ere—especially yours, eh? Basil, the British intelligence officer, a tall, gruff, redhead, said to his young American counterpart seating himself across from him.

He, William Greenwood, had gone by Bill since prep school days, so as not to be confused with his father and grandfather, both Williams. It was the family tradition to go to the same schools, follow in the family footsteps on the same teams which, for the Greenwoods, was crew and only crew. His family had tried Willy on him first as a childhood name, but it didn’t seem to fit his rather taller-than-his-age-size, and Billy didn’t seem to work either. He personally preferred William, because in his mind it kept him up there with his father and grandfather somehow, but no one was asking him his preference. So at prep school when Bill had stuck he didn’t object, and now, here he was—Bill.

Seating himself, he knew Basil was referring to the unprecedented meeting of FDR, De Gaul and Giraud, and Churchill who met in a clandestine villa in Ahna Casablanca in the forties. The meeting was a test, if nothing else, of security, as Roosevelt had to cross the Atlantic to be there and Churchill crossed the, as deadly, English Channel. The two young intelligence men, one American and one British, settling in after their walk from the brilliant sunshine smoked heavily in the dark stucco room which had been used to listen intently to the radio traffic between the Axis Powers. The smoke from their cigarettes wafted upwards and mingled with slow turning ceiling fans overhead. That day, those few years ago in the 1940s, was just a part of the staggering task of mounting one of the largest intelligence operations to date—deciphering, listening, zeroing-in on the intelligence traffic of the Nazis and their followers. Floating across Europe and North Africa was a kaleidoscope of messages that interwove, mixing one into the other, by the turn of a radio frequency dial. On each wall they were reminded that their day, post WWII, 1950s, was not that different, that the tactical, invasion oriented, deciphering game had been morphed into a cerebral, strategizing game of Cold War sputnik/U2 cat-and-mouse.

What the hell are you talking about? Bill, the young American asked, taking a long draw on his Lucky Strike and pulling at his sweaty undershirt collar as they sat awaiting orders in the hot, still, air. Who the C’rist is John Paul?

What? Here you are working in intelligence and you don’t even know your own blooming history? Basil quipped, stretching his long slender legs out to sit more comfortably at the less than impressive, somewhat rickety table. They’d better get us some better furniture and tools to work with if they expect us to sit in here for half the day, he muttered, looking down at the dowel of his chair which was already working itself free. He held on to the table before him and rocked slightly from left to right to test the chair’s stability and certainty of holding his 170-pound frame. When he stopped, Bill guessed Basil was satisfied, and they settled in waiting for their day’s work.

Bill wasn’t certain he liked Basil. He always thought redheads were mean- spirited. And this short parlay wasn’t gaining him any change of heart toward that observation. Basil had been complaining about everything since they arrived in Tangier two weeks ago. He didn’t particularly care for the environs either, and Basil’s unceasing hauteur of British superiority was starting to get under his skin. He had tried to be nice, tried to be polite and listen attentively—especially since this was what it was all supposed to be about, listening attentively, working with the Allies; one big team. But Basil obviously had taken the lead in superiority, although technically Bill, being a lieutenant, had a higher rank than Basil who was only a corporal, until Basil readily informed him that, "We don’t hand out rank like you Yanks. In the Royal Air Corps (and Bill was also beginning to hate how many times Basil managed to work the word royal into every sentence) we have to earn our stripes. We don’t think much of going to some Academy and getting an early commission."

Some Academy hardly summed-up Bill’s experience. For him, it had all started on that one day when he walked with Admiral Rich along the Housatonic. And yes, he was young—younger than most of the other full professors at Columbia University. And yes, he had been groomed at South Kent and as a Midshipman at the Naval Academy. Basil was right about that. He was a mathematician by degree and loved philosophy and music. Music was all mathematics as far as he was concerned. So many notes, spaced out over a grid, intended to be played in so many seconds, or half seconds, of time. Music was like an elaborate mathematical equation that lifted from the chalk board and took flight, filling the room with structured sound and rhythm. He was considered one of the brightest thinkers in the Ivy League because he was not one-dimensional. As he once described himself to one of his most venerable professors who had mentored him, he thought of himself as a concentric thinker. His intelligence did not just follow a narrow line from one point to another as his gift in mathematics did. In math, he had done considerably well for himself, already reaching the top of his field in lectures and landing a full-professorship—no easy task even with the special help he had gotten—in just four years at Columbia.

His body was one of an athlete, easily honed with his love of rowing, sailing—all things water. His thinking followed concentric rings of accomplishment and mastery. Its circle of interests followed many paths to their endpoint of expertise. During his early days at prep school, he was considered a nearly concert level pianist. He had given serious thought to pursuing his music into the symphony, graduating from South Kent as one of the finest young pianists in the state of Connecticut. But in the end, math won out and math and physics equations came to him in dreams.

He read mathematical theorems like others read books. Often he would laugh and sketch in the margins amusing himself with the quirks and telltale pathways of the creator’s thinking. When he was a child he was called creative, then as a teenager—gifted, and now, as a 26 year-old adult—genius. His thinking was in many areas of interest—more a multi-talented Leonardo da Vinci then the artistic genius of Michaelangelo—both great, but both very different from one another. He was beginning to feel that way about himself and Basil.

He was a product of New England, an unfortunate bit of luck that he was beginning to dread, since Basil had already started down that line of hegemony the first night they were together in the apartment down the street. He was relentlessly reminded by Basil that, "most everything you Americans pride yourselves in came from England—New England, New York, New Jersey"—and the worst part about it was that of course, Basil was correct.

From what Bill could surmise, the intelligence groups were put together in two or three person, all male, teams. He wasn’t certain if there would be any women joining them or not. He and Basil were Terrier Group. Why? "Because terriers are the fiercest little dogs. They run along the fence line or rout through the hedges nipping at the heels of anything they don’t like. They are persistent, dangerous, strong and with a mindset of ‘it’s up to me’ and that’s exactly what we want from you two, Colonel Frances Burnes had said to them at the initial briefing. It’s up to you, he reiterated, stressing the obvious need for good reliable intelligence essential to beating the Germans then and the Russians now. Intelligence is as deadly as any weapon—and you two are the most talented ‘snipers’ we have. Now go and zero-in, focus, single out from this labyrinth of information, falsehoods, feigns, what is sure and what is not. It’s up to you."

Bill reasoned that the American colonel was near his forties. From the Point: glasses, cigar—walked with a limp. Football? War injury? Other? Bill wasn’t certain but he liked the fact that the boss was an American. Two Brits would be insufferable, he thought to himself. But then, maybe that’s why Basil was always chirping about one thing American or another—maybe Basil just felt outnumbered.

Here, Basil, Bill said suddenly, getting a possible glimmer of insight into the high-browed Basil. Try my chair, he said in a gesture toward friendship.

Basil, seeming caught off guard by what appeared to be genuine warmth from the American upshot replied softly, Thanks lad, and sat down comfortably in the chair Bill slid to him, sliding his chair to the slighter built Bill. They both sat down again and settled in to listen. After a bit, Basil started to study Bill more closely. Maybe he wasn’t some six-week-wonder after all? But Basil was naturally skeptical, reserved, and analytical, leaning toward the disbelieving side of things in his thinking. He ought to be; he had been an instructor at the prestigious Grey-Friars College before the Cold War, and was handpicked to join up, and so, left with the permission of the Provincial. He had been their best rhetorician, and linguist, known throughout the United Kingdom as one of their clearest thinkers; razor sharp mind, sardonic wit. His training was in the classical languages, Ancient Greek, Latin of course, some of the dead languages and minor languages of the Mediterranean and Africa, Egyptian hieroglyphics—in short, a synthesizer.

Turns out his path into intelligence work was not so different than Bill’s. Basil had been approached, as Bill had, straight out of secondary school. He had been given the rudiments of a made-up language with made-up spelling and grammar rules. He had one hour to learn it and then one more hour to decipher a paragraph. Ninety-nine percent of those trying fail. Basil was one of the one percent that solved it.

He was also an ace handball player, too, Bill discovered much to his surprise, as they passed a group of young boys in the street slapping a ball against a wall in a primitive game of handball. Comes from playing squash, Basil said as his long arms reached out crane-like and snatched the ball from half inch off the dirt slamming it into the opposite corner of the wall for what would have been an un-returnable point.

Basil explained, You Yanks play a lot of tennis—squash is much more ancient and handball likely even before that. It’s all patterns you know. Once you know the possibility of the trajectory of the ball relative to the space you have—judging for speed and position of the opponent—it becomes more like a dynamic puzzle than anything else. You just have to figure it out in a split second. Put the puzzle pieces together, find the intersections to score a winning point—in three dimension of course, he had reminded Bill, lifting his right index finger, "—and hit it there."

Enough chatter, Colonel Burnes said, let’s get to it boys, he emphasized, just before leaving, and then left the room with the door thudding behind him. Bill’s mind was thinking more of the personal situation of beating Basil in handball to shut him up, rather than the small Alps of file folders the colonel had left on the table before them.

Colonel Burnes was as much of an enigma as the espionage they were trying to follow. There was absolutely nothing given away of his personal nature. He was obviously intelligent, with an air of wisdom about him. But where he was being housed, if he had family or not, what his background was, was all kept on a need to know basis Bill figured. Burnes seemed genuinely interested in their working well together and that they were secure and with at least a modicum of comfort that would allow them to stand up to the long term stress of their jobs, but other than that, he was strictly business; all military. The only clue that Bill could see of Burnes having a personal side at all was a telltale end of a cigar wrapper he had seen Burnes throwing away. He would remember that if the