The Makassar Strait Contract

By Philip Atlee

A mining operation could lead to an international incident: “I admire Philip Atlee’s writing tremendously.” —Raymond Chandler

Off the coast of Indonesia, the Japanese are harvesting an incredible amount of manganese, a mineral highly prized in the manufacturing community, from the ocean floor. The question is: how are they getting it—and how can the United States get a piece of it? The only man for the job is Joe Gall, but this seemingly simple assignment is about to go sideways . . .
 
This twist-filled adventure comes from the Edgar Award–nominated author who’s been called “the John D. MacDonald of espionage fiction” (Larry McMurtry, The New York Times).

• Language: English
• Publisher: MysteriousPress.com Open Road
• Release date: Mar 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781504065856

Philip Atlee

Philip Atlee (1915–1991) was the creator of the long-running Joe Gall Mysteries, which is comprised of twenty-two novels published in the 1960s and 70s. Born in Fort Worth, Texas, Atlee wrote several novels and screenplays—including Thunder Road starring Robert Mitchum, and Big Jim McLain starring John Wayne—before producing the series for which he is known. An avid flyer, he was a member of the Flying Tigers before World War II and joined the Marines after the attack on Pearl Harbor.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I have been playing with balloons all my life. Now, long after I should have given up such childish delights, I had one that was striped brilliant scarlet-and-blue and seventy feet high. What’s more, it was drifting like a huge pear-shaped apparition through the cloudless Spanish sky.

Not snarling with mindless anger, as jets puncture the upper air, or clattering like a deranged, humpbacked whirlybird, but gliding with noiseless abandon at three hundred feet, over the Iberian plain that stretched toward distant mountain ramparts. Nor was my view impeded by pressurized portholes; I was balancing in an open-topped wicker gondola less than four feet high and three feet across.

I was not alone. Swinging gently below the gaudy nylon envelope beside me was a tanned girl whose sunbleached hair was streaming in the wind. She was barefooted, and wore only hip-hugging denim shorts and a skimpy halter. She turned to smile at me gleefully, and leaned out of the gondola to wave at some perplexed, bearded white goats on the rocky slopes passing below.

Minutes before, we had launched our hot-air sphere, Semper Fi, from the turreted crest of Castillo de Santa Barbara, the ancient fortress looming high behind Alicante; now another balloon came drifting over the parapet to join us in the sky. It was a red-white-and-blue striper, an S40 Raven type like mine, and looked like Dr. Bill Grabb’s Yankee Doodle.

As it moved up and away from the castle, I could confirm this identification because Bill Grabb is the only American balloonist who does not use a gondola. All he has is a swing seat flanked by propane tanks. Don’t ask me why. What the hell was I, a qualified pilot with all the licenses, doing up there with my copilot waving at white goats? One answer may be that you don’t really fly a hot-air balloon; it flies you.

I picked up the skin of dark Pinosa wine, uncorked it, and handed it to Dorothy. She had a sluicing belt that dribbled a ruby residue down her chin and spotted the loose halter hung from her neck. After I had had my drink, I recorked the skin and tucked it back between my sandaled feet. As I straightened, I saw that she had removed the stained halter and tied it around one of the shroud lines. The effort lifted her firm breasts.

Hanging out the old wash! she shouted.

Another balloon was following Grabb’s into the sky; this time a black one. We had drifted past the downward slopes from the castle and were going east-by-north toward the pleasant greenery of irrigated huertas. I couldn’t spot any power lines or beacons, and at three hundred feet we seemed safe enough.

The first trip was supposed to be for familiarization of the terrain, and the nearly a hundred balloonists who had entered were supposed to take practice runs for the barograph trials we would fly in two more days. During these runs, the balloonists had to vary altitudes between a thousand and two thousand feet on horizontal courses, as swiftly as possible. The results, after the official trials, would be judged solely on stylus recordings in the barographs.

I knew that today such attempts would be wipeouts, however, because we had too much wind off the Mediterranean. Whenever you have more than five-miles-an-hour wind, you might as well give up and go where the big bag takes you. So I watched the lush green gardens and orchards of the huertas pass below us. Dorothy plucked up the wine container again; this time she spilled it into the cleft between her breasts.

We had descended to about two hundred feet, and as we passed silently over a group of peasants cleaning up green rows, Dorothy leaned far out over the side and shouted.

Hola, amigos!

The stooping farm workers straightened and looked up. A barebreasted girl, flaxen hair streaming, shouting and waving at them from a little basket below a huge bright bubble in the sky … Two of the farmers waved back, hesitantly, and the third crossed himself and went legging north at high speed, through the nearby orchard.

You’re going to get me arrested, you crazy bitch, I shouted, but Dorothy only stuck out her tongue. Laughing happily from a wine-smeared face, she jerked the rip panel of the ballooon.

We plunged down suddenly, our lifting force expelled in a rushing belch of hot air. The huge red-and-blue envelope began to shrivel above us. I hastily turned off the burners as we drifted into the orange grove and came to rest with the collapsed envelope draped over the carefully tended trees.

What looked like hundreds of oranges had been knocked to the ground, and our gondola was swinging idly a few feet above the ground. In several places, the bag had been punctured by branches. This wasn’t unusual, because the landing of every hot-air balloon is a controlled accident, but I figured this one would be expensive.

Neat, commented Dorothy, lurching against me. I dropped over the rim of the basket to the ground and held it steady while she hooked her skimpy halter back on.

Real neat, I agreed, If our chase car can find us before this farmer shoots my ass for knocking down his orchard.

They both arrived about the same time. I was piecing off the ranchero with bundles of pesetas (all hot-air balloonists carry damage money and medical kits with them) when Raul Garcia came into the orchard. He was the driver of my chase car, and helped me disentangle and pack the nylon envelope and gondola. In an hour, we were driving back toward Alicante with my ballooning equipment strapped to the top of his car.

"Melia Hotel, señor?" he inquired.

No, said Dorothy, as I nodded. "The señor’s not staying there anymore. The Yacht Club, please."

Si, señorita, said Raul, and we went humming on down the dusty road, toward the blossoming fights of Alicante and its harbor.

News to me. I looked at the girl; she was holding a cigarette she had hummed from Raul, and I lighted it.

Thanks, she said. Mr. Pearsall wants to see you. He’s on a yacht, and had your stuff transferred to it. You’ve been checked out of the Melia.

Just so we know, I said. Dorothy smiled and handed me the depleted wine-skin.

Chapter 2

My shapely copilot was a bosom friend but not an old acquaintance; I had known her less than forty-eight hours. Two days ago I had flown in to Alicante by way of Miami and Madrid, and had been unpacking in my suite in the elegant Melia Hotel when someone knocked on my door. I opened it and saw the tall, tanned girl. Wearing a skimpy tank top and skintight jeans; glitter dusted on the eyelids and bloodclot lipstick on the generous mouth.

Not an original; I had seen thousands like her all over the world in the past few years. Backpacking, hitching along the highways … Free souls except that they were nearly all alike, with a careless jargon as rigid as Latin. This one balanced on her high cork platforms and said, Hi, Mr. Gall?

Right.

I’m Dotty Wrisley, from Tulsa. Can I come in a minute?

Why not? I stepped aside, and as she sailed by, automatically appraised her good, long-legged figure, and wondered how she had gotten past the lobby. The Melia is a deluxe establishment, and has security officers at its driveway entrance and side doors. She crossed to the suite balcony and stood staring down at the curving sweep of Postiguel Beach and the blue, heaving plain of the Mediterranean.

You’re a contestant in the balloon meet, aren’t you? she asked, over a bare shoulder.

That’s right.

She tinned, rummaging in her suede shoulder bag, and held out a paper. It was a Student-Class balloon license issued by the FAA; attached to it was a third-class medical certificate. I nodded and handed it back.

So?

I’ve had fourteen flights, the tall girl explained. Made the Columbus and Indianapolis Speedway meets. The Nationals last year at Indianola, and in ’73 the World Championship at Albuquerque. How about crewing for you here?

Sorry, I said. I’ve already got Manuel Delgado of Madrid Club Globo. He’ll be in tomorrow. But sit down and have a drink, and I’ll give you a list of the other American competitors. Got it in my bag somewhere … I went to the little hall refrigerator which was stocked with scotch, cognac, beer, and other necessities.

She wanted a Cutty Sark on the rocks, so I made two of them, saying, as I handed her one, that I was no match for the European entrants, especially in the barograph trials, and had only come over for a holiday. That she would have a better chance of winning, or being near the top, with Bragg or one of the experienced Americans.

I want to go with you, she said calmly, and after sipping her drink with both legs planted apart, leaned forward and rummaged in her shoulder bag again. Her fingers were slender, and her nails glistening white.

She brought out a safety-capped pharmaceutical vial, shook a black capsule out of it, and was lifting it toward her mouth, the other hand holding the Scotch ready as a chaser, when I said, Whoa, now!

Lunging up from the big chair, I was beside her in a stride, had the lifting wrist in one hand and the shoulder bag in the other. The black capsule was a 20-milligram Biphetamine; when I had it in my hand, I upended the bag on the bed. A silver pipe with a cord on it, looking used; a wad of varicolored peseta notes; crumpled and bloody-lipsticked tissues … Why won’t they throw the frigging things away? A little mosaic compact with most of its stones knocked from the cheap setting: white powder inside. Coke, possibly.

A small, battered carton of Tampax, partially depleted, strings tucked in like unused white firecrackers. A metal Thailand cigarette case, also battered, with acid-etched temple figures flaking; inside it eight plump joints of pot. Passport three years old: Dorothy M. Wrisley, Tulsa. She was twenty-six years old, and had been born in Drumwright, Oklahoma. Issued at New Orleans.

I dumped the stuff, including her thin sheaf of American Express checks, back into the shoulder bag, put the black capsule back into the safety-top druggist’s container, prescription filled in Tulsa eight months ago, and handed her back the bag. Swept the tobacco fragments and other small litter off my bed, into an ashtray, and sat back down.

She was still sipping her drink, regarding me with interest, sprawled with her legs apart.

I raised my glass to her. Dorothy, I said, I am flattered that you picked me out. And regret that you have to leave so soon. In fact, immediately. What you’ve got in that bag will buy you an automatic six years in a Spanish can, if you get busted. But not around me, please.

She nodded, and sluiced off the rest of her drink. The generous mouth quirked. I’m real handy, she said. "I can do your socks, cut kindling if we decide to use that fireplace, and I’d put the cat out on schedule. And I do have a license, to help with your Semper Fi."

I smiled, but not too much. Kid, I told you that I have already got Delgado. He is a lot better than I am. Do you want another drink before I give you the bum’s rush?

She stood up and stretched; the tank top was taut over her nipples. And now that you’ve inspected my Tampax, can I use your can?

Oh, Jesus! I said, certainly. And went into the hallway to crouch before the small refrigerator. As she passed, Dorothy goosed me deftly and I damned near rammed my head through the freezer compartment.

You’ll be sorry, she commented. I mean, I really am useful, night and day. An old whore in the Indian Nations taught me the trick; I don’t have to go get anything. I’ve got it all right here with me.

Closing the door, she went into the bathroom. As I removed my head from the small refrigerator I could hear her humming Lady of Spain, I Adore You!

After straightening up the toppled green bottles of Perrier water, I fixed two more drinks and went with mine to the terrace. In late afternoon, I could see the curve of Alicante around the harbor, and had glimpses of the palm-fringed Explanada of España, the gardened walk bordering it, the undulating, optical-illusory promenade of cream-, red- and black-tiled tessellas; and the overpowering presence of the crenellated Castillo de Santa Barbara, looming above the port.

Sooner or later, in my line of work, I meet all the types, because I have been roaming the world for a while. This one I thought, sipping at my drink, comes close to being unique. Past hippiedom, seemingly not yet crippled or crimped, bursting with health. Like the blind mule butting into the tree, she just didn’t give a damn.

Watching shadows lengthen beyond Santa Barbara’s high ramparts, arrowing across the tawny Spanish plain and the vivid greenery of the irrigated huertas, I wondered whether we would have to take the cased balloon up the elevator in the center of the small mountain, or by the winding road around it.

Going to the phone, I got the desk, and asked if Señññor Delgado from Madrid was in the hotel yet. After a pause, the clerk said no, señor; he was expected on the next plane. I went back to the terrace, meditating on how many waves of conquerors had hit Alicante: prehistoric, Greek, warlike Iberians, Carthagenians, Romans, Moors …

The toilet flushed with an elegant hush, and Dorothy strode back to join me, bag slung over her shoulder. I handed her the other drink, and copied the list of American balloonists on a sheet of hotel stationery. She thanked me briskly, sipped at her drink, and ran down the list, making derogatory remarks about most of our countrymen.

Do yourself a favor, I suggested. Stash that shit somewhere. Don’t carry anything you’re not going to use up quick. Don’t you have any friends here?

No, said Dorothy. I just hitched in from Barcelona this morning. She got up, adjusting the shoulder strap of her grimy suede bag. Thanks for the drinks.

I walked with her to the door of the suite. You need money?

Her hazel eyes, with their sweaty dusting of glitter, flickered toward me. You searched my purse and saw my traveler’s checks, so don’t be anymore of a patronizing asshole than you have to be. And in case you’re wondering whether I left anything smelly in your bathroom, forget it. Those Tampaxes are just a subterfuge; I’ve had a vasectomy.

Then she was gone, with a satisfactory slam of the suite door. I went back to continue my unpacking, then ordered a paella, a half bottle of wine, and a dessert of turron, the native nougat sweet.

While I ate, on the terrace in the dying light, I was thinking about the girl from Tulsa. Self-sufficient was the word; figuring out what she wanted, and going after it. In Kabul, upper India, Istanbul, no reach was too remote …

Staring over the saffron-scented rice and fish, I looked out over twilit Alicante. Downtown lights blooming on and the floodlit fortress dominating the slaty sea … Reflected that she was right now hustling, an artful dodger, somewhere in the lighted seaport below my terrace.

I finished my dinner and put the tray out in the-hall. It was a long, elegantly designed tunnel, with indirect lighting behind the crystal flameaux. Fitting, perhaps, for the death of Caudillo … When I had hung the No Molestar sign on my outside doorknob, I showered. Called to check again on Manuel Delgado, and yes, he had checked in, but his room did not answer.

That news irritated me a little. He could have had the courtesy to call me before going out to dinner. He un doubtedly had scores of friends in Alicante, but the dons are supposed to be strong on manners. I stretched under the cool sheets, and reflected that there had been groupies like Dorothy Wrisley for quite a while; Rock band groupies, sports groupies, and there had always been intellectual groupies, to accommodate limp poets and macho novelists on college campus appearances …

Dorothy seemed to be an original. A hot-air-balloon groupie. It seemed a limited field.

Chapter 3

I was in a troubled sleep several hours