The Spice Route Contract

By Philip Atlee

They trained him to kill—but now he’s gone rogue—in this action-adventure thriller by “the John D. MacDonald of espionage fiction” (Larry McMurtry, The New York Times).
 
The CIA didn’t mind when the army officer deserted his post in Vietnam and wound up killing a high-level Yemeni official. After all, that’s what they’d paid him for. But now it looks like he and his fellow assassins are going after targets of their own choosing—and it’s time for freelance operative Joe Gall to step in . . .

“I admire Philip Atlee’s writing tremendously.” —Raymond Chandler

• Language: English
• Publisher: MysteriousPress.com Open Road
• Release date: Mar 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781504065900

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

One

The ship came into Lourenco Marques’ harbor at the beginning of twilight. As I stood watching from my cabin window, scarlet stained the glass before me; the port light was just above my vigil point. Arching palms and tropic shrubs fringed the curving arc of the docks. I could smell the inextricably intertwined odors of spice, excrement, and pepper which mark all East African ports. And as the ship lost way, I could make out the Vasco da Gama Garden, the Flying Angel seamen’s mission, and the war memorial before the railway station.

The ship was Disa of the Brodin Line, out of Stockholm, on her sixty-fourth trip to East African and Red Sea ports from Hamburg and Rotterdam. That meant she was an old lady, as freighters go, but her baroque furnishings were far more elegant than those of the newer and faster container ships. I was the only passenger, occupying Cabin A on the boat deck, but on the ship’s crewlist I was carried as Erling Thelin, Supercargo. The ship’s cargo was none of my business, however; I didn’t even know what it was.

I had joined Disa in Durban, carrying my Swedish passport, merchant-marine master’s license, and all other credentials to support the Thelin name. Only the freighter’s captain, Gunnar Westerstahl, and one high Brodin executive in Stockholm knew that these well-handled papers were forged.

(That was not entirely correct. Sven Lindstrom, waiter and cabin steward, had superintended the transfer of my luggage when I came aboard Disa. During that brief process, up the gangplank and the curving stairway, I had only grunted Swedish monosyllables. But Sven, drunk as a Viking, had picked me up through osmosis. When the baggage handlers had gone below, he addressed me in English. I had cautioned him against doing it in front of the crew, and he had given me a whorehouse wink of understanding and brought me a tray of hot tea and Huntley & Palmer biscuits.)

Lourenco Marques, the most beautiful port in East Africa, was a scimitar of lighted streets, towers, and brilliant neon slashes beyond the shore. The ship coasted to a halt as the telegraph clanked above me, the siren keened briefly, and I heard a metallic rumble as the anchor splashed down. We were holding in the channel, and I wondered why.

The pilot’s launch came careening through choppy wavelets to edge into Disa’s side, below my high viewpoint, and the black-suited pilot in the battered cap went nimbly down the jacob’s ladder. His bag was lowered on a handline, untied, and as he stepped lightly onto the launch, it veered off toward the harbor master’s pier.

When the knock sounded on the door, I said Ya and Sven, the cabin steward, stood framed in the lighted doorway.

Captain Westerstahl’s compliments, sir. He will be detained with port formalities for another half-hour, but would like for you to join him in his cabin then, for a drink before dinner.

No, I said. I’m expecting a visitor. Why aren’t we going in?

The ore-loading facility is full, sir. Have to wait our turn. Will I bring you a tray here?

Yes, please.

The sturdy shadow in the doorway nodded, withdrew, and the cabin was dark again. I smiled at Sven’s precise, drunken circumlocution. He was a Swede of medium build, parted his dark hair in the middle, and resembled Bela Lugosi’s eldest son. He drank Sandeman sherry exclusively and steadily, and juggled dishes in heavy weather with great sangfroid. The deeper he got into the bag, that much more his conversation sharpened, until under full sail he spoke like a University of Uppsala professor.

Sven had weathered a score of captains and was an artful dodger of the kind you often find among experienced cabin stewards. After a few head-on collisions, they come to realize that ship’s officers are only willful children with inflated ideas of their own importance. They must be handled, deluded, and confused with infinite patience.…

In ten minutes, Sven returned with a laden tray which carried a bottle of beer and a water goblet full of chilled schnapps, nothing like what I had ordered. I took the schnapps in three belts, chasing each one with beer, and attacked the good, greasy pork chops and the inevitable potatoes. Take away the potato from the Swedish diet, and Swedes would rapidly vanish as a race. Sven answered my pressure on the button with a pot of coffee, and I was finishing a second cup when another, lighter knock sounded on the door.

When I opened it, a small girl was standing there. She wore sandals, brief hot pants, and an embroidered kaftan blouse, with a high collar plunging to a cleft between full breasts.

Captain Thelin?

Yes, come in, please. I stepped aside and she moved past me. Good ankles, sturdy legs a little thick in the thigh, and a derriere better than Mother’s. When she turned to face me, with dark red hair falling below her shoulders, I remarked the full mouth, too wide for beauty, and the high cheekbones. Almost Tartar. She would be from the Swedish north, with a fair admixture of Lapp in her.

Please sit down. I motioned, and she sat primly on the sofa, the generous hips spreading the hot pants. Hands together on the closed, too-thick thighs. Who sent you to see me?

Mr. Albert Hobbs, from the U.S. Embassy in Stockholm.

What did he send you for?

The girl started to answer, but there was a hoarse blast close by, and the sound of tugs towing a big bulk-cargo ship by. We could not see the tugs, only the bow, masts, and high superstructure of the ship gliding by. Then, below her fan tail, the legend Clan MacGregor, and in smaller letters Monrovia. Since there were no clans in that place, the inscription was a contradiction in terms and could cover a multitude of seafaring sins.

I’m sorry, please go ahead, I told the girl. She was trying to when Sven knocked on the door again and put his Dracula head inside.

Captain Westerstahl’s compliments, sir. He would like you to black out your forward window.

Why, for Christ’s sake? I asked irritably. Is he still navigating while at anchor?

Couldn’t say sir, answered the urbane, ossified pantryman. I only bear the message. Thank you kindly, sir. And he withdrew, leaving a faint wake of Sandeman sherry. Another notable ticked off.

Shaking my head, I walked over and locked the square porthole. Turning to the girl again, I apologized, drew down the black shade and pulled the curtains.

Let’s try again, I suggested.

"Mr. Hobbs offered me five thousand dollars to work for you for thirty days. Acting as your wife. I was to do what you directed, and was warned that the involvement might be dangerous. That much money, in Swedish kroner, for such a short period, amounts to movie stars’ pay. I accepted."

Let me see the papers.

She rummaged in the shoulder-slung bag and handed me a large leather folder. I flipped open the dark green passport with the golden eagle on its cover. Ran my finger over the number perforated into the top of its cover and the first three pages. Issued at New Orleans, two months and three days ago. Her picture was the usual stark likeness. Her name was Mrs. John Haygood Stripling. International Certificate of Vaccination in order, including both yellow fever and double cholera shots. Visas for French Somalia, People’s Republic of Southern Yemen, Republic of Yemen, Saudi Arabia, and the Sudan.

I handed the documents back to her. What do you think the work consists of? What is your name?

Inger. Inger Hopen. Naturally I assumed that for such a large payment, the work would be related to intelligence or espionage work.

Right as rain, Inger. And the danger is real. We will be going into the Republic of Yemen, through the port city of Hodeida, to San’a, the capital. Do you know what a cover is?

A counterfeit personality, isn’t it? A masquerade.

I nodded. "I will be a producer-director-cameraman of documentary films, under contract to the Ministry of Tourism, Republic of Yemen. I will film, with local assistance, the splendors of both Hodeida and San’a, edit it, and the result will be used as réclame bait for tourists. San’a is a very old and remote place, not long opened to Western influence. People who steal there get their hands chopped off. I do not know what the penalty for spying is; probably they cut your head off in public."

Inger’s hands, folded on her bare thighs, tightened; the wide mouth quivered. But you are going in to do it, she said.

"Quite different, min alskade. I have been doing such things for years. And every time, I have a chance to refuse, Now, but only now, you have the chance to refuse. She lowered her head and the dark red mane wavered as she shook her head. Her voice was stubborn. I have already been paid one thousand dollars in United States money. I will get four times that much when we finish. In ten years, with Swedish taxes as they are, I could never make so much."

I understand that, so long as you understand the danger. We don’t pay so high unless there is danger.

I know.

Okay. Where did you come from?

Fortuna, Sweden. It is a small town.

I nodded and pressed the button beside the couch. When Sven materialized at the door, in slumberous dignity, I told him I wanted a bottle of scotch, some ice, and four splits of soda. His wedge-shaped face, below the middle-parted hair, displayed discolored teeth.

Quite impossible, sir, he announced blandly, Since we’re in port, all spirits and beer are under seal. However, I will be back in two minutes with everything and a plate of snacks.

Giving me a sherry-inflamed leer, he withdrew. I went to the window with the ruby glow across it. Stood watching the curving, lighted shoreline of Lourenco Marques. Wondering if the good Chinese restaurant across from the carnival grounds was still operating.

Tell me something about yourself, I suggested.

I am not married, said Inger, behind me. I have no near relatives. Only my aunt in Fortuna; last month she fell, broke a hip, and is in hospital.

Where is your baggage?

In the radio operator’s cabin. Shall I fetch it?

Yes, please.

I heard her get up and leave. While she was gone Sven entered with staggering precision and unloaded a bottle of scotch, an enormous antique silver bucket filled with ice, four splits of soda, and a huge platter of cheeses, crackers, sild sardines, and smoked oysters.

With the tray tucked under his arm like an unwieldy field marshal’s baton, he bowed so deeply that it nearly unbalanced him, and remarked, A lovely piece, sir, if I may say so. If the captain requires anything further—

You may not say so. Thank you and good night, Sven, I said. He flourished out with drunken urbanity. I had broken the seal on the scotch bottle and was taking a drink when Inger came back. She was followed by a Swedish seaman carrying two bags. After putting them on the opposite bunks, he left in a chorus of tak taks. The place sounded like a small clock factory.

I was supposedly on a secret assignment, but the traffic through my cabin was getting heavy. I had a straight belt of the scotch and watched Inger sort things out. When that was done, she straightened and turned toward me.

Where will I sleep? the Swedish girl asked. Wherever, I answered. Either of the bunks.

After smiling at me from that high cheekboned Lapp face, she went into the bathroom and I heard taps running as she showered. There was a bidet in there, too, and I heard the softer hiss of water as she used that.

When she came back into the cabin, she was wearing a transparent hip-length nightgown. She switched off all the lights except the one in the foyer and came to stand before me. The faint lights from the side window outlined her body.

I’ll make your bunk down now, she said, if you’re ready.

I’m not ready, I said. Just because you’re a Skona farmgirl doesn’t mean the lights go out at twilight. I plan to have a few more drinks. Will you have one with me?

Of course. She clapped her hands, laughed, and sat down on the couch beside me. I could feel her body heat through the short nightgown. Her head had not lied; she was authentically red-haired.

I poured her a drink, and one for myself. She took hers neat; boom!, like the sergeant’s wife. Ship, tug, and small boat movement went on beyond our cabin window ports; there were hootings, blasts, and shrill sirens sounding out in the tropic night.

We had three drinks of neat scotch, talked, and I was aware of it whenever she moved. Once, she reached across me for a smoked oyster, which maneuver put her firm left breast across my forearm.

Have another drink, I suggested.

Of course. I am a valiant drinker! She poured herself a double scotch and put it down in one. No chaser. Curled her naked legs under her and rested one hand under the wide-lipped face. Staring at me. "If you should have a big drinking night, is it part of my contract that I have to go to bed with you?"

Certainly not. I poured myself another generous dollop, downed it, and went in to take a shower. When I came back out, Inger was in my bunk. I stood staring down at her.

Come to me, she said, and held up her arms.

Two

When Disa cleared Lourenco Marques the next afternoon, Inger and I watched the beautiful port recede. Most of my work as a contract counter-agent means that