Cyrenaica: Dateline 1956

By JOSEPH W. MICHELS

Nasser’s decision to nationalize the Suez Canal in July of 1956 caused an upheaval in Middle Eastern affairs as western powers reassessed their ties to the region’s governments. The overriding concern was how the decision might affect future access to Middle Eastern oil. Almost overnight, Libya’s province of Cyrenaica emerged as a critical geopolitical asset as oil prospectors from western nations urgently sought confirmation the region held commercially important deposits of the precious product. The U.S., anxious to secure solid intel, directed their Cairo Station covert operative, Alan Harper, to insert himself into that tumultuous region under the guise of being a freelance journalist in search of a story.

The young Alan Harper, only a few years out of journalism school and the CIA training course at Camp Peary, undertakes his second major assignment; his first being his undercover work in Calcutta the previous year. Harper crosses into Cyrenaica from Egypt on a lightweight motorcycle. Almost immediately, he begins to learn of tensions within Libya as the United States and Great Britain jockey for advantage. Harper finds himself a target of those bent on preventing him from securing the information he was tasked with acquiring. His adversaries repeatedly demonstrate their willingness to go to extreme lengths to thwart him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781663224712

Book preview

CYRENAICA:

DATELINE 1956

JOSEPH W. MICHELS

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CYRENAICA: DATELINE 1956

Copyright © 2021 Joseph W. Michels.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Credit for cover art photo:

Copyright © J Wheeler/Shutterstock.com

Credit for author photo:

Copyright © 2021 Joseph W. Michels

Credit for Cyrenaica map:

Copyright © 2020 Joseph W. Michels

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-2470-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-2471-2 (e)

iUniverse rev. date:   06/21/2021

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

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CALCUTTA: DATELINE 1955

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Chapter One

There had been rumblings all day about the big speech Nasser was to give that afternoon in Alexandria, but it wasn’t until Harper picked up that evening’s edition of The Egyptian Gazette on his way to Cafe Europa, and scanned the headlines as he walked, that he fully registered its historic significance—Nasser had unilaterally nationalized the Suez Canal!

He shook his head as he pondered the sheer audacity of it, then stepped into the coffee house and headed for a table near the back where Abbot, a UPI stringer, and Henderson, a Reuters correspondent, were seated.

Thursday, July 26, 1956—will mark the beginning of a new era in the Middle East, announced Abbot with theatrical solemnity as Harper pulled out a chair and sat down.

So you’ve both seen the papers, said Harper as he signaled the waiter to come over.

Yeah, and the latest BBC World Service broadcast reports the British and French have reacted with shock, said Henderson.

What reason did Nasser give…I haven’t had a chance to read the article, said Harper after giving the waiter his order.

Apparently, he gave an impassioned account of how imperialists have historically sought to thwart Egypt’s quest for independence as a country, giving particular attention to the refusal by the Americans and the British to finance the Aswan High Dam, replied Abbot. He goes on to argue he needs the proceeds from the operation of the Canal to underwrite the building of the dam since his erstwhile partners in the Suez Canal Company won’t lend a hand.

Harper nodded, imagining the implications for the Middle East. How do you think we should cover it? he asked, addressing the question to no one in particular.

Abbot jumped in, saying with a shrug, I don’t know…the kinds of stories this thing will make possible are staggering. As for myself, I’ll be curious how it’s playing in other Middle Eastern capitals…that’ll probably involve reading a hell of a lot of Arab newspapers over the next few days. What about you, Henderson?

Harper listened carefully; Henderson was a seasoned newspaper man with many years of pursuing news stories in distant lands. Harper on the other hand had been freelancing for less than a year, and Abbot only a few years longer.

I’ll probably work up a speculative piece: how I imagine Israel will respond, said Henderson. Nasser’s announcement is like a flash of lightning…it’s the thunder and rain that’ll descend upon the Middle East over the next few months that’ll turn out to be the real story.

So, you think we’re in for more than a diplomatic dustup? asked Abbot.

Henderson nodded, We’ve all been wondering whether Nasser will try to earn some points with the Arab Street by really sticking it to Israel…now he’s got leverage. It’s one thing to support the Palestinian Fedayeen in their haphazard guerrilla war against Israel; it’s another to deprive Israel of transiting rights through the Suez Canal.

Jesus! You don’t pull any punches, do you? observed Abbot.

What about you, Harper…any thoughts on how you’ll cover it? asked Henderson.

Harper took a sip of coffee, then shook his head, Unlike you gentlemen, I’ve been away these past seven and a half months…recovering from gunshot wounds incurred during my coverage of Calcutta’s refugee politics. Then, after a month-long break, sitting in on a six-month-long advanced Arabic language course. Hell, I’ve only been back in Cairo for less than a month. So you’ll understand if I’m inclined to give the matter a bit more thought.

Yeah, but what you’re really saying, Harper, is it’s out of your hands…you’ll cover whatever story the editor of that Midwestern newspaper might assign, hoping it’ll pay off with a fancy commission, retorted Abbot, not unkindly.

Harper smiled, but didn’t say anything. There was a lot of truth in Abbot’s comment, but what neither Abbot nor Henderson knew was that Harper’s freelance journalism gig was simply a cover for his role as a covert CIA operative. It was the CIA that would direct him to his next journalistic assignment, not some Midwestern newspaper. Still, through the Agency’s efforts, Harper’s work, albeit heavily censored, did usually end up as a published piece in some periodical or newspaper.

He tuned out the ongoing debate between Abbot and Henderson over whether to drive over to Suez to observe developments or remain in Cairo and buttonhole informants in the government. He was wondering if he was still up to the demands of fast breaking reportorial footwork. The long Stateside break following the completion of his Calcutta assignment had perhaps taken the edge off his self-confidence—certainly in full view at his graduation from University of Chicago’s School of Journalism in 1952, and further bolstered by his performance in Calcutta the previous year.

But the fact was he’d spent more time training to be a CIA covert operative than he had practicing his journalistic craft: two years at Camp Peary—the CIA’s training facility—right after graduation, then most recently at the CIA’s intensive language school. Still, he had to admit to himself that his CIA handlers decision to send him for advanced training in Arabic augered well for believing they remained confident in his abilities.

Listen, guys, I’m going to head out, said Harper as he got up from his chair.

We’re heading for Suez tomorrow, Harper. There’s room in the car if you want to join us? said Abbot.

Harper shook his head, But if I eventually do decide to go I’ll be riding my new motorcycle.

That the one you’ve been motoring around town on since you returned? asked Henderson.

Yeah, I bought it shortly after I got back…it’s a Model A7 BSA bike with a 500cc twin cylinder engine. It’s a hell of a lot easier to get around the city on than a car, and it’s a lot cheaper to run.

Yeah, and I wager it’s a lot more fun, too, said Abbot with a laugh.

Harper nodded unapologetically, then began to wend his way through the scatter of tables on his way to the door. Cafe Europa was popular with the city’s ex-pat community—serving European coffee, Viennese-style pastries, and light entrees made with western tastes in mind. At this hour, the place was packed. Harper glanced around, taking in the obligatory dark wooden interior, the mirrored coffee bar, the rack of newspapers, and the waitstaff dressed suitably in tight waistcoats and white dress shirts.

It was almost 7:00 o’clock and the sun had just set as Harper stepped outside. He savored the comfortable temperature of early evening—somewhere in the high seventies he figured—and looked forward to the short walk across Talaat Harb Square to the side street where his hotel was located. As he walked, he thought about his month-long visit with his family in Oak Park, Illinois. His parents were in their fifties, his sister in her last year at Northwestern. He’d been home for the Christmas holidays, so his sister was on break as well.

They’d all been alarmed by the gunshot injuries he’d incurred while working as a journalist in India and were now persuaded the career of a reporter could actually be hazardous—not something they’d given a thought to before then. He’d tried to convince them what had happened in Calcutta was a once in a lifetime kind of thing—not an ever-present danger. But now that he was back in Cairo, with people predicting a war might be imminent, he felt bad about having tried to deceive them. He knew they’d be even more alarmed if he revealed his true profession—that of a covert CIA operative—but perhaps they’d also gain some peace of mind knowing he’d been thoroughly trained for such dangerous work and could always count on fellow operatives and embassy officials to lend support should things go sideways.

It was his sister who seemed most suspicious of what it was he was not telling the family. She’d watched him working out in the basement of their home—doing not just strenuous free weight routines, but self-defense exercises involving leg and arm moves reminiscent of martial arts displays she’d seen in movies. She had noticed how powerfully muscular his tall, lean body had become while away those two years after college—something that didn’t square with his claim he’d been doing postgraduate work in the Washington D.C. area. Then, during the Christmas break, she’d sensed his gritty determination to regain that level of physical strength and agility, knowing he’d been forced to convalesce most of the previous month.

As he thought about her suspicions and how painful it was for him not to be able to let her in on the secret he realized what a sacrifice he’d made by joining the CIA. Some day, he supposed, she’d learn the truth…as would his parents. What haunted him was the fear they’d never forgive him for all the years he’d kept quiet about his double life.

With that gloomy thought foremost in his mind, Harper reached his hotel. It was the same hotel he’d used during his earlier stint—a down-on-its-heels Edwardian edifice built in the 1920’s to accommodate transient visitors of an earlier era to this jewel of a city. Management had given him his old room on the second floor—a room he’d grown fond of with its old fashioned wallpaper, its heavy, oversized wooden furniture, and its desperately few touches of luxury, like the delicate writing table and chair, and the rickety night table that valiantly supported a fragile porcelain lamp.

Harper gave a brief wave to the attendant at the registration desk as he passed through the lobby on his way to the narrow stairway, with its elaborately carved wooden wainscoting and its stylishly grill-worked metal bannister. He took the stairs two at a time, anxious to make it to his room where he planned to change out of his tan khakis and light blue sport jacket into something more suitable for the evening—light gray slacks and a navy blue blazer.

He hurriedly unlocked the door to his room and was about to step inside when he spotted a piece of paper that had apparently been slipped under the door. He picked the paper up. A brief message had been written on it, but one that needed decoding. Harper took it over to the writing desk and sat down. It didn’t take him long to decrypt, but the message was definitely a surprise: his CIA contact, P.J. Meyer, was informing him the Cairo station chief wished to meet with him the next day. A time and location was given.

He’d never as much as laid eyes on the station chief, much less been asked to take a meeting with him, having always worked through P.J. Meyer. Something really special must be in the works, he thought, as he stripped off his clothes and headed for the room’s tiny water closet to freshen up.

A short time later, as he knotted his tie, he tried to imagine what it was that could force such a break in protocol…especially by the chief of Cairo’s CIA station. He suspected it must have something to do with Nasser’s speech but he couldn’t take it beyond that. He gave a resigned shrug, then readjusted the shoulder holster holding his silenced 22 caliber semi-automatic that he wore on his left side before slipping on his blazer.

A final glance at the mirror mounted on the interior side of the open door of the room’s massive armoire reassured him he was ready to go. Still, he couldn’t help giving his thick blond hair that he wore in a standard cut a final smooth over with his hand to ensure the somewhat unruly locks were still in place.

A taxi was idling at the curb in front of the hotel as Harper stepped outside. He leaned into the open window on the passenger’s side and said in Arabic, I wish to go to Gezira Island…to Zamalek. Will you take me?

The driver nodded, and motioned for Harper to climb in. Harper complied, climbing into the rear seat. The driver pulled away from the curb and into the stream of traffic. Zamalek, at the southern tip of Gezira Island, was one of Cairo’s more fashionable neighborhoods and home to the Cafe Al Taraf, the restaurant where Harper planned to spend the evening in the company of his Egyptian friend and informant, Ali.

After being dropped off out front, Harper made his way through Al Taraf’s interior dining room and out onto the large outside seating area that offered a stunning view of the Nile. Ali caught sight of Harper and immediately rose from where he was sitting to greet him.

You must be pleased to have returned from the States in time to cover today’s momentous news, said Ali as he shook Harper’s hand and gestured for him to take a seat.

Harper nodded, The audacity of it takes one’s breath away…what do you hear from your friends?

Ali put up his hands in a gesture of mock protest, As you would expect, the city is in a celebratory mood, but soberer minds worry it might bring unwelcome developments.

Harper looked at him questioningly.

Ali shrugged, The announcement took the world by surprise; what will the British and French do once they get over their shock? And the Israelis…how will they react?

But surely, Nasser weighed those risks, argued Harper.

Ali took a moment to reply, choosing his words carefully, then said, somewhat enigmatically, Yes, one has to believe that is true; what I believe is also probably true is that Nasser sought and received some sort of a quiet go-ahead from the Soviets.

You’re suggesting the British, French, and the Israelis would hesitate to initiate any sort of military response in the fear it would provoke the Soviets, which might in turn force the Americans to get involved? queried Harper.

Yes, that is where I’m going with this argument, said Ali. Nasser must believe the great powers would look askance at any military action on the part of those opposed to his unilateral decision, believing such action could conceivably spark a regional war. But enough about Nasser; what is it you plan on doing to cover the story?

Harper laughed, That’s what my journalist friends have been asking. Unlike them, I’m not a correspondent or a stringer so I don’t have a secure revenue stream…I’ll need to shop some ideas and learn what kind of story some periodical or newspaper back home is willing to commission me to go after.

Well, I’ll entertain you with my thoughts on how you might wish to cover the story, but first, let’s order some dinner, said Ali as he signaled for the waiter.

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After dinner, while they sipped their coffee and gazed out over the Nile, Harper’s thoughts were on his meeting scheduled for early the next day with his Cairo station chief. It was to take place in an apartment on Talaat Harb Square. He was beginning to believe he’d not decoded the message correctly—that what was being said was that his customary contact, P.J. Meyer, had instructions that came directly from the chief of station, not that the man, himself, was scheduled to appear. His unproductive rumination on the matter came to an abrupt halt as one of Ali’s close friends, Abasi, pulled up a chair and joined them.

Like Ali, Abasi was about Harper’s age. Both came from important families and worked at nominal jobs in the government that left them with ample time to mix with the younger set of Cairo’s elite—the educated offspring of high ranking government and military officials.

"I was sitting at a table inside when I glanced out and saw the two of you listlessly contemplating the lights of the city…where is your joue de vivre…your joy at the stupendous thing Nasser has done?" protested Abasi.

You’re right, of course, Abasi, replied Ali, giving his friend a warm smile. And I suppose you’ve come over to tell us where the smartest party is.

"Actually, it’s right here…at the Cafe Al Taraf. Join us inside!"

Ali looked over at Harper.

You go with Abasi, Ali…he’s right…it’s your night to celebrate. As for me…I think I’ll head back to the hotel. Tomorrow will no doubt be a busy day.

Are you sure, Harper?

Yeah…join your friends…I’ll be all right, said Harper.

Harper watched the two young men—arm in arm, and engaged in boisterous conversation—wend their way towards the party being celebrated inside the restaurant. He’d stay a little longer, he thought, reaching for his cup of coffee. Anyway, it was a beautiful night to sit and watch the waters of the Nile pass by. It made him realize how much he’d grown attached to this ancient city.

Chapter Two

Harper looked up at the grand building on Talaat Harb Square where his meet was to take place. Choosing such a distinctive building, with its French Neoclassical architecture and large windows, seemed to Harper a strange choice as a CIA safe house. He wondered if it was meant only for high level informants or top CIA brass in town for a meeting. With a shake of the head, he put such thoughts out of his mind and crossed over to the building.

The doorman must have been briefed since he opened the entrance door with unexpected alacrity as Harper approached. It is on the third floor, sir, he said in English, averting his gaze.

Harper nodded, then headed for the stairs, not being inclined to suffer the prolonged attention of the elevator operator on such a clandestine occasion. He climbed the stairs slowly—in no hurry to meet with the station chief.

When he stepped into the third floor hallway he spotted his contact, P.J. Meyer, standing outside a room to his left. Meyer gestured for Harper to approach.

The gentleman inside will not be identifying himself, Harper, but he’ll know who you are, cautioned Meyer as he escorted Harper inside.

Harper glanced quickly around the luxuriously furnished flat, then focused his attention on the tall, distinguished looking man who Harper figured was probably in his late fifties. Given his bearing and the tight cut of his gray hair, Harper guessed him to be a former high ranking military officer.

Glad you could join us, said the station chief, gesturing for Harper to take a seat on the couch. I suppose you’re curious as to why I’ve involved myself in this meeting, he added as he sat down across from Harper. "Please be assured it’s not out of any lack of confidence in Meyer…rather it