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  Bashir waddled over to Yosef. President Alneuf squatted beside the village elder and the two were soon sharing the pipe. Yosef doubted that Alneuf even knew what he was smoking. The colonel didn’t say anything. There were more important issues to worry about than the deposed president of Algeria sharing a toke.

  Bashir touched Yosef’s arm slightly. “Colonel, we know you can only stay for a short time. I am going to go check on the food, and then we need to discuss how we are going to get President Alneuf out of the country. Okay?” he asked. His thick eyebrows arched as he waited for Yosef to reply.

  Several seconds passed before Yosef nodded. “Mr. Bashir.” he began.

  “Please, Colonel, call me Bashir. The mister makes me think you are talking to my father, Allah rest his soul.” He looked up and threw his hands skyward for a second as if his father was watching from above.

  “Bashir, I owe you an apology. I have not meant to be rude or anything. My job is to protect the president and with Algeria in chaos, it’s hard to know who to trust. You are doing a great service to everyone in this room and, eventually, to Algeria itself. For that I thank you.”

  Bashir waved the compliment away. “No, Colonel. I am doing what any patriot would do. You too are very patriotic, and I have to admit I have wondered why.” Then, in a whisper, he asked, “You are Jewish, are you not?”

  Yosef failed to mask his surprise. He gave the question several seconds of serious thought before he replied defensively, “Yes, but every Arab country has Jews living, working, worshipping alongside their Islamic brothers. Algeria is no different, except here we are allowed to join the military service.”

  “Yes, they do live in Arab countries, but with the rebels at the helm of state, your fellow Jews will suffer.”

  “I am Algerian first, Jewish second,” Yosef replied, hoping the lie was not transparent. If they knew the truth, he doubted he would leave here alive. He touched the transmitter in his pocket. All in good time, he thought.

  Bashir squeezed Yosef’s arm. “And I thought I had problems being a member of a Libyan Bedouin tribe. Good luck, my friend. Some of my best friends are Jews … unfortunately, I can’t remember any of their names.” Bashir laughed at his joke.

  Continuing to laugh, Bashir pushed the door further open before he turned. “Colonel, we will talk later. While I am gone, see if you can come up with some ideas how to get President Alneuf out of the country.” Bashir squeezed through the doorway and, with rusty hinges grinding, pushed the door shut behind him.

  Only a few Guardsmen remained awake. One was near a boarded-up window, a second sat on the floor with his back resting against the wall, a third sat in a folding chair — his weapon on the floor — watching other soldiers share the pipe with the president and the village elder.

  President Alneuf passed the pipe to a Guardsman, stood, and motioned Yosef to him. The colonel strolled over to where the president stood.

  “Colonel Yosef,” said President Alneuf. “I need a telephone. See if you can find me one.” Alneuf hiccuped. “Excuse me.”

  “Mr. President, if I may ask, why do you need a telephone? There is no one to call and the lines are probably being monitored even if you do call.” Yosef suspected the strong marijuana was affecting Alneuf’s faculties. The man’s eyes looked slightly glazed.

  “Colonel Yosef, I would be surprised if this village has a landline telephone, but I would be equally surprised if Bashir does not have a crate or two of mobile phones with forged cards and PIN numbers.” He reached up and patted Yosef on the shoulder, then giggled. Alneuf put his hand over his mouth.

  “Sorry, Colonel. I don’t know what caused me to do that.”

  President Alneuf shook his head, cleared his throat, and ran his hands down his wrinkled, torn suit coat in a failed attempt to restore it to some semblance of neatness. “As to whom I am going to call, there are some things that even a colonel in the Palace Guards does not need to know, and this is one of them. The telephone is necessary to arrange our way out of Algeria.”

  “Are you sure, Mr. President?”

  “I am, Colonel. That is why I am the president and you are the colonel.” He laughed softly. “Sorry, don’t know why I said that. I am going to the bathroom. Said Yefsah says that through there”—he pointed to a curtain-covered doorway-“is a small one down the hallway and to the left.” President Alneuf stumbled, and put his hand on the back of a chair to steady himself. “I am more tired than I thought.”

  Yosef watched Alneuf weave out of the room. And he watched him a few minutes later return white-faced, wringing his hands, water dripping on the carpet. Yosef ran his hand through his hair. He’d have a hell of a time getting Alneuf out of here if anything happened.

  The front door opened and Bashir entered. Behind him, men poured into the room, scurrying and tripping over each other as they took shoulder-to-shoulder positions along the walls, stepping over a waking Guardsman, who looked up in shock at the armed group. Each man carried a weapon. Three had AK-47s, several carried shotguns, but the majority held ancient Kalashnikov rifles like the ones Bashir’s nephews carried.

  The guns pointed inward at Yosef, President Alneuf, and the unprepared Guardsmen.

  Yosef started to reach for his pistol, but Bashir waved his finger at him. “No, no, Colonel. There are more of us than you.”

  Yosef felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. To come so far and to be captured like this.

  “What is the meaning of this, Bashir?” President Alneuf asked, taking a handkerchief from his inside coat pocket to dab sweat from his forehead.

  “Ah, Mr. President. There is no meaning. None whatsoever. These young men from the village are loyal to you. They want to join your anti-revolution movement and hereby swear to protect you until we can get you out of the country. It is not as the colonel first thought.

  Right, Colonel?” Bashir winked at Yosef and laughed. “No, we are not here to capture, but to cooperate. I don’t think I have had this much fun since my younger brother fell off the rocks into the sea. Took twenty two stitches to sew his head up. You should have seen the expression on his face … much like yours, Colonel Yosef.

  “But on a serious note, Colonel, I present you with more patriots for your small force.” He executed a mock salute, drawing smiles from the villagers. “These are the young men whom the New Algerian Army drafted earlier today. See-they have returned.”

  The village men fell out of the encircling formation and eagerly moved forward to touch Alneuf and shake his hand. Several bent to kiss his hand, even as he shook his head trying to stop them. Some were as young as fourteen, with sparse facial hair. Most were in their twenties or older, sporting mustaches of varying degrees of black and gray. Alneuf patiently shook hands with each as they mobbed the charismatic Algerian leader.

  Yosef stalked over to Bashir and whispered angrily, “Don’t do that again, Bashir. We could have had an unfortunate incident.” If he had given the word, his men would have fought, even if death had been the outcome. Most who were asleep when the village force entered remained asleep.

  Bashir grinned. “Yes, Colonel, once again you are correct. We could have, if your men had been awake. But the purpose of this exhibition was to show you that we are trustworthy, and what better way to prove it. But,” he added as he laughed, “why give up what freedoms we had for the yokes the new government will place on us? You know the American saying, “Better the devil you know’?”

  Before Yosef could respond, the front door opened and several women dressed in the traditional chukkas and veils entered, carrying bowls of steaming rice, beans, and fresh-broiled lamb balanced precariously in their hands and along their arms. Pita bread lay haphazardly around the edges, instead of eating utensils. The aroma did what Bashir and the villagers had failed to do. It woke the remaining bone-weary Guardsmen, who anxiously edged forward.

  The women shooed them away while two young girls, about sixteen, cleared a spot in the center of the room. One girl shook o
ut a carpet she carried, and spread it on the cleared area, while others arranged the dishes and bowls of food on it. The sound of female tittering, incomprehensible to the men, accompanied the activity. As the older women moved away, more young girls entered bringing tea, juice, and water for the famished group. Several brought bowls of fresh fruit.

  Everyone gradually stood, their eyes feasting on the banquet in front of them. They looked at Yosef, waiting for permission to begin. Bashir placed his hands over his stomach as his booming laughter echoed through the room. If he had to put up with this incessant laughter long, he could learn to hate their benefactor, thought Yosef.

  An older woman, standing near Bashir, slapped his arm, causing the laughter to abruptly stop, and said something in a Berber dialect that Yosef failed to understand. Bashir blushed. Saliva filled Yosefs mouth. Hunger was a relentless foe.

  “Gentlemen,” Bashir announced. “The number-one wife of Said Yefsah, village elder, leader of this small village, and renowned for his choice of tobacco, welcomes you to her table and says that while you stare the food grows cold. Please eat.” Then rolling his eyes, he said in a lower voice, “And, for the love of Allah, keep your hands away from the young women.”

  Like hungry wolves on unprotected sheep, the men dove into the food, bumping each other as they filled the pita bread, dipping it in the strong garlic humus before shoving the tangy mixture into their mouths.

  Olive oil and bits of humus trickled down their cheeks to be wiped away by dirty hands.

  Bashir said something to the number-one wife. She hurried over, shoved the men apart, and hastily prepared two plates with a small helping from each dish — a mizi of everything. She carried the plates to President Alneuf and Yosef. Both men thanked her. She bowed her head and silently backed away.

  Then, turning abruptly, she clapped her hands and the women silently departed, herding the young girls, reluctant to leave, ahead of them.

  The number-one wife was the last to depart. She held her head high with pride, knowing true men were massacring the food prepared under her supervision.

  Bashir waited until she disappeared. He grabbed some pita bread, made a thick sandwich, and moved to where President Alneuf and Yosef sat eating.

  “So, Colonel, have you given thought to what we do next?” Bashir asked as he took a huge bite of the soft bread. Grease dripped onto his aba.

  He pulled the tail of his headdress forward and wiped his mouth and chin. Then he blew his nose on it again before tossing it over his shoulder.

  President Alneuf looked up. “Said Bashir, do you have a telephone that I may use?” Alneuf broke off a small bit of pita bread to go with his chicken.

  Bashir’s eyes opened in amazement. “A telephone, Mr. President? You do realize, sir, that I would suspect the new government is monitoring telephone calls to anywhere you may call? It would not surprise me if your voice would set off alarms.”

  “I understand, Said Bashir, but I would also suspect that you have a cellular telephone that will be hard to locate?”

  “Yes, that is true. I do have a telephone, but as to whether they can locate it or not, that remains to be seen.” Bashir looked at Yosef, who nodded.

  “Mr. President, maybe it would be better to wait to use the phone until morning. Then, if they are able to find us, we will at least have had a night’s rest before running again,” Yosef added. “Plus, we do not want to endanger the village by calling from here.”

  Bashir searched his pockets. “I know I have one here somewhere.”

  “I thank both of you for your concern, but I need to call if we are to get out of the country safely. I appreciate your concern, Colonel, but I hardly think that one phone call from a mobile phone is going to endanger this village.” “Can I ask who you intend to call?” Yosef asked.

  “No, I think not, Colonel. The less you know about this phone call, the less you have to worry.”

  “Okay, Mr. President,” Bashir replied. He pulled out a small GSM cellular phone with the word Motorola embossed in silver lettering across the top. He flipped open the mouthpiece and punched in the PIN number. “Here you are, Mr. President. Behind the curtains there”—he pointed to the back wall—“is a small stage. If you stand near the boarded window you will have better reception.”

  The president stood, brushed his pants off, and took the phone. “I thank you both for all you have done. I have debated this, but I feel I am endangering you and every loyal Algerian fighting on my behalf.

  Let’s hope this works,” he said, holding up the cellular telephone.

  President Alneuf strolled to the curtains, lifted them slightly, and disappeared behind them.

  “Colonel, a debate with oneself lacks a dissenting opinion,” Bashir said, noticing the concern in Yosef’s face.

  * * *

  President Alneuf punched in the memorized number. When the American ambassador had given him the number months ago, he had nearly thrown it away. While he had accepted it with grace, his initial reaction had been anger and disgust that America believed it had the right to offer protection to the leader of another sovereign country. The audacity!

  He had placed the number in his suit coat and forgotten about it until a couple of days later when he went to wear the coat again and rediscovered the number. For some reason, he never quite fathomed why, he had periodically pulled the number out, staring at it, until eventually he had committed it to memory. However reluctant he might feel, the future of his country might well be in the hands of America.

  The numbers punched by Alneuf routed his call to a nondescript, unoccupied apartment in a southern suburb of Algiers. The electronic communications system, hidden in the walls behind the telephone receptacle, took the incoming call, changed its sequence, and returned it to the telephone system. There, the PKI (Public Key Infrastructure) coded program added to a fake number caused the Algerian telephone system to identify it as originating from Cairo and going to a little known Algiers travel bureau. The system directed the call to the telephone at that address, where a slave wire, expertly melded into the lines, piped the call to a small electronic device located on top of a nearby telephone pole. The call then went covertly into the line leading to the American Embassy. President Alneuf waited as the phone rang several times.

  * * *

  Paul Mcmillan, the duty officer for the chief of station at the American Embassy, heard the telephone ring, but finished slamming the top slice of bread on his peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich before reaching over and answering. Twenty years doing this job and, for the first time in his career, he wished he was back at Falls Church pushing papers.

  “Hello,” he said, taking a large bite of the sandwich at the same time, believing the phone call originated inside the embassy. He pushed a wisp of gray hair, matted to his forehead from the heat, back across the top of his head, leaving a few crumbs of bread in its place.

  “Hello, my friend. I was given this number to call in the event that I wanted to take a trip for my health. I understand that travel arrangements can be made through your excellent services?”

  Paul coughed as the peanut butter and jelly clung to the roof of his mouth. He moved the phone away momentarily to spit the unchewed mess onto the plate, and ran his finger inside to free what was stuck to the roof of his mouth.

  “Yes,” he said, coughing twice, as he flipped on the nearby recorder.

  “We have many nice packages that may be of use to you, sir. May I ask which one you are interested in?”

  “I am interested in the “Big Apple,”” Alneuf replied.

  Paul ran his finger down the list of code words taped to the desk beside the phone. He found

  “Big Apple.” “Jesus Christ!” he said aloud to himself.

  “No, just a humble traveler who would enjoy a short tour to the Big Apple.”

  “Yes, sir. New York is available at this time of the year. The heat is extremely high right now, but I am certain that we can arrange the flight, hotel reservation
s, and follow-on transportation that you require. I will need to know how we can contact you.”

  “Ah, yes, my friend. Your friend Mark contacted acquaintances of my father years ago. I will visit that same chalet tomorrow night. I can give you a call at that time. I would give you this number, but I doubt that I will be here much longer. My travel plans are slightly erratic at this time, you understand?”

  “I understand, sir. My name is Paul Mcmillan and I will be your representative until travel is arranged and delivered.”

  “Thank you, sir, and when may I expect confirmation?”

  “I will be expecting your call tomorrow night. I am very familiar with Mark’s visit and, if we are unable to talk further about your plans, you can expect our travel representative to arrive the same way my friend Mark did.”

  “Thank you. I look forward to meeting with your representatives tomorrow night. I am booking this with the understanding that there are no strings attached for me using your company. In other words, I am not obliged to use you in the future or to stay with your travel agency after I arrive? Right now, I find no other travel bureau available with the same offers as yours,” Alneuf said.

  “No, sir. Our policy is quite clear, as our representative told you.

  We are a respectable company whose only desire is to see our customers have the degree of freedom to choose their own holidays.”

  “Thank you. I look forward to meeting you, Mr. Mcmillan.”

  The agent waited until the phone clicked on the other end. Damn! The whole country and world was looking for President Alneuf, and he’d just gotten off the phone with him. The rebels hadn’t captured the deposed president as their radio broadcasts had reported.

  He hurriedly scribbled the appropriate log notations, and checked to see that the voice-actuated recorder was reset to the intercept-and-record position. He tossed the digitized tape of their conversation onto the table.

  Thirty seconds later, Paul was out of the windowless, steel lined compartment. CIA work was never as glamorous as novels made it, but instances like this made it rewarding. Stepping into the corridor, the agent hurried down a flight of stairs, two steps at a time, to the second floor and onto the balcony. A Marine sentry watched the crowd below in the courtyard.