Warren Murphy: Oil Slick

M. Alphonse Jaurin, a thin man with a dark ferretlike face and very precisely cut black hair, did not officially exist, although his services were rented from the French government for a sum that could have bought another Mirage jet to join the rusting fleet.

Not existing, M. Jaurin did not have a title. Not existing, he did not wear a uniform, but a dark pin-striped suit with a vest. And not existing, he went where he wanted without being bothered, except when Colonel Baraka wanted to find out what was happening. Then a messenger would run frantically to M. Jaurin's palatial home on Gamal Abdal Nasser Avenue searching for the small Frenchman. But today was the day of the ministers and like all the other foreigners who worked in subordinate roles in Lobynian ministries, he sat outside the main conference room in the palace. He was chatting with the Russian who had done interesting work in Czechoslovakia and was now in Lobynia as part of his nation's buildup in the Middle East. He had confided that the Russians needed the Arabs about as much as Americans needed the South Vietnamese.

M. Jaurin was surprised to see General Ali Amin return to the waiting room, anxious and flustered.

"He wants to see you," said the general.

"In person?" asked M. Jaurin.

"Yes. In person."

"But that's an official room. An official meeting. You know I am not supposed to be there. Never. It would be ... well, official."

"The colonel ordered."

"As he wishes, but you had better be right, Amin, or ... well, you had just better be right, or else."

"I am right. I am definitely right, M. Jaurin."

"We will see," he said and entered the main conference room as General Ali Amin opened the door for him and closed it behind him.

Colonel Baraka examined the man whose yearly salary could not have been borne by the entire income of the colonel's tribe a generation before, but was now a sum routinely spent on acquiring information about what other countries were doing. Colonel Baraka often judged this to be misinformation. The Frenchman's eyes were black, his skin pocked, and the hair precisely combed. Men with precise hair tended to hide things well.

"You're Jaurin and you run our intelligence service," said Baraka and saw Jaurin blink. The Frenchman did not expect this sort of truthfulness from an Arab.

"Well, I am an associate of a business firm with a license to to ..."

"Stop the nonsense. I hear too much of it. I called you In for some answers. What does the European 'T' mean?"

"Terminate, sir."

"Fire, kill, stop paying, what?"

"Kill, sir."

"We kill, they kill, who kills?"

"I assume it is the Mobley and Philbin terminations in America you are referring to. That was the file I sent for."

"From home, no doubt."

"Well, on occasion the air conditioning at the intelligence building..."

"Enough, Jaurin. You keep our intelligence files at home so they won't get lost and so you can clear everything with your own headquarters. I know what you do."

"Let me say, Colonel, that M. Jaurin has served Lobynia with a devotion, courage, and perseverance that ..." started Ali Amin, but was interrupted by the sound of Baraka's hand slamming down on the table.

"Shut up. Shut up. Shut up," yelled Colonel Baraka. "Jaurin, where did my people's money go? For what?"

"I am glad you asked that, Colonel. I am especially glad you picked this small item. It illustrates the honor of France and the French people who love you and your Arab brethren. The money went for death benefits. Death benefits paid to the families of two men who were terminated while working in the glorious cause of Arab unity, Colonel. Men who died for Lobynia."

Lt. General Ali Amin stood slightly more erect, trying in some way to cadge some of the glory of the fallen dead. The council of ministers nodded solemnly. For a moment all were caught in the deep significance of the never-ending battle of international intrigue. One general suggested a moment of silence. Another proclaimed that neither Mobley nor Philbin died in vain, and would indeed live as long as any Arab could raise a gun for final vengeance, blood, and justice.

Only Colonel Baraka seemed unimpressed. He drummed his long fingers and M. Jaurin felt his palms become very wet, as they had the day he emerged from St. Cyr as a second lieutenant destined for Algeria where he became one of his nation's Arab experts, which was really what he was still doing in Lobynia-spying on it

"Everyone but the Frenchman leave this room," said Baraka. The order was met by murmurs, until he slammed his open palm down on the table and there was a race for the door.

"Now, you insidious little French weasel, what the hell are we doing killing people in America?"

"I didn't say we killed someone. I said two of our men were terminated."

"I don't believe you, weasel. There has been talk in the diplomatic community about American scientists being killed to prevent the discovery of an oil substitute ... don't interrupt me, weasel ... let me draw you a little scenario." Colonel Baraka rose from the table, a trim, immaculately dressed man in light tan battle uniform. At his right was a polished black leather holster, containing a .38 caliber Smith and Wesson revolver. Baraka showed the revolver to Jaurin. Barrel first. He cocked the revolver. Jaurin looked at the barrel then at Baraka. He smiled wanly.

"Now, let me tell you what is happening. American scientists die. They do not produce a substitute for oil. America becomes more dependent on foreign imports, despite the price ... no, no. Don't interrupt. These things tend to go off when I am interrupted. Now, as America gets more dependent on imports, Arab power becomes greater. As Arab power becomes greater, French power vis-a-vis America becomes greater. But France doesn't want to risk responsibility for this, so why not have the crazy Lobynian leader, Colonel Baraka responsible. Eh?

Why not? Why we can even get that filthy wog to pay for it. Eh? Eh?"

"But, your excellency, that doesn't make sense. Why would France want to weaken the West? We are a Western nation."

"Because you are shortsighted idiots with the moral fiber of the surface of the Seine-scum to be exact. Yes, it is a stupid, shortsighted self-serving policy, which means it must be French. The very flavor is French. Like cheese. It has a French aroma. Yes. Kill American scientists with Baraka's money. And if a few assassins are killed along the way, why, pay off their families. Call it death benefits and the filthy wog will never even guess what is happening."

"If, excellency ... If, excellency, we are doing that, then don't you profit?"

"I profit right up until the United States of America traces the deaths to me. I profit right up until then, you little weasel. Now, you scummy little spy, I am ordering you on penalty of your life to call off that assassination mission."

"Certainly. Right now, your excellency. Immediately."

"You're not dealing with General Ali Amin now. I want to watch you write out the order. I want to know the exact chain to reach the operatives. I want to see it done."

"There is a little problem, your excellency. The operative who runs that American system contacts us; we don't contact him."

"Are you telling me we have an operative running around a nation with nuclear power, killing its top scientists, losing his own men in the process and we cannot even reach him? Is that what you're telling me, Jaurin? Is that what you're telling me? I'd like to know."

"Could you lower that gun, your excellency?"

"No."

"We tried calling him off. He had a postal drop. We didn't even want the second scientist killed. But it got out of hand. We couldn't reach him. And then the second one was killed. Finally he did contact us. I personally told him to stop. He said he could not stop because it was not time yet to stop."