Free Cloak of Darkness by Helen MacInnes

Germany; the latter because Ethiopia now had an influx of helpful Cubans. But there was nothing to discover. No record or sighting of any unknown European, of any unidentified Arab. The French kept tight watch over the airport, a precaution particularly against hijackers. So again, Claudel could only give a warning about Erik and go back to the town, and wait. And wonder if Erik had ever come to Djibouti in the first place.
    But any day now, his two agents should be arriving from Aden. Husayn would sail in, land his cargo of salt and lamp oil and canned tuna at one of the pint-sized harbours some distance from the port. Shaaban would seek another anchorage, equally insignificant, for his cargo of cotton, wheat, and sesame. They would come separately, and Claudel would keep them well apart. Husayn was an Afar; Shaaban an Issa. The nomad Afars wandered in and out of Ethiopia; the Issas in and out of Somalia. That difference was, in these days of war and hate, a possible troublemaker.
    Waiting and more waiting, thought Claudel as he finished breakfast. But while he did that, he could turn his attention to some legitimate business as the travelling representative of Merriman & Co., Consultant Engineers. He would visit once more the projected site for a possible hotel—if its backers received any encouragement from Merriman’s—to be built on an empty stretch of coastline about two miles from the port and a mile from town. A desolate place, with a grey-sand beach, flat land broken by huge shallow pools where white herons—the only touch of beauty—stood ankle deep and picked fastidiously at the sedge-covered water. He would put in a negative report: drainage problems enormous, costs astronomical, sea view dull, background dismal with grey desert and shrubs, possible objections from the port authorities, although their personnel might like a nearby luxury hotel for their families’ visits, definite objections from all the sailors and seamen as well as the people in town who couldn’t afford the prices charged. Also, Muslims did not drink. Also, swimming near the Red Sea was not comfortable: sharks. Also, fresh-water supply would entail a search for underground streams such as Djibouti and the port were built over. Also, the white herons would leave as the dredging operations began.
    His report, of course, would be written as soon as his other business was completed. It made an adequate explanation for his appearance in Djibouti, though. Neither the Police Inspector nor his assistant, both French, had questioned it— not openly, at least, even when he had mentioned the possible need for some of their well-trained native policemen to arrest a murderer and terrorist. Erik... always back to Erik, although Claudel had also taken the opportunity to talk to Georges Duhamel about any freighter unloading crates from Exports Consolidated or a firm called Klingfeld & Sons—both names to be treated as highly sensitive, not to be bruited around the port. Duhamel, good security officer that he was, had promised a few tactful questions. A wild shot, Claudel thought, but every small chance was well worth taking.
    “You are thoughtful this morning, my friend.” Aristophanes Vasilikis, making his morning tour of the premises, stopped by Claudel’s table. He was a blond Greek, now greying, with snub features and blue eyes. Of medium height and girth, he had his clothes carefully fashioned to fit by an Italian tailor: lightweight gabardine trousers that hung without a wrinkle; a cream silk shirt opened at the neck, its sleeves turned back at their broad cuffs. With a reproving frown at the wooden ceiling above him, where a fan had started a slowdown and was threatening a work stoppage, he chose the cane chair opposite Claudel’s, sat down as he took out an Egyptian cigarette and fitted it into an ivory holder. He came right to the point, speaking in his fractured French, saying with an increasing frown, “Surely you do not consider