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"Skipper," his deputy said to Wilkins (in deference to Wilkins's pre-OSS service as a Naval officer), "I'll lay even money he's off somewhere getting his ashes hauled."

"Where, for Christ's sake? In the bushes in Al Ezbekia Park, no doubt? For three goddamn days? He's not in a hotel, we know that. And he's not with any high-class whore, or we'd know that, too... and goddamn, I found it embarrassing to have to call the Egyptian cops and ask them to check their whores for him...."

He stopped, and looked out the window at Opera Square again.

"The Chrysler here?" he asked, reasonably calmly, when he turned around a moment later.

"Yes, Sir," his deputy said.

"Nobody stole the wheels? The driver is present and sober?"

"Yes, Sir."

"I'll be back," Wilkins said, and headed for the door.

"Going to the airport, Sir?"

Wilkins glared at what he considered to be a stupid question.

"I'll lay even money he'll show up for the flight, Skipper," his deputy said reassuringly.

"And if he doesn't? What if he got tired of waiting for them to fix the engine and hitchhiked a ride to Brisbane? That MATS flight isn't the only plane headed in that direction. How the hell am I going to say anything to Donovan without looking like a horse's ass?"

With an effort, Wilkins kept from slamming the door after him.

The 1941 Chrysler Imperial was equipped with the very latest in automotive transmission technology. This was called "fluid drive." In theory, it eliminated the need to shift gears. In practice, it didn't work, the result being that it crawled away from a stop. The Chrysler was, Wilkins decided on the way from Opera Square to the airfield, northeast of Cairo, probably the worst possible automobile in the world for Cairo traffic, less practical than a water buffalo pulling a wooden-wheeled cart.

At the MATS terminal, he sought out the military police captain in charge of security, showed him his OSS identification, and said that it was absolutely essential that he locate one Captain Whittaker, James M.

B." USA AC

Ten minutes later, three military police brought Captain Whittaker and a

strikingly beautiful woman to the MP captain's office. A flyboy, Wilkins decided somewhat sourly. A good one, to judge by the DPC. He wondered what the OSS wanted from a flyboy.

"This gentleman wishes to see you, Captain," the MP captain said.

Whittaker smiled.

"As long as it won't take long," Whittaker said with a smile.

"They're loading my plane."

"You won't be making that flight, Captain," Wilkins said.

"Says who?"

"Says me."

"And who are you?"

"That's not really important," Wilkins said.

"You'll have to take my word for it. You're coming with me."

Whittaker looked at him with amusement in his eyes, his left eyebrow cocked quizzically.

"That just won't wash," Whittaker said.