Silent Partner

by Leigh Brackett

  “Oh, Christ," said Zacharian. “You too? Somebody's burning the house down; but you just say he’s sincere and that’s supposed to make a difference. Sure he's sincere. So was Hitler. So what?"

  Tony said meekly, “So I’m sorry I said it."

  The plane circled over Shiraz, a green and lovely jewel cupped between sandstone ridges that shone pink and pale gold in the sunlight. It landed, and a car took them speeding down a long double avenue glorious with roses, past fields and flocks and outlying villages, under a kind of archway into the city.

  It was very bright and gay after the gray modernity of Teheran and the rather somber splendor of Isfahan. All along the way men were busy making it brighter and gayer with truckloads of flags and bunting. Others struggled with huge pictures of antique kings and warriors carved on stone.

  "Hey,” said Tony. “Those are from the Persepolis friezes. What’s the occasion?”

  "A salute to the twenty-five hundred years of Fars—the cradle of the empire, as you said. A round number, dating approximately from the unification of the Medes and the Persians under Cyrus the Great.” He added grimly, "Let us hope that the province lasts out another nine days.”

  There was a building off the Avenue Zand, close under the walls of the old fortress prison, a cheerful building painted a clean yellow. They went in and were enveloped in officialdom operating at fever pitch. They entered a room and shut the door, and Zacharian said, "I gave you your chance, Tony, and you didn’t take it, so now you’re stuck. Sit down.”

  Tony sat. "I was here once,” he said, "for five or six days. I can show you Karim’s house, but I guess you know where that is already. I met a few of the Hassanis’ friends, but you probably know them, too. For the rest of it, any guide from the local travel agencies could do as well or better. So how do you think I can bird-dog you to Karim?”

  He looked up at them, and they looked down at him, and he said, "Just a minute, while I get braced.”

  23

  The poet says that even the stranger forgets his home in Shiraz in the spring. Zacharian had told him that, and Tony wished it were true. For him, at least. Unfortunately, he remembered his home all too clearly and wanted to be there.

  Of course, few strangers ever saw Shiraz the way he was seeing it, regardless of the season.

  “There are tourists here, quite a lot of them,” Zacharian had said. “But not so many that they aren’t noticed, especially the blue-eyed types. They stand out. And Shiraz is not the largest city in the world. So if you were to wear your feet out walking around the streets and up and down the alleys, as though you’re looking for somebody, somebody might notice you.”

  “Um,” said Tony. “I knew I wasn’t going to like it. Who do you think might notice me?”

  “We’re not choosy at this point. We’ll take anybody, even henchmen. Look, there’re a lot of good men working on this, but nobody has the particular relationship to Karim that you have. The sight of you nosing around might get people worried or at least curious. They might think you know something. And there’s a chance you might see someone or something that would jog a buried memory or two. It’s a long gamble, but it doesn’t cost anything to try.”

  “Except maybe me. And what makes you think the Hassanis are still here —either one of them? Wouldn’t they be pretty silly?”

  “That would depend on their arrangements. Of course, they could be anywhere, holed up in a cave or a remote village, or traveling with a band of nomads, or disguised as shepherds. But it’s hard to run a conspiracy from a remote village or a nomad camp. An isolated place can be awfully damned isolated even with a radio transmitter, which is a menace in itself because it can be tracked down. Also, everybody notices a stranger. A city is much better as both a nerve center and a place to hide, and Shiraz is ideal because it’s a great place for the tribes. They come in and out like migratory birds, and no one pays any attention. And it is Hassani’s city.”

  “Let me ask you a question,” Tony said. “Do you think they'll really go ahead with it now? I mean, they know you’re all braced and waiting; it isn't a surprise anymore. Would they be that—"

  He was searching for a word, and Maktabi supplied it.

  “Reckless? Yes, I think they would. Consider that the Hassanis cannot remain in hiding forever. They must leave the country or be caught, and either way they are finished. Also, if they wait, their followers may desert them. Tribesmen are not the most patient, Mr. Wales. They have been patient already for some time. It may be that the Hassanis must strike now or not at all."

  “There still isn't any sign of it, though, is there?"

  “No. As Yakoub says, a very strange revolt. Even the known troublemakers, the firebrands, are as docile as mice." Maktabi shrugged. Light from the window caught his face, and Tony thought that he had aged ten years since they first met. “Perhaps they have given up, and that is the reason for the quiet—though if I know my tribesmen, they would not accept the blow so gracefully. But we cannot depend on that, can we, Mr. Wales?"

  “No," said Tony. “I guess not."

  “And we do not know how much time we may have, do we, before there is fighting in these streets?” Once more his voice had the sound that made Tony cringe. “The Hassanis must be found, and I will try anything, even Yakoub's unorthodox plan, since orthodoxy has not produced them. I cannot force you—”

  “Okay,” said Tony. “Okay, we'll do Yakoub's plan. And where will Yakoub be?”

  “Right behind you," Zacharian said. “I can melt into the landscape.” He grinned. “I'm the one who has to worry, you know.”

  “Oh?"

  "Well, if somebody jumps you, you’ve got me to depend on. But if somebody jumps me—”

  "This was your idea, friend, so don't cry if you’re a little bit stuck yourself.”

  Maktabi said irritably, “Do not take it so lightly, Yakoub. Remember that the executioners were sent all the way from London—”

  “I haven't forgotten that."

  “Then consider how much it would be worth to Saad's people to take you alive—knowing what you know of the counterespionage apparatus here and throughout the Middle East. To say nothing of the States. They must want you as badly as you want Karim.”

  “Hanookh,” said Zacharian gently, "I am aware of that.”

  “Then be careful. And God go with you.”

  So here they were seeing Shiraz, the city of the rose and the nightingale, Siamese twins joined by an invisible and ever-shifting bond. Tony learned not to keep looking over his shoulder to make sure Zacharian was really there, though he could not stop wanting to. The other thing he couldn’t get used to was the weight and hardness of the snub-nosed .38 under his left arm.

  “You load it like this,” Zacharian had said. "You hold it like this. This is the safety, and this curved thing is the trigger. This little hole in the front is the business end, and for God’s sake, watch where you point it. Remember I’m behind you.”

  Tony would have preferred a rifle. He had fired a rifle. They were nice and long, and the business end could be kept much more easily away from one's own tender flesh. The nasty little brute under his armpit frightened him. Still, he thought the time might come when he would be glad he had it.

  In the beginning there was no definite patten to his wanderings. Zacharian had told him to go wherever his fancy took him, and so he had set out without aim or purpose, just looking. But he had been here before. He had walked these streets with Karim as his host and guide. Inevitably he gravitated toward the places Karim had taken him because he knew them and they acted as focal points.

  He saw no reason to revisit the tombs of the poets, and the new suburbs did not attract. But there was the bazaar, the museum, the lord mayor’s palace, with the mirrored hall and the Currier & Ives prints faithfully reproduced on an upstairs ceiling. There were the market streets and the roundabout where the statue of Saadi stands looking toward the Koran Gate. Around and between these places was where Tony did most of his
prowling.

  He studied faces, peered through doorways and into courtyards. At first he envied the people he saw because they didn’t know what was going on. Then he began to have a strong feeling of kinship because he and they were going through this together. After that came a sense of responsibility because he was partly to blame for the storm that was about to break over their unsuspecting heads. The enormity of what the Hassanis planned to do became more and more apparent to him as he saw the actual individuals whose continuity was about to be destroyed. For the first time the murder of Harvey Martin seemed relatively unimportant.

  By the third day a pattern had emerged. No matter where he went, he always came eventually to the statue of Saadi and the streets that went off from the circle. This was a market area, full of activity but of no particular interest, and he could not understand why it attracted him.

  It was also on the third day that he became aware of someone eyeing the bait.

  He did not know quite how he became aware. The sensation crept on him by degrees: a tightening of the surrounding air, a quiver of the tactile nerves as though a feather had brushed across his skin. Perhaps, he thought, the bait gets hypersensitive simply because it is the bait. He tried several times without being obvious about it, for obviousness was against the rules, to see if anyone was following him. But they were not being obvious either, and he could see no one. Yet by the end of the day he felt the gathered and aimed attention like a spear in his back.

  He could not see Zacharian either. He was used to that. Nevertheless, he worried.

  He walked back to the Avenue Zand, the wide main axis of the town, and all the way he felt as though he were walking under water, anoxemic and oppressed. The hotel where he and Zacharian were quartered was just off the avenue. He turned into the side street and almost collided with a donkey, which brayed at him and brought the sweat streaming on his skin. When he reached the hotel, he went into the garden and sat under the plane trees, shaking. Presently, to his immense relief, Zacharian came in from another way and joined him.

  “There's somebody after me," he said.

  Zacharian nodded and ordered beer from a waiter. “They've been with us since yesterday afternoon."

  “They?”

  “Two."

  “And you didn't tell me?”

  “Didn’t want to distract you. They’re not doing anything. Just watching.”

  “Who are they?"

  “At a guess, Saad's men. If they were Hassani's, they'd have tried to stop us. Saad must have lost Karim, too. Not surprising. After what happened at Isfahan, Karim would have picked some hiding place that Saad didn’t know about. Maybe they're hoping you can lead them to where he is."

  “But I don't know. I've been peering and poking and staring until I’m cross-eyed, and I haven't seen a familiar face, and nobody's seen me."

  “Are you sure?" Zacharian was stretched out long and dark in the lawn chair, eyes half closed, blowing smoke, sipping the good cold beer. He had a local haircut and the suit he wore had been made by a local tailor. Even the shoes were Bata. Tony studied him. Above them, half a mile away, a sandstone ridge flared hot pink against the deepening sky.

  “How the hell can I be sure? Why?'

  “There was a Kashgai who took quite an interest in you this afternoon. Male, swarthy, gray trousers and tunic, brown girdle, felt cap with the turned-up ears. Carried his worldly goods on his back, canvas knapsack embroidered in red. Didn't you see him?”

  “Man, that’s every Kashgai I ever saw. It sounds as if he just hit town and was gawking at the sights. Probably never saw a foreigner before. A lot of people stare at me. When I said nobody had seen me, I didn't mean they didn't look at me.

  “I know what you meant." Zacharian poured more beer. There was a pleasant smell of grass and moist earth. Water gurgled gently in a small fountain. Zacharian drank thirstily and sighed and asked, “Why do you keep going back to the Saadi square?"

  “You noticed that too."

  “It's getting pretty obvious.”

  Tony frowned. “I don't know why."

  “Karim took you there?"

  “Yes. One of the most interesting parts of the city, he said. Great place for the tribes to come and trade. See all kinds of people. I told you that.”

  “You don't remember anything else he said about it?"

  “No. I've told you every—"

  “Everything you could remember, yes. This may be something you don't remember. That's why I told you to pick your own random itinerary, in the hope that something might be stimulated to come to the surface. Maybe it has."

  “But—"

  “Don't poke at it, or you'll drive it away." He finished his beer and stood up. “I’ll check in with Maktabi, and we'd better have some food. Then we'll go back and look around." He paused. “That's where the Kashgai was."

  “Old Hassani had a Kashgai watchdog," Tony said. “But he wore a suit like anybody else."

  “Sure," said Zacharian. “Just the same, we’ll look. Unless you have something better to do."

  “As if I had a choice." Tony kicked his chair back. “Just the two of us? Suppose we do run into trouble."

  “Maktabi will handle that end. You’re supposed to be alone, and I’m supposed to be invisible. It doesn’t do to go with an army.”

  “Okay," said Tony dubiously, “but what about your two friends? Have they spotted you?”

  “I don’t know,” said Zacharian, and grinned in the dusk. “That's what makes this job so continuously interesting.”

  24

  The section around the statue of Saadi seemed to be as busy by night as it was by day, and the busiest part of it was a sort of open-air bazaar, a broad street with shops and food stalls and vendors’ barrows. Tony went there first because Zacharian said this was where he had seen the Kashgai. He went unhappily, and the state of his nerves was not the best.

  He doodled around, getting curious glances from the people but nothing more, neither hostility nor interest. There were plenty of tribesmen; but none of them wore the Kashgai garb, and none of them looked familiar. He moved gradually toward the end of the street, where the buildings met so that the whole thing formed a u with the corners squared. He had some idea of doing a full circuit, up one side and down the other, so that Zacharian would have plenty of time to see whether he was followed. Meanwhile, he continued to look for Kashgais, male.

  He didn’t see any. The crowd lifted and flowed, clotting here, leaving a wide gap there. A radio gave forth sweet, quavering song. The air smelled of cooking meat and decaying vegetables. Tony reached the apparent cul-de-sac at the end. He turned along the line of the building, and a passageway opened up, narrow and poorly lighted. He knew the passageway was there. He had seen it before and passed it by without particular notice. He started past it again, and this time something twanged like a harp string at the back of his mind. He stopped in his tracks, and all at once he knew why this particular area had drawn him like a magnet.

  He wanted to shout it out. Instead, he took a cigarette and lighted it, a signal to Zacharian that something was afoot—if Zacharian was still with him and still watching. The unaccustomed smoke made him cough. He felt the .38 under his arm, choked down a wave of panic, and went into the passageway, dropping the cigarette as he went.

  The light faded quickly into an indeterminate gloom, a grayish nothing, and it was there that he found the Kashgai. He did not see him until he was almost touching him because the grayish nothing was just the color of the Kashgai’s clothing and the man was standing very still in the niche of a doorway in the right-hand wall. When he moved, he moved swiftly, and there was a long, curved knife in his hand, and it was much too late for running.

  Tony managed by sheer luck and good reflexes to dodge that first thrust. Even so the sharp steel slit his jacket, ripping through the cloth with hideous efficiency. He did not know anything about knife fighting. He grabbed for the man’s wrist and tried to hold it, pounding his other fist into t
he dim blur of a face. Yadollah had been an oak. This was a panther, all spring steel. It fought furiously, without waste motion. Tony lost the wrist, managed to catch it again at the last possible moment, hung to it, this time with both hands, and threw his weight to batter the man up against the wall. He hit with a solid crash and dropped, and Tony thought he had him. Then his own legs were kicked out from under him, and he fell onto the broad of his back, grunting, his head ringing bells against the paving, and there was the goddamn knife in the air above him, coming down.

  He rolled wildly. The steel went snicking past his ear, and he saw something big and dark go by him, moving fast. There was a sound of impact, a clatter, a harsh, angry cry. Tony scrabbled his feet under him and turned around.

  Zacharian’s voice was saying something in Persian that sounded like a command to halt. The Kashgai ran. He vanished around the corner at the other end of the passage. Tony could see the shape of the gun in Zacharian’s hand. He ran after the Kashgai and Tony followed him.

  "Why didn’t you shoot?”

  "Want him alive. You okay?”

  "Just. Look, I remembered what it was that I couldn’t remember. Karim said he had a very interesting friend who lived in here. Only he was in the fortress then, so I couldn’t meet him.”

  "The fortress is a prison.”

  "I know. I don’t think they know each other socially.”

  They had reached the end of the passage and stopped. Zacharian’s arm swept him against the wall and held him there. He thought this might be as good a time as any to get his own gun out, and so he did. The bazaar noises, the voices, and the music were muted and far away to his right. To his left there was a courtyard and an aching quiet.

  "What about your two friends?” asked Tony.

  "Lost them somewhere. Can you cover me?”

  "I’ll try.”

  He clicked the safety off, and Zacharian said dubiously, "You’d better aim high.”

  Zacharian went into the courtyard in a dive and roll that took him away from the passage and into the cover of a stack of soft-drink crates. And there was noise, the heavy slam of shots. Glass tinkled as some of the empties broke.