Silent Partner

by Leigh Brackett

  “You goddamned fool,” said Tony. “You goddamned stupid idiot. Why?”

  Why? Why? Why?

  You were supposed to believe in causes, to care passionately, to get involved. People scorned you if you didn't. But maybe some were better off with apathy—the ones who didn't know when to quit, the ones who were too steel-armored in their own righteousness.

  He drank, and the whiskey went down like water, and he couldn't get drunk. At least not drunk enough to sleep the way he wanted to sleep. His body relaxed gladly enough when he put it into bed, but his mind ran on like a berserk film projector. He was relieved when he woke up, very early in the morning. He went out onto the balcony and found Zacharian already there, wearing dark glasses and sipping at a cup of coffee.

  Tony said, “I thought you’d sleep till noon.”

  “Too much headache," said Zacharian. “What's your trouble? Guilt feelings because you helped to get your old buddy killed? Or just mad because you didn't get a chance to gloat?”

  Tony did not bother to get angry. “Your head isn't that bad, Jake. You’ve got a bitch on about something; you had it last night. What?”

  Zacharian said, “Have some coffee.”

  He signaled the waiter for another cup. Tony had some, glad to drown the leftover taste of Scotch.

  Zacharian brooded. “I don’t know, Tony. Maybe it’s only that I’ve been on this thing so long I can’t stop running. Maybe it’s the knock on the head, or the pain pills. Forget it. Why don’t you go up to Teheran?”

  Tony said, “I think I will.”

  He called the airport and booked a seat on the afternoon flight. He called Ellen and told her he was coming, and she asked if it was all over, and he told her yes. Packing didn’t take long. Then he had nothing to do, so he went with Zacharian back to the pleasant yellow building and Maktabi’s office. Along the streets men were still hanging flags and bunting, still erecting pictures of Achaemenid kings in long robes and immortals in two kinds of hats, one for the Medes and one for the Persians. When they did a decorating job here, they really did one. The Avenue Zand looked good enough for four holidays. But then you didn’t have a twenty-five-hundred-year one very often. Tony looked at the people walking by, and he felt like embracing them and crying out, “We’ve done it!”

  Maktabi had been in his office since daybreak. Apparently nobody had really slept much. There was no report of trouble among the tribes. No arms had appeared. Hassani had refused again to say any more. An effort was being made to find Karim’s grave. All routine steps were being taken.

  "We are letting it be known among Hassani’s friends that he is arrested, without saying why. Some of the conspirators may become alarmed and betray themselves. We are also searching for Hassani’s papers. He must have had some sort of working constitution for the new government, a list of the men who would hold office—men already in the conspiracy, others who could be counted on for support.”

  "He may have destroyed all that when he first went into hiding,” Zacharian said.

  “No. Remember, the second team would require the information if he were caught. Probably the papers are in a bank vault, deposited under an assumed name. Well, there is much work to be done, but at least we have the time to do it."

  “Sure,’ said Zacharian. “You have the time.”

  Maktabi picked up something in the tone and looked at him sharply. “Doubts, Yakoub?”

  Zacharian hesitated and then said irritably, “I get nervous when arms and tribesmen are mentioned in the same breath. Suppose the guardians of the caches decide not to waste all those nice things in spite of orders."

  “Suppose you let the military handle its own affairs,” said Maktabi. “Relax. Rest. The provincial government has things it wishes to say to you. There will be a private audience in Teheran. You must be well. Go along and see the doctor.” Zacharian went, and Maktabi shook hands with Tony; but it was not Tony he was thinking about and his friendly smile was no more than a surface reflex. His whole bearing had changed in a moment. Tony left him and walked in the sunny streets and wondered what was the matter with everybody. Including himself. He went back to the hotel and slept until it was time to catch the plane. Once aboard, he fidgeted all the way to Teheran.

  He thought that when he was with Ellen, everything would look right again. And it did. He was able to satisfy his need to talk; she wanted to know everything that had happened, everything that was happening now or was expected to happen. Tony got it all off his chest and went on to other things, and it was all fine.

  But . . .

  Along about midnight Ellen sat up in bed and said, “You’re still upset. Let’s have a drink and talk some more.”

  He thought that was a good idea. They got up and had the drink, and after all, Tony found that he did not have anything more to say. He looked at her and loved her and wanted her, and still he was not content.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Jake is probably right—we just haven’t stopped running yet. You get into a habit, and it's hard to convince yourself that it really is all over and you really can stop."

  Ellen was thoughtful for a long time. Finally she said, “It seems to me that you have everything in hand except a body.”

  "How do you mean that?”

  “If you had Karim’s body, you'd be sure he was dead, sure it was all over. But you don’t have it, and so you’re not.”

  “And you think that’s Jake’s trouble? Oh, hell,” said Tony. “Wait a minute.” He got up and stamped around the room. “I mean, it might cross your mind but not seriously. That's his father, doll. He might lie, but he wouldn’t— And anyway, he didn’t, so it just isn’t possible.”

  “You’re not making yourself crystal clear, love.”

  “I mean,” said Tony, grappling for the line of reasoning, “Karim would only pretend to be dead to make us believe it was all over with the Lion. But it wouldn’t do any good unless we knew about it, and how did he know we were going to find his old man? He’d have had to lie to his father and then arrange to have him caught so we’d get the message, and he didn’t.”

  “I didn’t say he did, love. I only said the thought was in your minds.”

  “Anyway, he wouldn’t throw his own father to the wolves."

  “Wouldn’t he?” said Ellen in a hard, cold voice. “Nothing else has stopped him.”

  “Damn it,” said Tony furiously, “you and your helpful talks! I’m telling you, it does not make any sense.”

  “Then why are you so disturbed about it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Tony. “I just don't know.”

  The rest of the night was good for very little, and there wasn't much of it anyway because he caught the early flight back to Shiraz. And as she kissed him good-bye, Ellen said, "I respect Mr. Zacharian enormously, and I like him very much; but I am also beginning to hate him.”

  Tony said, “Welcome to the club.”

  26

  Maktabi was standing by the window, where he could see on the one hand the dark wall of the fortress and on the other the roundabout on the Avenue Zand where the central island was a blaze of flowers and traffic rushed and the bright bunting flapped in the wind.

  "You have had this in your mind since the beginning, Yakoub?”

  "Yes.” Zacharian had got most of his energy back, though the marks on his head were still colorful. He was sitting as he usually did when things were touchy, on his shoulder blades with his legs stretched out long and crossed at the ankles. Tony was unable to pretend that he was that relaxed.

  "Why?” asked Maktabi.

  "I can't tell you. A tendency of the hackles to rise, a feeling that it was all too neat and convenient. I thought the feeling would go away, but it hasn't.”

  "Do you believe Hassani is lying?"

  "Emphatically not.”

  "I can show you the reports from the field. Not the smallest sign of trouble. It is true that we have not found Karim's grave, but whole caravans have been lost in those dese
rts, let alone one man carefully hidden. Last night we arrested two of Hassani's friends who decided suddenly to travel abroad. We are beginning to draw the threads firmly into our hands. Everyone else is happy. But not you.”

  "I’m sorry.”

  Maktabi sighed. "I think you are seeking trouble where there is none. Nevertheless, because it is you, I will listen."

  He turned from the window and sat down at the desk, his eyes dark and hard, fixed unmercifully on Zacharian.

  “Let us think then. Let us say that Karim is alive. He sent false word of his death to the Kashgai, who told Hassani. What has he gained? Nothing, unless Hassani should pass on the word to us, which means that we must take Hassani. But Karim could not depend on it that we would find him.”

  Just what I said, thought Tony. And waited for the answer.

  “Not as a short-term thing, no,” said Zacharian. “In the long run, yes, but this has to be a short-term thing, an act of desperation. Would he have had to depend on it? Couldn’t he have arranged to have us tipped off in time if we didn’t find Hassani on our own?”

  “This is a hard thing to believe, that he would betray his own father."

  Zacharian answered that one, too. “I think he would do anything for the cause. And I think the old man would expect him to. Look at it this way. If he brings the thing off, he gets his father back safe and sound. If he doesn’t, what has he really lost? Hassani was already a fugitive, certain to be caught sooner or later. The end would be the same. This way, at least he has a chance."

  “Very good, Yakoub. Now explain to me why Karim had to make this decision at all. Assuming that he did not die on the way from Isfahan, why did he wait? Everything was ready, he said. Why not strike swiftly while we were less well prepared?”

  “I wonder,” said Zacharian, “if the Lion was ever intended to be a full-scale armed revolt. Things were different when the Tudeh Party tried it before. That was a big operation— general strikes, professional agitators, the whole bit. Reza Shah had done a lot for the country, but a hundred and fifty years of the Kajars couldn’t be undone so quickly. There were still unstable elements to be used. Now the people know where they are; they know where they’re going. They’re happy with it. They worship Mohammed Reza Shah, and well they should. They don’t need the Hassanis to wrench them away from all this and tell them what to do. There’s no popular basis for a revolt, and as far as I know, the Hassanis haven't even tried to agitate one. In fact, this whole thing has been kept so quiet that it scares me."

  “We did not expect that the revolt could succeed without outside help," said Maktabi sharply. “That was one great reason for stopping it before it began."

  “It takes more than some tribesmen skirmishing about on camels to bring in the outside help. These people don’t lay their precious necks on the line when the odds are that shaky. Besides, it’s sloppy, and there’s nothing sloppy about the Lion. Karim built and programmed it like a computer, neat, hard, stainless-steel American efficiency. Push the right button, and every relay clicks over right down the line. Even the tribes have been reduced to order—they get no arms and no instructions until the right moment. The right moment, Hanookh. It comes down to that. Karim waited because he had to wait, because there is only one particular time suitable to his needs."

  He paused. The room seemed hot and silent to Tony, the traffic sounds very loud. A string of donkeys went by in the street below with a pattering of small hooves. Maktabi frowned, considering. Tony could almost hear him tapping the links of Zacharian’s reasoning to see if they rang true.

  “It might even be," said Zacharian, “that the tribesmen are only useful after the event.”

  Maktabi shook his head. “You go too fast. Let us get back to Karim. He waited because he had to wait for what particular time?”

  “Christ," said Zacharian, “if I knew that, I wouldn’t be sitting here."

  “Your whole case rests on it, Yakoub, and it rests uneasily. It is much simpler to believe that he waited because he was dead and could do nothing else.”

  “I know, I know. All right, let me ask you. What will happen now that wouldn’t have happened if we hadn't had word of Karim’s death?"

  “One, we stopped looking for Karim."

  “Good, but not good enough."

  “Two, we believe that the plot is scotched, and so we relax our vigilance.”

  “That's not enough either. The tribes will be watched for some time to come, and remember, this is an act of desperation, a short-term thing.”

  “The tribes will be watched, yes. But now we feel sufficiently assured to reduce the standby forces. Many soldiers are being brought in for duty on the Twenty-Five-Hundred-Year Day. That leaves much less opposition in the field.”

  “Still not enough. It doesn't affect the air force, which is your main tactical arm in a situation like this.”

  Tony said, “Where are all these tribes anyway?”

  “Chiefly at their summer pastures,” said Maktabi. “In the high places where it is cooler and there is good grass. They are spread out over a vast area of very difficult terrain, and because of this, they are capable of doing much mischief to isolated police stations, small garrisons, unprotected villages. However, since there are a number of subtribes, each with its own differing customs and degree of settlement, your question is not that simple to answer. Some are here; some are there. And of course, as yet we are not sure which ones are involved or how many."

  “I see the problem.”

  “Large numbers of them are already here or are moving in for the celebration.”

  “Is that why you're bringing the soldiers back?”

  “Not exactly, no. There seems to be nothing threatening here. But the crowds will be very heavy here and all along the road to Persepolis. The soldiers are needed to manage them and to assist the local authorities in maintaining normal security.”

  “The celebration,” said Zacharian slowly. “I haven't been very holiday-minded lately. I'm afraid I haven’t kept up. What exactly happens on the Twenty-Five-Hundred-Year Day?”

  “Parades. Bands playing. Local festivities of all kinds. A day of feeling proud. The chief event will be the ceremony at Persepolis, to be attended by the governor and other high-ranking officials of the province, military and police officers, members of the Majlis, many other dignitaries. The shah will send a representative. There is to be a historical pageant and a formal ceremony in which items recovered from foreign museums will be returned to their proper place."

  “Ah,” said Zacharian. “And all this glittering brass will go from Shiraz on a line of march twenty miles long to Persepolis, make speeches while the cameras grind, and then come back again."

  “Yes.”

  “Would you have canceled it?”

  Maktabi’s eyes became suddenly harder and sharper than they had been before, though Tony would not have believed that possible.

  “What?”

  “If you had not had word of Karim’s death, if you did not have Mahmud Hassani under arrest, would you have canceled the Persepolis ceremony? Could you have taken the responsibility of not canceling it, with the Lion still alive and threatening?”

  “The subject was very much under discussion. It would have been a painful decision to make—this has all been planned and looked forward to for a long time now—but under those circumstances the Persepolis ceremony would probably have been canceled. Certainly, at the very least, it would have been drastically altered as to the attendance.”

  "Mm," said Zacharian. “Perhaps now we’re getting somewhere."

  Maktabi rose abruptly, almost slamming his chair back from the desk. Tony could not tell whether he was alarmed or angry or both. When he spoke, his voice was quite level.

  “Very well, let us say that the Twenty-Five-Hundred-Year Day is the moment Karim is waiting for, the key to his whole plot. How does he intend to use it? You rule out military confrontation, and in any case he has no army unless it springs suddenly from the gro
und. What does that leave? Assassination? Whose? And what could he gain by it except a wave of outrage? Nothing would be changed politically.” He swung around. "Well?”

  "I don’t know,” said Zacharian. "We still have a couple of days. If we don’t find out, you might start thinking about cancellation again.”

  "You will have to give me something better to take to my superiors than a prickling between your shoulder blades. And there is another explanation that perhaps you have not thought of. If he is alive, Karim may have done this simply to achieve the number one result, that we stop looking for him, in order to make his escape from the country possible.”

  "No,” said Tony. "He wouldn’t do that. Not just for himself.”

  "You never know what a man may do if he’s really desperate,” said Zacharian. "But I agree with Tony. I’d be much happier if I didn’t.”

  "Proof,” said Maktabi. "You must bring me proof. Otherwise I must continue to believe what is reasonable and logical. Mr. Wales himself saw that Karim was wounded in the shooting at Isfahan, and men do die of wounds. Furthermore, regardless of what I do or do not believe, there could be no cancellation or change of plans now without the most definite evidence.”

  "I understand that,” Zacharian said, and got up. "May I have anything I want?”

  "Within reason.” Maktabi scribbled two notes and stamped them. "An open requisition and a top-clearance pass. I can do no more.”

  Zacharian nodded. He shoved the notes in his pocket and went out with Tony.

  Tony said, "What now?”

  "Go kick your heels, boy. I’ve got to talk to some people.” Tony was about to protest, but something in Zacharian's abstracted eyes decided him not to. He walked the sunny streets of Shiraz again and looked at the people and thought: Oh, God, do we really have to do it all over again?

  He walked down the broad, beautiful Avenue Zand, and the ghost of Karim walked beside him speaking with love and pride of this his city, the city of Hafiz and Saadi, the city of saints, the city of gardens where the bulbul sang. Was it possible to love a thing too much? He watched the people going about their daily business secure in their ignorance of what was planned for them, and he found himself cursing all self-appointed saviors. He was getting more passionate all the time, he noticed. He had better be careful, or he might develop into one of the goddamned dedicated. Only at the moment he had nothing to crusade about except Karim.