But at last we came to a settlement of the Suaid. Their reed houses were very tall, and they owned considerable herds of water buffalo. They were more silent than the previous tribes, and their hospitality had a strained and unnatural quality. A one-eyed man named Dakhil was their Sheikh, and he eyed our guns and equipment with an envious air.
We lost no time in asking our questions. When I mentioned the Habbaniya, Dakhil’s face grew tight with rage. But when I said they were our enemies, and that we planned to strike hard against them, he became thoughtful.
“You have heard of the Habbaniya?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Dakhil, touching the socket of his blind eye. “I have heard of them; soon they will hear of me.”
“Have you heard of a substance called White Powder?” I asked.
We all waited while Dakhil considered the question. He was silent for a long time, and I was unable to read his face. His people moved in close around us, and it took all my will power to keep my hand away from my revolver. Then Dakhil whispered something to one of his men, who hurried away.
Still Dakhil did not answer us. The silence grew oppressive, and I began to wonder what our chances would be if it came to a fight.
Then his man returned, bearing a large container woven of reeds. Dakhil handed it to us.
Inside, we found one of the round leather Turkoman saddlebags which had been transported from the Zagros Mountains all the way to the Persian Gulf. The bag was still full of heroin.
“Where did you get it?” I asked.
“Never mind,” Dakhil said. “First, tell me what the stuff is used for.”
I stared at him dumbly, unable to comprehend his question for a moment. Dakhil said, in a rough voice, “Listen, you! I know all about the Habbaniya. Bit by bit I have found out where this powder comes from, and how the Habbaniya get rich by transporting it across Iran. I even know who they sell it to at Abadan. But I do not know what this powder is used for.”
Dakhil closed the saddlebag and put it back in its reed container. He said, “The Habbaniya have grown rich through the selling of this powder, and I plan to make the Suaid rich in the same way. But first I must know what the stuff is used for. I want an immediate answer.”
His tribesmen pressed closer around us. This turn of events was too much for me. I told Dain everything that the Sheikh had said, and asked him what I should reply.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
With me translating, Dain explained that the White Powder was an intoxicating drug, like hemp, hashish, or opium, but far stronger.
“Is it smoked, or swallowed?” Dakhil asked.
“Neither,” Dain said. “It is injected into the veins with a hollow needle.”
Dakhil thought Dain was trying to deceive him, for he had never heard of so strange a method of intoxication. But Dain swore it was the truth, and Dakhil asked to be told more. So Dain told him how habit-forming the drug was, how larger and larger doses were needed, and how men would rob and even kill to obtain the quantities they needed. Then he told how the police hunted the drug-sellers, and how criminals fought with criminals for control of the drug market, and how government men made repeated searches of areas where they suspected the drug was hidden. When Dain had answered the last question, Dakhil had coffee served to us—his first act of hospitality. Then he went into his house to talk over the matter with the older men of his tribe.
We could hear them easily, for they carried out their discussion in shouts. Dakhil still wanted to enter the White Powder trade; but I don’t think his heart was in it any longer. The elders were unanimously opposed. Heroin might bring wealth, they pointed out, but it definitely would bring Iraqi soldiers and policemen into the marshes. These could be avoided or ambushed, as in the past; but their continued presence would mean no spring planting, and no grazing land for the buffaloes. The herds and crops were vulnerable, even if the Ma’dan were not. And if the soldiers stayed long enough, the entire Ma’dan way of life would be threatened.
Dakhil argued a while for form’s sake; but at last he agreed with the others. He was still somewhat hostile when he came back to us, but after hearing how we had pursued the five Habbaniya from Sultanabad to Yezd, he grew positively friendly. He asked us to tell again about the ambush near Tabbas, and how we had turned the trap to our own advantage. And he said he would assist us, and would tell us everything we needed, to know.
The Suaid had learned a surprising amount about their enemies. Some of it had come through spying, some had been learned on raids, and some had been furnished by the Sabaeans, whom the Bedouin detested. But the best information for our purposes came from the Ma’dan who, had worked at Abadan.
Every year, a few hundred Ma’dan crossed the river to work at Abadan and Khorramshahr. These workers rarely stayed more than a few months. They would work long enough to collect the price of a buffalo or a bride, and then return to their villages. Naturally enough, they kept an eye on the movements of their enemies, and whatever they learned was discussed at the tribal councils. Now we were told what they had found out.
A group of Habbaniya Arabs visited Abadan Island at least five or six times a year, which gave some idea of the amount of heroin handled. Once on the island, the Bedouin were in no rush to conduct their business. Sometimes they spent five days or a week in idleness, apparently for the purpose of throwing off suspicion.
The time arranged for selling their goods was always late at night. Then the Habbaniya would slink down the wharves like a gang of murderers in search of a victim. The Ma’dan swore that each Bedouin could move like a shadow among shadows, and that it had taken four separate attempts to trace them to their destination.
But that destination had been found. It was Jetty 29B, a little-used loading wharf just north of the main dock area. Here, in a deserted watchman’s shack, the Habbaniya waited. After a while they were joined by a tall, red-haired American.
The business took less than half an hour. When they left, the Habbaniya no longer had their saddlebags.
“What do the Habbaniya do after that?” Dain asked.
“They leave Abadan,” Dakhil said. “They take the morning boat to Khorramshahr, and then the train to Ahwaz. We have never followed them past Ahwaz.”
“What about the American? Where does he go after the business is over? Where does he go?”
“We never bothered with him,” Dakhil said. “Our concern was with the Habbaniya.”
“Did you learn his name?”
“Yes. He is called Smith.”
Dain asked several more questions, but learned nothing of value. Then we asked if any of the Suaid would accompany us to Abadan and identify the American. We offered a good price, and two men agreed to go. Both had seen the American.
There were six in our party now, and we had to rent the Sheikh’s own boat, for a smaller one would not have held us all. We left an hour before sunset, since the Ma’dan prefer to enter Iran by night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Our journey to Abadan began in a dead and ominous calm. There was a huge, swollen sun behind us—a misshapen blob of fire that seemed to hiss as it slid beneath the gray waters of the marsh. That agonized sun was not a good omen; nor was I fond of the dense ground-mists that came with twilight. These vapors lay motionless upon the surface of the water in long, solid white ribbons; some were contorted like fighting snakes, and others had the semblance of white-gowned men, or crooked, evil little buildings, or of ghosts or devils. Not a breath of air stirred these things out of their appearance of reality, and I began to hold my breath each time we glided through one. I am not really a superstitious man; but anyone can grow nervous in a swamp at night, especially when there is mist on the water.
We must have spent three or four hours in the mists, but at last a wind came up and blew them away. I found it very pleasant to see the stars again; and, of course, it was an indescribable relief for Chitai.
In the small hours of the morning the wind picked up considerable force. Our
boatmen needed all their skill to keep us afloat. We were in the middle of the Shatt-al-Arab, and wicked, steep-backed little waves broke continually over our bow, forcing everyone to bail. The marshmen have a specific name for every sort of wind, and I learned that this one was called Arb’ayin—the forty-day wind from the northwest. It was probably more dangerous than the silent mists, but it felt less so. In fact, it was an exhilarating experience. When the low shoreline of Abadan came into view, I was almost sorry that the boat ride was over.
We passed an illuminated tide-gauge, then a flashing red buoy, then more buoys with fixed white lights. The boatmen pulled hard on their paddles, driving us upstream against the current, and finally over to the Irani shore a few hundred yards above Abadan.
We left the boat in a thick tangle of reeds and waded onto the marshy ground. A glimmer of false dawn was in the east, and against it I could see the skeleton shape of a radio mast, and numerous tall chimneys. As soon as we were on firm footing, Dain called us together to hear his instructions.
Listening, I could feel a hot glow of excitement run through me. This was the end of our long chase, for here in Abadan all the tangled threads of opposed destinies came together for their final unraveling. No man could guess the outcome; the last and most dangerous part of our work lay below us in the sleeping town.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The sun was well above the horizon by the time we reached the town of Abadan. The streets were already crowded with workers, and the great refinery chimneys belched smoke and flame. Near the center of the city we separated, agreeing to meet near the cargo jetty after evening prayer.
I went to Hassan’s coffee shop near the docks, and sat down with a newspaper. Hassan’s had always been popular with cargo handlers and foremen. Here I was most likely to meet old friends, and to hear the latest gossip of the city. If there was any rumor about heroin smuggling, I would be sure to learn it here.
Within the hour, I recognized Yussuf Suwaiyit, an energetic, not too clever Arab from Beirut, who was an assistant cargo chief.
“Wonder of wonders!” Yussuf cried. “The prodigal has returned!”
“Yussuf, my friend, I am very pleased to see you,” I said.
“And I am more than pleased,” Yussuf replied. “Our lives have been dull since you left so quickly and so quietly. Do you know, Achmed, we still play that devil’s game you taught us? That American game called poker. Great God, the fortunes you won from us!”
“Do you still draw to inside straights?” I asked.
“God directs the turn of the cards,” Yussuf said piously.
“Of course, of course. But God also commands us to use the meager intelligence which He gave us. … But never mind. How are things in Abadan?”
Yussuf told me. First he spoke of the vagaries of the foreign oilmen, and then of the venality of the customs officials and the corruption of the police. At last he came to crime, and told me about pearl smuggling and currency manipulation, and about an old Liberian-flag freighter which had broken its back on Palinurus Shoal the month before in order to collect the insurance. But he didn’t mention narcotics, and I thought it best not to ask about them.
We talked for a while about mutual acquaintances, then Yussuf took his leave. I ordered another coffee, then lunch, then more coffee. The day passed slowly.
I met two more friends during the afternoon. The first was Abdul Kemel Ihendi, a large, mustached Turk from Ramandag, who worked at the tank farm in Bavardeh. He told me a rather dubious story about piracy near Failaka; but nothing about narcotics. The second friend was a Saudi named Annad Motleg el Awar. He had a great deal to say about politics, but, like the others, he had nothing to say about heroin.
That was the last of my informants. I sat and mused for a while over the melancholy fact that information is available only when you have no need of it. Soon it was twilight. After the evening prayer, I went to the cargo jetty to meet Dain and the others.
Hansen and Chitai had searched through the bazaars for the five Habbaniya Arabs. They hadn’t found them. But Dain and the Ma’dan had had better luck. They had spent the day in the dock area looking for the American named Smith. And they found him. The Ma’dan were positive he was the man they had seen paying the Arabs for their plump saddlebags, Dain was able to find out that the man’s real name was Edward Flaherty, and that he was the assistant manager of the Abadan branch of the Chesapeake and Virginia Oil Company.
“And his description fits?” Hansen asked.
“It fits,” Dain said. “Even the red hair.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Hansen said. “Have you arrested him yet?”
“Not yet,” Dain said. “I can’t make arrests in Iran. But I asked for immediate police assistance.”
“Where is it?” I asked.
“It should have been here half an hour ago,” Dain said.
“But this Flaherty might have learned by now that he’s being followed,” Hansen said. “He might destroy the evidence; he might even get away!”
“I know,” Dain said. “But we have to wait for the police.”
I could see that Hansen didn’t like that idea at all. He must have had visions of storming into Flaherty’s home with a gun in his fist, arresting him without police powers, and searching his home without a search warrant. Detective Hansen, the nemesis of the evildoer! But Dain was quite right. If he had made the arrest without Irani authorization we all might have gone to jail for longer than the smuggler. Still, it was hard to wait, knowing all the time that our man might dispose of the heroin and escape.
Fifteen minutes later, two Irani policemen came in a jeep, examined our papers, and put themselves at our disposal. We set off at once for Flaherty’s cottage. Now, at last, the trap was sprung. I only hoped that our quarry was still in it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Flaherty lived on the western side of Abadan, near the Khowr-e Bahmanshir River. We crossed the island at top speed, swerved into Flaherty’s front yard, and came to a stop in a flower bed. Bristling with weapons, we got out and advanced on the cottage. At once we were faced with difficulties of command. The policemen were shouting orders in Irani, while Dain was giving different orders in English. In the confusion, Hansen moved up beside Dain, and Chitai joined the policemen. The Ma’dan, unable to understand a word of English or Irani, stayed irresolutely near the jeep. I tried to translate and unify the commands, but I was interrupted by a burst of gunfire from the cottage.
We dived for cover. Several revolvers were firing at us, and a submachine gun poured a stream of bullets back and forth across the yard. One of the Ma’dan screamed and fell to the ground. I crawled toward the jeep for protection; but then I thought about what would happen if the gas tank was hit, and I crawled away again.
One of our policemen took a grenade from his belt, waited for a lull in the firing, then straightened up and hurled it straight through a window. Seconds passed, nothing happened, and I heard the policeman cursing. In his excitement, he had forgotten to pull the pin. He didn’t forget with his second grenade, which missed the window and rolled along the porch.
It exploded, and the front of the cottage vanished in dense smoke. We threw bullets into the opening, all of us firing as fast as we could until our guns threatened to seize up. A mosquito couldn’t have lived through that fusillade, and Dain finally called on us to stop.
There was no answering fire from the cottage. We moved up slowly, stopping at the ruined cottage wall. Not a sound came from within. We shouted at Flaherty to surrender, but we took care not to expose ourselves. There was no answer. Then Hansen stepped into the cottage. When no one shot him, the rest of us followed.
There was a dead Habbaniya on the floor, and a dying one near him. No one else was in the cottage; but we found two saddlebags full of heroin, and a third one stuffed with American dollars. Apparently our visit had been anticipated, and Flaherty had been trying to take everything of value with him. We had come sooner than he had expected,
catching him before his preparations were complete.
The Irani policemen immediately started to question the dying Arab. But the man had been shot in the face and couldn’t answer. The policemen cuffed and threatened him until he died, and then they pushed him aside and examined the bag of currency. The Ma’dan came into the cottage now. One of them had been shot in the shoulder, but the wound didn’t look serious.
In the midst of this confusion we heard the sound of a motor from the rear of the cottage. We rushed outside and were nearly run down by a small panel truck. I caught a glimpse of a burly man behind the wheel and several Arabs in the back. This had to be Flaherty and the remaining Habbaniya. In the confusion of our divided command they had gotten away.
We sprinted for the jeep. The Irani policemen reached it first and started up, barely leaving time for anyone to scramble aboard. Dain threw himself into the back while the jeep was moving, and I followed close behind him. Hansen came running up, but Dain pushed him away, telling him to keep guard over the evidence in the cottage. Chitai and one of the Ma’dan managed to get on, but the other Ma’di was too late. We sorted ourselves out, and found that we were about a hundred yards behind the truck, pursuing it back across Abadan.
The police jeep was equipped with siren, searchlight, and radio, none of which helped us. The siren let out a few tentative wails, then faded away. The searchlight, unattended, glared straight up into the heavens. The radio hummed and crackled in a professional manner, but the policeman wasn’t able to operate it. His companion, driving the jeep, shouted instructions at him, and the man turned dials and punched buttons and roared into the microphone. But it did no good, and after a while he gave it up, raised his revolver, and tried to shoot out the truck’s tires. He was no more successful in this than in anything else he had attempted.
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