Nova 3

by Anthology

  He found that his was a one-man expedition. So hush-hush was it that only the commissioner who had given him his instructions knew that Kosloff was on his way to forestall Colonel Abou Inan. It was absolutely imperative that the world never learn that the United States was involved in frustrating a counter-revolution against a Marxist regime.

  He was far from happy about the assignment. From what he had read of Moulay Ismail, the other was exactly the type of man Paul Kosloff had spent his adult life fighting, and from what he knew of Abou Inan, the man had all of his sympathies. However, Paul Kosloff was a dedicated member of the Western team and it wasn’t up to him to formulate policy. He fully realized that on occasion the freest of governments must resort to devious ways, to compromise, to outright Machiavellianism, if it wished to survive. He didn’t like it, but Paul Kosloff wasn’t starry eyed.

  There wasn’t a great deal of traffic between Gilbraltar and Tingis. There were only two other passengers, both of them, by their looks, North Africans. In fact, one wore the djel-labah, that traditional hooded robe of heavy camel wool of the desert African.

  At the Tingis airport, he followed the other two to the administration buildings. He’d never been in this city before and they seemingly knew their way around. They entered through a metal detection booth. Paul Kosloff wasn’t worried. The only metal he carried was a wristwatch, a small pocket-knife and some coins. They passed him through and he went on to the customs counters.

  His bags were already there and the raggedly uniformed officials going through them with minute care. They found nothing that mattered. Paul Kosloff wasn’t silly enough to pass over a Marxist state’s border carrying anything suspicious.

  Next was the immigration desk and the unshaven official there looked at the passport Paul Kosloff presented, then up into the other’s face.

  “Why do you come to Maghrib, Mr. Smithson?”

  Paul Kosloff, alias Kenneth Smithson, said easily, “Vacation. I’m an amateur historian and I want to check out the theory that the Carthaginians first settled Tingis. I’ll do other sightseeing too, but that’s my big interest.”

  The other grunted, stared at him some more, but then took up a rubber stamp and stamped the document and handed it over. “Welcome to the Democratic People’s Republic of Maghrib,” he said.

  There were a couple of battered-looking mini-hover-cabs in front of the airport. Carrying his own bags—there didn’t seem to be any porters—Paul Kosloff approached one. He put his luggage in the back and sat up next to the driver. He said, in French, “Take me to the best hotel in town.” The driver said, “Owl,” dropped the lift lever of the hover-cab and they took off.

  He had been in North African and Near Eastern towns before and thus was neither surprised nor impressed by the appearance of Tingis. If anything, the city was a bit shabbier than usual. Some decades past, it had been in the hands of France and what semimodern architecture existed obviously went back to that time. Most of this seemed concentrated in the town’s center, along with governmental office buildings. Otherwise, there were mosques, what had undoubtedly once been the palaces of sultans and other high Moslem officials, occasional fountains and wells and huge horseshoeshaped gates.

  Vehicular traffic was at a minimum, pedestrian, swarming. The sidewalks were jammed and the crowds overflowing into the streets. Some rode or led burdened donkeys and he even spotted two or three camels in the souk area on the outskirts. He reminded himself not to bother going into the souk. He had seen North African markets before and they stank.

  About half of the pedestrians wore European type dress, the other half were in djellabahs for men, haiks for women, those white, sheetlike abominations that so completely swaths the wearer that only one eye shows. The prevailing hat on the men was the fez, though occasional turbans were to be seen. Footwear, even on those with European clothing, usually was the babouche, the backless slippers of a desert people.

  All in all, Paul Kosloff decided, a pretty crumby-looking bunch. At least the commies had gotten far beyond this point in the Soviet Complex.

  They pulled up before a large hotel that had undoubtedly once been luxurious. It was on the weather-beaten side now. There was a large black in front in what was probably meant to be the costume of the sultan’s guard, back when they’d had a sultan in Maghrib. He had a monstrous but phony-looking scimitar in his sash.

  There didn’t seem to be any bellhops. Paul Kosloff got out of the cab and brought his bags from the rear. He had picked up the legal amount of dirhams that he was allowed to bring into the country in Gibraltar so was now able to pay the driver, who didn’t refuse the proffered tip as was supposedly the custom in Marxist lands.

  He took the luggage and approached the door. The black opened it for him but didn’t make any motions toward the bags.

  Paul Kosloff approached the reception desk and asked for a small suite. His cover was that he was an American businessman on vacation. He would be expected to be in ample funds.

  He handed over his passport and the clerk said, “We will have to keep this for twenty-four hours for police registration,” peering at it suspiciously.

  His suite, he found, was as run-down as the Hotel Mebruk’s lobby. However, there was hot water, somewhat to his surprise. He took his time cleaning up and then brought from one of his bags a tourist guide. The guide went back to the days before Moulay Ismail’s revolution, but the map of Tingis was undoubtedly still valid, though possibly they had changed some of the street names. He looked up the boulevard the hotel was on, then traced with his finger to another location.

  Well, there was no use putting it off. He slipped the guide into his pocket, reached down into the bag again to emerge with an impressive-looking, king-size camera. He hung it around his neck, tourist fashion, and headed for the door.

  The boulevard outside was named in both French and Arabic, Boulevard of the July Revolution. According to the guide book, it had once been Boulevard Pasteur.

  This was evidently the best part of town, if any part of Tingis could be thought of as best. At least the average pedestrian was a bit less shoddily dressed. Paul Kosloff stuck his hands in his pockets and sauntered along, once again, tourist fashion. He peered into shop windows, took occasional snapshots. He was obviously in no hurry whatsoever, and obviously had no particular destination.

  He took a full hour to assure himself that he wasn’t being followed. He hadn’t expected to be, but you never knew in a Marxist country.

  He drifted down a narrow street that seemed largely devoted to small shops of a type tourists would frequent looking for souvenirs of North Africa, or bargains in the various products manufactured in the Soviet Complex that were sometimes cheaper than in the West, including art objects from China.

  He took the time to gawk into various windows, and sometimes entered a shop to inspect the wares. Marxist or not, this part of Tingis looked like every other North African town he had ever been in. It would seem the regime hadn’t gotten around as yet to nationalizing small enterprises.

  He entered one establishment, somewhat larger than most of the others, and stared at the display of camel saddles, leather dolls, copperware and yellow babouche slippers. There was one other customer present and the proprietor was showing her about. She didn’t seem to be any more avid than Paul Kosloff to actually buy something. Finally, she left.

  Paul Kosloff went over to the shop owner and said, “Battista?”

  The other was seemingly a late middle-aged Arab, on the fat side, djellabah clad and sporting a bedraggled, gray streaked beard.

  He frowned and said, “My name is Mohammed-ben-Abdallah.”

  “Your name is Joseph Battista and you’re an American Italian. I was instructed to contact you. I’m Paul Kosloff.”

  “Of course. The commissioner informed me you were on your way by tight-beam. Shall we go into the back room?” He turned his head and called out something in Arabic.

  A young man of possibly twenty-five entered from a back d
oor. He looked at Paul Kosloff questioningly. The older man spoke to him again in Arabic and he answered and went over and stood at the door to the street, as though awaiting customers.

  Paul Kosloff followed Joseph Battista into a back room.

  As soon as the door was closed behind them, be made a motion with his head. “Who’s that?”

  “Supposedly my son, actually another of our men.”

  There was a very low Arabic-type table in the small room’s center, with hassocks about it. The two men seated themselves.

  Paul Kosloff said, “How good is your cover here?”

  “Excellent. I’ve been a small shopkeeper in Tingis for nearly twenty years.”

  “Good. Did the commissioner tell you what my assignment is?”

  “No, but I can guess.”

  “Oh, you can, eh? Well, what do you guess?”

  “You’ve come to help Colonel Abou Inan. Who else would they send but the famous Cold War’s Lawrence of Arabia to overthrow this corrupt government of Moulay Ismail?”

  Inwardly, Paul Kosloff winced, but he said, “I’m going to need a .38 Recoilless and a shoulder harness holster, a Tracy, an electronic mop and a scrambler. You can provide them?”

  “Yes, of course. I have already been instructed.”

  He got up and went over to a cabinet and brought forth the articles Paul Kosloff had called for. The troubleshooter came to his feet, shrugged out of his jacket and put on the shoulder holster, under his left arm. He put the Recoilless, noiseless gun in it, and drew it twice to see if it was riding correctly. Then he got back into his coat. The electronic mop looked like a pen. He clipped it into his breast pocket. He took off his watch and handed it to Battista and took up the Tracy and put it on his wrist. It looked identical to the other watch but wasn’t. It was a watch, true enough, but also had other qualities.

  Battista said, “Why in the world do they call it a Tracy?” He seated himself again.

  Kosloff said, adjusting the metal straps, “I understand that in the old days they had a comic strip detective who used a two-way radio that was strapped to the wrist like a watch. This, of course, is more than that. It operates on a tight-beam and can’t be tapped.” He picked up the scrambler, which looked something like a cigarette case and dropped it into a side pocket.

  He sat down again too. “Now then, brief me a bit on Colonel Inan. They don’t have much on him in Greater Washington.!!

  “I don’t have much on him either. He keeps on the move, usually accompanied by his two top lieutenants, Colonel Harun Idriss and Major Abd ibn-Tashfin.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “The last report I had, near Ksar-es-Souk, in the mountains near the edge of the desert on the southern border. If he’s pressed too hard, he can slip across into Algeria.”

  “If he’s on the run all the time, how can he recruit? How can he spread his message?”

  “He goes from town to town, bedouin encampment to bedouin encampment. In each, he has followers. He holds secret meetings, addressing new converts, giving speeches. Before Moulay Ismail’s men can locate him, he’s off and away again. You must realize he has supporters everywhere including practically every eman and muezzin in the country. As a Marxist, Moulay Ismail is largely rejected by the Islamic church. Inan also has the support of much of the army, and thus is only half-heartedly sought by them.”

  “So,” Paul Kosloff mused. “There are three of them and always on the move. How could I get in touch?”

  “Abou Inan has various followers here in Tingis. I can get in contact with them and arrange a meeting for you. They’ll be overjoyed to know that a top operative from Greater Washington is coming to Colonel Inan’s assistance.

  Undoubtedly, you are in a position to promise financial aid. Any revolutionary organization can use money.”

  “Okay,” Paul Kosloff said grimly. “Locate Abou Inan for me. Now one thing. You say just he and his two closest lieutenants are usually together. What would happen to this revolution if all three were . . . eliminated?”

  “The revolution would collapse,” Battista said definitely. “They are its heart and soul and brains. Abou Inan is a sharif, a direct descendant of Hasan, grandson of the Prophet through his daughter Fatima. Many of the simpler people of Maghrib think Inan a saint.”

  “I see,” Paul Kosloff said.

  “Which brings to mind something I must warn you about,” the other said. “Serge Sverdlov is in Tingis. From what I understand, if you’re the Cold War’s Lawrence of Arabia, he’s sort of a Tito, Castro and Che Guevara rolled into one.”

  Paul Kosloff’s eyes narrowed. “Serge, eh? Yes, I’ve run into Serge on occasion. I thought he was in Indonesia on some commie cloak and dagger assignment or other.”

  “Possibly the Kremlin is of the opinion that Maghrib takes precedence with this threat of counter-revolution by Colonel Inan. Most of Moulay Ismail’s police are inexperienced clods. But Serge Sverdlov would have lots of know-how if he devoted himself to getting Abou Inan’s team.”

  “Yes,” Paul Kosloff mused. “If he had to liquidate half of the male population of southern Maghrib, Serge would get them. Where is he located?”

  “At the Soviet Complex embassy.”

  Kosloff stood and said, “Okay. You’d better wrap up a couple of souvenirs for me to leave with, so that it’ll look as though I bought something here. Contact me at the Hotel El Mebruk, under the name Smithson, as soon as you’ve set up arrangements for me to meet Colonel Abou Inan and his lieutenants.”

  Back at the hotel, he unwrapped the souvenirs Battista had given him and put them on a table in the suite’s living room. They’d help give him authenticity as a tourist. The shopkeeper had included a pair of leather slippers and two leather dolls, both in local costume. One was a camel driver and the other a water boy, complete with goatskin water bag over his shoulder and several tiny copper cups.

  Paul Kosloff brought the electronic mop from his breast pocket and activated it and began going about the room, pointing it here, there, everywhere, and especially at any electric fixtures. Shortly, it began to go beep, beep, beep and he located what he was looking for. The bug was in the base of the telephone.

  He took the mop into the bedroom and then the bath and searched them as well. Neither were bugged. He went back into the living room and to the stand where the phone was. The fact that there was a bug in his suite didn’t mean that it was being monitored, of course. They probably had a bug in every room in the Hotel El Mebruk, but surely not enough men to monitor them all at once. And from what he had seen thus far of the Maghrib economy he doubted that the bugs would be computerized.

  However, he couldn’t take the chance. He brought the scrambler the shopkeeper had given him from his pocket, set it on the stand next to the phone and flicked its stud.

  He had to work fast now. There was always the chance that the scrambler would be detected and someone on the other end of the bug become suspicious. Then the fat would be in the fire. What American tourist would be equipped with such sophisticated cloak and dagger devices?

  He took his Tracy from his wrist and propped it up on the room’s desk and sat before it. He pressed the tiny stud and said, “Paul calling. Paul calling”

  A thin voice came back. It was the commissioner’s. He had arranged for Kosloff s Tracy to be tuned into his alone. They were really going ape about security on this assignment.

  Paul Kosloff said, “I’ve arrived in Tingis and made contact with Battista. The subject is in the south. Battista thinks he can find out where. He also thinks I’m here to help the subject and evidently approves of that.”

  The thin voice said, “It is not important what Battista thinks.”

  “The subject has contacts here in Tingis. Battista believes he can make arrangements for a meeting.”

  “What’s your excuse for such a meeting?”

  “It will have to be that I’m an agent from the United States coming to offer him assistance. He’ll take that bait a
nd reveal where he is.”

  “Fine. Get in there and do the job. Make sure on this one. We’ll never get another chance if you fail. He’ll be leary of our government from then on. Do this right, and there’s a hefty bonus in it for you.”

  “I don’t want a bonus,” Paul Kosloff growled. “I didn’t sign up with the Western team for money. And, listen, there’s a complication. Serge Sverdlov is here in Tingis.” There was a momentary silence. Then, “Sverdlov is in Indonesia.”

  “Battista says he’s here in Tingis. This guy’s the sharpest counter-espionage man in KGB.”

  The thin voice said, “I know who he is. Well, for once you and he are on the same side.”

  “Yes, but he’ll never know we’re on the same side. And he’s got all of the resources of Maghrib behind him, plus those of the Soviet Complex. If anything happens to my cover, he’ll be on me like a ton of uranium. Can’t you at least send me a couple of heavies from Paris, or wherever, to run interference?”

  “Absolutely out of the question. They might stumble onto your real mission. Nobody must know about this but you and me. You’re on your own.”

  “All right,” Paul Kosloff said in resignation.

  “Good luck,” the thin voice said, before fading. “And reconsider that bonus.”

  Paul Kosloff said bitterly, after deactivating the Tracy, “Does he think I’d take on a job like this for the sake of a bonus?”

  He went over hurriedly to the scrambler and flicked off its stud.

  So he was up against Serge again. And this time not backed by limitless resources, manpower, and equipment. This time all on his own. He wondered if the Russians were onto the fact that Paul Kosloff was in Maghrib. Had Serge Sverdlov been especially sent to counter him? Not knowing, of course, Kosloff s real mission.