Nova 3

by Anthology

For the next week, Paul Kosloff spent most of his time in the hotel, taking all of his meals there. He trusted the plastic surgery he’d had in Greater Washington but he was taking no chances. Altered facial features alone are insufficient to disguise a man. He suspected that Serge Sverdlov had spent many an hour before a film screen studying shots of Paul Kosloff leaving and entering buildings, walking along streets, getting in and out of vehicles. The KGB would undoubtedly have many of these. He, himself, had spent similar hours looking at films of Serge Sverdlov and was of the opinion that he could have picked the Russian out even though masked. The set of shoulders, the way the head was held, the stride, the shape of hands, and all the rest of it.

  No, he had no desire to have Serge Sverdlov spot him on the streets of Tingis.

  On the third morning, he found an envelope that had been slipped under his door during the night. He slit it open with his pocketknife. The note inside was typed and unsigned.

  It read: Tokugawa is in town. His cover is that he is a member of a Japanese trade mission here. He is staying at the Japanese embassy.

  “It sounds like a convention,” Paul Kosloff muttered. “Serge Sverdlov, Tokugawa and myself.” He grunted. Joseph Battista was a more efficient operative than Paul Kosloff had originally given him credit for being. He wondered what system the American agent used for detecting the other underground operatives.

  There was nothing for it, he was going to have to check out the newcomer. He knew where Sverdlov stood, but not the Japanese. He couldn’t afford to begin operations and run into the risk of coming up against him. Possibly, it was something entirely divorced from his own mission. Possibly, but he doubted it.

  The approach might as well be a direct one. That evening he left the hotel by a side door and got into a cab as soon as possible, still conscious of being spotted on the streets. He ordered the driver to take him to the Japanese embassy. There was no way he could think of to avoid being seen entering the building, if the place was being observed. And what excuse would a vacationing American have for entering the Japanese embassy? Could he claim that he planned to return to the States by traveling East, completely around the world, and wanted a Japanese visa? The trouble was, an American didn’t need a visa to visit Japan.

  He left the cab half a block from the embassy and walked the rest of the way, wanting the opportunity to case the place before entering, to check whether or not it was being watched. He couldn’t make out any obvious plants, however. There wasn’t even a local police guard at the entrance.

  He entered and approached the petite Japanese girl at the reception desk. She was in western garb and the room was furnished western style.

  Her French was perfect. “Good morning, sir.”

  Paul Kosloff said, “I wish to see Colonel Tokugawa.” Her almond eyes turned wary. “There is no Colonel Tokugawa here, sir.”

  “Tokugawa Hidetada. Supposedly he’s here on a trade mission. Tell him Paul Kosloff wishes to see him.”

  “I assure you, sir . . .”

  Paul Kosloff simply looked at her.

  She flicked on a desk communicator and spoke into it in Japanese, then listened. Her eyes widened slightly in surprise. She deactivated the device and looked up at him. “Yes, sir,” she said.

  A door behind her opened and the top Japanese counterespionage operative entered. By his appearance, he couldn’t have been less offensive. He even wore thick-lensed glasses.

  “Paul,” he said, his hand outstretched. “I didn’t at first recognize you. Plastic surgery, of course.”

  Paul Kosloff said, “Hidetada,” and they shook.

  “Please come in here, Paul,” the slightly built Japanese said, leading the way back through the door he had just entered from.

  Beyond was an office, simply furnished. On the desk were several piles of what were obviously reports, all of them of course in Japanese.

  “Sit down, Paul. It seems a long time since last we met during the Asian war.”

  Paul Kosloff took a chair and said, “Yeah. And thanks all over again for taking those two commies off my back. I spent three months in the hospital afterward.”

  The Japanese bowed his head agreeably in response and said, “It was my duty, Paul. We were on the same side . . . then.”

  Paul Kosloff looked at him.

  Tokugawa Hidetada said gently, “Paul, I am afraid we are not on the same side now.”

  “Go on.”

  “Paul, Japan desperately needs the raw materials of Maghrib, resources that are largely going to the United States today. It is in our interest that Colonel Inan not come to power.”

  “Granting that I know what you’re talking about, and I’m not admitting that, why?”

  “He is a fanatic. We prefer his lieutenant, Colonel Harun Idriss. Although Idriss largely supports Inan, he is at the same time the leader of a group in their organization that has differences. Colonel Idriss is anti-American. You know, the American imperialism thing. If he came to power, he would switch trade to Japan. However, he is faithful to Inan and on his own would never attempt to replace him. But if something happened to Colonel Inan, then it would be Idriss who came to power.”

  “I see. And you think the American State Department wishes to see Colonel Abou Inan win his revolution?”

  The Japanese said gently, “Yes.”

  Paul Kosloff thought about it. He said finally, “To sum it up, then, you wish this anti-Marxist revolution to take place but you want Colonel Idriss to come to power rather than Colonel Inan.”

  “Yes, Paul. And, believe me, in spite of past associations, I cannot let you stand in my way. Japan cannot. We must have the oil, copper and nickel of Maghrib or industrially we die.”

  Paul Kosloff came to his feet.

  “I’ll be seeing you, Hidetada.”

  “Paul, I am warning you.”

  “Yes, I know. I’ll be seeing you, Hidetada. The next time you write, give my regards to your wife. I’ll never forget that tempura she cooked for us.”

  By the time he left the embassy, night was well along. The Hotel Mebruk wasn’t as far as all that. He decided to walk and try to sort things out. It was unlikely he would be spotted by Serge Sverdlov or any of his men with it this dark.

  Things were piling up. The governments of the Soviet Complex and Japan, not to speak of the United States, wouldn’t have their top espionage men in the country unless the revolution some of them wanted, and some didn’t, was eminent. For that matter, he wondered if Common Europe also had some of their cloak and dagger aces around, and, if so, where they stood. Would they want Moulay Ismail to remain in power, or be overthrown? From what he had read in Greater Washington, this Colonel Inan made a lot of sounds about uniting North Africa, to present a united front to the developed countries, including Common Europe. Did Common Europe want a unified Arab world? He doubted it.

  Paul Kosloff was going to have to get moving. He was going to have to get to this Colonel Inan before Tokugawa Hidetada did. Not that his long-time friend and colleague wasn’t also interested in eliminating the colonel, but he wanted to replace him with Haran Idriss, an anti-American, pro-Japanese. Which would be just as disastrous for the United States as a successful Inan revolution.

  There was another element. Both Serge Sverdlov and Tokugawa were as devoted to their own governments as Paul Kosloff was to the United States. They were dedicated. Serge, of course, would shoot down Paul Kosloff between yawns, but even with Tokugawa friendship would not be enough if he felt Kosloff to be obstructing the Japanese cause. Paul Kosloff hated to think about it, but it worked both ways. If absolutely necessary, he would not hesitate to take whatever measures were called for. It was not a pretty world, this one of international intrigue and cold war.

  All of which was brought rudely home to him as he passed an alley.

  Something there is in the man of action that must be an instinct, possibly one come down from the caves, from the time of the saber-tooth, from the time of the cave bear. An instinct for
danger. Had Paul Kosloff not had it, he would have been dead long years since. You are walking across a battlefield, supposedly cleared of the enemy. Suddenly, seemingly without cause, you throw yourself to the ground. A burst of machine gun fire goes over your head, or a mortar shell explodes a few yards from you. Had you not flopped down upon your face, you would now be a mangled corpse. Why did you do it? You haven’t the vaguest idea.

  Suddenly, unconsciously, he dropped to one knee and his right hand blurred for his holstered .38 Recoilless. A pencil-thin hiss of light cut a foot above his head. A laser!

  The other was only the vaguest of shapes, back a few feet in the alleyway. His six silent bullets ripped the man through from the crotch almost to the neck line.

  Paul Kosloff shot his eyes up and down the street. He could see no one close enough to have observed the split seconds of action. He moved in quickly, bent over the fallen would-be assassin.

  To his relief, the man was a complete stranger. Seemingly, he was an Arab. That, of course, meant little. He could have been a hired killer in the pay of Sverdlov, Tokugawa or, for all he knew, of some other element on the scene with whom Paul Kosloff was not as yet acquainted. Possibly even an adherent of either Moulay Ismail or Colonel Inan, although he doubted the first. The Marxist’s government would not have to cut him down on the street. At their will, they could arrest him and put him to the question before dispatching him. And he doubted that the killer would have been sent by Sverdlov. The Russian, too, would be in position to eliminate him more efficiently than this demi-buttocked attempt. He doubted that Serge Sverdlov knew he was in the country.

  But that cut down the possibilities drastically. Who else could possibly know he was here and would want to eliminate him? Battista? Could he be a double agent? Twenty years as an American agent in Maghrib—but that didn’t mean a goddamned thing in this field. A double agent for whom?

  He frisked the dead man quickly, efficiently, but, as he had suspected, the other bore no identity papers, nor anything else that would give a clue to who he was, who had sent him on his mission of death.

  Paul Kosloff had to get out of the vicinity. The other might have an accomplice around, possibly a driver of a get-away car, possibly a back-up man. And, above that, a supposed American tourist should not be found bent over a corpse and in possession of a .38 Recoilless.

  He hurried to the street, double-checked for anyone in the vicinity, then hurried along back to the hotel, his right hand ready to dart in for the gun again at the slightest indication of additional hostility.

  Back at the hotel, he made no further effort to contact Battista but kept even closer to his rooms than he had before. In spite of the supposed ultra-security involved in this operation, he was already known by too many to be present in Tingis. The American agent knew where Paul Kosloff was and the only reason for their getting together again was when the plans had been completed for his meeting with Colonel Abou Inan.

  At the end of the week, there was a discreet knock at the door. It was the boy who had been at Battista’s shop, the agent’s supposed son and also in the employ of the American government. When Paul Kosloff opened the door, the other side-stepped in. The international troubleshooter led him into the living room and looked at him.

  The other was sharp. He pointed at his ear and then around the room, his face questioning. Paul Kosloff took him to the phone stand and pointed at it. He brought his electronic scrambler from his pocket and activated it momentarily.

  He said, “I’m afraid to keep this on for any length of time. Don’t say anything you don’t want heard.” He flicked the device off again.

  The younger man nodded and said, “Mr. Smithson, sir, I have made the arrangements for your drive into the countryside. I have rented a car.”

  “Excellent,” Paul Kosloff said enthusiastically. “When can we leave?”

  “Immediately, sir. The car is outside the hotel. I am to be your chauffeur and guide.”

  “Wait just a moment. I’ll pack a small bag and get my camera.”

  Paul Kosloff waited until they had got into the countryside on the outskirts of Tingis before saying anything of importance. American agents were now equipped with listening devices that could reach right into a car and take in a conversation. He assumed that the Soviet Complex operatives had similar advanced gear.

  He said finally, “All right. What’s your name?”

  “Nafi-ben-Mohammed.”

  “What’s your real name? You’re an American, aren’t you?”

  “No. I am a national of Maghrib. I was educated in the American school of Tingis, before it was closed by Moulay Ismail. However, as you know, I am employed by the American government through Mohammed-ben-Abdallah, supposedly my father.”

  Kosloff nodded. He said, “Where are we going?”

  “Colonel Abou Inan is still in the vicinity of Ksar-es-Souk, in a small town named Goulmimi. He is anxious for the meeting with you.”

  “How far is it?”

  “Perhaps five hundred kilometers.”

  “About three hundred miles, eh? Can we make it in one day?”

  “The roads are quite good. Built by the French in the old days. We should be able to.”

  “Good. I’d just as well not have to stop for the night. No stops except for gas and food. Then there won’t be any record of the trip.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Paul Kosloff looked at the younger man from the side of his eyes. He said, “What do you think of Colonel Inan?” The other’s voice took on a different tone. “He is the sole hope of Maghrib.”

  Paul Kosloff thought about that. He said, “Are you armed?”

  “Yes. The same as you. With a .38 Recoilless.”

  “Ever had to use it?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve been in this service ever since the take-over of Moulay Ismail.”

  “Dedicated, I see.”

  The Moslem boy was embarrassed. He said, finally, “My two older brothers were killed by the Marxists.” Then he added, “They aren’t really Marxists, of course.”

  “They aren’t? How do you mean?”

  “A good many so-called Marxists in all parts of the world, including the Soviet Complex, pay lip service to his name and work but their governments have no similarity to what he was talking about. He wanted the State to wither away, they strengthen it and keep it in their own hands and to their own profit.”

  Paul Kosloff looked at him from the side of his eyes again. “Did you pick that up in the American school?”

  The younger man was embarrassed again. “No, sir. I used to study political economy on my own. That is why I support Colonel Inan. He wishes to bring both capitalism and democracy to Maghrib. He realizes that the country is not sufficiently developed to achieve to a more advanced society.”

  “How do you mean, both capitalism and democracy? And how do you mean, a more advanced society?”

  “The words are not synonymous, of course. You can have one without the other, in spite of our western propaganda to the contrary. For instance, we have had democratic societies down through the ages. In your own country, the American Indians were democratic before the coming of the white man, but they were certainly not capitalistic. Nor were the Greeks of the Golden Age. The economic system then was based on slaves. The government, though, was democratic. Hitler’s regime was certainly not democratic, but it was capitalistic. Capitalism is an economic system, democracy a governmental one. Undoubtedly, one day capitalism will become antiquated, as both slavery and feudalism were in their time, but that does not mean that the next socioeconomic system will not be democratic.”

  The international troubleshooter said, “Do you have a map of Maghrib here in the car?”

  “Yes, sir. In the dash compartment there.”

  Paul Kosloff got it and opened it up. “Okay. Tell me the route you’re taking, town by town. I want to know where we’re going and how we’re going to get back.”

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary. I’ll drive
both ways, and I know the route quite well.”

  Paul Kosloff said coldly, “I want to know in case something happens to you and I have to drive back myself.” Damn it. Was he going to have to kill this one too? Thus far, he had liked the boy.

  The town of Goulmimi was located in the High Atlas mountains about sixty-two kilometers from the desert city of Ksar-es-Souk. It was small and built of mud and reminded Paul Kosloff somewhat of the adobe pueblos of the American southwest. There were swarms of children, swarms of flies, a sufficiency of mangy dogs too listless to bark even at strangers.

  Nafi seemed to know where he was going. He pulled down a narrow, dirty alley and came to a halt before a one-room mud brick house.

  “We will wait here until summoned,” he said.

  It was already evening and the light beginning to fade. Paul Kosloff took up his bag and they went inside. He looked around. There was a sole window in the rear of the hut. He went over to it and stared out, checking a possible means of emergency exit. It was just large enough for him to be able to wedge through, in case of need. It opened on another mud street, identical to the one they had just driven down.

  There was no furniture in the hut. In fact, nothing at all save a pallet of straw covered with some dirty rags. Nafi, evidently perfectly at home in this atmosphere, squatted on his heels and looked patient. Paul Kosloff sat down with his back to the wall, his eyes on the door.

  The knock came quicker than he had expected. He assumed that when they had entered Goulmimi they had been immediately spotted and that eyes had been on them ever since, though they had seen few adults in the streets.

  He had his hand ready for a quick draw and motioned for Nafi to answer. There was a filthy-looking Arab there, djel-labah clad and barefooted. He spoke to Nafi in Arabic.

  The young agent turned back to Paul Kosloff. “You are to go alone. The colonel and his men await you.”

  “All right.” He came to his feet, took off his coat and worked out of his shoulder holster. He handed gun and harness to Nafi. “Take care of this for me.”

  He followed his guide a few houses down the street to another mud house. The Arab opened the aged wooden door and held it as though in invitation for Paul Kosloff to enter. He did. The guide didn’t follow.