He checked in at six o'clock at the Hotel Raschid el Fez. The air was filled with the calls of muezzins announcing evening prayers, the cries of donkeys, and the tinkling bells of water carriers. The wind was redolent with the smeUs of charcoal fires, oranges, bayleaf, and dung. The Raschid was a small hostelry remodeled from an old fondouk, with a central cobbled court and walls of soft pinkish stone. There was a tiny restaurant and bar with chairs and umbrella-shaded tables under lime and olive trees. He was expected. The concierge was a stout Frenchman with an Arab wife who sat behind the cash register. His room had two windows above a path roofed over with woven reed awnings. A pot of green mint tea steamed on an inlaid table, set with an etched copper tray. The walls were clean and whitewashed. The bed looked comfortable. There was a bath behind bright beaded curtains.
"You may leave your car in the courtyard. Si Durell," said the French proprietor. "You had a comfortable journey, I trust?"
"Very pleasant."
"We will do our best to make you happy here. Your passport, please."
Durell surrendered it and went up to check the room again as a matter of routine. He found no hidden mikes, no peepholes, no one with a knife hiding in the huge wooden wardrobe opposite the ample bed. There was a telephone on a large inlaid taboret.
Olliver had been in Morocco for over ten years, but he occasionally affected British mannerisms.
"Yo, Cajun. Had a good trip?"
"Not very. There will be trouble."
"You sound sore about something."
'The police will be after me sooner or later," Durell said. '^Somebody tried to hit me."
"Laid on?''
*'Who would want to?" Durell asked.
"Professional?"
"Yes."
"Come and have dinner. Do you like Arab food?"
"I'd like some bourbon. How is the leg?"
"What?"
"Your broken leg."
"Oh, fine. Fine." Olliver sounded annoyed. "How bad is the problem?"
"I had to kill a man."
"Oh, that's bad."
"It's going to get worse," said Durell.
He walked to the appointment. Dusk was falling, but the streets and tormented lanes were reasonably well lighted. He passed small donkeys carrying loaded straw baskets twice the size of the tiny beasts, and watched veiled women at a blue mosaic fountain. Their eyes were bright and curious as he passed. Some students hurried by, their jellabas flapping. The mouth-watering aromas of skewered spiced sausages drifted from the stall of a brochette vendor. A lathe whined in a carpenter's shop. The souk near where Olliver had his headquarters was not far from the Hotel Raschid el Fez.
There was a coppersmith's shop with Olliver's name in Arabic and English lettering. A blue-painted cedarwood door led into a marble-paved court with trellised grape vines and a great bronze clock on the stuccoed wall. A fountain tinkled. A small Arab girl, not more than twelve years old, served mint tea from a tray. There was no bourbon. Olliver waved a hand at the child. "Sche-herezhade."
"A tale of Arabian nights?"
"Now, now, Cajun."
"You seem very comfortable here."
"You think so? After ten years? I make a little on the shop, which I keep, over and above my contract salary, which is damned pitifully small, I tell you." He chucked the little Arab girl imder the chin and chased her off. "We'll eat in a few moments. Tell me about the police."
Durell told him. Olliver was a gaunt man of about forty, almost bald. He wore orange cotton trousers and a striped shirt, and his leather babouches were badly scuffed. There were egg stains on his shirt that were like some psychedelic design. His brown eyes, which were yellowish as if from an attack of jaundice, flew twin banners of resentment. His left leg was in a cast, and he had two crutches leaning beside his cushioned leather chair. He glared at the cast on his limb.
"Stupid thing. My own fault. Dodd would be alive if it weren't for that. Could have handled it all myself, a routine matter."
"A million dollars?"
"We've lost that and young Jimmy."
"Why?"
Olliver dipped his long, angry beak into his teacup. His brown eyes were flat and opaque. Caged birds began to sing in an open window upstairs in the courtyard.
"Colonel Cesar Skoll is in town, Sam. Here in Fez, I mean," he said.
Durell waited.
"Your opposite number, Cajun, from the KGB."
"I know exactly who you mean. Did he get the million?"
"No, no. We don't even know who the people are who have been stealing data from us and making us buy our own stuff back. We're not the only market for it, you see. The Russians and even the Chinese are being blackmailed, in a sense, in precisely the same way."
"Amateurs, then?" Durell asked.
"Damned good ones, old boy." Olliver carefully rearranged his broken leg. "I'll be up and about in a few days, the doctor says. I told Zurich I'd take care of all this myself, but there was a time priority on it, so I had to borrow poor Jimmy."
"Do you think Dodd is dead?"
"Good odds on it. You'll have to find out about it. And do try to bring back the money. McFee must trust you a great deal."
"I'm like a son to him," Durell said, unsmiling.
*'But a million dollars in cold cash—" Olliver paused and tittered. "A great temptation."
"It's only money, as they say. There was only one Jimmy Dodd."
Durell looked up at the window where the caged African finches made bright flashes of color while they sang. "You say we've been buying our own information. What does that mean?"
"Stuff that was stolen from us. And some from the Russians, of course. Probably that's why Colonel Skoll is here. We've made payments to their couriers—nobodies, people who couldn't tell us anything—in Singapore, Zanzibar, and London. Now it's narrowed down to Fez." Olliver sighed. "Some of it is Chinese material, too. You know they've flown some spy satellites lately?"
"Yes, I've heard."
"McFee wants it all. But it's draining our Zurich funds. He can't go to the Bureau of the Budget for more SP funds. Special Purpose only goes so far, eh? But NSA and Joint Chiefs are steaming. They demand results. We can't let ourselves be blackmailed by amateur international criminals now, can we, old chap? After all, K Section—"
"Are you talking about satellite data, Ollie?"
"Of course." Olliver poured more tea for himself. "Do have some of this, Cajun. Very refreshing. Sorry I was out of bourbon. The data was milked right out of our new Icarus I Vs. The Russian Cosmos Blue satellites were stolen, too—at least their tapes were triggered and intercepted. These people, whoever they are, sold us some of it. Some Chinese material, too. The coding people in Washington are still working on the Peking tapes."
"Is it worth all that money?" Durell asked.
"Well, I hear the Russians and the Chinese are having another go at e?xh other along the borders of Inner Mongolia. Throwing big stuff at each other. The White House and State are screaming why we're not getting the details from our spy stars, especially after the incident at Siber-skov. Our policy, my dear fellow, is formulated on fact, not guesswork or wishful thinking."
"Did anything ever go wrong with other payments, before Dodd was sent with the last lot?"
"No. Smooth as clockwork. Embarrassing for us, but we're biding our time." Olliver snickered. "We have to go along until either their station—whoever 'they' are—is found and destroyed, or until our new shielded spy satellites are ready. Which won't be for another three or four months. Lots of bugs in the new Icarus lot, since young Richard Coppitt—ah—left our scene. You knew his stepmother, I gather."
"Yes."
"Tragic woman."
"She's the world's richest widow. A simple girl from a simple small town."
"Your boyhood place, I understand.'*
"Yes."
Olliver lifted his narrow, bony shoulders in a shrug, a gesture that made his thin figure look like a tired vulture. His brown eyes were watery, and
he patted the cast on his leg. "Richard Coppitt was our top man in ESIG— Electronic Satellite Information Gathering. A wizard, they say, but not much older than his stepmother. IQ of 188, I've heard. Very proud boy. Quarreled long ago with the Brigadier, his father. Perhaps we didn't pay him enough."
"Defected?"
"We wish we knew. If so, to whom? The Russkies and the Chicoms are suffering, too. Losing their spy stars, so to speak. Everybody's going blind, in a way—and someone is making a lot of money out of it—leading the most powerful nations of the world around by the nose."
"You sound envious, Ollie."
Olliver sucked at his tea. "It's a lot of money. And humiliating for us. We're professionals, right? But so far, they've been smarter than us."
"Smarter than Jimmy Dodd, anyway," Durell said.
Olliver steepled his fingers and looked sardonic. "And smarter than I, Cajun?"
"I don't know that. Could Jimmy have been hijacked?"
"Possibly."
"Somebody else is in on it. Otherwise, why was I ambushed at Volubilis? And why are the Moroccan cops tipped off about me?"
'*Maybc Jimmy decided to join the amateurs," Olliver suggested. "But let's hope he's alive somewhere, anyway. He's a likable young fellow."
"I know Mary," said DureU. "Fine girl."
"Mary?"
"Jimmy's wife."
"Oh. I see. He never mentioned her."
There was a bustle of long-gowned servants in the house behind the shop. Dinner was served, along with wine from Meknes. The little Arab girl, Scheherezhade, served Olliver personally. Her great dark ^yes were like a dog's. She poured the Sidi Larbi wine with great care. There was harira, a soup of diced mutton, ginger, and onions, served with butter, rice, and eggs. Then there was lemon chicken served on a bed of aromatic spices. And mechoui, a main course of charcoal-roasted mutton. Olliver ate like a glutton, using his fingers in the Arab style, scooping up mouthsful of food with the flat bread while his gaunt jaws chewed vigorously. Now and then he grunted and shifted his injured leg with precise care. With the servants attending them, he dropped all talk of the job.
They finished with Moroccan oranges, mint tea, and delicate pastries. The httle girl brought a brass bowl of confectionery known as kab el ghzal, gazelle's horn, a croissant of crushed almonds and sugar. The sugar made more designs on OUiver's striped shirt, dribbling down to add to the egg stains.
It was full night when Durell got up to go. Olliver walked him to the courtyard entrance and unlocked the gate leading into the awninged lane.
"Don't worry about the local cops. Ill take care of them. I'll send a man around to guide you on young Jimmy Dodd's trail. I do hope you can find him."
"And the money."
"That, of course." Olliver laughed. "Or the data that Dodd was supposed to buy. That's all you have to worry about—just find Jimmy, the money, and the information."
"There's a lot more I'd like to find out."
"Best you don't, old boy. Not at the present stage of the game, at any rate. Don't be startled by the guide I send you, by the way."
"Should I be?"
"A big fellow. A Taureg." Durell nodded patiently as Olliver went on. "Some enterprising Englishman several hundred years ago sold them some indigo dye, and ever since then they use the stuff for their cloaks, turbans, and for tattooing their faces. Very intricate designs. The men wear veils, also blue; the women don't. The chap I'm turning over to you knows the desert. He's one of them. A Blue Man."
4
The Raschid el Fez Hotel was dark and quiet when Durell returned. The French proprietor nodded and pursed his lips and called in rapid Arabic to his wife, and handed DureU his passport.
"Everything is in order, sir."
"Thank you."
But Colonel Skoll of the M Division of the KGB in Moscow was waiting for him in his room. Cesar Skoll was a long way from his normal territory, but he had made himself quite at home.
He sprawled like a small whale in Durell's bed. Dim light filtered through the slatted blinds of the two windows overlooking the lane. When Durell opened the door, Skoll pointed a bottle of vodka at him and growled, "Boom! Boom! You are dead, Cajun American."
Durell moved his right hand and showed the Russian his gun, a short-barreled S & W .38. "No. I got you first, Cesar."
"Ha ha. We play games, Cajun?"
"No. Ha ha."
"Very well. We will be serious, over vodka. Did you like Olliver's wine?"
"It's good wine."
"But vodka is better. You wDl drink with me?"
"A pleasure."
"We will get drunk, but we will be discreet, eh?"
"We'll be discreet. We will not get drunk."
"I am perpetually annoyed with men who know their own minds." Skoll swung his feet off the bed and sat up. He had a broad peasant's face with shrewd blue eyes and a shiny saddle nose. He was built like the proverbial bear. He was fifteen years Durell's senior, and looked fat and jolly, but he was actually as tough and murderous as the Siberian bear he resembled. He uncorked the vodka and walked to the taboret and filled two glasses. "Your health. To my good friend, Sam Durell."
"We are not friends," Durell said. "Not since you were ordered to eliminate me in Helsinki, two years ago."
"Ah, that was simply business of the moment. The case was closed a long time ago. Here, with these Arabs, you and I are in the soup together. Our bosses breathe down our necks, hey? Perhaps we can be allies?"
"Perhaps."
"Very good. 'Perhaps'. We have reached a small agreement. It is circumscribed by your 'perhaps' which is a great concession from you. Olliver is a fool. He will not cooperate. You are much more clever. And dangerous. But I like you, Cajun American. We will get along."
"What do you want, Skoll?"
Colonel Skoll spoke English with a Brooklyn accent, dressed like a Russian in blue serge, was as abstruse as an Oriental, and drank like a fish. "You had some trouble getting to this outlandish city, Cajun?"
"What do you know about it?"
"I know everything." Skoll made a grumbling noise in his vodka. "Or almost everything. Not the names of our common enemies. It is embarrassing, this whole affair. It makes me look the fool. It makes your damned K Section look like fools. As for the Chinese, they are new at this. They simply suffer in proud silence, worrying about face. Imagine what may happen if this goes on!" Skoll gave a deep laugh. "We will all know each other's secrets, eh? Like seeing our wives undressed. And you and I will be out of business. So you and I must cooperate against our common enemy. I speak of the Chinese, damn them, acting so insanely on our legal Mongolian border."
"That's your problem," Durell said. "Bleed a httle. Just as you let Vietnam be our problem."
Skoll waved a hand like a steel spade. "Who is stealing our information tapes and photographs from the skies, eh? Is it you, playing a clever game, pretending to be a victim along with my people? Even Peking screams. Their satellites are few and precious to them. Who is doing this to us? Very upsetting, Cajun. Unknown party gets into the game and breaks all the rules. Very expensive, too. We are not as rich as you. The Kremlin is very, very upset."
Durell drank his vodka quietly, reversed a wooden chair, and sat down on it. He kept his gun in his hand. The hotel was quiet, but somewhere in the lane below a radio played ululating Arabic music.
"I appeal to you now. Comrade Durell—"
"I'm not your comrade."
Skoll's thick finger traced an arabesque and tapped Durell's wrist. ''Gospodin Durell, then."
"That's better, Cesar."
"Are the star stealers more clever than we, who are professionals?"
"The what?"
"It is what we call them. Whoever they are. We know that one of your top astronautic-electronic men has vanished, that Richard Coppitt, that genius."
"And we know," Durell said, "that I.V. Godorov, your own top man in the spy satellite structure you've built, is missing, too."
"And we both
know—" Skoll's laughter belched Vodka fumes at him—"that the Chinese People's Republic is missing their best man in the field."
''A conspiracy, somewhere?" Durell asked quietly.
"Ah, we must learn the truth. You and I must cooperate and learn to understand this game, hey?"
"It's not a game. It could get us killed."
Skoll's little eyes were as hard as agate. He held out his huge hand. "Then we can be allies, American? For this one time?"
"Who told you I was here, Cesar?"
"Ah. My little birds."
"African finches?"
"Maybe. That's very good. Ha ha. I always believed you were a very clever man, Sam Durell. Where is James Dodd?"
"Who?"
"The man you were sent here to find. Poor Olliver and his broken leg! What good is an Intelligence Control with a broken leg? One should take him out of his private little palace, his harem, and shoot him like an injured horse."
"You're welcome to try it," Durell said.
5
Olliver's voice came through on the telephone like a scratchy, antique Victrola.
"So you saw Colonel Skoll. He's a very dangerous fellow, Sam. Of course, he's here on the same assignment. I told you, the Russian satellites have been milked of their uiformation, too."
"He knows all about you, Ollie."
"Was he drunk?"
"Cesar drinks. He doesn't get drunk."
"Then what are you in such a flap about?"
"I'm tempted to throw in with him."
"Cajun—"
"He offered an alliance."
Olliver was silent.
Durell said, "I was tagged by the local security people when I landed at Anfa. I was followed all the way down Jiere. I was shot at, and people tried to kill me on the road. Skoll is waiting for me on my bed when I got back to my hotel. Does that make you worry a bit, Ollie?"
"Not to worry," Olliver said.
"Whatever happened to Jinmiy Dodd, I don't want it to happen to me."
"It won't."
"Then get rid of your birds," Durell said.
Assignment Star Stealers Page 2