Kirill Menzhinsky, agent superior of the KGB for North Africa, looked up from his desk, smiled a greeting and came to his feet and held out his hand to be shaken. The two were passingly acquainted.
“Colonel Sverdlov,” he said. “I have been expecting you.”
Serge Sverdlov nodded acceptance of that. Obviously, the minister would have called ahead on the scrambled tightbeam. The other motioned to a chair before the desk and the colonel took it and crossed his legs. “It’s been quite a time, Comrade Menzhinsky,” he said.
His superior smiled at him. “Yes. I believe the last time was in Moscow when Number One himself decorated you with the Hero’s Award.”
Sverdlov said nothing to that. The other Russian came to his feet and went over to a small bar in a corner.
He looked over his shoulder and said, “A drink, Comrade? As I recall, you were never one to refuse a drink. In Tangier, one can get anything, even the best of vodka.”
“Vodka would be excellent. I suspect that it is the last opportunity I will have to enjoy it for a time.”
The other chuckled as he poured. “Or anything else, for that matter. In the Sahara, one, especially if he is passing as a Moslem, does not drink. The Prophet forbids.” He brought the glasses back. “But then, of course, you know all this, since your record shows you spent considerable time in Algeria during the troubles there.” He made a humorous mouth. “In fact, I understand you caused quite a few of the troubles.” He handed one of the glasses to the colonel.
The KGB official took his chair behind the desk and held up his glass. “To the world revolution, Comrade.”
Sverdlov gave the standard response. “The revolution.”
They knocked back the high proof spirits.
Kirill Menzhinsky put down his glass and said, “And now, I suppose that Comrade Blagonravov has briefed you on this El Hassan and his immediate clique.”
The colonel nodded and said, “Brief, is the only word. Precious little seems to be known about the man, other than that he is an American, which is astonishing.”
The other nodded in his turn and picked up a paper, saying, “Slowly, we are accumulating more information on our mysterious Dr. Homer Crawford. I shall give you the same information I did Comrade Anton before we sent him in.” He read, “Homer Crawford, born in Detroit of working-class parents. In his late teens, interrupted his education to come to Africa and join local revolutionists in Morocco and Algeria. Evidently was wounded and invalided back to the States where he resumed his schooling. When he came of military age he joined the Marine Corps. Following one hitch, as they call it, he resumed his education again, finally taking a doctor’s degree in sociology. He taught for a time until the Reunited Nations began its African program. He accepted a position and soon distinguished himself.”
He took up another paper and went on. “According to both Comrades Baker and Anton, who preceded you and are now dead, Crawford is an outstanding personality, dominating others. Comrade Baker, in particular, reported a somewhat mystical quality in him. An ability in times of emotional crisis to break down men’s mental barriers against him.” He twisted his mouth ruefully at the other’s surprise at his words. “Evidently, throughout history there have been similar examples. Our own Lenin was one, Ghandi of India was another. So have been various religious leaders in the past.”
“And his closest followers?” Sverdlov said, avoiding the unscientific connotations of what his superior had said.
Menzhinsky took up another paper. “Elmer Allen. Born of small farmer background on the Caribbean island of Jamaica. Managed to work his way through the University of Kingston where he took a master’s degree in sociology. At one time he was thought to be Party material and was active in pacifist groups and so forth. However, he was never induced to join the Party. Upon graduation, he immediately took employment with the Reunited Nations and was assigned to Crawford’s team. He was evidently in full accord with Crawford’s aims as El Hassan.”
“Was?” Sverdlov frowned.
“We have received word that he has been captured by elements of the Chaambra in northwest Algeria who are largely opposed to El Hassan.” The KGB offical shrugged. “Possibly he is still alive, though I doubt it.”
The espionage head took up another sheet. “Bey-ag-Akhamouk, the only real African close to El Hassan. Born a Tuareg, he was taken to America as a child and educated there and took his degree in political science. We have no record of where he stands politically but Comrade Baker and Anton rated him an outstanding intuitive soldier. A veritable genius in combat. It would seem he’s had military experience somewhere, but we have no record of it.”
“Intuitive soldier?” the colonel said, and his tone indicated—more mysticism?
Menzhinsky chuckled sourly and said, “Do not forget such men as Trotsky, Mao, Tito, Castro, none of whom had much, if any, military training, except Tito who was a sergeant in the First World War.”
He sorted out still another sheet. “Kenneth Ballalou, born in northern Louisiana, educated in Chicago. Another young man but evidently as capable and devoted to Crawford as the others. So far as we know, he holds no political stand whatsoever.”
He went over to the bar and brought back the bottle of vodka and poured them both another drink. When it was down, he went on. “Which brings us to Isobel Cunningham. Born in New York or New Jersey, master’s degree in journalism. Comrade Baker recruited her into the Party while he too was a student. On graduation, she went to work with the Africa for Africans Association with two colleagues, Jacob Armstrong and Clifford Jackson. All three became early followers of El Hassan. Indeed, the more elderly Jacob Armstrong is now supposedly El Hassan’s Minister of State and Ambassador to the Reunited Nations in New York. Clifford Jackson we have little information on, beyond the fact that he is an American black and probably from California.” Menzhinsky looked up. “There you have it.”
Serge Sverdlov ran his right hand down over his cheek, thinking about it.
His superior said, “I see that you are disguised as a Negro. How will you maintain the dyeing in the desert?”
The colonel grunted deprecation. “It’s not a dye matter. The pigmentation of my skin has been altered. I’ve also been circumcised. They’re thorough in Moscow.”
Menzhinsky laughed gruffly. “Wait until your girl friend back in Moscow sees you!”
Sverdlov laughed too. “It’s reversible,” he said. “The change in pigmentation, at least. Are there any new instructions, beyond those I received from the Minister? That is, I am to find El Hassan, join him as Anton did, try to rise in his organization, do all that I can in his attempt to come to power and to amalgamate and forward the progress of North Africa until it is advanced sufficiently to be fruitful ground for Party activity.”
The other shook his head. “That’s about it. It’s an assignment, Comrade, that could take the better part of the rest of your life—if you are successful.”
The KGB agent nodded wearily to that. “So it would seem. Do you know where El Hassan was last heard from?”
“Tamanrasset, right in the middle of the Ahaggar, the most desolate area of the Sahara. There is just one thing.”
The colonel looked at him.
Kirill Menzhinsky said slowly, thoughtfully, “As I told you, one of his closest aides has been captured by Abd-el-Kader, who is the chief of the Ouled Touameur clan of the Chaambra nomads. He is also of Shorfu blood, a direct descendent of Mohammed, through his daughter Fatima. Our information is that he has called for ajedah, a holy war, against El Hassan. Since he holds, or has already killed, Elmer Allen, he has put El Hassan in a double spot. If Homer Crawford doesn’t react, he’s going to lose a great deal of face among the desert men. It’s possible that, even now, he’s heading for Chaambra country.”
“I see.” Sverdlov thought about it. “Where can I get detailed information about the Chaambra, the areas they control, what towns, where they rendezvous, that sort of thing?”
His s
uperior said, “The Soviet Complex Embassy has an extensive library. It is open to the public. You need not even reveal your true identity, which might be best, since your assignment is most hush-hush. It would never do that it get out that the Soviet Complex is aiding El Hassan even against such socialist countries as Algeria.”
X
PAUL KOSLOFF
Paul Kosloff took the supersonic to London and from there a jet to Gibraltar and from there a ferry plane to Tangier. The faint scars from the plastic surgery he had gone through were all healed. He had spent the time that took poring over material on North Africa and what little material they had on El Hassan in the State Department files.
He hadn’t liked what he found about El Hassan. The man was obviously an anti-Marxist and had no intention of being swayed by the Soviet Complex. Kosloff had spent his life fighting Marxism and was now being sent out against another who felt the same way he did.
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 El Hassan. It was absolutely imperative that the world never learn that the United States was involved in frustrating a revolution against Marxist regimes. No, he didn’t like it but 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 Gibraltar and Tangier. There were only two other passengers, both of them, by their looks, North Africans.
At the Tangier 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 pocketknife 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 were going through them with minute care. They found nothing that mattered. Paul Kosloff wasn’t silly enough to pass over a 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 Morocco, 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 Phoenicians first settled Tangier. 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 Kingdom of Morocco,” he said.
There were a couple of battered-looking Chico hovercabs in front of the airport. With a ragamuffin carrying his bags, Kosloff approached one. He had his luggage put in the back and sat up next to the driver.
He said, in French, “Take me to the Hotel Kebruk.”
The driver said, “Oui,” dropped the lift lever of the hovercab 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 Tangier. If anything, the city was getting 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.
But first they had entered through a native district where 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.
All in all, Paul Kosloff decided, a pretty crumby-looking bunch. Even the commies, in the Soviet Complex, were far in advance of this feudalistic, absolute monarchy. How could the advent of an El Hassan make it any the worse?
Eventually, they pulled up before a large hotel that had obviously 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, or some such. He had a monstrous but phony-looking scimitar in his sash.
There didn’t seem to be any bellhops so Paul Kosloff got out of the cab and brought his bags from the rear. He took the luggage and approached the door. The black opened it for him but didn’t make any motions toward the bags. Who in the hell had decided on this hotel for him? Evidently, somebody who had thought he’d be less conspicuous in such surroundings.
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 funds.
His suite, he found, was as run-down as the Hotel Kebruk’s lobby. However, there was hot water and 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 the Sultan’s return and to the regime of the International Zone but he assumed that the map it contained was 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 Pasteur, and this obviously was the best part of town, if any part of present day Tangier would be thought of as best. The pedestrians were largely Europeans. 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 could hardly know it but he was duplicating the motions of Serge Sverdlov, not long before.
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 one of these off-beat dictatorial countries.
He drifted down a narrow street that seemed largely devoted to small shops of a type tourists would frequent looking for souvenirs in North Africa, or bargains in the various products manufactured in the Soviet Complex that were sometimes cheaper in the West, including art objects from China.
He entered one establishment, somewhat larger than most of the others and stared at the display of camel saddles, leather dolls, copperwear and 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 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 on 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 door. He looked at Paul Kosloff questioningly. The older man spoke to him again in Arabic and he answered and went over and stood in the doorway 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, he 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 Tangier 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 El Hassan. Who else would they send but the famous Cold War’s Lawrence of Arabia to overthrow the corrupt governments now in North Africa?”
Inwardly, Paul Kosloff winced, but he said, “I’m going to need a .38 Recoilless and a shoulder harness holster, some grenades, 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.
The Best Ye Breed na-3 Page 10