He said, “El Hassan and his viziers are quartered in that larger hut, there before us.”
Paul Kosloff said, “We’ll wait for a short time, until the town settles down a bit more.” Their car didn’t seem to be overly conspicuous. The swarm of North Africans that had descended upon the oasis had brought in a considerable number of its own vehicles, as Crawford and his group had found earlier.
They witnessed Bey-ag-Akhamouk emerging and assuming the post of guard and, shortly afterward, the appearance of Serge Sverdlov, in his native costume and in his disguise as a black. He disappeared inside and remained there for possibly fifteen minutes, while Paul Kosloff ran in irritation a thumbnail back and forth over his upper lip. There seemed to be something in the other’s stance, the manner in which he held his body, that the American agent recognized but couldn’t put his finger upon.
When Sverdlov had left, Paul Kosloff slipped out of his light jacket and then removed his shoulder harness with its gun and handed it over to Nafi.
“I won’t be needing this in the presence of El Hassan,” he said. “Keep it.”
“Of course,” the Moroccan youth said, as Kosloff slipped back into the jacket and got out of the car.
Paul Kosloff walked up the street to Bey-ag-Akhamouk and said, “I’d like to see El Hassan.”
Bey looked at him quizzically. “White man, eh? And English speaking.”
“American,” Paul said.
“Long way from home,” Bey said. He leaned his Tommy-Noiseless against the mud wall and thoroughly frisked the newcomer. Then he stuck his head around the curtain and said, “This is getting to be like a convention. Another visitor. American this time. He’s clean.”
Somebody inside said something and Bey held the curtain to one side and grinned at Kosloff and said, “Enter into the presence of El Hassan.”
Paul Kosloff went on through and found himself in a small room, furnished only with camping equipment. Aside from a man on an army cot, snoring slightly as he slept, there were three men present, behind a folding camp table. All were blacks, and all dressed in military khakis.
The one in the middle gestured to an empty folding chair across from him.
Paul said, “Professor Crawford? I am Paul Kosloff, presently, in a roundabout way, of the American State Department, and assigned to open preliminary negotiations with you.”
Homer Crawford nodded and said, “And these are my aides, Kenneth Ballalou and Clifford Jackson.”
Kenny said musingly, “Paul Kosloff, Paul Kosloff. I’ve read a bit about you. The so-called Cold War’s Lawrence of Arabia.”
Paul looked at him and said, “In the kind of work I am usually assigned, we seldom welcome publicity.”
He looked back at El Hassan. He had to play this right. It couldn’t be too obvious, or he’d never get his opening. He had to look authentic. These three were no fools.
He said, in answer to Homer Crawford’s questioning look, “Frankly, El Hassan, my superiors have doubts about some elements of your program and would like them resolved before they grant you the all-out support the State Department will possibly provide.”
The big black’s smile was wry. “We have just had—and refused—another offer of support, Mr. Kosloff. But please proceed.”
Paul Kosloff said earnestly, “Of prime importance is your proposal to double or more the price of the raw materials we are at present buying in Morocco, Algeria and other areas you plan to take over. Can we assume this is but a campaign promise, as our politicians call them in the States? That is, you don’t really plan to go through with it?”
El Hassan shook his head. “No. It is no empty promise, Mr. Kosloff.”
“But if the other underdeveloped nations go along with you, it could eventually mean the collapse of the economies of the West.”
El Hassan nodded his head this time. “Yes, the collapse of the economies of the West, as we know them today.”
Paul Kosloff stared at him.
Kenny Ballalou spoke up. “You see, Mr. Kosloff, the economies of the West and of Japan are destroying our world with their ever expanding production. Within decades, there will literally be no more raw materials. Our oil, our minerals, our forests, will have disappeared. The economies of the West, including the United States, must be forced to face reality and readjust, yours is a waste economy. Let us use a few examples of planned obsolescence in your country. You make lead batteries for your cars that are deliberately designed to wear out after a year and a half, when it is possible to build them to last practically the life of the car. And lead is growing scarce. You make electric light bulbs that burn out in one thousand hours, when they could be manufactured to last for practically the life of the house. The houses you build are slum houses in less than twenty years, though your grandparents could build them to last a century or more. All this, of course, to increase sales, to increase profits. Your socio-economic system is one based on production for profit, not for use. It is a mad system and we of the more backward countries must do something to force you to change, or when you go down to economic chaos you will drag us with you.”
Paul Kosloff was scowling. He said, “But we’ve got to have your raw materials if we’re to keep going. We no longer have our own. And you’ve got to have the money we pay you for them, if you’re ever to become developed.”
El Hassan said softly, “That is the point, Mr. Kosloff. We are never going to become developed. Nor are any of the other underdeveloped nations. For one thing, there isn’t enough copper, lead, zinc and other basic necessities of industry to allow the backward countries to ever catch up with you, you’ve so wasted these irreplacable gifts of nature in your mad scramble for increased national product.”
Paul Kosloff said, “Then you are deliberately planning to wreck the economies of the West?”
“Not wreck them. Force them to change. If you are made to pay triple for your copper, I doubt if you will continue to make such items as ladies’ lipstick containers out of it. If you pay triple for your chrome, you will think twice before continuing to make your cars garish with it. Somehow, we of the backward countries and you of the advanced, must amalgamate in such a way that we can improve our living standards without industrialization but only by judicious exploitation of our raw materials and agriculture.”
Paul Kosloff pretended to think about it. He came to his feet and said, “Just a moment, I wish to return to my vehicle and get a device there with which I can communicate by tight-beam to Greater Washington. What you have said is most interesting. We weren’t aware of your motivation.”
“Of course,” El Hassan nodded.
As Paul Kosloff left, he said to Bey, as he went by, “I’ll be back in a minute.”
He returned to the car in which he had left Nafi and said to the young agent, “Give me my gun.” At the same time he reached into the back of the vehicle and secured a small package there.
The boy frowned at him.
Kosloff said impatiently, “They want to see an example of the type of weapons we can supply for their revolution.”
The other handed the gun over and Paul Kosloff put it into his belt, under his coat. He turned and left the car again and headed back toward El Hassan’s hut, emptying the package as he went. It contained two small but ultra-powerful demolition grenades which he put into his side pockets. It was completely dark now with no one at all on the streets.
He squared his shoulders, albeit somewhat unhappily, as he walked. It was simplicity itself. All he had to do was walk up to the guard, who would never suspect that he wasn’t still unarmed, and shoot him down and toss the two grenades into the hut. He’d then stand aside, in the unlikely chance that one or more of those in the interior would survive and emerge, and finish him, or them, too. He doubted that they were suspicious, that they were very old hands at intrigue. They were obviously too idealistic, too honest.
A slightly accented voice from behind him said, “Very well, Paul Kosloff. Put your hands behind your neck.�
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He did as he was told and a hand came around from behind him and plucked the .38 Recoilless from his belt.
The voice said, “Turn now.”
Paul Kosloff turned and said, “Hello, Sverdlov. I thought I recognized you earlier. You’re making a mistake, this time.”
The Russian KGB man was slightly smaller than Kosloff but perhaps more lithe. His teeth were white and his smile good, but there was something about his eyes.
“Ah?” he said. “Please elucidate, Kosloff.”
“This time, I have the same assignment you have. We’re on the same side.”
“I doubt it.”
“I’ve been sent here to eliminate El Hassan and his lieutenants. My government wishes to see the regimes in Algeria, Libya and so forth continue.”
“Ah, but mine doesn’t,” the other said evenly, softly.
Paul Kosloff gaped at him.
The Russian agent chuckled. “You see, Kosloff, in spite of the fact that our countries have reached detente, the battle for men’s minds goes on and will not end until one of our sides prevails. We wish to see El Hassan’s program succeed for various reasons. If it does, his regime will be the first major element to collapse your economy. We have not been able to control the governments of Algeria, Libya and the others, in spite of the fact that they call themselves Marxist, but we won’t have to control El Hassan. He wants to do exactly what we would like him to do. We of the Soviet Complex have within our borders all the raw materials we need. You don’t.”
Paul Kosloff looked at him for a long empty moment. He said, “You mean that I, an agent of the West, have been sent to rescue Marxist regimes, and you, an agent of the Soviet Complex, have been sent to insure El Hassan’s take-over in these countries?”
Serge Sverdlov chuckled again. “Quite a contradiction, eh?” His finger began to tighten on the trigger of the heavy pistol he carried.
A voice clipped from the darkness of a narrow alleyway between the mud huts. “In the name of El Hassan, that will be all!”
Serge Sverdlov spun and, simultaneously, from the doorway of a hut across the street a laser beam hissed out. Paul Kosloff took no time to discover who was the target of the deadly ray gun. He fell to the ground and rolled desperately.
The Russian was also on the ground but apparently not out of action. Footsteps came pounding down the street from the direction of the car.
Paul Kosloff recognized the voice that had interrupted Serge Sverdlov as that of Homer Crawford. It would seem that the four revolutionists hadn’t been as naive as he had thought. They had followed him to check what he was doing.
Several figures emerged from the narrow alleyway and spread out, seeking shadows. They carried what seemed to be submachine guns. Serge Sverdlov, from his prone position, began to bring up his gun toward Paul Kosloff.
Nafi-ben-Mohammed, his own gun at the ready, came dashing up. He took in the figures on the ground. Paul Kosloff was still trying to roll to some sort of cover.
The Russian’s pistol barked at the same time that the laser beam hissed from the doorway across the street again. Tokugawa Hidetada stumbled forth from the mud hut, reeling, his pistol dropping from his hand.
Nafi’s gun came up, the .38 Noiseless went ping, ping, ping, and two of the three slugs thunked into the prone Russian agent.
From the shadows into which the figures from the narrow alley had faded came the voice of El Hassan again. “Drop that gun, boy, or you die.”
Nafi obeyed orders, then quickly leaned down over Paul Kosloff. “You are unhurt?”
Kosloff, in disgust, came to his feet. Now he could make out the crumpled body in the narrow alleyway from which El Hassan had first called.
“What is this, a damn massacre?” he growled.
He went over to Tokugawa Hidetada. His once Japanese colleague was going out fast. Paul Kosloff knelt beside him and said urgently, “Is there anything I can do?”
The small man attempted a rueful chuckle. “In the crisis, I attempted to come to your succor, friend Paul. I am not very clear on just what has happened. Whom did I shoot?”
Paul Kosloff took a deep breath. “One of El Hassan’s men, Hidetada.”
“It would be my fate for it to be Bey-ag-Akhamouk,” the Japanese groaned. His eyes closed in pain and he never opened them again.
Paul Kosloff stood and looked back at Sverdlov.
The Russian was also dead.
El Hassan and Cliff Jackson emerged from the shadows, their guns still at the ready. El Hassan’s eyes took in the two fallen agents, then went back to his own valued follower, who was now being helped from the alley by Kenny Ballalou.
“How bad?” Homer Crawford said.
Bey muttered, “Just a crease, but, Jesus, those laser beams hurt.”
“Get him back to the hut, Kenny,” El Hassan ordered and then returned to Kosloff. He indicated the Japanese, “Who is this man?”
“Tokugawa Hidetada. His government wanted to see the regimes in Algeria and the other so-called socialist nations of North Africa overthrown, but Field Marshal Bey-ag-Akhamouk come to power rather than you.”
Homer snorted at the idea that Bey might be a potential rival, but pointed to the Russian and said, “And this one? We have met him, but who was he really?”
“Sverdlov. Serge Sverdlov, of the KGB. His government wanted to see your revolution a success so that the United States and the West would be economically devastated.”
“I see.” El Hassan looked at Paul Kosloff and Nafi for a long thoughtful moment. He said, “I heard enough of your conversation with the Russian to realize that you are not truly interested in supporting my cause. Perhaps I should kill you, Mr. Kosloff, but I do not kill unarmed men. Please leave. And so far as your nations are concerned, the United States of the Americas, the Soviet Complex, and Japan, all I can do is paraphrase the Engish poet. A curse on all your houses.”
Nafi blurted, “But, El Hassan, we came to assist you.”
“It seems unlikely, boy. Now leave.”
Paul Kosloff and the Moroccan youth returned to their car. In silence they got into it and started back for Tangier.
After a time, Paul Kosloff put his Tracy to his mouth and said, “Paul calling. Paul calling.”
The commissioner’s thin voice came through shortly, “Yes, I receive you. What is happening?”
Paul said flatly, “Everything and its cousin has gone to pot. Sverdlov’s dead. Tokugawa Hidetada, of Japan, is dead. I’m not but probably should be. Your strategy laid an egg. El Hassan will undoubtedly take over here.”
“You fouled this up, Kosloff!”
“It’s according to how you look at it. It was fouled before it started,” Paul Kosloff said wearily. “Oh, yes, and one more thing. I’m tired of being the Cold War’s Lawrence of Arabia. It’s getting too complicated for me. I’m resigning.”
XVI
ISOBEL CUNNINGHAM
Isobel Cunningham was less than happy. Matters were getting out of hand by the hour. She desperately needed the presence of the team and especially Homer Crawford.
It was unbelievable how rapidly things were progressing. Whole tribes that she had never even heard of were coming over to El Hassan en masse. Nations which she knew little more about than their names, were overthrowing their military dictatorships, or their pseudo-socialistic regimes and declaring for El Hassan. And Tamanrasset was the center to which all delegations streamed. She and Jimmy Peters and Doctor Smythe were working like Trojans and none slept for more than a few hours at a time, but seemingly they made little more than a dent on the required work.
The elderly Doctor Smythe put them both to shame. Already matters medical had gotten beyond the point where he, himself, had time to treat patients. Half of Fort Laperrine was already a hospital, staffed almost exclusively with blacks who had taken their medical educations in lands beyond Africa. Smythe now devoted his full energies to administration. When new medical groups centered in on Tamanrasset, seeking instructio
ns from El Hassan, he sent them to other areas to establish hospitals and clinics. To Timbuktu, to Mopti, to Niamey in Niger, to N’Djamena on the shores of Lake Chad. Planes were coming in almost daily with medical and other supplies through the efforts of such pro-El Hassan organizations as the Africa For Africans Association.
Isobel had taken a walk, in an effort to achieve a bit of relaxation, through Tamanrasset, the day before. To her astonishment, she had run into an improvised hospital going up on the edge of the souk. She had never even heard of it. She had approached a white smocked negro doctor, who, in the open, was treating a child that had been bitten by a sand scorpion. The five year old’s fingers were swollen and stiff. Red streaks were visible all the way to its shoulder.
Isobel said, “Who are you?”
And the doctor had replied impatiently, without looking up, “I’m busy.”
Isobel, miffed, had said, “I’m El Hassan’s secretary.”
“I don’t care if you’re the Virgin Mary.” The other came erect and glowered at her. He was a nice looking young man, very sincere. “If there’s anybody in charge around this madhouse get them to requisition some sort of insecticide spray, in the DDT tradition. There’re enough poisonous insects in this damned town to kill off half the human race.” He turned back to his diminutive patient, who was whimpering.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Isobel said, and left.
But in spite of the administrative load on her shoulders she had found time to wonder about Major Ryan and his contingent of mercenaries. Possibly it was woman’s intuition that caused her to feel a twinge of apprehension about the twenty-four whites and one green bereted black who had come out of the desert supposedly seeking employment as bodyguards.
This morning she had arisen at dawn and checked over some odds and ends before the others of the rapidly growing administrative staff had turned up.
When she returned to her quarters, it was to find Megan McDaid, in negligee, at the table in the dining room, enjoying coffee and the local native sweet bread. Isobel wondered wearily how long it had been since she, herself, had been robed in a negligee. She couldn’t remember.
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