by James A. Cox
listen, carefully. Zetterberg turned thumbs down on thewhole deal, for various reasons we can discuss later. In fact, he'sincensed and threatened to take steps to keep us from leaving Dakar."
Isobel was alerted but she snorted deprecation. "What do you want?"
"They're probably already looking for me, and in a matter of minuteswill probably try to pick up Bey-ag-Akhamouk, Elmer Allen and KennyBallalou, the other members of my team. Get in touch with themimmediately and tell them to get into native costume and into hiding.You and Jake--and Cliff--do the same."
"Right. Where do we meet and when?"
"In the _souk_, in the food market. There's a native restaurant there,run by a former Vietnamese. We'll meet there at approximately noon."
"Right. Anything else?"
Homer said, "Tell Bey to bring along an extra 9mm Recoilless for me."
"Yes, El Hassan," she said, her voice expressionless. She didn't wastetime. Homer Crawford heard the phone click as she hung up.
He was in a branch building of the post and telegraph network on theRue des Resistance. Before leaving it, he looked out a window. Half ablock away was the office of the Sahara Division of the AfricanDevelopment Project. Even as he watched, a dozen men hurried out thefront door, fanned out in all directions.
Homer grinned sourly. Old Sven was moving fast.
He shot a quick glance around the lobby of the building. He had to getgoing. Zetterberg had started with a dozen men to trail down ElHassan. He'd probably have a hundred involved before the hour was out.
A corridor turned off to the right. Homer hurried down it. At eachdoor he looked inside. To whoever occupied the room he murmured a fewwords of apology in Wolof, the Sengalese lingua franca. The fourthoffice was empty.
Homer stood there before it for a long, agonizing moment, waiting forthe right person to pass. Finally, the man he needed came along.About six feet tall, about a hundred and eighty; dressed in the localnative dress and on the ragged side.
Homer said to him authoritatively, in the Wolof tongue, "You there,come in here!" He opened the door, and pointed into the office.
The other, taken aback, demurred.
Homer's face and tone went still more commanding. "Step in here,before I call the police."
It was all a mistake, of course. The Senegalese made the gestureequivalent to the European's shrug, and entered the office.
Homer came in behind him, closed the door. He wasted no time inpreliminaries. Before the native turned, the American's hand lashedout in a karate blow which stunned the other. Homer Crawford caughthim, even as he fell, and lowered him gently to the floor.
"Sorry, old boy," he muttered, "but this is probably the mostprofitable thing that's happened to you this year."
He stripped off the other's clothes, as rapidly as he could make hishands fly. The other was still out and probably would be for anotherten minutes, Crawford estimated. He stripped off his own clothes anddonned the native's.
Last of all, he took his wallet from his pocket, divided the money itcontained and stuffed a considerable wad of it into the Europeanclothing he was abandoning.
"Don't spend all of that in one place," he growled softly.
Homer dragged the other to a side of the room so that the body couldnot be spotted from the entrance. Then he crossed to the door, openedit and stepped into the corridor beyond.
* * * * *
There was no need for sulking. He walked out the front door and headedaway from the dock and administration buildings area and toward thenative section, passing the Reunited Nations building on the way.
Dakar teems with multitudes of a dozen tribes come in from the junglesand the bush, the desert and the swamp areas of the sources of theNiger, to look for work on the new projects, to visit relatives, tomarket for the products of civilization--or to gawk. Homer Crawforddisappeared into them. One among many.
Toward noon, he entered the cleared area which was the restaurant hehad named to Isobel and squatted before the pots to the far end of theVietnamese owned eatery, examining them with care. He chose a largechunk of barbequed goat and was served it with a half pound piece ofunsalted Senegalese bread, torn from a monstrous loaf, and a twistedpiece of newspaper into which had been measured an ounce or so ofcoarse salt. He took his meal and went to as secluded a corner as hecould find.
Homer Crawford chuckled inwardly. That morning he had breakfasted inthe most swank hotel in West Africa. He wished there was some mannerin which he could have invited Sven Zetterberg to dine here with him.Or, come to think of it, a group of the students he had once taughtsociology at the University of Michigan. Or, possibly, prexyWallington, under whom he had worked while taking his doctor's degree.
Yes, it would have been interesting to have had a luncheon companion.
A native woman, on the stoutish side but with her hair done up in oneof the fabulously ornate hair styles specialized in by the Senegalese,and wearing a flowing, shapeless dress of the garish textiles run offpurposely for this market in Japan and Manchester, waddled up to takea place nearby. She bore a huge skewer of barbequed beef chunks, and ahunk of bread not unlike Homer's own.
She grumbled uncomfortably, her back to the American, as she settledinto a position on the floor. And she mumbled as she began chewing atthe meat.
_No table manners_, Homer Crawford grinned inwardly. He wondered howlong it would take for the others to get here. He wasn't worried aboutIsobel, Cliff Jackson and Jake Armstrong. It would take time beforeZetterberg's Reunited Nations cloak and dagger boys got around tothem, but he wasn't sure that she'd be able to locate his own team intime. That bit he'd given the Swede official about his being sobully-bully with the other Reunited Nations teams was in the way ofbeing an exaggeration, with the idea of throwing the other off.Actually, working in the field on definite assignments, it was seldomyou ran into other African Development Project men. But perhaps itwould tie Zetterberg up, wondering just who he could trust to sendlooking for El Hassan.
He finished off his barbequed goat and the bread and wiped his handson his clothes. Nobody here yet. To have an excuse for staying, hewould have to buy a bottle of Gazelle beer, the cheap Senegalese brewwhich came in quart bottles and was warm and on the gassy side.
It was then that the woman in front of him, without turning, saidsoftly, "El Hassan?"
II
Homer Crawford stared at her, unbelievingly. The woman couldn'tpossibly be an emissary from Isobel or from one of his own companions.This situation demanded the utmost secrecy, they hadn't had time toscreen any outsiders as to trustworthiness.
She turned. It was Isobel. She chuckled softly, "You should see yourface."
His eyes went to her figure.
"Done with mirrors," Isobel said. "Or, at least, with pillows."
Homer didn't waste time. "Where are the others? They should be here bynow."
"We figured that the fewer of us seen on the streets, the better. Sothey're waiting for you. Since I was the most easily disguised, theleast suspicious looking, I was elected to come get you."
"Waiting where?"
She licked the side of her mouth, a disconcerting characteristic ofhers, and looked at him archly. "Those pals of yours have quite a biton the ball on their own. They decided that there was a fairly goodchance that Sven Zetterberg wasn't exactly going to fall into yourarms, so they took preliminary measures. Kenny Ballalou rented a smallhouse, here in the native quarter. We've all rendezvoused there. See,you aren't the only one on the ball."
Homer frowned at her, for the moment being in no mood for humor. "Whatwas the idea of sitting here for the past five minutes without evenspeaking? You must have recognized me, knowing what to look for."
She nodded. "I ... I wasn't sure, Homer, but I had the darnedestfeeling I was being followed."
His glance was sharp now. First at her, then a quick darting aroundthe vicinity. "Woman's intuition," he snapped, "or somethingsubstantial?"
She frowned at him. "I'm not a n
inny, Homer."
His voice softened and he said quickly, "Don't misunderstand, Isobel.I know that."
She forgot about her objection to his tone. "Even intuition doesn'tcome out of a clear sky. Something sparks it. Subconscious psi,possibly, but a spark."
"However?" he prodded.
"I took all precautions. I can't seem to put my finger on anything."
"O.K.," he said decisively. "Let's go then." He came to his feet andreached a hand down for her.
"Heavens to Betsy," she said, "don't do that."
"What?"
"Help a woman in public. You'll look suspicious." She came to her ownfeet, without aid.
_Damn_, he thought. She was right. The
