Border, Breed Nor Birth

by James A. Cox

The man called Anton had to speak French to make knownhis needs. He took a Chico cab up from the port to the El Minza hotel,immediately off the Plaza de France, the main square of the Europeansection.

  At the hotel entrance were two jet-black doormen attired in apseudo-Moroccan costume of red fez, voluminous pants and yellowbarusha slippers. They made no note of his complexion, there is nocolor bar in the Islamic world.

  He had reservations at the desk. He left his passport there to gothrough the standard routine, including being checked by the police,had his bag sent up to his room and, a few minutes later, handsnonchalantly in pockets, strolled along the Rue de Liberte toward thecasbah area of the medina. Up from the native section of town streamedhordes of costumed Rifs, Arabs, Berbers of a dozen tribes, even anoccasional Blue Man. At least half the women still wore the haik andveil, half the men the burnoose. Africa changes slowly, the mancalled Anton admitted to himself all over again--so slowly.

  Down from the European section, which could have been a Californiancity, filtered every nation of the West, from every section of CommonEurope, the Americas, the Soviet Complex. If any city in the world isa melting pot, it is Tangier, where Africa meets Europe and where Eastmeets West.

  He passed through the teaming Grand Zocco market, and through thegates of the old city. He took Rue Singhalese, the only street in themedina wide enough to accommodate a vehicle and went almost as far asthe Zocco Chico, once considered the most notorious square in theworld.

  For a moment the man called Anton stood before one of the Indian shopsand stared at the window's contents. Carved ivory statuettes from theFar East, cameras from Japan, ebony figurines, chess sets of waterjade, gimcracks from everywhere.

  A Hindu stood in the doorway and rubbed his hands in a gesture sostereotyped as to be ludicrous. "Sir, would you like to enter my shop?I have amazing bargains."

  The man they called Anton entered.

  He looked about the shop, otherwise empty of customers. Vaguely, hewondered if the other ever sold anything, and, if so, to whom.

  He said, "I was looking for an ivory elephant, from the East."

  The Indian's eyebrows rose. "A white elephant?"

  "A red elephant," the man called Anton said.

  "In here," the Hindu said evenly, and led the way to the rear.

  The rooms beyond were comfortable but not ostentatious. They passedthrough a livingroom-study to an office beyond. The door was open andthe Indian merely gestured in the way of introduction, and then left.

  Kirill Menzhinsky, agent superior of the _Chrezvychainaya Komissiya_for North Africa, looked up from his desk, smiled his pleasure, cameto his feet and held out his hand.

  "Anton!" he said. "I've been expecting you."

  The man they called Anton smiled honestly and shook. "Kirill," hesaid. "It's been a long time."

  The other motioned to a comfortable armchair, resumed his own seat."It's been a long time all right--almost five years. As I recall, Iwas slung over your shoulder, and you were wading through thoseconfounded swamps. The ..."

  "The Everglades."

  "Yes." The heavy-set Russian espionage chief chuckled. "You are muchstronger than you look, Anton. As I recall, I ordered you to abandonme."

  The wiry Negro grunted deprecation. "You were delirious from yourwound."

  The Russian came to his feet, turned his back and went to a smallimprovised bar. He said, his voice low, "No, Anton, I wasn'tdelirious. Perhaps a bit afraid, but then the baying of dogs isdisconcerting."

  The man they called Anton said, "It is all over now."

  The Russian returned and said, "A drink, Anton? As I recall you werenever the man to refuse a drink. Scotch, bourbon, vodka?"

  The other shrugged. "I believe in drinking the local product. What isthe beverage of Tangier?"

  Kirill Menzhinsky took up a full bottle the contents of which had agreenish, somewhat _oily_ tinge. "Absinthe," he said. "Guaranteed toturn your brains to mush if you take it long enough. What was the nameof that French painter...?"

  "Toulouse Lautrec," Anton supplied. "I thought the stuff was illegalthese days." He watched the other add water to the potent liqueur.

  The Russian chuckled. "Nothing is illegal in Tangier, my dear Anton,except the Party." He laughed at his own joke and handed the other hisglass. He poured himself a jolt of vodka and returned to his chair."To the world revolution, Anton."

  The Negro saluted with his drink. "The revolution!"

  They drank.

  The Russian put down his glass and sighed. "I wish we were some placein our own lands, Anton. Dinner, many drinks, perhaps some girls, eh?"

  Anton shrugged. "Another time, Kirill."

  "Yes. As it is, we should not be seen together. Nor, for that mattershould you even return here. The imperialists are not stupid. Verypossibly, American and Common Europe espionage agents know of thisheadquarters. Not to speak of the Arab Union. I shall try to give youthe whole story and your assignment in this next half hour. Then youshould depart immediately."

  * * * * *

  The man they called Anton sipped his drink and relaxed in his chair.He looked at his superior without comment.

  The Russian took another jolt of his water-clear drink. "Have you everheard of El Hassan?"

  The Negro thought a moment before saying, "Vaguely. Evidently an Arab,or possibly a Tuareg. North African nationalist. No, that wouldn't bethe word, since he is international. At any rate, he seems to bedrawing a following in the Sahara and as far south as the Sudan. Backsmodernization and wants unity of all North Africa. Is he connectedwith the Party?"

  The espionage chief was shaking his head. "That is the answer Iexpected you to give, and is approximately what anyone else would havesaid. Actually, there is no such person as El Hassan."

  Anton frowned. "I'm afraid you're wrong there, Kirill. I've heardabout him in half a dozen places. Very mysterious figure. Nobody seemsto have seen him, but word of his program is passed around fromEthiopia to Mauretania."

  The Russian was shaking his head negatively. "That I know. It's arather strange story and one rather hard to believe if it wasn't forthe fact that one of my operatives was in on the, ah, _manufacturing_of this Saharan leader."

  "Manufacturing?"

  "I'll give you the details later. Were you acquainted with AbrahamBaker, the American comrade?"

  "Were? I _am_ acquainted with him. Abe is a friend as well as acomrade."

  The Russian shook his head again. "Baker is dead, Anton. As youpossibly know, his assignment for the past few years has been with aReunited Nations African Development Project team, working in theSahara region. We planted him there expecting the time to arrive whenhis services would be of considerable value. He worked with a five-manteam headed by a Dr. Homer Crawford and largely the team's task was toeliminate bottlenecks that developed as the various modernizationprojects spread over the desert."

  "But what's this got to do with _manufacturing_ El Hassan?"

  "I'm coming to that. Crawford's team, including Comrade Baker, usuallydisguised themselves as Enaden smiths. As such, their opinions carriedlittle weight so in order to spread Reunited Nations propaganda, theyhit upon the idea of imputing everything they said to this great heroof the desert, El Hassan."

  "I see," the man called Anton said.

  "Others, without knowing the origin of our El Hassan, took up the ideaand spread it. These nomads are at an ethnic level where they want ahero to follow, a leader. So in order to give prestige to theirteachings the various organizations trying to advance North Africafollowed in Crawford's footsteps and attributed their teachings tothis mysterious El Hassan."

  "And it snowballed."

  "Correct! But the point is that after a time Crawford came around tothe belief that there should be a real El Hassan. That the primarytask at this point is to unite the area, to break down the old tribalsociety and introduce the populace to the new world."

  "He's probably right," the man called Anton growled.
He finished hisdrink, got up from his chair and on his own went over and mixedanother. "More vodka?" he asked.

  "Please." The Russian held up his glass and went on talking. "Yes,undoubtedly that is what is needed at this point. As it is, things aretrending toward a collapse. The imperialists, especially theAmericans, of course, wish to dominate the area for their capitalisticpurposes. The Arab Union wishes to take over _in toto_ and make itpart of their Islamic world. We, of course, cannot afford to leteither succeed."

  The Negro resumed his chair, sipped at his drink and listened, noddingfrom time to time.

  Kirill Menzhinsky said, "As you know, Marx and Engels when