Silent Partner

by Leigh Brackett

  “Tony,” she whispered. “Oh, Tony!” She tightened up against him, her belly contracting in rhythmic paroxysms, and he realized that she was laughing. It struck him as funny, and he began to laugh as well. They lay in each other’s arms laughing like fools, and the world was a wonderful place to live in, and the phone rang, and Tony said, “It’s Zacharian.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Instinct,” Tony said. “Masculine intuition. Want to bet?”

  “What it I lose?”

  He kissed her. “Guess.”

  “Ah, well,” she said and got up, glistening white in the lamplight, and answered the phone. “Yes, he’s right here.” She held the instrument out to Tony, her shoulders lifted in a small shrug. Tony took it and slid his other arm around her waist.

  “Hello, Jake.”

  "I hope I’m not interrupting your dinner.”

  “No, no,” said Tony

  “Word just in from London and LA. I thought you might be interested.”

  “I am.”

  “Alvarez and Slate were caught putting the torch to their office and warehouse, which are all in the same building. Damage was held to a minimum, and most of the records seem to be intact. Corbett is now tearing apart shipping cases to see what’s inside them besides stoves and refrigerators. So far they’ve found grenades, handguns, rifles, and enough ammo to stock a medium-size revolution, all consigned to a dealer in Beirut—presumably for the benefit of Arab activists. Alvarez and Slate are being questioned. One for our side.”

  “Good.”

  “The Marlowe Foundation is a more delicate matter. It has an impeccable facade and an odor of sanctity. The Reverend Dr. Walters, who heads it, is a pure and pious pillar of the community. Probably the best we can hope for there, unless we get very lucky, is to limit the foundation’s usefulness as a recruiting and training center. That’s LA. In London—”

  “Just a moment,” Tony said. “The champagne’s going flat."

  Ellen had been filling the glasses, bending out of the circle of his arm to do so. He took the one she handed him.

  “Okay,” he said. “Shoot.”

  Zacharian sighed. “I will say for you, Tony, you’re adaptable. Bronson must have had ample warning from Teheran. He destroyed his records and cleared out. He is presumed to be safely behind the Iron Curtain, but the search continues. MI5 is of the opinion that he was one of their top operatives and probably an illegal.”

  "A what?”

  "A Russian using a borrowed identity. Chances are the real Bronson has been dead for years, old school tie and all. The sexy Miss Thompson is being sought for questioning. Byron and Cornellis—”

  Here it comes, thought Tony, with that familiar knotting of the gut.

  "Were laid by the heels at London Airport—for once, their disguises failed them. Preliminary inquiry seems to indicate that they have no political convictions. They simply enjoy murder as a fine art, same as they do Shiraz carpets. They never cared why they killed a man. The pay was good, and the fun was better, and they’re terribly unhappy that it's all over. Well, that's it. And I’ve left calls for five o’clock, so it might be a good idea to turn in early. Will you pass that on to Miss Lofting?”

  “I’ll be glad to," said Tony, and hung up, feeling great. Dutifully he passed the message on. They never did get around to ordering the rest of their dinner.

  22

  The landscape lay beneath them, a bewilderment of dark, eroded ridges, dry valleys, dun-colored plains laced with the marching lines of qanats. Here and there a village with fields and gardens, here and there an unexpected patch of green on the hillslopes where a spring brought life in the midst of barrenness. Northward was the wall of the Elburz with the great pyramid of Demavand rising high and blinding white against the blue. A cruel, clean, beautiful country. Tony’s eyes ached with staring at it, and his eardrums vibrated to the steady, churning beat of the chopper blades.

  They had been working over a broad area beginning northwest of Qum and swinging gradually south and east, following the line of the Isfahan road. Tony was only sure of one thing about their escape from Teheran, and that was that they had not passed through any town the size of Qum. Ellen, who had come the other way, up from Isfahan, was sure that she had not done so either. That seemed to eliminate the Teheran-Qum-Isfahan roads, and they had turned their attention to the western route, checking out every village within a sensible radius.

  Unfortunately both Ellen and Tony had been brought in at night, when it had been difficult to judge distance and direction. Because of local jogs and twists in the road, they could not even be sure of which way they had gone when they left it, and the subsequent windings of the track left them totally confused.

  Tony would not have believed that there could be so many villages tucked away in this seemingly unpopulated land. This was the second day, and they still had not found the right one.

  Their batting average was as good as the rest of Maktabi’s team. Karim had not been found, nor his father, nor Saad.

  At least, Tony thought, he had it better than Ellen. He was up here in the nice cool air with Zacharian and an ordnance map and a cheerful young IAF pilot. Ellen was down on the hot dusty ground in a car with some of Maktabi’s men, bucketing over goat tracks. As a matter of fact, she was doing most of the work. Ground car and chopper kept in close contact by radio. The chopper did the preliminary swings, always one jump ahead, saving time by eliminating those places that definitely did not fit the topography. Zacharian was talking with the car now, planning the next section of the sweep. Presently he went over the map with the pilot, who nodded and put the chopper into a long, rising ellipse.

  It buzzed up over the spine of a ridge and went sidling down toward a barren plain where dust devils spun and the half-obliterated line of a qanat led to a ruined village. Tony sat up straight, squinting against the glare.

  "Jake,” he said. “I think— Tell him to go over there. I want to see closer."

  The chopper skimmed across the plain. The two ridges ahead opened out, one high with an eroded face, the other rounded, low, and smooth. Between them was a slope dotted with scrub and scarred at the top by a dark aperture partially walled with stones.

  It was even possible, from this height, to make out the dim line of the trail the conservation truck had followed.

  After that it was only a matter of prowling until they saw the village. They circled it while people came out to turn their faces up and stare, and the men stopped working in the fields. Then they landed at a short distance down the road and waited until the car joined them.

  For the third time Ellen and Tony entered the village, and no one seemed very happy to see them. Only Zhale ran out smiling and caught Ellen by the hand.

  The chief of Maktabi’s men questioned the village headman. The others searched. They found no arms. They did find the radio, hidden but not well enough. The man who operated it was gone. Meanwhile, there was a flurry of activity over their own shortwave equipment, attempting to track down the owner of the village.

  Zacharian translated for Tony and Ellen. “Mottaqi is his name. He’s one of the big holdouts, has managed to keep most of his property, and he’s on the list of Hassani’s known friends. He has an estate outside Rei. They’re checking on him now, and his overseer. The headman says the overseer, one Saidian, came here with Karim and a letter from Mottaqi requiring him to obey Karim in all matters. The headman couldn’t read the letter himself, being a dropout from the local literacy center, but Saidian read it to him and vouched for Karim. He did keep the letter, which may or may not help us. It says what he said it did, but I’ll lay you a signed Imperial Isfahan to a yard of linoleum that Mottaqi never wrote it.”

  “Karim?”

  “Maybe.” He glanced around. The headman, exhibiting extreme misery, was being led toward the car. “I guess we're ready to go now. Would you like to come with us, Miss Lofting? The car’s going to be a little crowded.”

  “I’d l
ove to," said Ellen. “And don't forget to tell somebody that I want that carpet.”

  She kissed Zhale and said good-bye to the weavers and climbed into the helicopter. As they trundled up into the sky, Tony could see a patch of fresh clay on a certain roof. It dwindled rapidly. The village, the poplar gardens, the green fields fell away into remote tranquillity. He put his hand on Ellen’s shoulder and said, “Now you can go home.”

  “Are you going?”

  “Not until this is finished. But—”

  “Then I stay."

  “But there’s nothing more you can do! And—”

  “No, Tony.”

  “Hush,” said Zacharian. “Both of you. It's up to Maktabi, of course, but I wouldn't count on anybody going home just now.”

  “Why not?” Tony demanded truculently.

  "Same reason he wouldn't let Miss Lofting call her parents. Security."

  “She wouldn't—”

  “She could hardly avoid it, could she? Like where has she been all this time and why. It's too big a risk."

  “Look," said Tony, “I want to stay. But she's a British subject. He can't—"

  Ellen said sharply, “Oh, shut up, Tony."

  He subsided, grumbling.

  They all were quiet the rest of the way to Teheran, feeling the inevitable letdown. Ellen stared ahead at the approaching peaks of the Elburz, and Tony studied her profile, remembering another time he had done that and wondering with childlike astonishment how people and affairs could change so much so quickly.

  From the airfield they went to Maktabi's office and gave statements and signed them. Mottaqi's overseer had already been brought in for questioning.

  “Mottaqi himself is traveling in Europe," said Maktabi. “He has been away for several months. He could know nothing of Miss Lofting’s imprisonment in his village."

  “Do you believe that?" asked Zacharian.

  “At the moment I do not know what to believe. We shall see what Saidian has to say. Now—" He looked at Ellen and Tony. “It is necessary to make arrangements. I know, Miss Lofting, how anxious you must be to return home, but I am afraid—”

  “That's quite all right, Mr. Maktabi," Ellen said firmly. “I prefer to stay."

  “But she's in danger here," said Tony. “Look at what's already happened. They—"

  “She will be quite safe here in Teheran. I guarantee it. You may stay with her if you wish. Then you too will be safe. Or—"

  “Or what?"

  “There is another possible service you might perform."

  Tony opened his mouth, and Zacharian spoke quickly. "Think twice, boy. You’ve already been a hero. Are you sure you don’t want to leave the rest of it to the pros?”

  "The pros don’t know my dear friend and brother as well as I do, and I guess that’s what you’re counting on, so the answer is no.”

  "All right,” said Zacharian. "I just wanted you to have your chance now because there won’t be any later.”

  "What do you want me—”

  "Not now,” said Maktabi. "Will you go to the hotel, or will you wait here for a while? There is a chance that Saidian will talk.”

  "I’ll wait,” said Tony, and Ellen nodded. Maktabi went out with Zacharian.

  "What did he mean, Tony—about no chance for you to back out later?”

  "He’s got something dreamed up for me. And if I know Jake, I won’t like it.”

  Ellen looked at him for a long moment. "Well,” she said, "I can’t honestly complain, can I? Not after all the things I’ve said.”

  "Jake’ll take care of me. He’s good.” Tony wished that he felt as confident as he sounded. Dimly, and not so very dimly at that, the old familiar instinct stirred in him. Run, get clear. Sit safe in Teheran with Ellen and let the pros do it.

  He found the strength to conquer the impulse. Or at least he found the weakness; he was afraid to let Ellen know what he was thinking. Afraid she would get that cold, penetrating expression again., wondering if his reform was only temporary.

  In a surprisingly short time Zacharian rang through. “You might as well go on to the hotel. This is going to take awhile.”

  "Won’t he talk?”

  "Sure. He’s talking a blue streak, and what he’s saying is so silly I believe it. But—"

  "What’s he saying?”

  "That he didn’t know a damned thing about arms smuggling or captive Feringi ladies. He says Karim led him to understand that he was doing a little light sideline in the forbidden poppy and paid him so much for his collusion that he couldn’t resist. And he thought Ellen Lofting was—well, he considered that a private matter. He says that’s what Karim told him.”

  Tony swore. “I see. All that work for nothing, in other words.” He felt too tired even to get angry about it. Maybe after a while you got so used to banging into brick walls you didn’t notice it anymore.

  "Yeah,” said Zacharian sourly, "I know how you feel. Well, they’re doing peripheral research on him, and the questioning continues. Maybe he’ll trip himself up. The lab is working on the letter. So go get drunk.”

  “Might as well,” said Tony.

  "Not too drunk. It looks now like an early flight to Shiraz.”

  “Right,” said Tony, and hung up.

  He did not get drunk at all. This was good-bye night, and he did not want to waste a minute of it or dull the beautiful edge of pain.

  For once, Zacharian did not call.

  He came early in the morning, while they were finishing breakfast on the balcony overlooking the hotel gardens. He was as immaculate as ever, freshly shaved; but there were dark rings under his eyes, and he was smoking too much.

  “Maktabi will meet us at the airport,” he said. “The only other news I have is that the letter was definitely written by Karim Hassani, and Saidian never shook on a single word of his story. Mottaqi apparently doesn’t know a thing about the Lion. And there is still not the smallest growl out of Fars.” He shook his head. “It’s a funny kind of revolt, all right. Shy and quiet. The other time it was anything but. The Communists were calling general strikes and whipping up the tribes, screaming slogans from every housetop. The Lion just lies there. I’d give a lot to know what it’s waiting for.”

  “You’ll find out," Ellen said. “You’ll do it.”

  "Lady,” said Zacharian, “I hope you are a true prophet. And I have never needed a word of encouragement as much as I do this morning.”

  Ellen studied Zacharian’s face in a manner that gave Tony a sharp twinge of jealousy, which he instantly smothered. Her “You'll do it” had referred to the whole team. This was personal.

  “I like you,” she said. “You're not one of these dismal secret agents who constantly wring their hands and wonder what it's all about.”

  “Hell, no,” said Zacharian. “I was born and raised here, with the shadow of Mother Russia always in the northern sky. I know what it’s all about. Only people who live a long way off can afford to wonder. Ready, Tony?”

  He was, as ready as he ever would be. Ellen stood up.

  “Can you tell me what you're going to do?”

  “Look for Karim. I'm hoping Tony can act as bird dog. Wish us luck.”

  “I do.” She kissed Tony lightly on the lips. “Take care.”

  He went away, pondering another discovery. It was those little light tender kisses that really tore the heart out of you.

  Zacharian said, “That's quite a girl you've got there.”

  “Have I got her, though? Really? Maybe it's just the way she feels now, because of what's happened. Maybe when she does get home, and starts thinking—"

  “Love is like the measles; the older you are when it hits you, the harder it takes. Cheer up, you won't die of it.”

  “Good old Jake, the sympathetic son of a bitch.”

  “Think how she's feeling.”

  “I know. She's lost one man here. What do you think, Jake? Is it just too corny to have it happen twice?”

  Zacharian said, “I'm not wr
iting the script.”

  “You," said Tony, “are a great comfort. Don't ever let me go.”

  Maktabi was waiting at the airport, and a military jet took them roaring south to Shiraz and the province of Fars. Or Pars. Tony had never been able to keep straight in his mind the reason for the difference in spelling. It was something to do with the imposition of the Arabic alphabet on the Persian language. Anyway, Pars or Fars, it was Karim's country and the end of the line.

  It was a smooth flight. The tawny land slid by beneath them, empty and serene.

  “It looks peaceful, does it not?" said Maktabi. “And yet those deserts have always been a breeder of whirlwinds. In nineteen sixteen our country was so torn and weakened under the bad government of the Kajars that the Kashgai tribesmen could come and attack Shiraz in force. The Bakhtiaris and the Arabs plundered where they wished. It has taken long and hard and painful work, Mr. Wales—to unify, to pacify, to make a strong and healthy nation. Now your friend wishes to begin the sad old story all over again."

  His voice was so harsh and cold with anger that it made Tony cringe even though he was guilty only by default.

  “Mahmud Hassani, perhaps, lives too much in the past, is too much under the hands of the mullahs. Too much of anything is bad, Mr. Wales, even piety. But Karim Hassani is young; he lives in the modern world. He is educated. He has traveled. I do not understand him. Is it that he wishes power for himself?"

  “I don’t know,” said Tony. “He was always proud of being from Fars. The true Persia, he called it. Cradle of the empire—as if he were personally descended from Cyrus and Darius. He used to talk a lot about how Persia kind of conquered the world a second time just by having to teach the Arabs everything after they got hold of an empire and didn't know what to do with it. But I never thought— I don't know. Maybe he's just plain out of his tree."

  “What?"

  “Mad," said Zacharian. “Crazy."

  “I'll give him one thing," said Tony. “Whatever it is, he’s sincere. He believes it all the way."