Silent Partner

by Leigh Brackett

  Tony fired toward the flashes. Something darted away in the shadows, and he heard a door open and bang shut again.

  "Jake?”

  "Okay. Keep behind me.”

  Tony followed him around the court, sticking tight against the wall, to where the door was. Everything was still again. Tony pulled his breath in deeply. He was scared, but the fear was tinged with excitement. Instinctively he shifted his weight forward, moving with bent knees, calf muscles quivering.

  The doorway was sunk deep in the mud-brick wall. The door was plank, old and weathered. There was no light behind it. Without exposing his body, Zacharian reached around and pushed. The door swung a little, invitingly.

  “Oh, no,” said Zacharian under his breath. “Not on your sweet life." He looked up and around, then motioned Tony to go back, pointing.

  There was a narrow balcony overhead. In the corner a flight of rickety steps led up to it. They climbed as carefully as possible to minimize the creaking of the dry wood, but to Tony it sounded like elephants trampling piano boxes. Zacharian did not seem to mind. When they reached the balcony, Tony looked back, and he thought he saw a flicker of movement across the court. He could not be sure, and he did not see it again. Zacharian was beckoning to him impatiently, so he went along, and after that he had no chance to mention it.

  There was a door and a shuttered window. Light showed dimly from both of them through the cracks. Zacharian listened with his head close to the shutter. Tony could hear nothing, but whatever Zacharian was hearing seemed to satisfy him. He turned and put his mouth close to Tony’s ear and told him what to do—to stand where he was and keep anyone from coming out. Then Zacharian swung over the balcony rail, hung by his hands for a moment, and dropped. Tony leaned over and saw him straighten up and charge the lower door. He disappeared, and Tony did not hear anything more.

  He waited. The sounds from the bazaar street came here only as the faintest echo, and he thought the sound of the shots must have been soaked up by the thick walls of the court At least no one had come to investigate.

  He waited.

  He hated waiting.

  Abruptly there was a noise from inside the room. Startled cries. Two quick shots. Silence.

  Tony hunched up, holding his gun forward. Gently and without haste the door opened.

  “Zacharian?”

  Zacharian’s unmistakable voice answered in a warning shout that was cut off abruptly, becoming a grunt of pain.

  Oh, God, thought Tony, it’s gone wrong, and here I am. The gun in his hand looked unfamiliar and slightly ludicrous. It also looked small and inadequate. He edged closer to the door, peered one-eyed around the jamb.

  It was a large room, comfortably furnished. Karim did not seem to be in it. Zacharian was down on one knee, his head hanging, dripping blood from a cut over the temple. Two men were beside him, with guns. The Kashgai was dead on the floor almost at Tony’s feet, killed apparently in the act of turning to fire at someone behind him. Tony recognized him now as Hassani’s watchdog, Achmet. A second man, a stranger with a seamed, hard face gone flaccid, lay on his back staring foolishly at the ceiling. Presumably this was the interesting friend of the fortress.

  Two shots. Two men.

  Mahmud Hassani, Karim’s father, sat in a chair, his eyes fixed on the Kashgai.

  Saad stood behind him, with a gun. Saad’s steel-rimmed spectacles glittered in the light, and his shoulders still stooped.

  “Mr. Wales,” he said.

  Tony poked his .38 around the doorjamb. “I’ve got you covered. Drop your—"

  Beautiful line. But he never finished it. Two men were bounding up the steps behind him, never mind how the old wood creaked. They both had bigger guns than his. And it was he who dropped it.

  They swept him into the room. “What happened?” Tony said. “What happened?”

  Zacharian muttered, “They were waiting ... in back.”

  The men had hauled him to his feet again. He seemed barely able to stand, head lolling, blood running over his eye. Tony was herded over toward him while one of the men pushed the front door shut and stood by it where he could watch the courtyard through the crack.

  Saad came around and stood in front of Hassani. He asked Hassani a question in which Tony caught the name Karim.

  Hassani looked up at Saad, an old proud man gone far beyond any fear of human cruelty, and there was such contempt and hatred in that look that it seemed to Tony he saw Saad flinch in spite of his gun. Hassani answered the question in three or four brief sentences.

  The reaction was startling. Saad let out a harsh ejaculation of surprise and delight. And Zacharian lifted up his bloody head and stared at old Hassani.

  Saad began to talk. He was apparently trying to make some point. Hassani at first refused to listen; but then Saad drew his attention to Tony and Zacharian, and Hassani frowned. His face was stricken but by no means stunned. His mind was clear and working hard. He looked at Saad, the hatred and contempt no whit abated, and he gave his assent to something. He gave it as though it sickened him, but he gave it. Saad let the gun drop to his side. He smiled and said something to Hassani that turned the old man white around the lips, and then he turned and spoke to his men. The whole affair had not taken more than three or four minutes.

  They all moved swiftly out the back door, and Hassani went with them of his own free will.

  They passed along a rear balcony, shoving the two captives almost into a run. There was a flight of steps, and they hurried down. Zacharian stumbled and staggered on the steep treads. Saad spoke impatiently, and the men roughed him.

  “Stop that,” Tony said, “God damn you."

  The man who was behind him prodding him in the spine with a .45 said in broken but serviceable English, “He makes time.”

  Tony understood that he meant delay. “The hell with that, he’s hurt. Let him alone.” He started forward, and Saad turned and laid the barrel of his gun across the side of Tony's head above the ear. Tony went blind for a moment. A hand was clamped over his mouth. He half fell down the rest of the stairs, and when he could see again, they were at the bottom, and Hassani was looking at him as though he wished Saad had killed him.

  They rushed on along an alley, a narrow way between the backs of buildings, full of nooks and crannies and black as the pit. It could have hidden an army, let alone Saad and two men.

  So that’s where they were, Tony thought. They stopped following and went ahead. They must have spotted the Kashgai this afternoon, located the hideout, and then waited for us to come back. So— now they’ve got us.

  Why me? I know about Zacharian, but why me? Revenge? A little present for Hassani? Or does Saad think he can persuade Zacharian to talk by sticking hot irons in my fair white body to make me scream?

  None of them was a pleasant prospect. The alley was like a cattle chute, and he felt like a steer already half poleaxed and on his way. And ahead of him Zacharian, the strong, the wise, the able, the white hope of Tony Wales, sagged and tottered with two men holding him up.

  Tony wondered what Hassani had said about Karim. He wondered where Maktabi was—obviously, not around here where he was needed.

  He refused to think of Ellen at all.

  The alley led to another courtyard. It was not well lighted, but it was possible to see the van that was parked there. Tony had never realized how many uses a closed van could have other than just hauling stuff around. A man who stood nervously beside it saw them coming and ran to open the back doors.

  As they reached the van, Zacharian fell, dead weight pulling loose from the men who held him. He landed heavily on his shoulder and rolled, sprawling, partly underneath the rear of the van.

  The men pawed at him. Saad ordered them aside and motioned Hassani to get into the van. Tony was shoved in after him. He stayed by the door, acutely aware of Hassani close by in the dark interior. He almost wished for Saad to protect him. On their first meeting Hassani’s manners had been formal and correct, but it was obvious
even to Tony that Hassani belonged to another world and had no wish to fraternize. Karim had explained that his father did not take to foreigners and unbelievers, and it had seemed odd that he had sent Karim to a Western university; Tony remembered that Karim had been rather evasive about that, and no wonder. The kind of special education Karim had been sent for is not openly discussed. Now the old man’s dislike for Tony was highly personal, and with good reason. Tony could feel the hatred heavy in the air.

  Outside, the men had returned to their task of hauling Zacharian’s inert weight out from under the bumper. Saad was urging them on, in great haste.

  Looking past them, Tony saw movement on the flat roofs of the buildings. And it came to him as a revelation that Zacharian was faking. He had pulled his faint in order to get himself, Tony, and the old man out of the line of fire.

  Hassani must have seen the men on the roof almost as soon as Tony because suddenly he made a rush to get away. Tony did not like the idea of hitting an old man, but there seemed to be no alternative, so he did it. And he might have saved his scruples. Hassani was amazingly strong and filled with a savagery that was close to maniacal. Tony struggled with him on the dusty floor of the van, while outside the air rang with shouts, orders, cries, and gunshots. He worried about Zacharian. Then he forgot Zacharian and worried about himself because the old man had him by the throat and was trying to kill him, and hot tears were dropping into Tony’s face, and the old man was cursing or praying or both in a terrible, husky voice, all broken and wild with pain.

  Men appeared in the open door. They got in and pulled Hassani away. There was a great deal of confusion, people running about and shouting at one another. The shooting had stopped. Somebody helped Tony up, and he got out of the van rubbing his throat and gulping air, all shaken up. Maktabi was kneeling beside Zacharian, and another man was examining Zacharian’s head. Saad lay nearby, a small heap of bird bones and wire tossed on the ground for junk. Maktabi glanced up and asked Tony how he was.

  “All right," he said, “thanks to Jake. That was smart, falling under the van like that. That was a stroke of genius."

  Maktabi looked at him oddly, and Tony bent closer. “Stroke of genius, hell," he said. “He’s out like a light.”

  The doctor said something reassuring, and Maktabi rose. “We had you in sight, but we could do nothing as long as you were all together. I think Yakoub knew what he was doing.” He stirred Saad’s body with his foot. “This little carrion badly upset our plans. Well, and so we lost him, but we have Hassani.”

  “And I’m damned glad you do," said Tony, croaking.

  Maktabi went over to where Hassani was standing surrounded by police, his hands manacled, his head rigidly erect. Tony knelt beside Zacharian, who was groaning and muttering in the throes of coming to. He opened his eyes and tried to sit up, and at about the same moment Maktabi came back and looked at Tony.

  “Hassani had more reason to hate you than you knew.”

  Zacharian sat up all the way this time, impelled by some overriding necessity.

  “Karim," he said. “Karim—"

  “Yes," said Maktabi. “He has just told me. Karim is dead.’’

  25

  Inside the fortress Tony Wales sat in the corner of a large room, probably the commandant's office, while they questioned Mahmud Hassani. There was a great lot of high brass present, in uniform and out of it. Zacharian looked strange and barbaric among them, with his battered head and the bloodstains dried on his dusty clothing. Their voices rang hollow against the walls and the vaulted roof, all thick stone, old and dry and cool. Tony sat and listened to the alien speech. He watched Hassani and pitied him in a grim, unpitying way. And he tried to get used to the idea that Karim was dead.

  Dead.

  And this was the end of it.

  He felt cheated. Unsatisfied. It was not fair of Karim to evade him.

  Well, and that was an unworthy thought. He should be thankful that it was over and the people of Fars were free to go their ways in peace. And he was thankful. But he would have liked—

  Zacharian came to sit beside him. He looked as though he had to sit down or fall down. He lighted a cigarette with difficulty, fumbling the lighter.

  "Can you tell me now?” Tony said. "How did it happen?”

  "He died of the wound he got at Isfahan. He was coming south across the desert, and he died on the way.” Zacharian spoke in an odd, clipped, toneless way so that each word stood clearly by itself. "The men he was with buried him, according to his own instructions, and told no one but the Kashgai. Karim was afraid that if word of his death got to the tribes, they might do something ill-considered. The Kashgai brought the news to Hassani.”

  He stopped, and Tony got the idea that he was studying the words he had just spoken, feeling the weight and the shape of them.

  "Where is the grave?”

  "In the desert. Anywhere between here and Isfahan. The men who buried him know, of course, but I doubt if they’ll volunteer themselves as guides. Even the Kashgai didn’t know. They were just going to leave Karim safely where he was until afterward. If they won, they could give him a martyr’s funeral. If they lost, we would never be able to give him one suitable for a traitor."

  They sat in silence for a moment. The tempo of the questioning seemed to be slowing down. A male stenographer continued to write furiously. Another man watched over a tape recorder.

  Zacharian let the cigarette burn between his fingers. He seemed to have forgotten it.

  “What’s the matter, Jake?”

  “What the hell do you think is the matter? My head hurts.”

  Tony said, “What about the Lion?”

  “Karim’s dead, and we have the old man. That takes care of the Lion, doesn't it? Cut off the head, and the rest of the beast stops functioning."

  “Yeah, but what was the plan? What were they going to do? And when?”

  “The old man doesn’t know.”

  Tony sat up straight. “What?"

  “I said he doesn't know. Karim was the architect. Only he knew the whole plan. No one else could betray it by accident or design, because no one had more than his own necessary piece of it. When the right moment came, all the pieces would automatically fit together. There wasn’t any reason for Hassani to know about the military angle. He was head of the political wing, the administrative leader. It was up to him to organize the new government, of which he would have been president. They were going to set up some kind of Islamic state, going back to the Sharia instead of civil law codes, throwing out the foreign ideas—a return to the old simple purity for the good of the people in general and the Hassanis in particular.”

  Tony did not bother to ask him what he meant by the Sharia. He did not greatly care about that side of it.

  “Karim,” he said. “He was the real head then? The real brain?”

  “That’s what he was trained for. All the time he was at UCLA he was taking lecture courses on the side that you never knew about, courses in the structuring and techniques of revolution. He obviously had good teachers.”

  “The Marlowe Foundation?”

  “I hope I live long enough to nail them,” Zacharian said bitterly. "Karim was the active leader as well, keeping the military wing completely under his control. If anything happened to him or to his father, a second team would take over that wing, and the plan could still go through. But if both of them were put out of operation—well, two second teams don’t add up to one leader. The rebel party might with luck survive the attack phase but would inevitably come to grief over the organizational one that follows. A lot of people would get hurt for nothing. So there was a built-in-destruct. The men in charge of the hidden arms caches were to seal them up or destroy them, and the whole thing was to be called off. This arrangement had another purpose, of course—it kept anybody else from getting too ambitious and trying to take over. It was to be an Hassani operation or nothing.”

  "What it comes out at is, you really don't know much more tha
n you did," said Tony, astonished and somewhat dashed.

  "Did you expect to have it all neatly tied up with a little pink bow?" Zacharian ground out the cigarette as though he hated it. “It’s too bad the Kashgai got himself killed. He was chief liaison man with the tribes, but he probably wouldn't have talked anyway. The old man refuses to name any of his associates. Loyalty is an admirable trait, and the Kashgai had plenty of it. He was trying to defend Hassani against Saad— Well, there's plenty of time now. Maktabi’s boys will dig everything out eventually.”

  The group around Hassani began to break up. The old man was taken out, surrounded on all sides by guards.

  “I still don’t understand what went on in that room, Jake. Between him and Saad, I mean. Why did he come with us?"

  “Saad offered to get him safely away so the Lion could still go forward. Hassani saw the sense of that, even though Saad had had his son murdered, and Saad pointed out that there really wasn’t so much difference between them that Hassani could afford to sneer.”

  Maktabi came over, looking exhausted but thankful. “Why don’t you get some rest, Yakoub? It is over now except for the details. We are very grateful to you both, but the speeches and handshakings can wait until tomorrow."

  Zacharian heaved himself up. “Those are good words, Hanookh. Salaam. Come on, Tony.”

  The hotel was deep in slumber, and the bar was closed. Zacharian had a bottle in the room, and they cracked it, Zacharian drinking gingerly because of his head and some dope the doctor had given him. He seemed morose and silent, and Tony conquered a feverish desire to talk. Presently Zacharian went to bed, and Tony took the bottle with him and sat alone in the dark garden under the plane trees. A nightingale sang gloriously, and the scent of roses was sweet on the night air. The stars flamed in the blue-black sky, and somewhere beneath them, in a shallow trough in the sand, was Karim Hassani with all his ambition and his killings and his faith behind him.