White Death
Robert Sheckley
CHAPTER ONE
My house is near the center of Isfahan. It is a small house, but pleasingly furnished, and it has a deeply shaded garden in the rear. I was sitting in the garden one afternoon in the early fall, reading a newspaper, when my mother came out in a state of extreme agitation.
“Achmed,” she said, “Kheftia has come to see you!”
“Who did you say?” I asked.
“Kheftia, the Chief of Police!”
“Well, an unexpected pleasure,” I replied. “Ask the servant to bring him here to the garden.”
When I said that, she burst into tears. “Oh, God,” she wailed, “what have you done, Achmed? What do the police want with you now?”
“I haven’t done anything,” I told her. “Doubtless this is a social call.”
She didn’t believe me, of course; and then my father hurried into the garden, saying, “Achmed, there is still time to escape over the wall. Hide in Ali’s house, and I will use my influence in Teheran—”
“Your fears are completely unnecessary,” I said. “I am guilty of no crime. Please show my visitor to the garden.”
My parents looked at me for a long moment in silence. “Well,” my father said at last, “perhaps it’s best to stand fast and brazen it out. Yes, I think you’re right, Achmed. I’ll bring the guest out now.”
He and my mother hurried away before I could say another word. It is impossible to convince anyone of the older generation that a visit from the police could mean anything but arrest and imprisonment.
In my younger, wilder days, I had committed one or two indiscretions; but that had been some time ago. Now I could think of no reason, either social or official, for the Chief of Police to come calling on me. So I waited with a certain apprehension while the servant led him out. Kheftia, to tell the truth, has a somewhat sinister reputation. He is a perfectly honest man, but too subtle for anyone’s good. His love of unnecessary complications often results in unnecessary deaths. Knowing this, I tried hard to think of the purpose behind his visit. …
My name is Achmed Abotai ed Din, and I was born here in Isfahan, the most glorious of the great cities of Iran. My father is of an old Teheran landholding family, come upon evil times since the fall of Reza Shah. My mother is of Bokhara nobility, much reduced since the death of the last Emir. She gave me the Mongol name of Abotai, and she instructed me in her language and lineage, which she claimed went back to Uzbek Kahn.
Often my parents used to argue about the relative purity and nobility of their different lines of descent. For myself, I grew to manhood caring nothing for ancient nobility or vanished glory. I was determined to make my way in this world, and not to dwell in worlds gone by.
I had an aptitude for languages and the arts, and I won a scholarship to the University of Tabriz. I attended for two years, but my education was cut short by the Second World War. Because of my skill at translating, I served with various British and American officers on special assignments.
I traveled widely during those years, west as far as Istanbul, east to Kabul, and beyond. I learned to converse with Turks and Arabs and Afghans, with Armenians and Turkomans and Kurds, and with Kirgiz, Bactiari, and Sart. By the end of the war, I had put aside enough to buy a small house with a garden, and to hire a servant. My parents and I enjoyed a modest prosperity; but the end of the war marked the end of my opportunities. Suddenly the dashing young American officers were gone from Iran, gone with all their intrigues, their marvelous equipment, their repeating rifles, their lusts, and their love of adventure. Work was difficult to find, even for a skilled linguist. I had to content myself with the position of translator at Abadan, where I instructed surly Arabs and unwashed local tribesmen in their new duties.
Presently even this work came to an end, since most of the Arabs were Sunni Moslems, and they declared they would have nothing more to do with me, a Shia Moslem. They also accused me of dishonesty. I defended myself staunchly against this charge, but I was dismissed. I returned to Isfahan, again with no opportunities open to me. At this lowest point in my life, I seriously thought of settling into some mercantile pursuit. That was how low I had fallen.
And that was when the Chief of Police came to call on me.
My servant ushered him into the garden and scurried away. I shouted to the servant to prepare tea, and then I greeted my guest.
Police Chief Kheftia had changed very little since the last time I had seen him. He was a short, balding little man, as fat as a Turk, with cold, shrewd eyes. Because of the broad creaking gun belt around his middle, he reminded me irresistibly of that species of pig known as Poland China. However, I kept this joke to myself, and inquired hospitably about Kheftia’s health.
“I’m well enough, my dear Achmed,” Kheftia said, “aside from an occasional attack of asthma. But of course, none of us are growing any younger.”
“Sad but true,” I replied. “I am particularly reminded of this on raw winter mornings, when my old thigh wound aches.”
“Ah, yes,” Kheftia said. “I had almost forgotten about that. I believe you received the wound while smuggling bullion across the Turkish border?”
“Not at all,” I said. “At the time, I was smuggling Armenian refugees across the Azerbaijan border.”
“Of course, it must have slipped my mind,” Kheftia said. “Well, Achmed, how have you fared during these lean postwar years?”
He knew how I had fared as well as I did, or perhaps better. All of this was idle talk; but it was never Kheftia’s way to come directly to a point, so we reminisced and drank tea. Our conversation might have gone on for hours; but I suppose the Chief of Police had an early dinner appointment, for in a surprisingly short time he told me the reason for his visit.
“Achmed, you did some really superb Intelligence work during the war. Would you like to use your special talents once again?”
“Perhaps,” I said. “Who would I be working for?”
“Your employer would be an American agent who has come to Iran on a special case. Payment is no problem, as you must know from your past experience with Americans.”
“I have always liked Americans,” I said. “I would like to help this man.”
“Excellent,” Kheftia said. “And would you also rob him of his smaller possessions, overcharge at every possible opportunity, and in general behave as you have in the past?”
“Before God!” I cried. “My record during the war speaks for itself. My loyalty, my honesty—”
“Yes, yes,” Kheftia said. “All of your employers have spoken well of you. But you and I know each other, my dear Achmed, and we know how careless Americans are of such items as canteens, tents, revolvers, blankets, binoculars, mules, camels, rifles, shoes—”
“I have never stolen a pair of shoes in my life,” I stated.
“Perhaps not,” the Chief of Police said. “But all those other items were somehow lost from your expeditions, and they somehow came to be sold in the bazaars of Isfahan and Meshed, and the money somehow came to rest in your purse.”
“Am I accused of theft?” I asked stiffly.
“Not at all!” the Police Chief said. “I simply take this opportunity of congratulating you as a man of good fortune. Even the Arabs of Abadan felt impelled to pay you for your recent services as translator.”
“Could I refuse the presents of those ignorant men?” I asked. “They thought their gifts would buy easier work. It was useless for me to tell them that I had no power over the British oilmen. They insisted upon propitiating me, and I was forced to accept.”
“Again, no accusation is made,” the Chief of Police said. “Every man knows the generosity of the Arabs; they give money as readily as the Sphinx gives milk. I c
ongratulate you on what must have been a clever extortion.”
“By God!” I cried. “Must I stand in my own house and be insulted?”
“No insult intended,” Kheftia said. “I simply thought that I would mention these things. Now then, I have been asked to find a reliable and clever man who speaks many languages to assist this American agent.”
“Therefore you came quite naturally to me,” I said.
“Yes, after looking over my lists of rogues, thieves, and murderers, I hit upon you. They say you were loyal to the Americans during the war, and that you gave good service, in spite of your thievery and intrigues. This, I suppose, must suffice. It has been my sad experience that honest men know only one language, or at best two. Only the opportunists learn five or six or more. Only the thief knows where the thieves hide, and only the assassin can find other assassins. Therefore I choose you. But listen to me carefully, Achmed Abotai ed Din.”
“I listen,” I said.
“The government at Teheran wishes to assist this American in every possible way, and to give him every courtesy. He is our honored guest, our friend, our helper. Also, his government sends a great deal of money to Teheran. Because of this, Teheran would be extremely unhappy if the American’s mission failed. They would transmit their unhappiness to me.” Here the Police Chief fixed me with a steely look. “And I would transmit my unhappiness to you, in a direct and unmistakable fashion.”
“Since you do not trust me,” I said, sullenly, “take your accursed job and offer it to a camel driver. I want no part of the American, or of you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Kheftia said in a mild voice. “Every man in Isfahan knows that you are the best and only man for intrigue. Your success will bring honor upon your parents and upon your city. Fortune may smile upon you in high places for the proper use of your cleverness. Believe me, Achmed, the reward will not be small.”
“Well,” I said, “perhaps I will take the job.”
“Of course you will,” the Police Chief said. “Haven’t I said that you are the only man for it? Just remember everything I have told you. And remember also that Americans are very strange people, given to sudden enthusiasms and rash decisions. But with your guidance, all will be well.”
“Who is this man,” I asked, “and what is his mission here in Iran?”
“His name is Stephen Dain,” the Chief of Police said. “As for his mission, he will tell you about that himself, as much as he sees fit. You will meet him tonight in the Hotel Shiraz.”
The Police Chief left, and I told my parents of my new employment. Their delight knew no bounds. My father immediately decided to purchase a piece of orchard land outside the city, and he merely laughed when I told him that my wages might not cover the expense.
“You will make enough; I have faith in you,” my father said.
There was nothing I could say. The habits and expectations of the old landowning class cannot be changed overnight.
CHAPTER TWO
That evening the Chief of Police took me to a suite in the Hotel Shiraz and introduced me to Stephen Dain. I looked with lively curiosity at the agent. My first impression was of a tall man with commanding gray eyes and a long, tanned, well-wrought face. He had good hands, firm and dry to the grasp. His neck, where it rose above his white shirt, was muscular; and that is a telltale clue to the rest of a man’s physical condition. His general presence was grave, unhurried, and ceremonial. It seemed to me that he was a man not much given to laughter; and, from his mien, I suspected that he was of an ascetic turn of mind. Aside from that, he reminded me very much of the American officers I had known during the war.
“Well, Mr. Dain,” Police Chief Kheftia said, “let me introduce to you Achmed Abotai ed Din, a linguist of unusual accomplishments, and a very old friend of mine. No man knows more about local crime than my dear Achmed. And what he doesn’t know, he can probably find out.”
I tried to break in, since I resent being talked about like a sheep at an auction; but Kheftia grasped me firmly above the elbow and continued.
“Achmed is a jewel, Mr. Dain. He knows all there is to know about smuggling, stolen goods, and extortion. That is not knowledge easily come by. And he is a considerable linguist, as I have said, and a good man to have in a tight spot. Achmed will be rich some day, if he is not hanged first. Also, he can be trusted with any secrets you care to give him. I personally guarantee this, in the name of Achmed’s parents.”
I allowed this threat to go by; a time would come when Kheftia and I would settle our differences.
Kheftia bowed and took his departure, well pleased at having served both Teheran and Washington, for double profit.
Dain and I were left alone, to our mutual discomfort. It is hard to find a good working relationship after an introduction such as Kheftia had given me.
“Will you have some coffee?” Dain asked, breaking the silence.
I nodded.
Dain prepared coffee, and we drank the first cup in silence. Halfway through the second cup, Dain said, as though reading my thoughts, “You shouldn’t let Kheftia upset you, Achmed. He’s a policeman, and they’re pretty much the same the world over.”
“All policeman are the same; only criminals are different,” I said, inventing a bitter aphorism on the spur of the moment.
“Criminals aren’t so different either,” Dain said thoughtfully. “They’re not so different from the police. As a matter of fact, I’ve noticed a startling similarity between the two.”
This was strange talk for an official American agent. Guardedly I said, “Have you?”
“Definitely,” Dain said. “I think it may be a case of symbiosis. Or perhaps some men are just naturally drawn to crime. Then it becomes an unimportant matter of pure accident which aspect of it they work in.”
“Then there are crime-loving policemen and law-loving criminals?”
“I’m sure of it,” Dain said.
I laughed, for I was delighted with this frivolous notion. I was aware, of course, that Dain was exercising a skilled sympathy on me; but even knowing this, I took an immediate liking to him. After all, the man who wins my confidence gets my admiration as well.
“Well then, what about you?” I asked. “You are a sort of policeman; do you also include yourself among the criminals?”
“I certainly do,” Dain said. And then he went on to define the nature of law, and a policeman’s ambiguous relationship to it, and a great deal more besides. It was very enjoyable nonsense, and I have no idea how much of it Dain believed. But the result was to put me at my ease.
“Achmed,” he said during our third cup of coffee, “I didn’t need or want the Police Chief’s assurances about you. Today I telephoned two of the men you worked with during the war, two men whom I know personally.”
“Did you ask them if you could trust me?”
“No,” Dain said. “I simply told them I was going to work with you, and then I listened to anything they had to say.”
“And?”
“They had a great deal to say. You did some remarkable things during the war, Achmed; particularly those trips into the Uzbek and Kirgiz republics. And you took one of our men into Samarkand and Bukhara.”
“Nothing difficult about that,” I said. “Russian security in Central Asia is quite overrated.”
“I’d like to see those places,” Dain said, a trace of wistfulness in his voice.
“If you wish, I can arrange it.”
“No,” Dain said sadly, “I’m afraid not now. I’ve got business to do here in Iran.” He was silent for a moment, and perhaps he was thinking about Samarkand the Golden, with its tomb of Timur, and about ancient Bukhara where the Tower of Death still stands. For my own part, I would rather see New York, or even London.
Dain turned his attention back to me. “There is no question of me trusting you,” he said in a flat voice. “But tell me, Achmed, can you trust me?”
That caught me by surprise; but his question told me a grea
t deal about his perceptions.
“My instinct is to put absolute trust in you,” I said. “And I always follow my instincts. If, that is, I decide to work with you.”
“Of course,” Dain said. “I had better tell you why I was sent to Iran.”
We settled down in comfortable chairs. Dain said, “My work here concerns the manufacture and smuggling of heroin.”
I nodded, and he must have caught my faint expression of disappointment, for he said, “It may not sound as exciting as a secret mission through Soviet Asia, but I think you’ll find it exciting enough. This is a very big case.”
“Heroin,” I said thoughtfully. “That is a narcotic manufactured from an opium base.”
Dain nodded. “What else do you know about it?”
“It is supposed to be extremely habit-forming. And I believe it is an illegal drug in most countries. I never thought that Iran was a center for it.”
“Iran never was,” Dain said. “Heroin has usually been manufactured in the Mediterranean countries from Turkish or Egyptian opium, and smuggled into the United States by way of New York. Recently, Communist China has entered the narcotics trade, smuggling heroin by way of Hong Kong to the West Coast ports. And still more recently, Iran has inadvertently become important in the traffic. Do you know anything about this?”
I shook my head. “Mr. Dain, if you wanted information about the local opium industry, I could help you. There is Arabistan opium, and Khurasan opium, and an extremely fine black opium from Baluchistan. Most of it is illegal.”
“It’s heroin I’m interested in.”
“Then I have no information.”
“Well, I have some,” Dain told me. “A cache of extremely pure heroin was found in Meshed last year. According to peristent rumors, the drug was manufactured somewhere to the north, then taken across Iran to one of the Persian Gulf ports for shipment to the United States. We learned that much, but we couldn’t find out any details. So an American agent was sent to Iran to work with the local authorities on the case. In about a week, he found out that one of the main distribution points for the drug was the village of Imam Baba.”
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