White Death

by Robert Sheckley

  “He worked fast,” I said. “What else did he learn?”

  “I don’t know. He was killed shortly after he had made his first report. Perhaps he worked too fast.”

  “How was he killed?” I asked.

  “Several witnesses say that it was a brawl over a woman.”

  “Well … Perhaps they were telling the truth.”

  “I don’t think so,” Dain said. “I knew the agent pretty well. I also knew his wife and children. He was the wrong man to be killed over a woman.”

  “I see. Have you learned anything else?”

  “Only rumors, about a thousand different rumors. I’m hoping that together we can find some genuine information. Perhaps we can find it in Meshed or Imam Baba.”

  I rose to my feet and bowed. “Mr. Dain, your confidences are safe with me. If I hear anything, I’ll let you know. But I’m afraid I cannot accompany you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s suicidal,” I said. “You tell me that the first agent was discovered and killed in a week. How long do you think it will take the murderers to find out who you are, and then to dispose of you—and of me, also?”

  “The first man was careless,” Dain said, “You and I won’t be so easy a target.”

  “I’m not going to be any sort of target at all,” I said. “Do you know what the country northeast of Meshed is like? The government soldiers patrol the valleys in convoys, and they stay well out of the Khurasan Mountains. Do you know that Imam Baba is high in the mountains, near the border between Iran, Afghanistan, and the Turkmen Republic? Do you know that the town is reputed to be the home of bandits and cutthroats?”

  “I’m certain you’ll find a way for us to work in safety,” Dain said.

  “Your certainties are misplaced,” I told him. “This piece of work is not for me.”

  “A shame,” Dain said. “I have heard so much of your skills, and I know that no man can replace you.”

  “You heard correctly,” I said. “Nevertheless, since I prefer to stay alive, some lesser man will have to replace me.”

  “So be it,” Dain said. “But it will grieve me to make a lesser man rich and prosperous.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “My government is much concerned with this new source of heroin,” Dain said to me. “And therefore the reward for the man who helped me find it would be extremely generous. However, since you are not interested—”

  “One minute,” I said. “I never told you that I was not interested; only that it was not my line of work. But still, a man can change his line of work if there is reason enough.”

  “Ί would not ask it of you,” Dain said. “As you say, the work is too dangerous.”

  “Do you think that worries me?” I asked. “I, who served throughout the war on missions of the utmost risk? I care nothing for danger. I simply do not enjoy recklessness for its own sake.”

  “I agree with you completely,” Dain said. “And I rely on you, if you wish to help me, to ensure that we will never be reckless.”

  “You can depend upon me for that,” 1 said. “Now, as to the exact nature of the reward—”

  “We will discuss it tomorrow to your complete satisfaction,” Dain said. “We will have plenty of time to come to terms on the way to Meshed.”

  “To Meshed? Tomorrow?”

  “Of course. The sooner we begin, the sooner we end, and the sooner you become rich. Until tomorrow, then, my friend.”

  And with that, Dain ushered me to the door, shook my hand warmly, and bade me good night.

  Alone, I considered the entire matter carefully. In talking to Dain, I had somewhat overstated the immediate dangers of Meshed and Imam Baba, as a legitimate means of bargaining for a higher wage. I was sure that Dain had understood that. But all exaggerations aside, there was plenty of risk in this piece of work. Perhaps there was too much.

  Still, I was inclined to work with Dain, always keeping in mind the possibility of leaving if matters got out of hand.

  There was the great reward to think about. And equally important, there was the work itself, work which I had grown to love during the war. Intrigue, deception, and secrecy—these were special talents Which I had not utilized since the war. But now I could use them again, and under the command of a master liar.

  For Dain knew as well as I that the heroin he sought was not manufactured in Iran. No one could build any kind of a factory here without Teheran knowing about it; and especially not a heroin factory. Teheran prizes its massive American aid too highly to let such a factory exist.

  So we would have to cross a border, probably in an illegal manner, into the Turkmen Republic or Afghanistan. But Dain hadn’t wanted to reveal that much of his plans to me.

  It made no difference. I had complained of the danger only for form’s sake and to increase the reward, not out of fear. If Dain chose to lie to me, that was only natural. After all, if necessity demanded it, I might well be forced to lie to him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The following morning, Stephen Dain and I caught the early flight to Meshed. By noon we were over the barren salt flats of the Dasht-i-Kavir, the great northern desert of Iran. By mid-afternoon the minarets of Meshed were in sight, and soon we arrived at the city.

  We agreed to meet in the early evening in front of the Blue Mosque. Then Dain went to reserve hotel rooms, and I set out to collect whatever information was available.

  To this end, I had invented a cover story for myself: that I was a salesman from Isfahan, offering the finest of embroidered linens. Before leaving home I had purchased, at a favorable price, a suitcase full of excellent Isfahani cloth. With this I went to the bazaar, and there engaged in all the merchant’s tricks to dispose of my goods. With God’s help I was able to sell most of my obviously superior merchandise, for there is nothing to rival the craftsmanship of Isfahan; and I talked with numerous men, exchanging the gossip of my home city for the gossip of theirs.

  This, I am sorry to say, brought me very little in the way of news. The talk was mostly about the Russian broadcasts, and the Shah’s promises of land reform, and the scarcity of rain.

  I went to a coffee house, but nothing more interesting was being said there, and there was no talk of the dead American agent. Therefore I decided to start things myself, but indirectly, and see where it led me.

  “In Tabriz,” I said to a burly young blacksmith, “there is talk of strange dealings on the part of the Turks.”

  The blacksmith leaned forward and asked what the talk was. And other men also listened, for a true Meshedi will believe anything you say about a Turk.

  But I was not to be led into a tale so easily; and with winks and knowing nods I conveyed the message that strange and evil things were afoot, and that the Turks were more to be feared than the Russians or the Afghanistanis.

  As I expected, this led to an argument. The Meshedis like to believe that they live in imminent danger; but Turkey is a long way from their city, while the Russian and Afghanistan borders are less than ninety miles distant.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” a sour-faced Baluchi said. “Although the Turks are evil, Godless men, the Americans restrain them. But here in the northeast, where our mountains meet the Turkmen plain and march with the high country of Afghanistan, here is where our enemies are working secretly against us.” I laughed at the Baluchi and told him he did not know where true peril lay, and that he would not recognize subversion if it spit in his beard. His face grew dark, and he said to me, “You Isfahanis were always fools. By God! You think I can’t smell out subversion? What Meshedi has not heard of the devil’s cargo that comes across the mountains from Imam Baba …”

  Here a friend nudged him, and he stopped talking. I knew that he thought I was a police spy, and I burst into hearty laughter to check his suspicions. Still the men in the coffee house were silent, and I knew they distrusted me. So I invented a tale of subversion and intrigue in the south, where the Shatt-al-Arab flows b
etween Iran and Iraq. I filled my story with smuggled arms, and Sunni Moslems, and a deep conspiracy on the part of the Arab countries against Iran.

  This brought me hard stares from the few Arabs in the coffee house, but it won me a respite from the Iranis. I left the coffee house, promising to return the next day.

  It was dusk when I met Stephen Dain in front of the Blue Mosque. I told him briefly what I had learned, and then we started for our hotel.

  On our way, we had to pass through the Old Quarter, where there are still covered bazaars, narrow and winding like a mountain train going around a double curve. These bazaars stink amazingly of camel dung, horse dung, cow dung, and human dung; and of close-packed, unwashed bodies, stinking cotton robes, slimed paving stones, open gutters, and anything else unpleasant you can mention, all mixed with the odors of saddle leather, raw wool, and spices. A true sinkhole! Yet from a distance, if the wind is behind you, the Old Quarter seems very picturesque. Europeans love to peer down the mysterious streets and see the inhabitants, long-gowned and quaint, some turbaned and some with close-fitting felt hats.

  This is all very well; but for a modern man of Iran such as myself, the Old Quarter of Meshed is a reminder of the decayed persistence of our old ways. A very nostalgic sight, no doubt; but a reminder to every Iranian of the days when the Russians and the British pushed us around like dominos in their great game of empire, when the Turkomans and the Kurds raided us at will, and when the Westerners considered our ancient civilization and our national genius as nothing more than the prattling of illiterate tribesmen. The old bazaars are a blot which the present Shah seeks very rightfully to modernize; and they are dangerous places as well.

  We encountered trouble as soon as we were well within the twisting little streets. It began as nothing at all: a crowd of arguing men, Sarts by the look of them, angry and pushing at each other as they came toward us. In a moment I sensed the peril, and turned to Stephen Dain. But Dain had seen it before I had. He grasped me by the wrist and pulled me into a narrowing V where two houses met.

  The Sarts were coming closer, quarreling more loudly and acting like drunken men. They were lurching, seemingly by accident, toward our narrow defensive position. I drew from my sleeve a little .32-calibre Italian automatic which a British officer had given me during the war.

  “Put that away,” Dain told me.

  I began to argue, but Dain cut me short.

  “We can’t go shooting people in a city like this. At the best, we’ll end up in jail giving endless explanations and ruining any chance we might have in this case.”

  “But won’t your government back you up?”

  “My government is five thousand miles away,” Dain said. “This is my assignment, my responsibility, and my neck.”

  I wished to argue further, pointing out that there was my neck to be considered, too; but by then the Sarts were on us. There were five of them, or perhaps six, and they looked like cutthroats. They lurched toward us, pretending drunkenness, but with faces set and eyes slitted. One or two carried cudgels, and I thought I caught the glimpse of steel.

  “Watch my back,” Dain said. And before I had a chance to consider the advisability of this, he had taken three long steps forward. With a sensation of disaster, I followed.

  The assassins dropped all pretense now. The foremost man raised his club; but before he could bring it down, Dain had struck out with his foot, catching the Sart in that portion of his body which a man holds most dear. Never checking for an instant, Dain swung to the next man, who quickly moved back out of reach. But this movement of Dain’s was a feint, for he turned quickly to his right without looking. The man there had swung with his club, catching Dain where the neck and the left shoulder meet. It was a painful blow, but not disabling, since it missed the collarbone. At the same instant, Dain had swung, but not with his fist as Westerners usually do. He struck with the side of his hand, catching the man just under the nose.

  Let it not be thought that I stood idly by while all the fighting took place. Two men had been disposed of; but an instant later I found myself battling for my life against two enormous brutes. Luckily, the narrowness of the V would not permit them both to assault me at the same time. While they were struggling to get at me past the close mud walls of the house, I fought with fists and teeth, and also with a small, exceedingly keen knife, a family heirloom which I always keep on my person.

  The foremost Sart also had a knife; but I take a modest pride in my skill with the blade. I put this useful talent to work, slashing him across the knife-hand, then following with a wicked stroke across the belly.

  His thick wool vest stopped the killing stroke, and he seized his bleeding wrist more in shock than in agony. Fury overcame my prudence—a fury which I attribute to my mother’s Mongol ancestors. Bloody knife held before me, I charged into my enemies.

  Immediately someone began playing a quick-march on my skull with a heavy cudgel. I fell back, dazed, and saw that Dain had managed to get one of the clubs.

  Three of our assailants were out of the fight; and the three others, though continuing to attack, had begun to show a certain reluctance. The reason for this was evident; for Dain was using his club in a way I had never seen before.

  Not once did he swing it for a bone-crushing blow. Instead, he treated it as a sort of sword, poking at the Sarts’ eyes and stomachs. And when he swung, it was without marked force, just hard enough to rake a forehead or a kneecap, with amazing effect.

  By this time I was recovered, though my head still rang; and I advanced with my knife, prepared to cut the liver and lights out of any opponents who remained. I had no opportunity, however; the three remaining Sarts, finding themselves opposed by two such formidable men, took to their heels. And the wounded men followed as well as they could.

  Dain and I, having triumphed utterly, found ourselves alone in the dark streets of Meshed. We went on to the hotel.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  In the hotel room, I examined my assortment of scrapes and bruises and found they were not serious. Thanks to my hard head—also an inheritance from my mother’s Mongol ancestors—I had come to no harm. Still, I was shaken. We had been assaulted at the very beginning of our investigation, and we could expect more of the same as we went along. And to make matters worse, our fight was against shadows, while our enemies knew who we were.

  Any dark alley could become our graveyard, and I said this to Dain.

  He said, “We’ll stay out of alleys.”

  “Then they will snipe at us from the hills, or try to run us down with automobiles.”

  “We’ll take precautions,” Dain said.

  “There are a hundred different ways they can kill us.”

  Dain shrugged his shoulders. I looked at him, trying to restrain my irritation. He was sitting in an armchair, his head tilted back against the rest, his eyes closed. I became annoyed at the sight of his lean, expressionless face. I knew that, like many Anglo-Saxons, he was inclined to conceal his emotions behind a show of irony or indifference, and that, in spite of his studied immobility, he had to be feeling doubt and fear, just as I was. But he didn’t look as though he were feeling anything of the sort. He looked calm and unruffled. This might have been stoicism; but on the other hand, it might have been the product of ignorance and insufficient imagination, which allow some men to show an inapropos and spurious bravery.

  “Mr. Dain,” I said, “I would like to hear more about this case.”

  “What do you want to know?” Dain asked, opening his eyes.

  “Everything.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to know exactly what I’m getting into.”

  “Fair enough,” Dain said. “But you know most of it already.”

  “Then tell me the rest.”

  Dain nodded. He lighted a cigarette. Then he proceeded to give me a lecture on the nature of narcotics traffic, its international scope, and legal implications. This general background, he said, was necessary to an underst
anding of our specific case; but there was a sardonic light in his eyes when he said it.

  I gathered that the narcotics trade was a large source of income for the organized criminals of Europe and America. Profits ran a hundred to a thousand times over expenses; these profits were so great that police officers and government officials were sometimes involved. And occasionally an entire government would enter the trade, the most recent example being Communist China.

  Heroin, an illegal, highly addictive drug, was the narcotic most frequently used. The major market for heroin was the United States.

  To combat the smuggling of heroin into the United States, several organizations were involved. There was the Customs Service, of course, which had to search too many ships and planes, with too few men. There was the FBI, the Border Patrol, the Coast Guard, and the state and city police forces. And foremost in the line of battle, there was the Bureau of Narcotics, which was a semi-autonomous branch of the Treasury Department.

  In cooperation with police forces all over the world, agents from the Bureau of Narcotics sought to destroy the traffic at its various sources, to procure evidence against the key men both in America and abroad, and to discover any new means of smuggling.

  The criminals were naturally reluctant to give up their hugely profitable trade. So, when the pressure on them became too great in one country, they moved their operations to another country. The narcotics agents followed them, and eventually forced them to move again, and again, endlessly.

  Dain’s present case was the result of heavy police pressure in the Mediterranean countries. Some important men had been arrested in Italy and France, and some heroin-processing laboratories had been closed down. But the trade had not stopped; it had simply been reorganized.

  Most of the heroin was still manufactured and shipped from Europe. But an important new outlet had opened in Iran.