The Sheik of Araby Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  "You can always catch it at some other port of call," he said reasonably. "Tripoli or Tunis or whatever. I'll fly you wherever necessary."

  She pursed her lips as though thinking it over.

  "I suppose something like that could be arranged," she said finally. "But suppose we table it temporarily. After a week of my company you may want to withdraw the invitation."

  "Never," he said fervently, giving her hand a squeeze. "I consider the matter settled."

  When the sheik helped her from the car in front of the King George Hotel, she insisted it was not necessary to escort her into the lobby.

  "I hardly think I'll be attacked by any dragons between here and the front door," she said with a smile. "They aren't allowed to loiter in front of the hotel."

  "All right," Ranjit conceded, smiling. "Can you be ready for cocktails and dinner by eight?"

  "Easily. I'll expect you then." She stuck her head in the front window to say good-by to Maxim Karsh. The car was equipped with a telephone, she noted when she saw the bracketed instrument all the dash board.

  As April Dancer walked from the lift to her hotel room, she dipped her hand into her bag and brought out a small, flesh-colored ear plug. Pushing back her dark hair, she slipped the plug into her ear. When she let her hair fall forward again, the plug was invisible.

  The precaution had been instinctive, because April really hadn't expected to find her room bugged. To her surprise a faint humming sounded in her ear the moment she opened the door.

  THRUSH had moved even faster than usual, she thought. April had known she'd be put under observation after she managed to meet Ranjit Sighn, but she had hardly expected this rapid action,

  Maxim Karsh, she thought. When she left the sheik waiting at the main gate and went after the car, he must have used the car phone to contact THRUSH's London office.

  April would have to be careful of that one. She was sure her masquerade as an idle American heiress had fooled him, yet he was taking no chances. Probably everyone who came in contact with Ranjit Sighn was thoroughly investigated.

  Closing the door behind her, April Dancer moved over to the bed and dropped her bag on it. The hum grew louder until she reached the center of the room, then began to fade as she passed it.

  Casually she turned, walked to the dressing table and examined herself in the mirror. Again, from this new direction, the hum was loudest in the exact center of the room.

  The bug was in the overhead chandelier, the U.N.C.L.E. agent decided. She didn't glance up, because it might be a visual device as well as a sound receiver.

  Returning to the bed, she picked up her bag and walked into the bathroom. When she closed the door behind her, the humming promptly stopped.

  At least she could have privacy here, April Dancer thought sardonically.

  She removed the ear plug and dropped it back into her purse.

  THREE

  NO MAN’S LAND

  When April came from the bathroom she had arrived at a decision. She always got a mild kick from turning the enemy's own weapons against them, and the bug in her room gave her a perfect opportunity to give the listening agents an earful.

  Going over to the writing desk, April sat and picked up the phone.

  "I wish to place a call to Mrs. Cornelia Amster," she told the switchboard operator. "She's staying with Lady Mowbry in Kent. You'll have to look up the number, because I've forgotten it."

  While she awaited the connection, she smiled to herself. There were advantages in having attended a good New England school. One was her schoolgirl friendship with Cornelia Amster, nee Crowley, heiress to the Crowley chain-store fortune.

  THRUSH might have difficulty finding any record of a deceased American freezer king from Akron, Ohio named Dancer, but they could hardly question that Cornelia Amster was anything but an American heiress. She was as well known as Barbara Hutton.

  April was also thankful for the American tabloids which reported Cornelia's every move. It was through them that she had learned her old school friend was honeymooning in England with her recently acquired second husband, and that the couple would be staying with Lady Mowbry for a week. April had made careful note of the honeymoon itinerary just for use in such an emergency as this.

  She heard a very British voice say, "Lady Mowbry's residence."

  "London calling," the operator said. "Mrs. Cornelia Amster, please."

  When Cornelia came to the phone and recognized April's voice, she squealed, "April! Where are you?"

  "At the King George in London. Having a happy honeymoon?"

  "Simply divine. Henry is so sweet. I'm dying for you to meet him. When can you come up?"

  "Corny, you don't want callers during your honeymoon."

  "One more won't matter. We've been surrounded by people ever since it started. Henry is showing me off to all his relatives. He's the younger son of the duke, you know. I'd be a duchess some day if Henry had managed to get born before his brother Albert. Lady Mowbry is his aunt. I'm sure she would love to have you."

  "I'm afraid I won't have time, Corny. I just called to say hello and wish you happiness. I'll only be here a week and I'm all tied up I hope."

  "What do you mean, you hope? Can't you spare me one day out of a whole week?"

  April giggled. "Would you expect me to spare a day from a brand new romance?"

  "Romance! Have you finally fallen, April? Who's the lucky bridegroom?"

  "Whoa," April said. "I'm not planning to get married. Can you picture me in a harem in the middle of a desert? It's just a pleasant interlude."

  "A harem? Are you tangled up with some oriental prince? You be careful! I nearly accepted the proposal of a sultan last year, and when I discovered he had four other wives."

  "He's not a prince, Corny. He's the sheik of Mossagbah, and he doesn't really have a harem. He's a quite eligible bachelor. Tall and dark and handsome and absolutely divine. Would you believe it, he actually lives in a tent on a desert oasis. As he describes it, it's about the size of a palace and is furnished just as ornately, but it's still a tent. Just like Rudolph Valentino in the Sheik. I can hardly wait to see it."

  Cornelia wailed, "April, you're not going there with him!"

  "Not now," April reassured her. "Maybe not at all. Depends on whether he still looks as handsome to me a week from now. It won't be for some time in any event. I have to fly back to New York next week because of some tiresome legal business about a transfer of stocks or something."

  Although Cornelia was fully aware that April had only modest financial means, April was reasonably sure she would exhibit no surprise at this. Her old school friend had been raised amid such tremendous wealth; she probably took it for granted that all women owned stocks and securities.

  Cornelia said, "When are you going to visit this dreadful place?"

  "It's not a dreadful place, Corny. The sheik says it's as comfortable as any modern hotel. At the end of the month I have a Mediterranean cruise planned. I happened to mention I would be stopping at Cairo. Ranjit said he'd meet me there and fly me to his canvas palace."

  "It sounds dangerous to me," Cornelia said dubiously. "Way off alone in the desert with a handsome sheik. You be mighty careful."

  "Oh, Ranjit is a perfect gentleman, Corny. Don't worry so."

  "Ranjit, eh? Sinister sounding name. How long have you known this character?"

  "I just met him today."

  This brought another wail of protest from April's old school chum. April soothed her by assuring her she could take care of herself. Before she hung up, she also had to assure her she would phone again before leaving for the United States.

  That would stifle suspicion, she thought as she cradled the phone.

  Naturally the phone was bugged, so THRUSH agents had heard both sides of the conversation. It should have convinced them that April was exactly what she seemed: a bored American heiress looking for new thrills.

  Maxim Karsh was staying at the Woodford. The limousine dropped him t
here, then drove on to Ranjit Sighn's club. The sheik instructed the chauffeur to be ready to leave again at a quarter to eight.

  Fifteen minutes later the squat, broad-shouldered Karsh paused alongside the parked Rolls Royce. Turning his oversized head to glance both ways, he opened the back door and lifted a hidden panel in the back seat. He removed a small cylinder from the recess beneath the panel and replaced it with another.

  Back in his hotel room, he fitted the cylinder into a tape recorder, switched it to play-back and listened to the conversation which had taken place in the back seat en route to London.

  When the tape reached the point where the sheik invited April to visit his oasis, his Slavic featured face darkened with anger.

  After the taped conversation ended, he switched off the machine and strode from the room. Outside Karsh, caught a hansom cab and gave a Soho address.

  The address was a dingy billiard parlor. Karsh told the driver to wait and entered the place. He passed through a room where seedy looking men were playing billiards at several tables, and he went into a men's room .

  Checking to make sure the room was unoccupied, the short, squat man took a key from his pocket and unlocked the mop closet.

  Karsh then switched on a light in the closet, pulled the door closed and locked it behind him. Reaching up, he gave the burning light bulb a half turn to the left. As the light went out, the rear wall of the closet slid aside to disclose a short passageway, ending in a curtained doorway.

  The panel automatically slid back in place when Karsh stepped into the passageway. He pushed through the curtained doorway into a large room where several men monitored communication equipment of various types. One or two glanced up, then went back to their duties.

  Going over to a slim, youngish man who sat idly before a panel, earphones clipped to his head, he said, "Anything?"

  "She's taking a shower at the moment," the young man said. "You can hear the water running even with the door closed. She made a telephone call right after she came in. Want to hear it? Now, I mean!"

  "Of course," the squat man said impatiently.

  The young man threw a switch on the panel. April's lovely voice came from a speaker saying, "I wish to place a call to Mrs. Cornelia Amster."

  Karsh listened intently to the whole phone conversation. When it was over his expression indicated that his anger had somewhat abated.

  "At least she doesn't seem to be a plant," he muttered, more to himself than to the young man. "Cornelia Crowley-Amster couldn't be an U.N.C.L.E. agent."

  "Akrim double-checked the thing," the young man offered. "It actually is Mrs. Amster and her new husband staying with Lady Mowbry. So they didn't ring in an actress just to play the part for our benefit."

  "I guess Miss Dancer is only what she seems," Karsh said, more relaxed. "Stay on the monitor until further notice."

  He turned and retraced his way back through the men's room and on outdoors. He gave the hansom cab driver the address of Ranjit Sighn's club.

  By the time he arrived at the club it was nearly a quarter of eight. Karsh saw the sheik, elegantly attired in evening clothes, just coming down the steps.

  Telling the driver to wait again, Karsh climbed from the cab and went over.

  The Arab chauffeur already had the rear door of the Rolls open for the sheik to enter. Ranjit paused to look at Karsh.

  "Oh, hello, Maxim. What's up?"

  "I'd like a word with you," the squat man said grimly, taking his elbow to lead him out of earshot of the chauffeur.

  The sheik frowned at a wrist watch. "I haven't much time."

  "You'll have to take time for this," Karsh said frigidly. "How dare you invite a woman to the oasis at this point? Have you lost your mind?"

  The sheik's eyes narrowed.

  "And how did you learn of the invitation?" he inquired ominously.

  Maxim Karsh blinked. "That doesn't matter. What matters---"

  "It matters to me," the sheik interrupted coldly. "I'm not one of your paid underlings. I happen to be the chief of state of an independent sheikdom. I haven't offered my services for money, but for a share in the eventual power. I highly resent being spied upon by an inferior."

  The short, squat man reddened slightly. "I may be your social inferior, Ranjit, but I am your superior in this project. You will learn that THRUSH requires absolute discipline, no matter what your status is in the world. It is my order that you withdraw this invitation."

  The sheik's expression suggested he was more amused by the man's impudence than irked. He said sarcastically, "You certainly can't suspect April Dancer of being an U.N.C.L.E. agent."

  "That isn't the point. As a matter of fact I instigated a check on her before we ever left the racetrack, and it seems she's an American heiress, all right. But you can't take any outsider to the oasis. She's bound to see things she shouldn't."

  "She won't understand them," Ranjit said dryly. "As lovely as she is, she doesn't impress me as loaded with brains. I've already mentioned to her that you're supervising the drilling of an oil well near the oasis. That will account both for your presence there and all the activity going on. You worry too much."

  "You don't worry enough," Karsh exploded. "I gave in to your unreasonable insistence on taking time out to race your horse, but I absolutely put my foot down on this. I forbid you to bring this woman, or anyone else to the oasis until our project is completed."

  The sheik stared down his nose at him.

  "I don't take orders from peasants," he said coldly. "If the lady accepts my invitation, which is my devout hope, you may expect to see her there as my guest. Meantime, whatever listening devices you have in my car or elsewhere to eavesdrop on my personal conversations, I expect to be removed at once. Understand?"

  "I do as my superiors say," Maxim Karsh growled.

  In the same cold tone Ranjit said, "Then, since I am obviously your superior in every way, eliminate the bugs. Now you will have to excuse me. I am already late for our reservation at Annabel's in Berkeley Square."

  He strode over and climbed into the back seat of the limousine. Maxim Karsh glared after him, controlling his anger by chewing at his pendulous lower lip.

  FOUR

  DESERT DEATH DEALER

  One week later April Dancer walked along a New York street in the shadow of the U.N. building. She turned into a modest shop whose window sign identified it as Del Floria's Tailor Shop.

  At the rear of the shop a pleasant looking woman seated before a pressing machine glanced up and smiled. April smiled back, entered a dressing cubicle at the rear of the shop and pulled the door closed behind her. She waited, facing the rear wall.

  In the outer room the pleasant looking woman touched a button on the machine which had nothing to do with its pants pressing function.

  A panel at the rear of the dressing cubicle slid aside and April Dancer stepped through into the lobby of U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.

  The U.N.C.L.E. agent exchanged a pleasantry with the clerk on duty, picked up her I.D. triangle---without which she would have set alarms to jangling all over the place if she had attempted to go farther---and walked down the hall to Alexander Waverly's office.

  The director of U.N.C.L.E.'s New York headquarters was a tweedy, soft-spoken man past middle-age who gave the impression that nothing less than atomic attack could jar his inevitable poise. Two other people were in the office with him.

  Mark Slate, in his early thirties, was a lean, muscular man with the eyes of a poet and the build of an athlete. A Cambridge graduate, an RAF veteran and a former member of the British Olympic ski team, he was a recent transfer from U.N.C.L.E.'s London headquarters.

  His dress was a trifle flamboyant for an undercover agent, since an effort to look unobtrusive is usual in that field. It wasn't garish, but he wore a rather loud tie and a checked vest. He gave the impression that to complete his outfit he should have been strumming a guitar.

  The other person was Randy Kovac, a tall, coltish teen-ager. Randy, sti
ll in high school, was an experiment. U.N.C.L.E.'s first and only part-time on-the-job trainee, he was supposed to work in Communications only four hours a week. The training so fascinated him though, he could be found at headquarters, as often as not in areas which had nothing to do with communication, practically every minute he could spare from school and study.

  Mr. Waverly said in his usual formal manner, "Ah, Miss Dancer. We've been expecting you."

  Mark Slate smiled at her affectionately and said, "Hi, April."

  Randy, who had a teen-age crush on the girl agent, silently gazed at her as a peasant regards a queen, waiting for April to speak first.

  April made Randy's day complete by greeting him first with a friendly, "Hi, Randy."

  "Welcome back, Miss Dancer," he said enthusiastically. “Have a nice trip?"

  "Just fine. How are you, Mark?"

  "Curious. What did you find out?"

  ''Enough to know something definite is going on in Mossagbah." She turned to Waverly. "Mission accomplished, sir. The sheik has invited me to visit his oasis. He's to meet me in Cairo on the fifteenth and fly me there in his private jet."

  Randy said, "Is this trip going to be chaperoned?"

  All three looked at him. Randy blushed.

  Waverly turned back to April.

  "Excellent, Miss Dancer. You didn't attempt to learn anything about the project, did you?"

  April shook her head. "You told me to do nothing which might arouse suspicion that I was prying. I even pretended some misgivings about visiting the oasis, but of course I finally let the sheik talk me into it. It is a THRUSH project, though. Maxim Karsh was with him."

  Alexander Waverly's left eyebrow raised slightly, a gesture which for him denoted extreme startlement. "One of THRUSH's top electronic engineers. Well, well. Did the sheik volunteer any explanation of his presence?"

  "He introduced Karsh as a geological engineer. He said Karsh's company was drilling a new oil well near the oasis."

  Mark Slate said, "Maxim Karsh wouldn't know an oil well from a hole in the ground, He's strictly a physicist."