"You know him, Mr. Slate?" Waverly asked.
"Not personally. I read his dossier when I was stationed in London. He was one of those on the required study list for all agents."
"He's on the list at this headquarters too," Waverly said. "Which is how I assume Miss Dancer was familiar with his name. You had never encountered him before, had you, Miss Dancer?"
"No, sir."
"If Maxim Karsh is involved in this project, it must be a major one," Waverly said. "And it most certainly has nothing to do with oil." He turned back to Mark Slate. "I think we'll have you do a little advance scouting, Mr. Slate. Fly over to Mossagbah and do a bit of nosing around. Perhaps you can pick up some rumors of what's going on from the natives."
When Slate nodded, Waverly said to April, "You go ahead with your cruise as planned, Miss Dancer. By the time you arrive in Cairo, Mr. Slate should have some preliminary information for you. You can check with Cairo headquarters before you fly to Mossagbah with Ranjit Sighn."
"All right, sir," April agreed. Randy asked, "What kind of guy is this Ranjit Sighn?"
"A couple of years older than Mark, I think," April said. "Tall and dark and extremely handsome, with a cute little mustache and a goatee which makes him look kind of devilish."
She was unaware of the touch of dreaminess in her voice as she described the sheik, but Randy caught it. He said belligerently, "And just what's on this oasis?"
"Just a tent."
"A tent!" Randy said in a high voice. "You're going to spend maybe a whole week or more all alone in the middle of the desert in a tent with this man?"
"It's not just an ordinary tent, Randy," April said with a smile. "It's more like a canvas palace, with innumerable rooms. Ranjit has assured me that I'll have my own private room in the women's quarters. And we'll hardly be alone. There are numerous servants with quarters in the tent."
"Oh," Randy said, somewhat mollified. "You be careful anyway."
Waverly told the boy in a kindly tone, "I'm sure she can take care of herself."
Mark Slate said, "I'll call the airport to see if I can get a reservation to Mossagbah tomorrow. Meantime, April, do you have a date for dinner tonight?"
"No, I came straight here from the airport."
"Then I'll pick you up at six-thirty. During dinner we can work out contact plans in case I'm still in Mossagbah when you get there."
"How romantic," April said with a mock sigh. "I'll be waiting with bated breath."
Slate cocked an eyebrow at her.
"I know I can't compete with a handsome multi-millionaire sheik, but at least I can dance a mean frug. If you behave yourself, I may take you dancing after dinner."
By the time Mark Slate had been in Mossagbah two weeks, he gave up all thought of learning anything of significance from the natives. Not that he found them close-mouthed. He spoke Arabic fluently, and he had spent the first week in Fada simply picking up the Mossagbahan dialect.
With his hands and face darkened and robed as an Arab, he was accepted without suspicion when he began to visit the nomadic tribes.
It was simply that no one had any information as to what was going on at the oasis. While it was widely known that foreigners had built a number of strange buildings there, no one had any idea of their purpose. Since it was also understood that the foreigners were under the protection of Sheik Ranjit Sighn, the tribesmen exhibited no great curiosity. Ranjit was an absolute monarch. Too much curiosity about his affairs might not be healthy.
Eventually Slate decided that the only way he was going to learn anything was by a visit to the oasis.
It was just past dusk when he halted his camel atop a sand dune and studied the lights below. In the center of the oasis the walls of the huge, palace-like tent glowed dimly from lights within it. Even dimmer glows came from the numerous small tents surrounding it.
Just beyond the oasis several rectangles of light denoted the windows of some kind of building.
Slate kneed the camel forward. Fifty yards from the oasis he halted again, signaled the animal to kneel, and dismounted. Leading the camel behind a sand dune, he drove an iron stake into the sand and tethered it securely.
Silently he circled the oasis on foot toward the rectangular lights. The moon was just rising. By its light he could see, when he got close enough, that the glow came from the center of a line of five flat-topped buildings. The other four, taller, longer and wider than the center one, were all dark.
This was a major project, he thought. The larger buildings were at least a hundred feet long by fifty wide and quite evidently factory buildings. The smaller one in the center of the row was probably the administration building, and fifty yards out in the desert, was a towering skeletal structure he could make out but dimly. Slate made a wide circle of the row of buildings in order to get a better look at it.
Twenty-five yards from the structure he dropped flat when he spotted a robed Arab guard armed with a rifle slowly patrolling around it. He was now close enough to make out what it was, however.
It was the half-completed missile tower of a rocket-launching pad.
On hands and knees Mark Slate headed for the administration building. Halfway there he sank flat again when he spotted another Arab guard patrolling the rear of the line of buildings.
When the guard had passed beyond him and had his back to him, Slate rose and sprinted to the shadows alongside the administration building.
The lighted windows were at the far end of the building, the end facing the oasis. Cautiously he moved to the nearest one and peered in.
It was a small mess hall. Seven men were at dinner around a single long table. They seemed to be of mixed nationality, but none looked Arabian.
The only familiar face he saw was at the head of the table. Slate had never personally met the man, but he felt sure he recognized Maxim Karsh from the complete description in his London dossier and from April's personal observation.
Retreating to the dark end of the building, Slate peered around the corner. The Arab guard had not yet reached the far end of his post and still had his back turned. Slate stepped around the corner and tried the door centered in that end of the building.
Finding it locked, Slate produced a small pick-lock and easily opened it.
A dimly lighted hall ran the length of the building, ending at the door to the mess hall he had peered into.
Mark Slate hesitated for a moment, then drew out his U.N.C.L.E. gun and buried it in the sand just outside the door. He felt a trifle naked without it, but he knew it would be foolish to take it into the building with him. If he were surprised, the gun would identify him as an U.N.C.L.E. agent, even if he managed to shoot his way clear, thereby alerting THRUSH that U.N.C.L.E. was aware of the project.
Since nothing else in his possession which couldn't be easily disposed of in an emergency identified him, there was an excellent chance that Slate could pass himself off as simply an Arab sneak-thief if apprehended.
With a final glance toward the Arab guard, who was now ending his route and in a moment would turn to come back this way, Slate stepped inside and eased the door closed behind him. He left it unlocked.
There were two doors on either side of the hall, all but one standing open.
Glancing into the ones either side of the hall nearest the door by which he had entered, Mark Slate saw they were living quarters. Probably for Maxim Karsh and his first assistant, he decided, since they were both single rooms.
Halfway down the hall the open door on the right gave on to a larger room containing two sets of triple-decker bunks and six metal wall lockers. The barracks for the lesser technicians, Slate deduced.
Across the hall from the barracks was a closed door. Trying it, he discovered it was locked.
One twist of the pick-lock opened it. The room was dark, but by the light from the hall Slate spotted a wall switch.
Easing the door shut behind him, he flicked on an overhead light.
FIVE
DESERT
DEATH DEALER
Slate found himself in a completely equipped, windowless physics laboratory. Glancing around, he spotted a small safe in one corner. He was making for it when something on a work table distracted his attention.
It seemed to be a scale model of a curious Y-shaped contrivance, consisting of numerous separable parts fitted together by small pegs and holes.
When Mark Slate looked inside the various pieces, he saw that the contrivance was a miniature model of some kind of space vehicle. Parts housed many kinds of elaborate machinery; there was a tiny control room with a panel full of knobs, levers and dials, and a living cabin with six tiny bunks.
Putting the model back together, Slate knelt quickly before the safe. From a pocket in his robe he took a small earplug similar to the one April had used to detect the listening device in her London hotel room.
Inserting it into his ear, he placed his ear next to the combination dial and slowly turned the dial.
After a moment Slate heard the distinct sound of a tumbler falling into place. Reversing the direction of his turn, he again moved the dial slowly until he heard a second click. Twice more he reversed movement, then, after the fourth click, tried the safe door. When it failed to open, he turned the dial again until there was another click. This time the door opened. He smiled, realizing it had been a five-number combination instead of a four.
Removing the earplug, Slate dropped it back into his pocket. Then with curiosity, he examined the contents of the safe. There was nothing inside except a set of drawings and some technical notes.
After rapidly scanning the drawings and notes, Slate drew out a gold medallion suspended around his neck by a golden chain. A small diamond centered the medallion and circling the diamond was a carved inscription in Arabic.
Holding each sheet of the notes and drawings flat on the floor, Mark Slate held the medallion over them and pressed a nearly invisible plunger on the medallion's back.
When he had completed this process, he carefully replaced all the documents in the same order he had found them, closed the safe and spun the combination dial.
Taking out a fountain pen, he twisted the barrel and a small chromium antenna thrust upward from its end.
"Section two," he said in a low voice.
After a moment Alexander Waverly's voice said, "Yes, Mr. Slate?"
"I'm in the lab of the project at the oasis," Slate said, quickly. "Do you recall the secret super rocket fuel formula Professor Bettner reported stolen from his lab safe last February?"
"Yes, of course."
"THRUSH has it. They plan to use it to put the components of a space platform into orbit, then weld them into place in outer space.
"I don't know how far they've progressed with the individual components. There are four factory buildings here, but I haven't been inside any of them yet. They have the missile tower for a launching pad about half completed, though."
"Were you able to get to their plans?"
"I just finished microfilming all of them."
"Good work," Waverly said.
"Don't attempt to break into any of the factory buildings. Miss Dancer will be in a much safer position to look them over when she gets there. That microfilm is too important to jeopardize by risking apprehension over minor information. Get out of there and take the first flight back here you can get."
"Yes, sir," Slate said. "I'm on my way. I'll route through Cairo, so that I can leave word for April at headquarters there."
He twisted the pen barrel and the antenna disappeared. Putting the pen away, he flicked off the overhead light, cracked open the door and peered out into the hall. When Slate saw no one, he slipped out, pulled the door closed and re locked it with his pick-lock.
He had barely taken a step toward the exit from the building when the door to the mess hall began to open. Instantly Slate darted through the closest door, the one into the six-bunk barracks.
Pulling the door nearly shut, he watched through the crack as men trooped from the mess hall into the corridor. Since the room he was in, plus the two single ones, were the only rooms in the building aside from the laboratory and the mess hall, Slate knew he was going to have lots of company within moments if he waited around.
Clicking the door shut, he made for the moonlit window. It was barred by inch-thick steel rods spaced only about six inches apart.
Slate took out his fountain pen communicator and twisted the barrel and said, "Section two. Emergency. "
Almost immediately Alexander Waverly's voice said, "Yes, Mr. Slate?"
"I'm about to be taken," Slate answered rapidly. "I probably can't talk my way out of it, but I may be able to pass myself off as a sneak-thief."
"Get rid of that communicator," Waverly said sharply. "Don't let them suspect you're an U.N.C.L.E. agent at all costs."
"Yes, sir, I know," Mark Slate said, as he silently broke the connection.
The earplug in his pocket would be as dead a giveaway to his identity as the U.N.C.L.E. gun would have been. With his thumb and center finger he flicked it between the bars, far out into the night. The pick-lock wouldn't be as much of a giveaway, but it might create suspicion that he had been in the lab. Slate dropped it into the sand just below the window.
Then he whipped out a small gunny sack, began jerking open locker doors and dumping everything of value he could find into the sack. A watch, two rings, three wallets, a set of jeweled cuff-links and two tie clips went into the sack before the door started to open. Before it opened completely, Slate had dropped his fountain pen communicator on top of the loot in the sack.
The man in the doorway switched on an overhead light, then gaped at Slate. Recovering, his hand darted beneath his arm and reappeared with a thirty-eight automatic.
Several angry-faced men were behind the first one. They all reached for guns too.
The man in the doorway, a thickset blond with heavy Teutonic features said, "Who are you?"
With a subservient bow, Slate answered, speaking in the Mossagbaban dialect, "I Abdul the merchant, master. I look for cook to ask for dinner."
"Yeah?" the blond man said. His gaze fell on the gunny sack and his eyes narrowed suspiciously. Moving into the room, he said over his shoulder, "Perez, see what he's got in that sack."
The thin, wiry man named Perez and who looked Spanish, moved past him and took the sack from Slate's unresisting hand. Perez dumped the contents on one of the bunks.
The blond man, Perez and the men crowding the doorway all stared from the items on the bunk to Slate. Slate gave them a cringing, apologetic smile.
"Why, you lousy thief!" the thickset blond man said finally. "Turn around and get your hands against the wall. Perez, shake him down."
As Slate turned and leaned his hands against the wall, the blond man said to one of the men in the doorway, "Sven, hurry. Go get Karsh."
By the time Sven returned with Maxim Karsh, Perez had thoroughly searched the intruder and had reported there were no weapons or additional loot on his person. He had pulled out the medallion suspended by the chain around Slate's neck, and it now hung in plain view on the outside of his robe. Slate decided he might call less attention to it by leaving it where it was, than by attempting to shove it down inside his robe again.
The squat, wide-shouldered Maxim Karsh looked Slate up and down suspiciously. Suddenly he said in Arabic, "What is your name?"
He had an atrocious accent.
Apparently THRUSH wasn't as finicky about its agents' linguistic ability as U.N.C.L.E. was.
Sure of his pure Mossagbahan dialect, Slate said, "Abdul the merchant, master."
Karsh turned to the blond man and said in English, "Find anything on him, Fritz?"
Fritz shook his head. "Perez searched him. He's clean." Then, pointing to the loot on the bed, he added, "Except for that. He was cleaning out the lockers when we walked in."
Karsh returned his attention to Slate and said, still in Arabic, "Are you one of the sheik's men?"
"Yes, m
aster. All Mossagbahans the sheik's men."
"I mean do you live at the oasis?"
"No, master."
"Where are you from?"
Slate shrugged. "From the desert. My tribe move with the winds."
Noticing the medallion hanging around Slate's neck, Karsh moved closer to examine it. "What's that?"
"Kadar prayer medal, master.
Protection against Jinn and Eblis."
Karsh started to reach for it; Slate stepped back and raised both hands protectively, "No, no, master. Beat me if you like, but no take medal. Is no protection for infidel."
Karsh reached impatiently for it again. Slate put his hand across it.
"Is sacrilege," he said with dignity. "His highness not like."
The squat man paused. Sheik Ranjit Sighn had made it quite clear that the western intruders should not violate any of the native religious customs. Even though this man was a thief, he was still a Mossagbahan apparently. Karsh decided it might be better for the sheik himself to handle the matter of the medallion.
He dropped his hand and Slate poked the medallion back down inside his robe.
"How'd you get in here?" Karsh growled.
"Door unlocked."
"I mean into the building?"
Karsh asked.
"Door unlocked too." Slate jerked his thumb in the direction of the door by which he had entered.
Karsh turned and left the room.
They could hear his footsteps receding up the corridor. When he returned, he glared at the blond Fritz.
"It was unlocked. You know security rules. You were on check duty this evening."
Then a sudden thought struck Karsh. Without awaiting the blond man's reply, he turned and strode across the hall. After trying the lab door, he took a key from his pocket and opened it. He left the door open, and through it Slate could see him glance around, then kneel before the safe and begin working the combination.
When he had it open, he carefully checked the documents inside, replaced them and closed the safe again. Relocking the lab door, he came back across the hall.
"We won't take any chances," he said to the blond Fritz. "The sheik will be able to tell if this man is really a native. Put that stuff back in the sack and bring it along."
The Sheik of Araby Affair Page 3
