He looked into Cliff Jackson’s face, and although his words had dealt with money, a man’s dream looked out from his eyes. And the force of personality that could emanate from Homer Crawford, possibly unbeknownst to himself, flooded over the huge Californian. The others in the room could feel it. Elmer Allen cleared his throat; Isobel held her elbows to her sides, in a feminine protest against naked male psychic strength.
Kenny Ballalou said without inflection, “Put up or shut up, Cliff old pal.”
Cliff Jackson sank back onto the spot on the bed he’d occupied before. “I’m in,” he muttered, so softly as hardly to be heard.
“None of you are in,” a voice from the doorway said.
The figure that stood there held a thin, but heavy calibered automatic in his hand.
* * * *
He was a dapper man, neat, trim, smart. His clothes were those of Greater Washington, rather than Dakar and West Africa. His facial expression seemed overly alert, overly bright, and his features were more Caucasian than Negroid.
He said, “I believe you all know me. Fredric Ostrander.”
“Of the Central Intelligence Agency,” Homer Crawford said dryly. He as well as Bey, Elmer and Kenny had risen to their feet when the newcomer entered from the smaller of the hut’s two rooms. “What’s the gun for, Ostrander?”
“You’re under arrest,” the C.I.A. man said evenly.
Elmer Allen snorted. “Under whose authority are you working? As a Jamaican, I’m a citizen of the West Indies and a subject of Her Majesty.”
“We’ll figure that out later,” Ostrander rapped. “I’m sure the appropriate Commonwealth authorities will co-operate with the State Department and the Reunited Nations in this matter.” The gun unwaveringly went from one of them to the other, retraced itself.
Bey looked at Homer Crawford.
Crawford shook his head gently.
He said to the newcomer, “The question still stands, Ostrander. Under whose authority are you operating? I don’t think you have jurisdiction over us. We’re in Africa, not in the United States of the Americas.”
Ostrander said tightly, “Right now I’m operating under the authority of this weapon in my hand. Dr. Crawford. Do you realize that all of you Americans here are risking your citizenship?”
Kenny Ballalou said, “Oh? Tell us more, Mr. State Department man.”
“You’re serving in the armed forces of a foreign power.”
Even the dour Elmer Allen laughed at that one.
Crawford said, “The fact of the matter is, we are the foreign power.”
“You’re not amusing, Dr. Crawford,” Ostrander said. “I’ve kept up with this situation since you had that conference in Timbuktu. The State Department has no intention of allowing some opportunist, backed by known communists and fellow travelers, to seize power in this portion of the world. In a matter of months the Soviets would be in here.”
Isobel said evenly, “I was formerly a member of the Party. I no longer am. I am an active opponent of the Soviet Complex at the moment, especially in regard to its activity in Africa.”
Ostrander snorted his disbelief.
Elmer Allen said, “You chaps never forget, do you?” He looked at the others and explained. “Back during college days, I signed a few peace petitions, that sort of thing. Ever since, every time I come in contact with these people, you’d think I was Lenin or Trotsky.”
Homer Crawford said, “My opinion is, Ostrander, that you’ve had to move too quickly to check back with your superiors. Has the State Department actually instructed you to arrest me and my companions here on foreign soil, without a warrant?”
Ostrander clipped, “That’s my responsibility. I’m taking you all in. We’ll solve such problems as jurisdiction and warrants when I get you to the Reunited Nations headquarters.”
“Ah?” Homer Crawford said. “And then what happens to us?”
Ostrander jiggled the gun, impatiently. “Sven Zetterberg is of the opinion that you should immediately be flown out of Africa and the case brought before the High Council of the African Development Project. What measures will be taken beyond that point I have no way of knowing.”
Bey took a step to the left, Kenny Ballalou one to the right. Homer Crawford remained immediately before the C.I.A. operative, his hands slightly out from his sides, palms slightly forward.
Ostrander snapped, “I’m prepared to fire, you men. I don’t underestimate the importance of this situation. If your crazy scheme makes any progress at all, it might well result in the death of thousands. I know your background, Crawford. You once taught judo in the Marines. I’m not unfamiliar with the art myself.”
Isobel had a hand to her mouth, her eyes were wide. “Boys, don’t …” she began.
Elmer Allen had been leaning on his pilgrim’s staff, as though weary with this whole matter. He said to Ostrander, interestedly, “So you’ve been checked out on judo? Know anything about the use of the quarterstaff?”
Ostrander kept his gun traversing between the four of them. “Eh?” he said.
Elmer Allen shifted his grip on his staff infinitesimally. Of a sudden, the end of the staff, now gripped with both hands near the center, moved at invisibly high speed. There was a crack of the wrist bone, and the gun went flying. The other end of the staff flicked out and rapped the C.I.A. operative smartly on the head.
Fredric Ostrander crumbled to the floor.
* * * *
“Confound it, Elmer,” Crawford said. “What’d you have to go and do that for? I wanted to talk to him some more and send a message back to Zetterberg. Sooner or later we’ve got to make our peace with the Reunited Nations.”
Elmer said embarrassedly, “Sorry, it just happened. I was merely going to knock the gun out of his hand, but then I couldn’t help myself. I was tired of hearing that holier-than-thou voice of his.”
Kenny Ballalou looked down at the fallen man gloomily. “He’ll be out for an hour. You’re lucky you didn’t crack his skull.”
“Holy Mackerel,” Cliff Jackson said. “I’m going to have to learn to operate one of those things.”
Elmer Allen handed him the supposed pilgrim’s staff. “Best hand-to-hand combat weapon ever invented,” he said. “The British yeoman’s quarterstaff. Of course, this is a modernized version. Made of epoxy resin glass-fiber material, treated to look like wood. That stuff can turn a high-velocity bullet, let alone a sword, and it can be bent in a ninety degree arc without the slightest effect, although it’d take a power-driven testing machine to do it.”
“All right, all right,” Homer said. “We haven’t got time for lessons in the use of the quarterstaff. Let’s put some thought to this situation. If Ostrander here was able to find us, somebody else would, too.”
Isobel licked the side of her mouth. “He was probably following me. Remember, I told you Homer?”
Kenny said, “If he had anyone with him, he’d have brought them along to cover him. You’ve got to give him credit for bravery, taking on the whole bunch of us by himself.”
“Um-m-m,” Homer said. “I wish he was with us instead of against us.”
Jake Armstrong said, “Well, this solves one problem.”
They looked at him.
He said, “Just as sure as sure, he’s got a car parked somewhere. A car with some sort of United States or Reunited Nations emblem on it.”
“So what?” Kenny said.
“So you’ve got to get out of town before the search for you really gets under way. With such a car, you can get past any roadblock that might already be up between here and the Yoff airport.”
Elmer Allen had sunk to his knees and was searching the fallen C.I.A. man. He came up with car keys and a wallet.
Homer said to Jake Armstrong, “Why the Yoff airport?”
“Our plane is there,” Jake told him. “The one assigned Isobel, Cliff and me by the AFAA. You’re going to have to make time. Get somewhere out in the ah, boondocks, where you can begin operations.”
Bey said thoughtfully, “He’s right, Homer. Anybody against us, like our friend here”—he nodded at Ostrander—“is going to try to get us quick, before we can get the El Hassan movement under way. We’ve got to get out of Dakar and into some area where they’ll have their work cut out trying to locate us.”
Homer Crawford accepted their council. “O.K., let’s get going. Jake, you’ll stay in Dakar, and at first play innocent. As soon as possible, take plane for Geneva. As soon as you’re there, send out press releases to all the news associations and the larger papers. Announce yourself as Foreign Minister of El Hassan and demand that he be recognized as the legal head of state of all North Africa.”
“Wow,” Cliff Jackson said.
“Then play it by ear,” Homer finished.
He turned to the others. “Bey, where’d you leave our two hover-lorries when you came here to Dakar?”
“Stashed away in the ruins of a former mansion in Timbuktu. Hired two Songhai to watch them.”
“O.K. Cliff, you’re the only one in European dress. Take this wallet of Ostrander’s. You’ll drive the car. If we run into any roadblocks between here and the Yoff airport, slow down a little and hold the wallet out to show your supposed identification. They won’t take the time to check the photo. Bluff your way past, don’t completely stop the car.”
“What happens if they do stop us?” Cliff said worriedly.
Kenny Ballalou said, “That’ll be just too bad for them.”
Bey stooped and scooped up the fallen automatic of Fredric Ostrander and tucked it into the voluminous folds of his native robe. “Here we go again,” he said.
III
The man whose undercover name was Anton, landed at Gibraltar in a BEA roco-jet, passed quickly through customs and immigration with his Commonwealth passport and made his way into town. He checked with a Bobby and found that he had a two-hour wait until the Mons Capa ferry left for Tangier, and spent the time wandering up and down Main Street, staring into the Indian shops with their tax-free cameras from Common Europe, textiles from England, optical equipment from Japan, and cheap souvenirs from everywhere. Gibraltar, the tourist’s shopping paradise.
The trip between Gibraltar and Tangier takes approximately two hours. If you’ve never made it before, you stand on deck and watch Spain recede behind you, and Africa loom closer. This was where Hercules supposedly threw up his Pillars, Gibraltar being the one on the European shore. Those who have made the trip again and again, sit down in the bar and enjoy the tax-free prices. The man named Anton stood on the deck. He was African by birth, but he’d never been to Morocco before.
When he landed, he made the initial error of expecting the local citizenry to speak Arabic. They didn’t. Rif, a Berber tongue, was the first language. The man called Anton had to speak French to make known his needs. He took a Chico cab up from the port to the El Minza hotel, immediately off the Plaza de France, the main square of the European section.
At the hotel entrance were two jet-black doormen attired in a pseudo-Moroccan costume of red fez, voluminous pants and yellow barusha slippers. They made no note of his complexion, there is no color bar in the Islamic world.
He had reservations at the desk. He left his passport there to go through the standard routine, including being checked by the police, had his bag sent up to his room and, a few minutes later, hands nonchalantly in pockets, strolled along the Rue de Liberté toward the casbah area of the medina. Up from the native section of town streamed hordes of costumed Rifs, Arabs, Berbers of a dozen tribes, even an occasional Blue Man. At least half the women still wore the haik and veil, half the men the burnoose. Africa changes slowly, the man called Anton admitted to himself all over again—so slowly.
* * * *
Down from the European section, which could have been a Californian city, filtered every nation of the West, from every section of Common Europe, the Americas, the Soviet Complex. If any city in the world is a melting pot, it is Tangier, where Africa meets Europe and where East meets West.
He passed through the teaming Grand Zocco market, and through the gates of the old city. He took Rue Singhalese, the only street in the medina wide enough to accommodate a vehicle and went almost as far as the Zocco Chico, once considered the most notorious square in the world.
For a moment the man called Anton stood before one of the Indian shops and stared at the window’s contents. Carved ivory statuettes from the Far East, cameras from Japan, ebony figurines, chess sets of water jade, gimcracks from everywhere.
A Hindu stood in the doorway and rubbed his hands in a gesture so stereotyped as to be ludicrous. “Sir, would you like to enter my shop? I have amazing bargains.”
The man they called Anton entered.
He looked about the shop, otherwise empty of customers. Vaguely, he wondered if the other ever sold anything, and, if so, to whom.
He said, “I was looking for an ivory elephant, from the East.”
The Indian’s eyebrows rose. “A white elephant?”
“A red elephant,” the man called Anton said.
“In here,” the Hindu said evenly, and led the way to the rear.
The rooms beyond were comfortable but not ostentatious. They passed through a livingroom-study to an office beyond. The door was open and the Indian merely gestured in the way of introduction, and then left.
Kirill Menzhinsky, agent superior of the Chrezvychainaya Komissiya for North Africa, looked up from his desk, smiled his pleasure, came to his feet and held out his hand.
“Anton!” he said. “I’ve been expecting you.”
The man they called Anton smiled honestly and shook. “Kirill,” he said. “It’s been a long time.”
The other motioned to a comfortable armchair, resumed his own seat. “It’s been a long time all right—almost five years. As I recall, I was slung over your shoulder, and you were wading through those confounded swamps. The …”
“The Everglades.”
“Yes.” The heavy-set Russian espionage chief chuckled. “You are much stronger than you look, Anton. As I recall, I ordered you to abandon me.”
The wiry Negro grunted deprecation. “You were delirious from your wound.”
The Russian came to his feet, turned his back and went to a small improvised bar. He said, his voice low, “No, Anton, I wasn’t delirious. Perhaps a bit afraid, but then the baying of dogs is disconcerting.”
The man they called Anton said, “It is all over now.”
The Russian returned and said, “A drink, Anton? As I recall you were never the man to refuse a drink. Scotch, bourbon, vodka?”
The other shrugged. “I believe in drinking the local product. What is the beverage of Tangier?”
Kirill Menzhinsky took up a full bottle the contents of which had a greenish, somewhat oily tinge. “Absinthe,” he said. “Guaranteed to turn your brains to mush if you take it long enough. What was the name of that French painter…?”
“Toulouse Lautrec,” Anton supplied. “I thought the stuff was illegal these days.” He watched the other add water to the potent liqueur.
The Russian chuckled. “Nothing is illegal in Tangier, my dear Anton, except the Party.” He laughed at his own joke and handed the other his glass. He poured himself a jolt of vodka and returned to his chair. “To the world revolution, Anton.”
The Negro saluted with his drink. “The revolution!”
They drank.
The Russian put down his glass and sighed. “I wish we were some place in our own lands, Anton. Dinner, many drinks, perhaps some girls, eh?”
Anton shrugged. “Another time, Kirill.”
“Yes. As it is, we should not be seen together. Nor, for that matter should you even return here. The imperialists are not stupid. Very possibly, American and Common Europe espionage agents know of this headquarters. Not to speak of the Arab Union. I shall try to give you the whole story and your assignment in this next half hour. Then you should depart immediately.”
* * * *
The man they called Anton sipped his drink and relaxed in his chair. He looked at his superior without comment.
The Russian took another jolt of his water-clear drink. “Have you ever heard of El Hassan?”
The Negro thought a moment before saying, “Vaguely. Evidently an Arab, or possibly a Tuareg. North African nationalist. No, that wouldn’t be the word, since he is international. At any rate, he seems to be drawing a following in the Sahara and as far south as the Sudan. Backs modernization and wants unity of all North Africa. Is he connected with the Party?”
The espionage chief was shaking his head. “That is the answer I expected you to give, and is approximately what anyone else would have said. Actually, there is no such person as El Hassan.”
Anton frowned. “I’m afraid you’re wrong there, Kirill. I’ve heard about him in half a dozen places. Very mysterious figure. Nobody seems to have seen him, but word of his program is passed around from Ethiopia to Mauretania.”
The Russian was shaking his head negatively. “That I know. It’s a rather strange story and one rather hard to believe if it wasn’t for the fact that one of my operatives was in on the, ah, manufacturing of this Saharan leader.”
“Manufacturing?”
“I’ll give you the details later. Were you acquainted with Abraham Baker, the American comrade?”
“Were? I am acquainted with him. Abe is a friend as well as a comrade.”
The Russian shook his head again. “Baker is dead, Anton. As you possibly know, his assignment for the past few years has been with a Reunited Nations African Development Project team, working in the Sahara region. We planted him there expecting the time to arrive when his services would be of considerable value. He worked with a five-man team headed by a Dr. Homer Crawford and largely the team’s task was to eliminate bottlenecks that developed as the various modernization projects spread over the desert.”
“But what’s this got to do with manufacturing El Hassan?”
“I’m coming to that. Crawford’s team, including Comrade Baker, usually disguised themselves as Enaden smiths. As such, their opinions carried little weight so in order to spread Reunited Nations propaganda, they hit upon the idea of imputing everything they said to this great hero of the desert, El Hassan.”
The Mack Reynolds Megapack Page 75
