The Best Ye Breed na-3

by Mack Reynolds

  He soaped up with the lukewarm water, carefully applying the lather. He took the blade out of the safety razor and stropped it in the palm of his hand. He couldn’t remember how long he’d used the blade but it was far from sharp.

  He cut himself two or three times, a result of poor blade and shaking hand, washed the remnants of soap from his face and stood back and looked again. The view wasn’t reassuring. He remembered the night, years ago, when he had once spent over a hundred British pounds on vintage champagne—and snorted.

  He didn’t know what time it was. Long since he had pawned his watch. Pawned? Both he and the pawnbroker knew full well that he had sold it. There would be no redeeming.

  He’d have to get down to the dining room and see if he was still in time for breakfast. If he wasn’t, he suspected that it was going to be a hungry day. In an Irish hotel, at this level, one paid for bed-and-breakfast. A far cry from the Continental breakfast of coffee, croissants and marmalade, an Irish breakfast could tide you over for the better part of the day. You got two fried eggs, two or three rashers of bacon, largely fat, little lean, fried tomatoes, fried potatoes, several slices of thick, heavy toast and butter, along with your tea. Yes, if necessary, it would tide you over for the balance of the day. Perhaps you could invest in a couple of sweet rolls and another cup of tea, or even coffee, in the late afternoon, but you could live on the number of calories in an Irish breakfast. In his day, he had gone for a week or more, hell, a month or more, on less.

  But for a moment he regarded himself in the mirror, after he had taken on his jacket and folded his collar out over the jacket top. He had two or three ties but they were so woebegone that he looked worse wearing one than without.

  The jacket had once been excellent, a product of a period when he had money to blow. It was Donegal tweed and tailored to him perfectly—when he had weighed possibly a stone and a half more than he did now. But that was some years ago and now it was the only jacket he owned, so that he wore it daily—including such occasions as when he was in the drunk tank, or sleeping it off in an alleyway. He had patched it at elbow and at cuff with soft leather. And this he had done personally—no tailor for him. Sean Ryan, in his day, in the field, had learned to do his own sewing and did a quite respectable job.

  For a moment, he dreamed. If he could only get a few pounds. If he could only get himself a new outfit, a suit, a snowwhite clean shirt, a decent tie, new boots. Why, then he could go out and look for a reasonable job. After all, he had been to college, he was a gentleman, a retired officer. He had more decorations than he could off-hand remember. He snorted at that one. He even had one decoration that took up an eighth of his chest, if worn. It involved a golden dragon. Had it come from the Nationalist Chinese or from Thailand?

  But then he faced reality. How could he get his hands on a few pounds? Long since, he had borrowed from every friend, every relative, near or far, every remote acquaintance who was generous enough, foolish enough, or, face it, pitying enough, to help him. There was no one else left. But even if there had been, and he could have refitted himself, what credentials could he offer a potential employer?

  What was your last post of employment?

  I was the bodyguard of the Emir Alhaji Mohammadu, Kudo of Kano, Nigeria. Which was a polite way of putting it. He and two other whites, one an Italian, one a Greek, were the hatchetmen of the Emir, used on delicate occasions when the three hundred and some odd pound Emir did not wish to commit his fellow countrymen, though the Emir was far from a delicate man when it came to—ah—subversion.

  And what was your position before that? Sean had to think twice. Yes, probably that romp in—what did they call the country now?—he forgot. Borneo, in the old days. It had been a bloody mess. Not exactly a job to reveal to a prospective employer in Dublin.

  He had held off the moment long enough. He reached for his wallet and examined its contents. There were no contents, insofar as paper money was concerned. He fished into his trouser pockets and came forth with several coins, a few shillings, a few pence. Less than a pound in all. So he had suspected. He couldn’t have gotten as blotto as he had obviously been without blowing all on hand. It came back to him now. He had started buying himself Jameson’s, the best of the Irish whiskeys, so far as he was concerned, instead of sticking to the more plebian Guiness stout. He could afford whiskey about as much as he could champagne.

  Sean Ryan had luck in the dining room. He was the last of the hotel’s guests to appear on the scene and Molly, the sole waitress, who also doubled as a chambermaid, was in the process of cleaning up. But for some reason, Molly had a soft spot for Sean Ryan. She brought him his breakfast.

  Only the fact that he was still hungry from the day before made it possible for him to get it all down, over the rebellion of his hangover. But get it down he did, to the last crust of the heavy Irish bread.

  On the way out, he put the proprietor off with his story of a check coming at the end of the week. Actually, it was the dole, though these days they called it unemployment insurance. Just enough to keep from starving, if managed, but hardly enough for a drinking man.

  The hotel was located within sight of the Guiness brewery, the second largest in the world. The first largest was in England and also a Guiness establishment. Sean Ryan passed it and went up to Usher’s Quay, and turned right, paralleling the River Liffey which wound through Dublin as the Seine did through Paris. He headed in the direction of O’Connell Street and the center of town. He made his way to the Pearl bar on Fleet street and entered. The Pearl bar, which boasted in one back corner possibly the smallest urinal Sean Ryan had ever seen. It had once occured to Ryan that every playwright and poet in over a hundred years of Irish literature had relieved himself in that urinal, from Oscar Wilde to Brendan Behan, by the way of Sean O’Casey, Synge, and all the rest. It was a writer’s bar in the oldest Dublin tradition. No women allowed, of course. There was a tiny room off to one side where a man could leave his wife, if she wasn’t too particular about the drabs she associated with, and she could sit at a table and have half a pint, while he stood at the bar in the saloon proper.

  Sean Ryan went to the bar, immediately in front of the row of old style spigots, climbed shakily up onto a stool and said, “A pint.” The bartender had already begun to draw it before the words were out.

  An Irish pint is a full twenty ounces, almost as much as an American fifth. The Pearl served foreign export, the double charged Guiness stout. The bartender held his hand on the glass until Sean Ryan had put forth his money. He recognized his man.

  With an initial sigh, Ryan got half of the strong brew down before he took his lips away and put the glass down for a moment. He knew that he had to nurse it. Even stout wasn’t as cheap as it once was.

  An unctuous voice beside him said, “Major Ryan?”

  Sean Ryan turned his head slowly. He had never seen the other before. A roly-poly fat man with a greasy-dark complexion and bland face. He wore clothes that were not quite in place, here in Dublin, nor would they have been in England. Nor, in actuality, in Europe, at least not in the Western countries of Common Europe. The black material was good, the tailoring was fair, but the suit wasn’t of the West.

  Sean Ryan said, “All right, one of us knows the name of the other. Shall we go on?”

  The greasy one made a slight bow and said, “Saul Saidi, at your service, sir.”

  Sean Ryan shifted his eyes and considered the accent. The man looked like a Moslem, but wasn’t. Sean could tell a follower of the Prophet, somewhat in the same manner as an Orthodox Catholic can tell an Orthodox Jew, and vice versa. You can’t exactly put your finger on it, but there is something.

  Sean said, “And how is Beirut these days?”

  The fat little man looked at him, blinking, but rose to the occasion. “It is beginning to recover considerably. The tourists are beginning to flood in once more, especially from the Arab countries.”

  So Ryan had guessed right. The other was a Lebanese. Contrary
to popular belief, the Christians in the country immediately north of Israel, are as numerous as the Moslems. Saidi, if that was his real name, was undoubtedly of Christian background, though originally Semitic racially.

  Sean Ryan said, “And what would you be wanting?”

  The other bowed slightly again. “The honor of buying you a drink.”

  Ryan finished his pint of stout in one long swal-low and got down from his stool. “You’ve got a customer, man dear,” he said. “Lead on, MacDuff and damned be he that first calls, hold enough.”

  The Lebanese looked at him blankly but led the way to one of the wooden booths that lined the wall parallel to the long bar.

  They sat across from each other and the fat man summoned the Pearl’s sole waiter, a bit imperiously. The waiter, a semi-clean apron about his waist, rubbed the table a double meaningless lick with a soiled rag, before saying, “Sure and wot’ll it be, bhoys?”

  The Lebanese looked at him reproachfully at the address but turned to his guest.

  Ryan said, “I’ll be having a double Jameson.”

  Saul Saidi said, “A ginger beer. A chilled ginger beer, if you please.”

  While the waiter was away, the Lebanese took in the other across from him. His small, dark eyes were of the type that would miss little. He saw a man of perhaps fifty, who had obviously seen life the hard way. Ryan’s skin, which should have had the lightness of complexion of the Irishman, had a yellowish tinge. Perhaps too much atabrine in his time—or too much quinine? There were two small scars on his face, one on his chin, and fairly deep, one on his forehead, disappearing into an eyebrow. His front teeth were obviously dentures, though the others seemed excellent. His eyes were faded blue, traditionally the killer’s eyes. He even had some pockmarks on his face. Sometimes in the back-areas of the world when they give you a smallpox injection, it can result in your acquiring a slight case of the pox, particularly if the serum is handled in the inadequate manner it often is in the boondocks. It was not a reassuring face, but, then, Saul Saidi had not come here to be reassured.

  When the drinks arrived, Sean Ryan steeled himself to hide the trembling of his hand—the strong stout had helped, already—and knocked back half of the Irish whiskey. The Lebanese sipped a few drops of ginger beer politely.

  “All right,” Ryan said. “You know my name. Why?”

  “I have come a long way to interview you, Major.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question.”

  “I have a job for you.”

  Ryan eyed him for a long moment, before saying cynically, “I’ve retired.”

  “So we understand. However, we thought to induce you to come out of retirement for one last assignment.”

  “Who is we?”

  “I am afraid that I cannot tell you that.”

  “Then, thanks for the drink.” Sean Ryan finished it and began to rise.

  The other held up a hand. “It involves the payment to you of three hundred ounces of gold, payable in Hong Kong.”

  Sean Ryan sank back into his seat and stared at the other. He didn’t know what gold was going for by the ounce in the international banking houses specializing in exchange, these days, but he knew damned well that he had never seen that much money in his life.

  “For doing what?” he said.

  “For leading a commando group on a single operation.”

  “What commando group?”

  “A group of twenty-four mercenaries. It hasn’t been recruited as yet. That will be part of your task.”

  Ryan had finished his whiskey. He snapped his fingers at the waiter and held up one finger to indicate the need for a refill.

  Saul Saidi said, “Major Ryan, what is the highest rank you have ever held in the military?”

  Ryan twisted his mouth wryly and said, “General.”

  The other blinked at him. “And what is the highest rank you have held in an, ah, orthodox army?”

  “Major.”

  “In what army, sir?”

  “British.”

  “You saw action with the British? Where?”

  “Among other places, in North Ireland, as a boy, during the troubles in Belfast—and elsewhere.”

  The fat man nodded. “That coincides with our research.”

  The fresh whiskey came and Ryan knocked a third of it back. He was feeling better by the minute. He said, “What’s this commando assignment?”

  “Briefly, you will recruit two experienced junior officers to be your seconds in command, and one sergeant. Your men will consist of twenty, all of them the most highly experienced mercenaries. If your mission is successful, your officers will receive two hundred ounces of gold apiece, the sergeant one hundred and fifty; each man, one hundred. All deposited to your accounts in Hong Kong, and hence tax free.”

  Sean said, “Beggin’ your pardon, but what happens if the mission is successful but one or more of the boys take a hit?”

  “The gold will be paid over to whatever heirs they designate. If there are no heirs, the sum will be divided amongst the rest of you, evenly.”

  “Suppose the mission isn’t a success?”

  “You will be paid all expenses, from the moment you sign up. Food, clothing, hotels, travel. If you fail in your mission, your expenses will continue until you arrive back at the point at which you were recruited. In your case, here in Dublin. And there will be a small symbolic payment in cash. Say, one hundred pounds.”

  Ryan took back more of the drink. He said, “You still haven’t told me the assignment.”

  The Lebanese nodded. “It is necessary to liquidate a group of possibly ten persons, possibly a few more might be involved. One of these is of particular importance. In fact, our group would be inclined to feel the mission accomplished if but the one most important of this number was, as I say, liquidated. Do you speak Arabic, Major?”

  “No. French is my only language other than English. Oh, I have a few words and phrases of various other languages, including Arabic, but I don’t pretend to speak them.”

  “Then it would be best if some of your commando group know Arabic, and, if at all possible, some of the lingua franca of North Africa.”

  “Such as Swahili?” Ryan said, his eyes narrowed questioningly.

  “No,” the Lebanese told him. “I doubt if you will be operating in mideastern Africa.”

  Ryan finished the second whiskey before saying, “And who are these people you want hit?”

  “El Hassan and his closest adherents, but particularly El Hassan.”

  Sean Ryan ogled him. “El Hassan!”

  “You know of him?”

  “What little there is to know. I read the newspapers. Where’s he currently located?”

  “We’re not sure. The last we know, in Tamanrasset, in the Ahaggar Sahara.”

  “Tamanrasset! A commando operation! Man dear, are you daft? I’ve never operated in that area but it must be a thousand miles south of Tunis. And you’re not even sure that he’s there. A commando action involves coming up on a coast in ships, making a quick raid ashore and then beating your way back before the enemy can organize a defense and counterattack.”

  “We have it all worked out.”

  Ryan laughed at him.

  The fat man who called himself Saidi said patiently, “The better part of a million American dollars is eventually involved, Major. Obviously, we have no intention of throwing it away. We have your cover all arranged, all has been thought out in detail.”

  “What cover?”

  “You go in from Algiers, in Algeria, in a Land Rover hover jeep and two desert lorries. Your story is that you’re looking for El Hassan to volunteer your services.”

  “We’d be white men. He’s attempting to take over all North Africa for the blacks and the other wogs.”

  The Lebanese was smooth in his oily way. “That would be part of your cover. Obviously, a handful of white mercenaries would be an ideal bodyguard for our El Hassan. You couldn’t possibly put over a coup d’état.”r />
  “He’s not stupid, or he wouldn’t have gotten this far. He’d turn us down.”

  “Most likely. But by that time, you’d be in his vicinity and improvise your opportunity to, ah, hit him I believe was the expression you used.”

  “Great. And then how would we be getting away? A thousand miles from the nearest city of any size, and the country swarming with El Hassan’s people.”

  “You will carry a two-way tight beam radio, complete with scrambler. Upon completion of your mission, you will call and an aircraft will swoop in to your rescue. You will have to hole up only for a couple of hours at most.”

  Ryan looked at him skeptically. “Surrounded by a few thousand bloody mad nomads including Tuaghi and the Holy Mother only knows who else?”

  “You will be armed with extraordinary weapons.”

  “Such as what?”

  “Such as long range grenade launchers for your rifles.”

  Ryan laughed bitterly, and signalled for another whiskey. He might as well get as many free drinks as he could out of this before turning the other down cold.

  Saul Saidi said softly, “The grenades they project carry mini-fission charges.”

  This time, Sean Ryan really boggled him. “Mini-fission charges? Do I look daft? Man dear, there is no such thing as a fission charge small enough to be launched in a grenade from a rifle.”

  “You are mistaken, Major. This is the age of miniaturization. For decades, the Yankees, in particular, have had nuclear fission shells small enough to be fired from field cannon. These more recent mini-fission charges are a well-kept secret, and I will not even disclose what country developed them. Each, to use the Americanism, packs a wallop approximately that of a blockbuster bomb of the Second World War.”

  Ryan whistled almost inaudibly between his teeth. Another suspicion came to him. “What if the rescue plane doesn’t show up after we’ve done El Hassan the dirty? It’d be to your advantage to let us rot there. Then you wouldn’t have to pay up.”

  The Lebanese made a gesture with his two hands. “My dear Major, we are not thieves. The pilot and co-pilot of the aircraft will be handpicked by you, yourself. Friends of yours. The plane will be based at In Salah, not too far north, or, if by that time El Hassan’s adherents have overrun that town, to Adrar still further north, but within easy range. It will be to you within an hour or so and take you to a safe refuge where I will meet you and together we’ll go to Hong Kong and complete the transaction. My signature will be necessary before the gold is released to you.”