He led the way, continuing, “There’s this kind of a little clearing up ahead. Homer would be standing to one side, Cliff to the other. As you know, Homer used to teach a karate class for the Marines. Cliff was a heavyweight runner-up in the Golden Gloves. I’d stand to one side and wince at the slaughter. These poor bastards have never fought with their hands in their lives. Most of our time was taken up tearing strips of cloth out of their fancy bloomer pants and tying them up and stashing them to one side. There might be a couple of busted jaws and a broken arm or so, but otherwise they’re mostly okay. Some are still unconscious, of course. What happened down below?”
They had entered the small clearing of which he had spoken. It was sand floored, as though an arena, which in some ways it resembled. Homer and Cliff leaned against the walls, to each side, breathing deeply.
Kenny looked at them in pretended disgust. “A couple of musclebound clods,” He said. “Down below, the crowd is laughing itself silly. First the remainder of his clan and then Abd-el-Kader himself, took off. I wouldn’t swear to it, but I have a sneaking suspicion that even those whirling dervishes out there are now devoted adherents of El Hassan. Why don’t the three of you go out and do kind of a soft shoe dance, and then Cliff can climax the act with bending more rifle barrels. It’ll wow ’em.”
Cliff looked down at his right hand and said, “I hope the hell I didn’t bust a knuckle on that last one. He had a head like a cement block.”
And Homer said, “Well, we couldn’t have kept up the pace much longer. Not in this sun. They didn’t put up much of a fight, but you can’t last forever. Let’s go down and get Elmer out of stir.”
“To hear is to obey, O El Hassan,” Cliff grinned. “My descendants will never believe this. What did you do in the big war against the Chaambra A-rabs, granddaddy… ?”
XV
EL HASSAN
Their first instinct was to get away soonest and back into the desert, not exposing El Hassan to the limelight, maintaining his mystique. But it wasn’t in the cards. For one thing, Elmer Allen was in no condition to travel, not immediately. For another, the convening of the djemaa el kebar of the Chaambra confederation, not to speak of the chiefs present from other tribes, was too good an opportunity for conversion to the El Hassan movement to be missed. They were going to have to strike while the iron was as white hot as at present.
But it wouldn’t do for El Hassan and his viziers to be seen erecting their tents and utilizing their mundane camping equipment as other men would do.
The problem was solved by El Aicha appropriating for them the quarters of the headman of the small mud-brick settlement of the oasis on which the gathering was taking place. Squalid though it might be, windowless and practically without furniture, it was the best the tiny village provided. There was a smell of mildew, airlessness, sickness and dirty clothes. Strips of old carpet hung from the walls. Some filthy rags had been thrown into corners, here and there, obviously to be used as beds. The owner wasn’t overly put out. In fact his Keifhalak, ‘all in my house is yours,’ was effusive. For the rest of his life he could relate that El Hassan himself had once dwelt in his humble home.
They refused the offer of servants and even armed guards, and although El Hassan himself remained aloof, his three viziers busied themselves in hauling into the interior of the hut various items of folding furniture, cooking equipment and supplies.
Elmer Allen had quickly been rescued and a folding, heavy khaki camp-bathtub used several times over to clean him up. He was too shaky to handle a razor himself and Kenny took over in that department. They had also brought clothing his size. Bey assumed the role of doctor and went over him with what skill he possessed. There was little that could be done until they reached a doctor: the root of the severed finger had festered and this was cleaned, sulfa applied and he was given a double shot of antibiotics along with vitamin and mineral shots.
At first he spoke little, though they gathered about him. When he did, there was a stammer, a stutter in his voice.
In the medical footlocker was a bottle of excellent French cognac, which Kenny opened. He poured a couple of ounces into a tin cup and proffered it, but the hand that Elmer extended shook so that Kenny himself held the cup to the other’s sun blistered lips.
Cliff had been working over the camp stove and now brought over a heavy ceramic mug of steaming broth.
Elmer took several mouthfuls but then snarled, “Fer… fer… crissakes, give a… a chap something to sink… sink his teeth into. I’ve been… been eating camel dung, or what… whatever it was, for donkey’s years.”
The others laughed and Cliff went back to his stove.
Elmer looked over at one of the army cots which had been set up and got out, “I say. I… haven’t really slept since they… they put me in that portable med… medieval torture chamber.”
Cliff said, “Get this stew down and we’ll tuck you into beddy-by.”
Elmer snarled at him and then looked accusingly at Homer Crawford. He said, “What… what in the hell took you so long to clobber those blokes?”
Homer said, humorously placating, “There were twenty-one of them altogether and we didn’t want to hurt our fists.”
Later, when Elmer was snoring in complete exhaustion on the army cot tucked away in one corner of the not overly large hut, Homer, Bey, Kenny and Cliff sat around the folding camp table, finishing their own meal.
Kenny said, “What now?”
And Homer said slowly, poking at his stew with his fork, “We’ll address the djemaa de kebar tomorrow. Present a program for their spreading the word of El Hassan in this area, then make with a quick inspirational, slogan-shouting, address to the assembled multitude, and take off south.”
Bey made a motion of his head toward Elmer. “How about him?”
“We’ll rig up a bed in the back of the lorry. If it looks too tough for him, we’ll camp out in the boondocks somewhere until he’s more nearly recovered.”
Cliff said, “Why not take Elmer to Colum-Béchar and get him into a hospital? One of us could stay to watch over him and the rest could go on.”
Homer thought about it but shook his head. “No. Double reason. Colum-Béchar isn’t in our hands yet. There might be elements that would shoot their way into the hospital and finish you both off—not necessarily local people. The whole damn Reunited Nations has taken a preliminary stand against us, not to speak of the Arab Union. And not to speak of any remnant followers of our chum the mahdi—if any. Besides, it wouldn’t do for word to go out that one of El Hassan’s viziers was in hospital. El Hassan’s viziers are too tough to ever have to go to a hospital.”
Bey looked over at the door, which consisted of a soiled piece of homespun hanging like a curtain. He said, “We’d better take turns as guards tonight. It seems a remote chance, under the prevailing circumstances, but it’s possible that Abd-el-Kader, or some of his lads, might come a-calling. I’ll stand first watch for three hours.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” Homer said. “I’ll stand second watch.”
Bey shook his head. “Nope, not you. No one should see you doing guard duty. You’re El Hassan. I’ll wake Cliff in three hours.”
Cliff said, “Dammit, when we started this outfit why didn’t we pick me as El Hassan, instead of Homer? Hell, I’m bigger than he is.”
Bey snorted and picked up his Tommy-Noiseless and turned toward the door.
Kenny swatted at his arm and snarled, “A mosquito. How in the devil do mosquitos get onto these oases, five hundred miles into the desert?”
Cliff said, “They carry canteens.” He looked about the hut. “This is going to be some night. Sandflies, ticks, fleas, scorpions…”
“Scorpions!” Kenny protested. “I’m allergic to scorpions. Even the little ones make me break out in hives.”
“Well, start breaking then,” Cliff said sourly. “Didn’t you see those Saharan chickens running around the settlement? They keep them to scratch up and eat the sand scor
pions. Otherwise these damn oases would be unliveable.”
“You mean they’re liveable now?” Kenny growled. “Hell, I’d rather live in Hoboken.”
Homer, Cliff and Kenny were just beginning to slip from their shoes, preparatory to knocking off, when Bey stuck his head through the door’s curtain and said, ironically, “Visitor.” He added in a lower voice, “He speaks Esperanto, the legal language of El Hassan’s domains.” He stuck a hand through the curtain and tossed a pistol onto the camp table. It had an oversized clip.
Homer looked down at it. “A Tokarev. Polish model,” he said. He looked up at Bey. “Wait a minute, then show him in. This is interesting.”
Homer, Cliff and Kenny shuffled back into their shoes and sat behind the camp table, Homer in the middle.
Bey held the curtain aside and a stranger entered. The three took him in.
The newcomer wore the Libyan tarboosh on his head and the white toga-like barracan, of that country, the ends of which were thrown over the left shoulder, toga-style.
He made the standard Arabic obeisance and said, in halting Esperanto, “I am Hassan el Akhdar of Tripoli and seek audience and to offer my services to El Hassan.”
The three looked at him for a long moment.
Finally, Kenny, to Homer’s left, said, also in Esperanto, “If it would suit you, make you more at your ease, you may address El Hassan in Russian.”
The other couldn’t help stare at him. “Russian!”
Kenny sighed and said, “You say you are from Tripoli but you wear the barracan prevalent in the Wadi Rumia of the Gebel country of the Fezzan. On top of which, you speak Esperanto, although admittedly, haltingly, as though you have been given a crash course. There are no scholars in the Gebel. In fact, I doubt if there’s anybody who can read in the Gebel. As one who has in his time studied anthropology, I would say that in spite of your complexion, which resembles that of an Ethiopian Hamitic tribesman, your skull shape leads me to suggest that you are either of Russian or Finnish ancestry. I can think of no reasons why the Finns would be interested in El Hassan.”
Colonel Serge Sverdlov took a deep breath, even as he inwardly cursed the inefficiency of the KGB department in charge of his cover. They should have come up with something else, obviously knowing practically nothing about the interior of North Africa.
However, his expression didn’t change. He said, in Russian, “Then El Hassan speaks Russian? I am admittedly surprised.”
Cliff Jackson said, offhand. “El Hassan speaks every language on Earth—of course.”
The colonel stared at him. Was the man a clown, to expect him to believe that?
But it was then that Homer Crawford spoke up for the first time. He said mildly, in Russian, “I note that you have the Leningrad accent. Please forgive me if I am hesitant in your idiom which is quite picturesque.”
Indeed, Homer Crawford was quite a linguist; aside from an imposing selection of Sahara tongues, including various lingua franca such as Swahili, Wolof of Senegal and Songhoi of the Niger bend, he also had excellent French and Spanish and a smattering of German. But, as a coincidence in this meeting, Russian—as Cliff knew—had especially intrigued him in college and he had taken four years of it. One of his favorite instructors had been from Leningrad.
The other was obviously taken aback.
Homer said politely, “Please draw up the other camp chair, there, and tell us that which you desire. We have had various other representatives from the Soviet Complex attend on us, but, admittedly, none so interestingly attired and disguised.”
Still cursing inwardly, Serge Sverdlov drew up the indicated folding chair. He’d probably be roasted for this fiasco, back in Moscow, but what had the fools expected, from Minister Kliment Blagonravov right on down? And especially Menzhinsky, in Tangier, who was supposedly an expert on North Africa. Though, admittedly, how in the name of Lenin could he be expected to know how they dressed in the Wadi Rumia of the Gebel country of the Fezzan, such information as was seemingly held in detail by El Hassan’s immediate group?
His cover was obviously already blown to the skies. All he could do was improvise.
He looked at Cliff and Kenny, “Am I to assume that these gentlemen are Clifford Jackson and Kenneth Ballalou, and that your guard is the Tuareg-American Bey-ag-Akhamouk?”
Homer eyed him for a moment, then nodded. “You may.”
“Then I suggest that we speak English, since I assume that all here are not as conversant with Russian as you prove yourself to be.”
“Very well,” Homer said in English. “And now, to the point. What is it that you desire of El Hassan?”
Sverdlov said, “To serve him. To join his followers and do all in my power, and I have considerable resources at my command, to further his aims.”
Homer eyed him for another long unspeaking moment, and finally said, “Our aims are not only the assimilation of such presently reactionarily ruled lands as Morocco with its feudalistic, absolute monarchy, but also the Marxist Algeria and Libya, among others.”
The Russian nodded. “We know. And also the assimilation of the dozen and one military dictatorships thoughout North and Central Africa.”
Kenny said evenly, “You don’t deny that you are from the KGB?”
“No. I have been sent from Moscow to forward the program of El Hassan. We are interested in progress, particularly industrial progress, throughout the world. We feel that El Hassan will accomplish this more quickly than the pseudo-socialistic regimes in such countries as Algeria.”
Homer nodded wearily, “Your late colleagues, Abe Baker and Anton, put over the same general idea. But your eventual goal, your long view, involves, of course, your attempting to direct Ifriqiyah, as we call it, to the Communist camp.”
Serge Sverdlov hesitated before meeting that full on, but he realized that this was no time, nor these the men, for ambiguity. He nodded agreement. “But that is far in the future and the future will take care of itself. Meanwhile, we support the program of El Hassan.”
Cliff snorted.
But Homer said, “Just what form could this offered support take?”
The Russian bent forward. “We could supply you with the most modern arms, arms that would enable you to overrun such nations as Morocco, Algeria, Libya, Tunisia, Senegal, at will. We could come to your assistance with our intelligence services, disclosing to you the attempts being planned by your enemies.”
Homer Crawford said, “We don’t need arms.”
The colonel’s eyes narrowed. “You expect to get them from the Americans, then?”
“Nor from them, either. If we are to succeed it will be because the people themselves arise and overthrow their corrupt and inefficient present governments, not because El Hassan shoots his way to power. This so-called arms aid of the great powers is one of the greatest blots of modern history. In the name of aid, the great powers subvert and impoverish half the undeveloped nations of the world. As far back as the nineteen-seventies, the United States was selling twenty billions of dollars a year in armaments to such countries as Israel and the Arab nations who opposed her, to India and Pakistan, to Turkey and Greece. When these nations fought, both sides were armed by America. She sold billions and billions in weapons to impoverished South America, where there hadn’t been a real war in a century and where there was little chance of one developing. The arms there could only be meant for internal difficulties, in short, for the ruling class to keep down the people. El Hassan does not have to defend himself against his people.” He snorted and added, “Nor were you Soviets far behind. You too sold to anyone who would buy.”
Homer grunted contempt. “There are various facets to this so-called arms aid. Suppose we accepted from you a hundred of your most modern tanks, supposedly given free. What would happen when we ran out of the ammunition they utilized, and when we needed spare parts? Where else could we turn but to you, since such spare parts and ammunition are manufactured only in the Soviet Complex? We would be at your mercy when
our new mechanized army began to deteriorate.”
He shook his head. “No thank you. And so far as your intelligence is concerned, you see how incompetent you have proven in Ifriqiyah. You Europeans and Americans stand out like sore thumbs in the Sahara. I assume you are a trained KGB agent, but the moment you stepped through that door, in spite of your disguise, we knew that you were no African.”
He shook his head again. “No, we do not welcome your assistance, sir.”
Colonel Serge Sverdlov came to his feet, knowing defeat. “Very well,” he said. “However, we shall continue to assist in your program to the point we can, in spite of your rejection.”
Cliff picked up the other’s pistol, drew the clip and emptied it of its cartridges, then with the heel of his right hand rammed it back into the butt. He handed the gun back to the Russian. “Nice knowing you,” he said.
The colonel took the gun and turned and left the tent.
Paul Kosloff and Nafi-ben-Mohammed had pulled into the small oasis settlement an hour or so before sunset and after most of the excitement had died down. They had avoided the pavilion and the multitude of natives about it and had gone into the small village proper. Kosloff was reminded somewhat of the adobe pueblos of the American southwest. There were swarms of children, swarms of flies, a sufficiency of mangy dogs too listless to bark even at strangers, and filth in plenitude.
Leaving Kosloff in the car, in a narrow, dirty alley, Nafi had gone off to discover the whereabouts of El Hassan, always assuming he was in the vicinity, and the rumors that he was had become thicker as they approached the site of the djemaa el kebar.
By the time he returned, darkness was descending as it can descend only in such areas of the world as the Sahara. One moment, it is bright daylight, a few minutes later, completely dark, save for the moon and stars.
The Moroccan boy started up the car again and drove to the other end of the settlement and parked, once more, in as isolated a spot as he could find.
The Best Ye Breed na-3 Page 16
