Frank came alive to find, groggily, that he was sitting on the sidewalk, supported by an anxious Nat Fraser, who was hunkered down on one knee.
Frank got out, "Mugged. Two of them, I think."
"Barstids," the Australian growled. "Damned buggering ragheads. A bloke's not safe to walk up the street. Come on, cobber. We best get you to a sawbones. Never know, might have some broken ribs. They give you the bloody boot?" He got a long, sinewy arm around the fallen American's body and up under his armpits.
"I… I think so," Frank got out, trying to help himself erect.
"My car's over here. Just luck I came along. Don't usually use this street, Rue d'Angleterre, but I was heading up to Panikkar's place on Cape Spartel."
Frank half staggered, was half manhandled by his rescuer, to the small sports model hovercar which was parked, door open, at the curb.
As he was wedged into the bucket seat he got out, "I…1 can't afford a doctor."
"Don't be a bloody fool, cobber. Let me worry about that."
The Aussie slammed the door shut and went around the front of the vehicle to the driver's side and got in, not by opening the door, but by winging a long leg over the side, slipping down into place. He said, as they took off up the wandering street, "It's bonzer I did a bunk from Paul's right after you left, cobber. A bit of luck, eh?"
"In English?" Frank said. The rash of the cool night air was bringing him around.
The Australian laughed and pushed his bush hat down more firmly on his head. "We'll be there in no time flat, cobber, and then the fur'll fly. Did you see them?"
"No, not well. Couple of Moroccans, I think. Native clothes." Frank hadn't the vaguest idea what the other was talking about. What fur would fly?
The streets weren't well lighted but they seemed to have left the medina completely and were now in the European part of town. The road climbed.
"Up here's the Marshand," Nat called over to him. "The more money a bloke's got in this bloody town, the higher up on the mountain he lives."
Frank felt the back of his head gingerly. He had no doubts he'd have a beautiful knot there in the morning. He felt his ribs. Nothing seemed broken, but you never knew. He understood you could go around with a broken rib for weeks and sometimes not know it. He searched for a handkerchief and came up with one, about the only thing that his assailants hadn't taken. He coughed and spat into it. There was no blood.
They emerged from the town proper. The houses were more widely spaced and reminiscent of the Spanish Colonial architecture of Southern California and the older towns of Mexico. Most of the villas were surrounded by pine and gum trees and now the road ran along a cliff with incomparable views of the sea and the Spanish coast beyond.
Frank said, "Where'd you say we were going?" He was feeling better by the minute.
"My boss's digs. He'll have a sawbones there." Shortly afterward, Nat said, "Cape Spartel. Farthest west a bloke can get in Africa."
Frank blinked at the group of buildings they were approaching, by far the most extensive estate they had passed. They were surrounded by a wall of dressed fieldstone, possibly six feet high. Wrought-iron uprights were planted at the top, and the spaces between were entwined with vicious barbed wire.
They came to a halt outside a small fortress of a gatehouse, also of fieldstone. Frank noticed that they had passed over a trigger plate in the road.
A guard came out. He was wearing a beret, what looked like a paratrooper's combat uniform, and heavy leather boots. He carried a small submachine gun which he handled with the ease of a professional. A bright light came on from the guardhouse and zeroed in on their faces. There was a series of audible clicks and Frank got the feeling that a TV lens was on them. Okay, it was their needle, they could thread it as they liked.
Nat Fraser said, "What—o, Hercule?" The guard nodded at him but said nothing. The light went out, and in a moment the clicking sounds came again. The automated steel gate swung open and the little vehicle slithered through. The winding road that lay beyond must have been a full quarter of a kilometer in length.
They pulled up before an ornate entry and a young man dressed like the gate guard, but bearing no visible weapon, issued forth.
He approached, smiled at the Australian, and said, "Willkom-men, Herr Fraser." He looked at Frank questioningly.
Nat said, "A new Yank recruit. I vouch for him, Karl. Is the colonel in?"
"He is expecting you, Herr Fraser." Evidently, the Australian had called ahead on his transceiver on the way up. Frank hadn't noticed, but he had been in no shape to be noticing things.
Nat got out of the little hovercar the same way he had entered it—over the side—pushed his bush hat back on his head, and went around to help Frank out.
Karl assisted, seeming to find nothing strange about the appearance of the soiled and battered newcomer.
They got Frank up the four stone steps and to the door. Nat took over completely there.
Karl said, "Colonel Panikkar is in the study, Herr Fraser."
"Too right," the Aussie said, and helped Frank down the short hall that stretched ahead.
There was an identity screen on the heavy carved wooden door. Almost immediately, it clicked and opened. Beyond was the most impressive study Frank Pinell had ever seen. By the looks of it, it was a combination of library study and office. Bookshelves lined the walls, floor to ceiling, filled with leatherbound books of the old style. Tasteful paintings of both East and West were represented on the walls, none of them modern. But there were also steel files and on both of the two desks were the usual office equipment, including a voco-typer on the smaller one. The furniture was heavy and functional, but in excellent taste. Only the battleship gray of the carpeting detracted from the otherwise impressive decor. It gave a military effect.
Behind the larger of the desks, looking up at their entry, was a man of possibly sixty. Square of face, gray of hair and heavy mustache, he was dark complexioned. He wore traditional Indian clothing, including a black, frock-length coat and jodhpurs. He had a dignified military posture.
Nat said, "This is the young Yank I called you about, Colonel. Strike me blind but he's got the luck of the Irish. Been in this buggering town no more than hours but a couple of the flashing ragheads set on him and leave him on the street with a broken block."
Then he became more formal. "Colonel Ram Panikkar, Frank Pinell."
The colonel came around his desk to shake hands, western style. His face was indignant as he took in Frank's dirt-fouled clothing and bruises.
He said to Nat, "Make your man comfortable, Nat. I'll be with you in just a moment."
The Australian got his still-shaky companion into a chair.
The colonel said into a TV screen, "Doctor, could you bring your bag and join us at once in my study?" He then flicked a switch and commanded, "Get me Foud, immediately."
He looked up at Nat. "Where did this take place?"
"On the Rue D'Angleterre, just up from the bloody Grand Socco."
The Indian looked at Frank. "Just what did the hooligans get away with?"
Frank took a deep breath and said, "Most important, about two hundred pseudo-dollars worth of Swiss gold francs and dirhams. Also my Moroccan police papers which I got at the airport, my pocket transceiver, and the usual odds and ends."
A face had appeared on the phone screen—a dark, evil face crowned by an orange turban. Its owner would have had no difficulty whatsoever landing a part as a stereotype fanatic assassin on Stateside Tri-Di.
The colonel said, his voice dangerously crisp, "As-salaam alaykum, Foud."
The other answered, his own voice careful, "Alaykum as-salaam. Ram Panikkar."
The Indian spoke rapidly in what Frank assumed was Arabic. Perhaps the colonel was Pakistani, rather than Indian.