A fat Hindu materialized in the doorway, smiled greasily and made motions of washing his hands in a gesture so stereotyped as to be ludicrous. He said in English, “Sir, would you like to enter my shop? I have amazing bargains.” And he repeated the same in French.
Serge Sverdlov assumed that the shop owner could repeat the message in Arabic, Spanish and a dozen other languages, but before the other could do so, seemed to come to a decision and entered. The seemingly innocent invitation had been the first of a routine of passwords.
The Russian looked about the overstocked shop and was satisfied to find it empty of customers. He said to the Indian in French, “I was looking for an ivory elephant from the East.”
The other’s round face went empty but he said, “A white elephant, sir?”
“A red elephant,” the colonel told him.
The Hindu’s face was still bland, but he bowed slightly and said, “In here,” and led the way to the rear where he brushed aside a curtain. Behind it was a heavy door which he opened. The rooms beyond were more spacious than the shop front had been and more comfortable. They passed through a livingroom cum study to an office beyond. The door was fully open and the Indian merely gestured for the colonel to enter, and then left.
Kirill Menzhinsky, agent superior of the KGB for North Africa, looked up from his desk, smiled a greeting and came to his feet and held out his hand to be shaken. The two were passingly acquainted.
“Colonel Sverdlov,” he said. “I have been expecting you.”
Serge Sverdlov nodded acceptance of that. Obviously, the minister would have called ahead on the scrambled tightbeam. The other motioned to a chair before the desk and the colonel took it and crossed his legs. “It’s been quite a time, Comrade Menzhinsky,” he said.
His superior smiled at him. “Yes. I believe the last time was in Moscow when Number One himself decorated you with the Hero’s Award.”
Sverdlov said nothing to that. The other Russian came to his feet and went over to a small bar in a corner.
He looked over his shoulder and said, “A drink, Comrade? As I recall, you were never one to refuse a drink. In Tangier, one can get anything, even the best of vodka.”
“Vodka would be excellent. I suspect that it is the last opportunity I will have to enjoy it for a time.”
The other chuckled as he poured. “Or anything else, for that matter. In the Sahara, one, especially if he is passing as a Moslem, does not drink. The Prophet forbids.” He brought the glasses back. “But then, of course, you know all this, since your record shows you spent considerable time in Algeria during the troubles there.” He made a humorous mouth. “In fact, I understand you caused quite a few of the troubles.” He handed one of the glasses to the colonel.
The KGB official took his chair behind the desk and held up his glass. “To the world revolution, Comrade.”
Sverdlov gave the standard response. “The revolution.”
They knocked back the high proof spirits.
Kirill Menzhinsky put down his glass and said, “And now, I suppose that Comrade Blagonravov has briefed you on this El Hassan and his immediate clique.”
The colonel nodded and said, “Brief, is the only word. Precious little seems to be known about the man, other than that he is an American, which is astonishing.”
The other nodded in his turn and picked up a paper, saying, “Slowly, we are accumulating more information on our mysterious Dr. Homer Crawford. I shall give you the same information I did Comrade Anton before we sent him in.” He read, “Homer Crawford, born in Detroit of working-class parents. In his late teens, interrupted his education to come to Africa and join local revolutionists in Morocco and Algeria. Evidently was wounded and invalided back to the States where he resumed his schooling. When he came of military age he joined the Marine Corps. Following one hitch, as they call it, he resumed his education again, finally taking a doctor’s degree in sociology. He taught for a time until the Reunited Nations began its African program. He accepted a position and soon distinguished himself.”
He took up another paper and went on. “According to both Comrades Baker and Anton, who preceded you and are now dead, Crawford is an outstanding personality, dominating others. Comrade Baker, in particular, reported a somewhat mystical quality in him. An ability in times of emotional crisis to break down men’s mental barriers against him.” He twisted his mouth ruefully at the other’s surprise at his words. “Evidently, throughout history there have been similar examples. Our own Lenin was one, Ghandi of India was another. So have been various religious leaders in the past.”
“And his closest followers?” Sverdlov said, avoiding the unscientific connotations of what his superior had said.
Menzhinsky took up another paper. “Elmer Allen. Born of small farmer background on the Caribbean island of Jamaica. Managed to work his way through the University of Kingston where he took a master’s degree in sociology. At one time he was thought to be Party material and was active in pacifist groups and so forth. However, he was never induced to join the Party. Upon graduation, he immediately took employment with the Reunited Nations and was assigned to Crawford’s team. He was evidently in full accord with Crawford’s aims as El Hassan.”
“Was?” Sverdlov frowned.
“We have received word that he has been captured by elements of the Chaambra in northwest Algeria who are largely opposed to El Hassan.” The KGB offical shrugged. “Possibly he is still alive, though I doubt it.”
The espionage head took up another sheet. “Bey-ag-Akhamouk, the only real African close to El Hassan. Born a Tuareg, he was taken to America as a child and educated there and took his degree in political science. We have no record of where he stands politically but Comrade Baker and Anton rated him an outstanding intuitive soldier. A veritable genius in combat. It would seem he’s had military experience somewhere, but we have no record of it.”
“Intuitive soldier?” the colonel said, and his tone indicated—more mysticism?
Menzhinsky chuckled sourly and said, “Do not forget such men as Trotsky, Mao, Tito, Castro, none of whom had much, if any, military training, except Tito who was a sergeant in the First World War.”
He sorted out still another sheet. “Kenneth Ballalou, born in northern Louisiana, educated in Chicago. Another young man but evidently as capable and devoted to Crawford as the others. So far as we know, he holds no political stand whatsoever.”
He went over to the bar and brought back the bottle of vodka and poured them both another drink. When it was down, he went on. “Which brings us to Isobel Cunningham. Born in New York or New Jersey, master’s degree in journalism. Comrade Baker recruited her into the Party while he too was a student. On graduation, she went to work with the Africa for Africans Association with two colleagues, Jacob Armstrong and Clifford Jackson. All three became early followers of El Hassan. Indeed, the more elderly Jacob Armstrong is now supposedly El Hassan’s Minister of State and Ambassador to the Reunited Nations in New York. Clifford Jackson we have little information on, beyond the fact that he is an American black and probably from California.” Menzhinsky looked up. “There you have it.”
Serge Sverdlov ran his right hand down over his cheek, thinking about it.
His superior said, “I see that you are disguised as a Negro. How will you maintain the dyeing in the desert?”
The colonel grunted deprecation. “It’s not a dye matter. The pigmentation of my skin has been altered. I’ve also been circumcised. They’re thorough in Moscow.”