Menzhinsky laughed gruffly. “Wait until your girl friend back in Moscow sees you!”
Sverdlov laughed too. “It’s reversible,” he said. “The change in pigmentation, at least. Are there any new instructions, beyond those I received from the Minister? That is, I am to find El Hassan, join him as Anton did, try to rise in his organization, do all that I can in his attempt to come to power and to amalgamate and forward the progress of North Africa until it is advanced sufficiently to be fruitful ground for Party activity.”
The other shook his head. “That’s about it. It’s an assignment, Comrade, that could take the better part of the rest of your life—if you are successful.”
The KGB agent nodded wearily to that. “So it would seem. Do you know where El Hassan was last heard from?”
“Tamanrasset, right in the middle of the Ahaggar, the most desolate area of the Sahara. There is just one thing.”
The colonel looked at him.
Kirill Menzhinsky said slowly, thoughtfully, “As I told you, one of his closest aides has been captured by Abd-el-Kader, who is the chief of the Ouled Touameur clan of the Chaambra nomads. He is also of Shorfu blood, a direct descendent of Mohammed, through his daughter Fatima. Our information is that he has called for ajedah, a holy war, against El Hassan. Since he holds, or has already killed, Elmer Allen, he has put El Hassan in a double spot. If Homer Crawford doesn’t react, he’s going to lose a great deal of face among the desert men. It’s possible that, even now, he’s heading for Chaambra country.”
“I see.” Sverdlov thought about it. “Where can I get detailed information about the Chaambra, the areas they control, what towns, where they rendezvous, that sort of thing?”
His superior said, “The Soviet Complex Embassy has an extensive library. It is open to the public. You need not even reveal your true identity, which might be best, since your assignment is most hush-hush. It would never do that it get out that the Soviet Complex is aiding El Hassan even against such socialist countries as Algeria.”
X
PAUL KOSLOFF
Paul Kosloff took the supersonic to London and from there a jet to Gibraltar and from there a ferry plane to Tangier. The faint scars from the plastic surgery he had gone through were all healed. He had spent the time that took poring over material on North Africa and what little material they had on El Hassan in the State Department files.
He hadn’t liked what he found about El Hassan. The man was obviously an anti-Marxist and had no intention of being swayed by the Soviet Complex. Kosloff had spent his life fighting Marxism and was now being sent out against another who felt the same way he did.
His was a one-man expedition. So hush-hush was it that only the commissioner who had given him his instructions knew that Kosloff was on his way to forestall El Hassan. It was absolutely imperative that the world never learn that the United States was involved in frustrating a revolution against Marxist regimes. No, he didn’t like it but Paul Kosloff was a dedicated member of the Western team and it wasn’t up to him to formulate policy. He fully realized that on occasion the freest of governments must resort to devious ways, to compromise, to outright Machiavellianism, if it wished to survive. He didn’t like it, but Paul Kosloff wasn’t starry-eyed.
There wasn’t a great deal of traffic between Gibraltar and Tangier. There were only two other passengers, both of them, by their looks, North Africans.
At the Tangier airport, he followed the other two to the administration buildings. He’d never been in this city before, and they seemingly knew their way around. They entered through a metal detection booth. Paul Kosloff wasn’t worried. The only metal he carried was a wristwatch, a small pocketknife and some coins. They passed him through and he went on to the customs counters.
His bags were already there and the raggedly uniformed officials were going through them with minute care. They found nothing that mattered. Paul Kosloff wasn’t silly enough to pass over a border carrying anything suspicious.
Next was the immigration desk and the unshaven official there looked at the passport Paul Kosloff presented, then up into the other’s face.
“Why do you come to Morocco, Mr. Smithson?”
Paul Kosloff, alias Kenneth Smithson, said easily, “Vacation. I’m an amateur historian and I want to check out the theory that the Phoenicians first settled Tangier. I’ll do other sightseeing too, but that’s my big interest.”
The other grunted, stared at him some more, but then took up a rubber stamp and stamped the document and handed it over. “Welcome to the Kingdom of Morocco,” he said.
There were a couple of battered-looking Chico hovercabs in front of the airport. With a ragamuffin carrying his bags, Kosloff approached one. He had his luggage put in the back and sat up next to the driver.
He said, in French, “Take me to the Hotel Kebruk.”
The driver said, “Oui,” dropped the lift lever of the hovercab and they took off.
He had been in North African and Near Eastern towns before and thus was neither surprised nor impressed by the appearance of Tangier. If anything, the city was getting a bit shabbier than usual. Some decades past it had been in the hands of France and what semimodern architecture existed obviously went back to that time. Most of this seemed concentrated in the town’s center, along with governmental office buildings.
But first they had entered through a native district where vehicular traffic was at a minimum; pedestrian, swarming. The sidewalks were jammed and the crowds overflowing into the streets. Some rode or led burdened donkeys and he even spotted two or three camels in the souk area on the outskirts. He reminded himself not to bother going into the souk. He had seen North African markets before and they stank.
All in all, Paul Kosloff decided, a pretty crumby-looking bunch. Even the commies, in the Soviet Complex, were far in advance of this feudalistic, absolute monarchy. How could the advent of an El Hassan make it any the worse?
Eventually, they pulled up before a large hotel that had obviously once been luxurious. It was on the weather-beaten side now. There was a large black in front in what was probably meant to be the costume of the sultan’s guard, or some such. He had a monstrous but phony-looking scimitar in his sash.
There didn’t seem to be any bellhops so Paul Kosloff got out of the cab and brought his bags from the rear. He took the luggage and approached the door. The black opened it for him but didn’t make any motions toward the bags. Who in the hell had decided on this hotel for him? Evidently, somebody who had thought he’d be less conspicuous in such surroundings.
Paul Kosloff approached the reception desk and asked for a small suite. His cover was that he was an American businessman on vacation. He would be expected to be in funds.
His suite, he found, was as run-down as the Hotel Kebruk’s lobby. However, there was hot water and he took his time cleaning up and then brought from one of his bags a tourist guide. The guide went back to the days before the Sultan’s return and to the regime of the International Zone but he assumed that the map it contained was still valid, though possibly they had changed some of the street names, He looked up the boulevard the hotel was on, then traced with his finger to another location.
Well, there was no use putting it off. He slipped the guide into his pocket, reached down into the bag again to emerge with an impressive looking, king-size camera. He hung it around his neck, tourist fashion, and headed for the door.
The boulevard outside was named Pasteur, and this obviously was the best part of town, if any part of present day Tangier would be thought of as best. The pedestrians were largely Europeans. Paul Kosloff stuck his hands in his pockets and sauntered along, once again, tourist fashion. He peered into shop windows, took occasional snapshots. He was obviously in no hurry whatsoever, and obviously had no particular destination.