He could hardly know it but he was duplicating the motions of Serge Sverdlov, not long before.
He took a full hour to assure himself that he wasn’t being followed. He hadn’t expected to be, but you never knew in one of these off-beat dictatorial countries.
He drifted down a narrow street that seemed largely devoted to small shops of a type tourists would frequent looking for souvenirs in North Africa, or bargains in the various products manufactured in the Soviet Complex that were sometimes cheaper in the West, including art objects from China.
He entered one establishment, somewhat larger than most of the others and stared at the display of camel saddles, leather dolls, copperwear and babouche slippers. There was one other customer present and the proprietor was showing her about. She didn’t seem to be any more avid than Paul Kosloff to actually buy something. Finally, she left.
Paul went over to the shop owner and said, “Battista?”
The other was seemingly a late middle-aged Arab, on the fat side, djellabah clad and sporting a bedraggled, gray streaked beard.
He frowned and said, “My name is Mohammed-ben-Abdallah.”
“Your name is Joseph Battista and you’re an American Italian. I was instructed to contact you. I’m Paul Kosloff.”
“Of course. The commissioner informed me you were on your way on tight-beam. Shall we go into the back room?” He turned his head and called out something in Arabic.
A young man of possibly twenty-five entered from a back door. He looked at Paul Kosloff questioningly. The older man spoke to him again in Arabic and he answered and went over and stood in the doorway to the street, as though awaiting customers.
Paul Kosloff followed Joseph Battista into a back room. As soon as the door was closed behind them, he made a motion with his head. “Who’s that?”
“Supposedly my son, actually another of our men.”
There was a very low Arabic-type table in the small room’s center, with hassocks about it. The two men seated themselves.
Paul Kosloff said, “How good is your cover here?”
“Excellent. I’ve been a small shopkeeper in Tangier for nearly twenty years.”
“Good. Did the commissioner tell you what my assignment is?”
“No, but I can guess.”
“Oh, you can, eh? Well, what do you guess?”
“You’ve come to help El Hassan. Who else would they send but the famous Cold War’s Lawrence of Arabia to overthrow the corrupt governments now in North Africa?”
Inwardly, Paul Kosloff winced, but he said, “I’m going to need a .38 Recoilless and a shoulder harness holster, some grenades, a Tracy, an electronic mop and a scrambler. You can provide them?”
“Yes, of course. I have already been instructed.”
He got up and went over to a cabinet and brought forth the articles Paul Kosloff had called for. The troubleshooter came to his feet, shrugged out of his jacket and put on the shoulder holster, under his left arm. He put the recoilless, noiseless gun in it, and drew it twice to see if it was riding correctly. Then he got back into his coat. The electronic mop looked like a pen. He clipped it into his breast pocket. He took off his watch and handed it to Battista and took up the Tracy and put it on his wrist. It looked identical to the other watch but wasn’t. It was a watch, true enough, but also had other qualities.
Battista said, “Why in the world do they call it a Tracy?” He seated himself again.
Kosloff said, adjusting the metal straps, “I understand that in the old days they had a comic strip detective who used a two-way radio that was strapped to the wrist like a watch. This, of course, is more than that. It operates on a tight-beam and can’t be tapped.” He picked up the scrambler, which looked something like a cigarette case and dropped it into a side pocket.
He sat down again too. “Now then, brief me a bit on El Hassan. They don’t have too much on him in Greater Washington.”
“I don’t have much on him either. He keeps on the move, usually accompanied by a half dozen close associates.”
“Where is he now?”
“The last report we had, near Tamanrasset, though there are rumors that he is heading north. You can’t depend upon them. All about El Hassan is rumor.”
“So,” Paul Kosloff mused. “There are a group of them and usually on the move. How could I get in touch?”
“El Hassan has various followers here in Tangier. I can get in contact with them and possibly arrange a meeting for you. They’ll be overjoyed to know that a top operative from Greater Washington is coming to El Hassan’s assistance.” He hesitated before adding, “Undoubtedly, you are in a position to promise finanical aid. Any revolutionary organization can use money.”
“Okay,” Paul Kosloff said. “Locate El Hassan for me. Now one thing. You say he keeps on the move with half a dozen close associates. What would happen to this revolution if El Hassan and these closest colleagues were… eliminated?”
“The revolution would collapse,” Battista said definitely. “They are its heart and soul and brains.”
“I see,” Paul Kosloff said.
“Which brings to mind something I must warn you about,” the other said. “Serge Sverdlov is in Tangier. From what I understand, if you’re the Cold War’s Lawrence of Arabia, he’s sort of a Tito, Castro and Ché Guevara rolled into one. By the way, he’s disguised as a black, which might indicate he is preparing to go into the interior.”
Paul Kosloffs eyes narrowed. “Serge, eh? Yes, I’ve run into Serge on occasion. I thought he was in Indonesia on some commie cloak and dagger assignment or other.”
“Possibly the Kremlin is of the opinion that North Africa takes precedence with this threat of counter-revolution by El Hassan. Most of the police in this part of the world are inexperienced clods. But Serge Sverdlov would have lots of know-how if he devoted himself to reaching El Hassan’s team.”
“Yes,” Paul Kosloff muttered. “If he had to liquidate half of the male population, of the area, Serge would get him. Where’s he located?”
“We don’t know. We spotted him entering the Soviet Complex library.”
Kosloff stood and said, “Okay. You’d better wrap up a couple of souvenirs for me to leave with, so that it’ll look as though I bought something here. Contact me at the Hotel El Kebruk, under the name Smithson, as soon as you know where El Hassan is.”
Back at the hotel, Kosloff unwrapped the souvenirs Battista had given him and put them on a table in the suite’s living room. They’d help give him authenticity as a tourist.
He brought the electronic mop from his breast pocket and began going about the room, pointing it here, there, everywhere and especially at any electrical fixtures. Shortly, it began to go beep, beep, beep and he located what he was looking for. The bug was in the base of the telephone.
He took the mop into the bedroom and then the bath but neither were bugged. He went back to the telephone. The fact that there was an electronic bug in his suite didn’t mean that it was being monitored, of course. They probably had a bug in every room in the Hotel El Kebruk, but surely not enough men to monitor them all at once. And from what he had seen thus far of the Moroccan economy he doubted that the bugs would be computerized.
However, he couldn’t take the chance. He brought the scrambler the shopkeeper had given him from his pocket, set it on the stand next to the phone and flicked its stud.
He had to work fast now. There was always the chance that the scrambler would be detected and someone on the other end of the bug become suspicious. Then the fat would be in the fire. What American tourist would be equipped with such sophisticated devices?