Things were piling up. The governments of the Soviet Complex and Japan, not to speak of the United States, wouldn’t have their top espionage men in the country unless the revolution some wanted and some didn’t was well under way. For that matter, he wondered if Common Europe had some of their aces around.
Something there is in the man of action that must be an instinct, possibly one come down from the caves, from the time of the saber-tooth, from the time of the cave bear. An instinct for danger. Had Paul Kosloff not had it, he would have been dead long years since.
Suddenly, unconsciously, he dropped to one knee and his right hand blurred for his holstered .38 Recoilless. A pencil-thin hiss of light cut a foot above his head. A laser!
The other was only the vaguest of shapes, back a few feet in the alleyway Paul had been passing. His six silent bullets ripped the man through from the crotch almost to the neck line.
Paul Kosloff shot his eyes up and down the street. He could see no one close enough to have observed the split-seconds of action. He moved in quickly, bent over the fallen would-be assassin.
To his relief, the man was a complete stranger. Seemingly, he was a Moor. That, of course, meant little. He could have been a hired killer in the pay of Sverdlov, Tokugawa or, for all he knew, of some other element on the scene with whom Paul Kosloff was not as yet acquainted. Possibly even an adherent of El Hassan.
He frisked the dead man quickly, efficiently, but, as he had suspected, the other bore no identity papers, nor anything else that would give a clue to who he was, who had sent him on his mission of death.
Paul Kosloff had to get out of the vicinity. The other might have an accomplice around, possibly a driver of a get-away car. And, above that, a supposed American tourist should not be found bent over a corpse and in possession of a .38 Recoilless. He reloaded, then hurried to the street, double-checked for anyone in the vicinity, then hurried along back to the hotel, his right hand ready to dart for the gun again at the slightest indication of additional hostility.
Back at the hotel, he made no further attempt to contact Battista but kept even closer to his rooms than he had before. The American agent knew where Paul was and the only reason for their getting together again was when the plans had been completed for his meeting with El Hassan.
At the end of the week, there was a discreet knock at the door. It was the boy who had been at Battista’s shop. When Paul Kosloff opened the door, the other side-stepped in. The international troubleshooter led him into the living room and looked at him.
The other was sharp. He pointed at his ear and then around the room, his face questioning. Paul took him to the phone stand and pointed at it. He brought his electronic scrambler from his pocket and activated it momentarily.
He said, “I’m afraid to keep this on for any length of time. Don’t say anything you don’t want heard.” He flicked the device off again.
The younger man nodded and said, “Mr. Smithson, sir, I have made the arrangements for your drive into the countryside.”
“Excellent,” Paul Kosloffsaid. “When can we leave?”
“Immediately, sir. The car is outside the hotel. I am to be your chauffeur and guide.”
“Wait just a minute. I’ll pack a small bag and get my camera.”
Paul Kosloff waited until they had got into the countryside on the outskirts of Tangier before saying anything of importance.
He said finally, “All right. What’s your name?”
“Nafi-ben-Mohammed.”
“What’s your real name? You’re an American, aren’t you?”
“No. I am a national of Morocco. I was educated in the American School of Tangier, before it was closed by the Sultan. However, as you know, I am employed by the American government through Mohammed-ben-Abdallah, supposedly my father.”
Kosloff nodded. He said, “Where are we going?”
“Possibly on a wild goose chase. We have been unable to get accurate information on the whereabouts of El Hassan. However, strong rumors are that he is heading for Chaambra country to rescue one of his viziers. Our immediate destination is Ksar-es-Souk on the Moroccan, Algerian border. From there we will have to feel our way eastward, enquiring of news about El Hassan.”
“How far is it?”
“Perhaps five hundred kilometers.”
“About three hundred miles, eh? Can we make it in one day?”
“The roads are quite good. Built by the French in the old days. We should be able to.”
“All right. I assume our power packs are sufficient for the whole trip so we won’t have to make any stops except for food. Then there won’t be any record of the trip.”
“Yes, sir.”
Paul Kosloff looked at the younger man from the side of his eyes. He said, “What do you think of El Hassan?”
The other’s voice took a different tone. “He is the sole hope of North Africa.”
Paul Kosloff thought about that. He said, “Are you armed?”
“Yes. The same as you. With a .38 Recoilless.”
“Ever had to use it?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve been in this service ever since the Sultan took over again here in Morocco. He is at least as bad as the Marxists.”
“Dedicated, I see.”
The Moslem boy was embarrassed. He said finally, “My two older brothers were killed by the Marxists in Algeria.” Then he added: “They aren’t really Marxist, of course.”
“They aren’t? How do you mean?”
“A good many so-called Marxists in all parts of the world, including the Soviet Complex, pay lip service to the name of Marx and his work but their governments have no similarity to what he was talking about. He wanted the State to wither away: they strengthen it and keep it in their own hands and to their own profit.”
Paul Kosloff looked at him from the side of his eyes again. “Did you pick that up at the American School?”
The younger man was embarrassed again. “No, sir. I used to study political economy on my own. That is why I support El Hassan. He wishes to bring both democracy and a modified form of capitalism to North Africa—I think. He realizes that the country is not sufficiently developed to achieve a more advanced society.”
“How do you mean, both democracy and capitalism? And how do you mean, a more advanced society?”
“The words are not synonymous, of course. You can have one without the other, in spite of our western propaganda to the contrary. For instance, we have had democratic societies down through the ages. In your own country, the American Indians were democratic before the coming of the white man, but they were certainly not capitalistic. Nor were the Greeks of the Golden Age. The economic system then was based on slaves, though the government was democratic—among male citizens. Hitler’s regime was certainly not democratic, but it was capitalistic. Capitalism is an economic system, democracy a governmental one. Undoubtedly, one day capitalism will become antiquated, as both slavery and feudalism were in their time, but that does not mean that the next socioeconomic system will not be democratic.”
The international troubleshooter changed the subject and said, “Do you have a map of Morocco and Algeria here in the car?”
“Yes, sir. In the dash compartment there.”
Paul Kosloff got it and opened it up. “Okay. Tell me the route you’re taking, town by town. I want to know where we’re going and how we’re going to get back.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary. I’ll drive both ways, and I know the route quite well.”
Paul Kosloff said coldly, “I want to know in case something happens to you and I have to drive back myself.”
Damn it. Was he going to have to kill this one too? Thus far, he had liked the boy.
XI
EL HASSAN