He looked at Cliff and Kenny, “Am I to assume that these gentlemen are Clifford Jackson and Kenneth Ballalou, and that your guard is the Tuareg-American Bey-ag-Akhamouk?”
Homer eyed him for a moment, then nodded. “You may.”
“Then I suggest that we speak English, since I assume that all here are not as conversant with Russian as you prove yourself to be.”
“Very well,” Homer said in English. “And now, to the point. What is it that you desire of El Hassan?”
Sverdlov said, “To serve him. To join his followers and do all in my power, and I have considerable resources at my command, to further his aims.”
Homer eyed him for another long unspeaking moment, and finally said, “Our aims are not only the assimilation of such presently reactionarily ruled lands as Morocco with its feudalistic, absolute monarchy, but also the Marxist Algeria and Libya, among others.”
The Russian nodded. “We know. And also the assimilation of the dozen and one military dictatorships thoughout North and Central Africa.”
Kenny said evenly, “You don’t deny that you are from the KGB?”
“No. I have been sent from Moscow to forward the program of El Hassan. We are interested in progress, particularly industrial progress, throughout the world. We feel that El Hassan will accomplish this more quickly than the pseudo-socialistic regimes in such countries as Algeria.”
Homer nodded wearily, “Your late colleagues, Abe Baker and Anton, put over the same general idea. But your eventual goal, your long view, involves, of course, your attempting to direct Ifriqiyah, as we call it, to the Communist camp.”
Serge Sverdlov hesitated before meeting that full on, but he realized that this was no time, nor these the men, for ambiguity. He nodded agreement. “But that is far in the future and the future will take care of itself. Meanwhile, we support the program of El Hassan.”
Cliff snorted.
But Homer said, “Just what form could this offered support take?”
The Russian bent forward. “We could supply you with the most modern arms, arms that would enable you to overrun such nations as Morocco, Algeria, Libya, Tunisia, Senegal, at will. We could come to your assistance with our intelligence services, disclosing to you the attempts being planned by your enemies.”
Homer Crawford said, “We don’t need arms.”
The colonel’s eyes narrowed. “You expect to get them from the Americans, then?”
“Nor from them, either. If we are to succeed it will be because the people themselves arise and overthrow their corrupt and inefficient present governments, not because El Hassan shoots his way to power. This so-called arms aid of the great powers is one of the greatest blots of modern history. In the name of aid, the great powers subvert and impoverish half the undeveloped nations of the world. As far back as the nineteen-seventies, the United States was selling twenty billions of dollars a year in armaments to such countries as Israel and the Arab nations who opposed her, to India and Pakistan, to Turkey and Greece. When these nations fought, both sides were armed by America. She sold billions and billions in weapons to impoverished South America, where there hadn’t been a real war in a century and where there was little chance of one developing. The arms there could only be meant for internal difficulties, in short, for the ruling class to keep down the people. El Hassan does not have to defend himself against his people.” He snorted and added, “Nor were you Soviets far behind. You too sold to anyone who would buy.”
Homer grunted contempt. “There are various facets to this so-called arms aid. Suppose we accepted from you a hundred of your most modern tanks, supposedly given free. What would happen when we ran out of the ammunition they utilized, and when we needed spare parts? Where else could we turn but to you, since such spare parts and ammunition are manufactured only in the Soviet Complex? We would be at your mercy when our new mechanized army began to deteriorate.”
He shook his head. “No thank you. And so far as your intelligence is concerned, you see how incompetent you have proven in Ifriqiyah. You Europeans and Americans stand out like sore thumbs in the Sahara. I assume you are a trained KGB agent, but the moment you stepped through that door, in spite of your disguise, we knew that you were no African.”
He shook his head again. “No, we do not welcome your assistance, sir.”
Colonel Serge Sverdlov came to his feet, knowing defeat. “Very well,” he said. “However, we shall continue to assist in your program to the point we can, in spite of your rejection.”
Cliff picked up the other’s pistol, drew the clip and emptied it of its cartridges, then with the heel of his right hand rammed it back into the butt. He handed the gun back to the Russian. “Nice knowing you,” he said.
The colonel took the gun and turned and left the tent.
Paul Kosloff and Nafi-ben-Mohammed had pulled into the small oasis settlement an hour or so before sunset and after most of the excitement had died down. They had avoided the pavilion and the multitude of natives about it and had gone into the small village proper. Kosloff was reminded somewhat of the adobe pueblos of the American southwest. There were swarms of children, swarms of flies, a sufficiency of mangy dogs too listless to bark even at strangers, and filth in plenitude.
Leaving Kosloff in the car, in a narrow, dirty alley, Nafi had gone off to discover the whereabouts of El Hassan, always assuming he was in the vicinity, and the rumors that he was had become thicker as they approached the site of the djemaa el kebar.
By the time he returned, darkness was descending as it can descend only in such areas of the world as the Sahara. One moment, it is bright daylight, a few minutes later, completely dark, save for the moon and stars.
The Moroccan boy started up the car again and drove to the other end of the settlement and parked, once more, in as isolated a spot as he could find.
He said, “El Hassan and his viziers are quartered in that larger hut, there before us.”
Paul Kosloff said, “We’ll wait for a short time, until the town settles down a bit more.” Their car didn’t seem to be overly conspicuous. The swarm of North Africans that had descended upon the oasis had brought in a considerable number of its own vehicles, as Crawford and his group had found earlier.
They witnessed Bey-ag-Akhamouk emerging and assuming the post of guard and, shortly afterward, the appearance of Serge Sverdlov, in his native costume and in his disguise as a black. He disappeared inside and remained there for possibly fifteen minutes, while Paul Kosloff ran in irritation a thumbnail back and forth over his upper lip. There seemed to be something in the other’s stance, the manner in which he held his body, that the American agent recognized but couldn’t put his finger upon.
When Sverdlov had left, Paul Kosloff slipped out of his light jacket and then removed his shoulder harness with its gun and handed it over to Nafi.
“I won’t be needing this in the presence of El Hassan,” he said. “Keep it.”
“Of course,” the Moroccan youth said, as Kosloff slipped back into the jacket and got out of the car.
Paul Kosloff walked up the street to Bey-ag-Akhamouk and said, “I’d like to see El Hassan.”
Bey looked at him quizzically. “White man, eh? And English speaking.”
“American,” Paul said.
“Long way from home,” Bey said. He leaned his Tommy-Noiseless against the mud wall and thoroughly frisked the newcomer. Then he stuck his head around the curtain and said, “This is getting to be like a convention. Another visitor. American this time. He’s clean.”
Somebody inside said something and Bey held the curtain to one side and grinned at Kosloff and said, “Enter into the presence of El Hassan.”