Paul Kosloff went on through and found himself in a small room, furnished only with camping equipment. Aside from a man on an army cot, snoring slightly as he slept, there were three men present, behind a folding camp table. All were blacks, and all dressed in military khakis.
The one in the middle gestured to an empty folding chair across from him.
Paul said, “Professor Crawford? I am Paul Kosloff, presently, in a roundabout way, of the American State Department, and assigned to open preliminary negotiations with you.”
Homer Crawford nodded and said, “And these are my aides, Kenneth Ballalou and Clifford Jackson.”
Kenny said musingly, “Paul Kosloff, Paul Kosloff. I’ve read a bit about you. The so-called Cold War’s Lawrence of Arabia.”
Paul looked at him and said, “In the kind of work I am usually assigned, we seldom welcome publicity.”
He looked back at El Hassan. He had to play this right. It couldn’t be too obvious, or he’d never get his opening. He had to look authentic. These three were no fools.
He said, in answer to Homer Crawford’s questioning look, “Frankly, El Hassan, my superiors have doubts about some elements of your program and would like them resolved before they grant you the all-out support the State Department will possibly provide.”
The big black’s smile was wry. “We have just had—and refused—another offer of support, Mr. Kosloff. But please proceed.”
Paul Kosloff said earnestly, “Of prime importance is your proposal to double or more the price of the raw materials we are at present buying in Morocco, Algeria and other areas you plan to take over. Can we assume this is but a campaign promise, as our politicians call them in the States? That is, you don’t really plan to go through with it?”
El Hassan shook his head. “No. It is no empty promise, Mr. Kosloff.”
“But if the other underdeveloped nations go along with you, it could eventually mean the collapse of the economies of the West.”
El Hassan nodded his head this time. “Yes, the collapse of the economies of the West, as we know them today.”
Paul Kosloff stared at him.
Kenny Ballalou spoke up. “You see, Mr. Kosloff, the economies of the West and of Japan are destroying our world with their ever expanding production. Within decades, there will literally be no more raw materials. Our oil, our minerals, our forests, will have disappeared. The economies of the West, including the United States, must be forced to face reality and readjust, yours is a waste economy. Let us use a few examples of planned obsolescence in your country. You make lead batteries for your cars that are deliberately designed to wear out after a year and a half, when it is possible to build them to last practically the life of the car. And lead is growing scarce. You make electric light bulbs that burn out in one thousand hours, when they could be manufactured to last for practically the life of the house. The houses you build are slum houses in less than twenty years, though your grandparents could build them to last a century or more. All this, of course, to increase sales, to increase profits. Your socio-economic system is one based on production for profit, not for use. It is a mad system and we of the more backward countries must do something to force you to change, or when you go down to economic chaos you will drag us with you.”
Paul Kosloff was scowling. He said, “But we’ve got to have your raw materials if we’re to keep going. We no longer have our own. And you’ve got to have the money we pay you for them, if you’re ever to become developed.”
El Hassan said softly, “That is the point, Mr. Kosloff. We are never going to become developed. Nor are any of the other underdeveloped nations. For one thing, there isn’t enough copper, lead, zinc and other basic necessities of industry to allow the backward countries to ever catch up with you, you’ve so wasted these irreplacable gifts of nature in your mad scramble for increased national product.”
Paul Kosloff said, “Then you are deliberately planning to wreck the economies of the West?”
“Not wreck them. Force them to change. If you are made to pay triple for your copper, I doubt if you will continue to make such items as ladies’ lipstick containers out of it. If you pay triple for your chrome, you will think twice before continuing to make your cars garish with it. Somehow, we of the backward countries and you of the advanced, must amalgamate in such a way that we can improve our living standards without industrialization but only by judicious exploitation of our raw materials and agriculture.”
Paul Kosloff pretended to think about it. He came to his feet and said, “Just a moment, I wish to return to my vehicle and get a device there with which I can communicate by tight-beam to Greater Washington. What you have said is most interesting. We weren’t aware of your motivation.”
“Of course,” El Hassan nodded.
As Paul Kosloff left, he said to Bey, as he went by, “I’ll be back in a minute.”
He returned to the car in which he had left Nafi and said to the young agent, “Give me my gun.” At the same time he reached into the back of the vehicle and secured a small package there.
The boy frowned at him.
Kosloff said impatiently, “They want to see an example of the type of weapons we can supply for their revolution.”
The other handed the gun over and Paul Kosloff put it into his belt, under his coat. He turned and left the car again and headed back toward El Hassan’s hut, emptying the package as he went. It contained two small but ultra-powerful demolition grenades which he put into his side pockets. It was completely dark now with no one at all on the streets.
He squared his shoulders, albeit somewhat unhappily, as he walked. It was simplicity itself. All he had to do was walk up to the guard, who would never suspect that he wasn’t still unarmed, and shoot him down and toss the two grenades into the hut. He’d then stand aside, in the unlikely chance that one or more of those in the interior would survive and emerge, and finish him, or them, too. He doubted that they were suspicious, that they were very old hands at intrigue. They were obviously too idealistic, too honest.
A slightly accented voice from behind him said, “Very well, Paul Kosloff. Put your hands behind your neck.”
He did as he was told and a hand came around from behind him and plucked the .38 Recoilless from his belt.
The voice said, “Turn now.”
Paul Kosloff turned and said, “Hello, Sverdlov. I thought I recognized you earlier. You’re making a mistake, this time.”
The Russian KGB man was slightly smaller than Kosloff but perhaps more lithe. His teeth were white and his smile good, but there was something about his eyes.
“Ah?” he said. “Please elucidate, Kosloff.”
“This time, I have the same assignment you have. We’re on the same side.”
“I doubt it.”
“I’ve been sent here to eliminate El Hassan and his lieutenants. My government wishes to see the regimes in Algeria, Libya and so forth continue.”
“Ah, but mine doesn’t,” the other said evenly, softly.
Paul Kosloff gaped at him.
The Russian agent chuckled. “You see, Kosloff, in spite of the fact that our countries have reached detente, the battle for men’s minds goes on and will not end until one of our sides prevails. We wish to see El Hassan’s program succeed for various reasons. If it does, his regime will be the first major element to collapse your economy. We have not been able to control the governments of Algeria, Libya and the others, in spite of the fact that they call themselves Marxist, but we won’t have to control El Hassan. He wants to do exactly what we would like him to do. We of the Soviet Complex have within our borders all the raw materials we need. You don’t.”
Paul Kosloff looked at him for a long empty moment. He said, “You mean that I, an agent of the West, have been sent to rescue Marxist regimes, and you, an agent of the Soviet Complex, have been sent to insure El Hassan’s take-over in these countries?”