Serge Sverdlov chuckled again. “Quite a contradiction, eh?” His finger began to tighten on the trigger of the heavy pistol he carried.
A voice clipped from the darkness of a narrow alleyway between the mud huts. “In the name of El Hassan, that will be all!”
Serge Sverdlov spun and, simultaneously, from the doorway of a hut across the street a laser beam hissed out. Paul Kosloff took no time to discover who was the target of the deadly ray gun. He fell to the ground and rolled desperately.
The Russian was also on the ground but apparently not out of action. Footsteps came pounding down the street from the direction of the car.
Paul Kosloff recognized the voice that had interrupted Serge Sverdlov as that of Homer Crawford. It would seem that the four revolutionists hadn’t been as naive as he had thought. They had followed him to check what he was doing.
Several figures emerged from the narrow alleyway and spread out, seeking shadows. They carried what seemed to be submachine guns. Serge Sverdlov, from his prone position, began to bring up his gun toward Paul Kosloff.
Nafi-ben-Mohammed, his own gun at the ready, came dashing up. He took in the figures on the ground. Paul Kosloff was still trying to roll to some sort of cover.
The Russian’s pistol barked at the same time that the laser beam hissed from the doorway across the street again. Tokugawa Hidetada stumbled forth from the mud hut, reeling, his pistol dropping from his hand.
Nafi’s gun came up, the .38 Noiseless went ping, ping, ping, and two of the three slugs thunked into the prone Russian agent.
From the shadows into which the figures from the narrow alley had faded came the voice of El Hassan again. “Drop that gun, boy, or you die.”
Nafi obeyed orders, then quickly leaned down over Paul Kosloff. “You are unhurt?”
Kosloff, in disgust, came to his feet. Now he could make out the crumpled body in the narrow alleyway from which El Hassan had first called.
“What is this, a damn massacre?” he growled.
He went over to Tokugawa Hidetada. His once Japanese colleague was going out fast. Paul Kosloff knelt beside him and said urgently, “Is there anything I can do?”
The small man attempted a rueful chuckle. “In the crisis, I attempted to come to your succor, friend Paul. I am not very clear on just what has happened. Whom did I shoot?”
Paul Kosloff took a deep breath. “One of El Hassan’s men, Hidetada.”
“It would be my fate for it to be Bey-ag-Akhamouk,” the Japanese groaned. His eyes closed in pain and he never opened them again.
Paul Kosloff stood and looked back at Sverdlov.
The Russian was also dead.
El Hassan and Cliff Jackson emerged from the shadows, their guns still at the ready. El Hassan’s eyes took in the two fallen agents, then went back to his own valued follower, who was now being helped from the alley by Kenny Ballalou.
“How bad?” Homer Crawford said.
Bey muttered, “Just a crease, but, Jesus, those laser beams hurt.”
“Get him back to the hut, Kenny,” El Hassan ordered and then returned to Kosloff. He indicated the Japanese, “Who is this man?”
“Tokugawa Hidetada. His government wanted to see the regimes in Algeria and the other so-called socialist nations of North Africa overthrown, but Field Marshal Bey-ag-Akhamouk come to power rather than you.”
Homer snorted at the idea that Bey might be a potential rival, but pointed to the Russian and said, “And this one? We have met him, but who was he really?”
“Sverdlov. Serge Sverdlov, of the KGB. His government wanted to see your revolution a success so that the United States and the West would be economically devastated.”
“I see.” El Hassan looked at Paul Kosloff and Nafi for a long thoughtful moment. He said, “I heard enough of your conversation with the Russian to realize that you are not truly interested in supporting my cause. Perhaps I should kill you, Mr. Kosloff, but I do not kill unarmed men. Please leave. And so far as your nations are concerned, the United States of the Americas, the Soviet Complex, and Japan, all I can do is paraphrase the Engish poet. A curse on all your houses.”
Nafi blurted, “But, El Hassan, we came to assist you.”
“It seems unlikely, boy. Now leave.”
Paul Kosloff and the Moroccan youth returned to their car. In silence they got into it and started back for Tangier.
After a time, Paul Kosloff put his Tracy to his mouth and said, “Paul calling. Paul calling.”
The commissioner’s thin voice came through shortly, “Yes, I receive you. What is happening?”
Paul said flatly, “Everything and its cousin has gone to pot. Sverdlov’s dead. Tokugawa Hidetada, of Japan, is dead. I’m not but probably should be. Your strategy laid an egg. El Hassan will undoubtedly take over here.”
“You fouled this up, Kosloff!”
“It’s according to how you look at it. It was fouled before it started,” Paul Kosloff said wearily. “Oh, yes, and one more thing. I’m tired of being the Cold War’s Lawrence of Arabia. It’s getting too complicated for me. I’m resigning.”
XVI
ISOBEL CUNNINGHAM
Isobel Cunningham was less than happy. Matters were getting out of hand by the hour. She desperately needed the presence of the team and especially Homer Crawford.
It was unbelievable how rapidly things were progressing. Whole tribes that she had never even heard of were coming over to El Hassan en masse. Nations which she knew little more about than their names, were overthrowing their military dictatorships, or their pseudo-socialistic regimes and declaring for El Hassan. And Tamanrasset was the center to which all delegations streamed. She and Jimmy Peters and Doctor Smythe were working like Trojans and none slept for more than a few hours at a time, but seemingly they made little more than a dent on the required work.
The elderly Doctor Smythe put them both to shame. Already matters medical had gotten beyond the point where he, himself, had time to treat patients. Half of Fort Laperrine was already a hospital, staffed almost exclusively with blacks who had taken their medical educations in lands beyond Africa. Smythe now devoted his full energies to administration. When new medical groups centered in on Tamanrasset, seeking instructions from El Hassan, he sent them to other areas to establish hospitals and clinics. To Timbuktu, to Mopti, to Niamey in Niger, to N’Djamena on the shores of Lake Chad. Planes were coming in almost daily with medical and other supplies through the efforts of such pro-El Hassan organizations as the Africa For Africans Association.
Isobel had taken a walk, in an effort to achieve a bit of relaxation, through Tamanrasset, the day before. To her astonishment, she had run into an improvised hospital going up on the edge of the souk. She had never even heard of it. She had approached a white smocked negro doctor, who, in the open, was treating a child that had been bitten by a sand scorpion. The five year old’s fingers were swollen and stiff. Red streaks were visible all the way to its shoulder.
Isobel said, “Who are you?”
And the doctor had replied impatiently, without looking up, “I’m busy.”
Isobel, miffed, had said, “I’m El Hassan’s secretary.”
“I don’t care if you’re the Virgin Mary.” The other came erect and glowered at her. He was a nice looking young man, very sincere. “If there’s anybody in charge around this madhouse get them to requisition some sort of insecticide spray, in the DDT tradition. There’re enough poisonous insects in this damned town to kill off half the human race.” He turned back to his diminutive patient, who was whimpering.