“But how can you be sure?"
“I’ve seen many like it. During the Korean War, the Russians manufactured them for the Red Chinese."
“But what is it doing in Pakistan?"
"The same thing Ben Narouz is, I'd imagine. With all the interests the Red Chinese seem to have in this area, why wouldn't they keep some weapons around to protect themselves? Right now. I'd say that tank is bent on rescuing our Egyptian friend from his predicament."
The tank now opened fire on Sikhs and Moslems alike, trying to clear a path to Ben Narouz. They returned the fire while continuing to shoot at each other. They also found time to send a few slugs toward the four cars. Some of this fire was likewise being returned.
I returned the binoculars to the sheikh. He surveyed the scene a moment and then exclaimed once again. "Mr. Victor! Look at this! The people under the cars are shooting at one another!"
I took the glasses back and saw that he was right. A moment later I saw why. Under the car which had been tailing us, I spotted Potemchenko and five of his Russian bully-boys. And beneath the car which had been following them, I spied Victoria Winters and Alan Foster. I laughed to myself. It figured. It all figured.
I tried to explain it to the sheikh. “Over there"—I pointed --“are a British Intelligence agent and an American C.I.A. man. And over there is a sextet of Russian NKVD boys. At times like this it's part of their job to shoot at each other. Now, the Russians are shooting at Ben Narouz because he kidnapped Anna Kirkov and they are too stupid to see that by killing him they may lose all chance of getting her back. The American and the British girl are probably shooting at him because from what I've seen he is a lousy marksman and in returning the Russians fire he hit their car by mistake. Or, Ben Narouz may have thought that the rest of us are all together in this on the side opposed to him. Which isn't so far from the truth—-but that's another story. Anyway, he's returning their fire now, so all three cars are swapping bullets and shooting at the Sikhs who are shooting back and who are shooting at the Moslems who are returning their fire and also shooting at the three cars indiscriminately. And both the Sikhs andthe Moslems are shooting at the Chinese tank which is likewise returning the compliment. Is everything clear now?"
The sheikh didn't seem to care whether it was or not. Only one thing that I said had stuck in his mind. "Those Russians over there-—are they the ones you told me about on the plane? Are they the ones you said had Ben-Kavir killed?"
“That stupid-looking ape with the Van Dyke is the one responsible." I pointed Potemchenko out to him.
The sheikh rolled down the window and sighted his revolver past Ben Narouz towards Potemchenko. As the shot whined past Ben Narouz, he snapped one back at our car. Potemchenko also returned the fire.
That made it unanimous. It was a small-scale war with representatives of all nations participating. A U.N. commission couldn't have straightened out all the misunderstandings, let alone gotten people to stop shooting long enough to try. I seemed to be alone in that fray in having no particular desire to murder anybody.
I was strictly neutral. Just an innocent bystander. Let them all kill each other off. I couldn't care less. I had everything to gain by the slaughter and nothing to lose.
Nothing but my life!
009
THE BATTLE continued. Umpteen ways—and more. Two ways more, the first of which Sheikh Taj-ed el Atassi called to my attention as the Red Chinese tank drew closer.
“The armor of our car will never withstand a shell from that tank,” he said, his voice worried.
"Why should they want to shell us?” I asked.
“It is quite possible that they might recognize this car, or even recognize me with the help of binoculars. In my particular business, the Red Chinese are direct competitors. And in this part of the world, the competition between us has been bitter. You see, their white slavery activities are inextricably tied up with their marketing of opium and their political aims. The existence of well-organized competition isn't just a business matter, it's a threat to their national goals. I am a thorn in their side and they would be happy to remove the thorn. If, in the confusion and heat of all this battle, they can accomplish that with a calculated shell, they would not hesitate for a moment. So, if they have recognized me, the danger we are in has been greatly increased."
"Well," I said drily, surveying the raging fight around us, “I guess if they want to kill us they'll just have to get in line and wait their turn."
"You are a philosopher, Mr. Victor." He snapped off a couple of shots in the general direction of Ben Narouz and Potemchenko, then swung his arm around to fire at the Sikhs who in retreating from the Moslems (who were retreating from the Chinese tank) were advancing towards us.
It was only a matter of moments before the retreating Sikhs must overwhelm us. I thought about diving from the car and making a run for it. The idea vanished as a bugle call sounded a cavalry charge -- so help me!-—and announced one more complication for an already impossibly mixed-up situation. I squinted toward where the sound had come from and there was just enough light from the beginning sunrise for me to make out squads of uniformed horsemen galloping in formation toward the plain we were on from the hills above.
“Pakistan government troops," the sheikh observed.
"You're sure it's not the United States Marines? Or the Cold Stream Guards? Or the Sinn Fein? Or the Irgun? Or maybe the Canadian Royal Mounted Police? I mean, I wouldn't want to see anybody miss out on the fun here!"
“No. It is the Pakistani Army cavalry, Mr. Victor.”
“Shucks! And we hardly had time to get the wagons in a circle."
“I beg your pardon?"
“Nothing. Just being funny. Tell me, just whose side are they going to be on?"
“Nobody’s. Their function is to keep the peace," the sheikh explained, seeming not to see the humor of the statement. “They should be acting to protect us and to drive off Sikhs and Moslems alike. However, my guess is that they will concentrate on destroying that Chinese tank since it represents another nation mixing in Pakistan's internal disorders.”
The cavalry was indeed converging on the tank, which had swiveled away from the guerilla bands to meet it. Nevertheless, the cavalry charge had served to frighten the Sikhs and the Moslems. Both groups were in flight now, and neither was pausing to harass the occupants of the four cars any further. I started to breath easier, as the danger seemed to be dissipating, but I was premature.
Suddenly, a figure sprang up beside our limousine, a gun-barrel poked through the quarter-opened window from which the sheikh had been shooting, and two careful shots sounded in my eardrums. The first bullet blew apart the sheikh's face; the second separated the chauffeur from the top of his head. Splattered with bloody bits and pieces of Sheikh Tajed el Atassi, I dived to the floor of the car and waited for the inevitable third bullet to ferry me over the River Styx.
It never came. . .
I un-chickened sufficiently to angle around and identify the sudden killer. I found myself looking into the ominously grinning face of Vladimir Potemchenko. His still-smoking gun was waving in my direction, but he didn't look like he was about to use it on me right away. He looked, rather, like a man who had just scored at his favorite sport and was enjoying a time-out.