“Did he know you worked with U.N.C.L.E.?”
“Of course not,” Marshel said heatedly. “I’m not a complete idiot, Mr. Solo. He was just a common informer: you pay for it, he’ll give it to you. Like your man in Casablanca. So far as he was concerned, I needed information for my news stories—and, of course, for other reasons.”
“Such as?”
“Well, naturally he must have reasoned that I had other interests—with the sort of questions I sometimes had to ask, he could hardly have avoided it. For all I know, he thought I worked for M.I.6 or for the West Germans. But, as I say, his kind don’t ask questions—they just take the money and go. Obviously, though, since he knew the kind of things that interested me, he surmised I might be able to help you.”
“This informing business with Mahmoud,” Solo said quietly, eying Marshel’s immaculately cut sharkskin suit, “it wouldn’t have been a two-way traffic, by any chance?”
“I hardly think that question deserves an answer, Mr. Solo,” the young man said, flipping the hair out of his eye with a jerk of his head and flushing a deeper red. Solo peeled off his own linen jacket and dropped it on the floor. “Okay,” he said, grinning. “Question out of order. Sorry, Marshel—I guess the heat’s getting me down. It’s quite a change from the coast.” He loosened his tie and crossed the room to a trolley of drinks.
“What’ll it be?” he asked. “Another Bacardi and lime?”
“Thank you.”
“Now then,” Solo said when they were settled again with ice clinking in the tall glasses, “while we’re waiting for Illya, perhaps you’ll tell me what you can do for me.”
“I fancy we should be able to manage, as a matter of fact,” Marshel said, looking Solo up and down judiciously. “You’re medium height; you’ve got fairly deep-set, fairly big brown eyes; you have a decided cast of feature. And best of all, your hair is very dark. With the right sort of stain all over, and a fringe of beard to offset that chin, you’ll pass after my boy’s had a go at you. How’s your Arabic?”
“Passable.”
“Good. You’d better be a pilgrim, though. They keep to themselves and hardly speak on these jaunts. You might be faulted on accent otherwise.”
“A pilgrim! Where to, for Heaven’s sake?”
“There’s a sect that beetle off to some shrine just north of the Congo border every couple of months. They go with the trade caravans for safety’s sake.”
“And there’s a party of them in our caravan?”
“So I believe. In any case, that’s the only way you could join without comment.”
“How d’you mean?”
‘Well, I’m afraid the only way it can be done is to substitute yourself for some joker who’s already signed on, as it were. They can’t be bribed; they’re much too religious. But there’s a certain police captain who can be bribed—and the drill is, you get a set of papers to match some chap’s who’s already on the list…and then the police captain runs the chap in on some pretext and keeps him in custody until the caravan’s gone. Meanwhile, there you are in his place.”
“It seems a trifle rough on the chap,” Solo said dryly.
“Yes, well, it’s a pity; but they let him go after a couple of days anyway. Too expensive to feed them in jail...They’re used to incomprehensible police behavior in this part of the world,” Marshel said apologetically. “I’m afraid it’s the only way.”
“I’d rather do it without putting some innocent man in jail—even for a couple of days.”
“Well, leave it to me. I’ll see what I can fix.”
“All right. And you know someone who can get me to the right place at the right time—and the right caravan?”
“Oh, yes. It’s some way south of the city. We’ll get you there. Can you—er—can you ride a camel?”
“If pushed.”
Marshel gave a faint smile. “Sometimes the camel needs pushing too.” Then his face sobered. “I should warn you that, if you’re discovered—ah—impersonating a pilgrim, the consequences can be deuced unpleasant. These Arab johnnies are very strong on religion—the accursed infidel and all that, you know. You’d have to leg it like hell for the bush.”
“I’ll have to worry about that when it happens.”
“Quite. I just thought I’d mention it.”
“One other thing: I lost my gun in that fracas at Casablanca—and my holster was carved to ribbons. We have plenty of other little devices, but I’m short of a pistol of some sort. Can you fix me up?”
“I could let you have a Mauser. It’s blasted heavy, but it’s quite a handy thing. Probably improvise you a holster, too.”
“Great. And I’ll keep in touch with you by radio. Our little battery transmitters are far too weak to reach home, of course: you’ll pass on my messages to Waverly in the normal way.”
“Yes, can do.”
“Okay,” Solo said. “‘Here’s to the great illusion!” He raised his glass.
Three miles away, on the other side of the city, in a shuttered villa behind tall hedges of tamarisk, Illya Kuryakin was ushered into a study furnished in ornate luxury. The man at the glass-topped desk was lean and dark, a hairline moustache emphasizing the chiseled planes of his mouth. Above his head, a huge horizontal fan revolved slowly in the hot, dry air.
“Solo?” he said, glancing at the card Illya had handed in. That’s an unusual name, monsieur.”
“It is an old Russian name,” Illya said unblushingly. “From the province of Khirgiztan, originally.”
“And the given name which precedes it—especially unusual for one of your nationality, I imagine?” Hassan Hamid said in Russian.
“In memory of my great-great-great grandfather, who commanded one of the units of the Imperial forces instrumental in defeating the French dictator after the burning of Moscow in 1813,” Kuryakin said in the same language. “I perceive from your accent that you learned your Russian in Leningrad.”
Hamid smiled. “You will forgive me, monsieur.” He said smoothly, returning to French. “In my position one is at times at the mercy of imposters. One likes to be sure of those with whom one deals.”
“Naturally.”
“I may say that I do not usually receive persons unknown to me personally. However, since you mentioned the name of—shall we say a mutual friend?—of great eminence, and since, to be honest, your own name intrigued me, I make an exception.”
“It is an honor to receive such flattering consideration from a highly-placed person,” Illya said fulsomely. “And in particular that he should allow himself to be intruded upon at home.”
“There are certain…transactions…better approached in the informality of the home, monsieur.”
“Precisely.”
“Touching upon which, in what way may I assist you, Monsieur Solo?”
“I have a desire to visit the southern part of your agreeable country.”
“Indeed? May one ask why?”
“It is said that there are certain mineral deposits,” Illya said carefully, “to the south and west of the El Marra massif. It appears, moreover, that these might be well worth exploitation by those with practically unlimited resources. The lignite veins, for example, are said to be by no means as poor as the reference books would have us believe. The bauxite, too, is of interest to those requiring aluminium…to say nothing of more—er—esoteric ores.”
“And you represent such an interest?”
“I do. Those cooperating with my gov—with my principals would find themselves well rewarded. There is a great deal of money involved. A very great deal.”
Hassan Hamid leaned back in his steel and leather chair. His tongue flicked once rapidly around his well-shaped lips. “Your—ah—principals have charged you with the task of verifying these reports?” he asked.