“That’s all,” Waverly said, switching the machine off again. “The rest’s all travelogue material for his cover. The message ended at ‘anything but wavering.’ So we have camels loaded with the stolen 235 leaving Casablanca for Alexandria—and we have Mr. Habib Tufik and his coffee shop as a contact with disquieting news. The only other message I have is this.” He picked up the folder from the table. In it was a single piece of paper: a buff telegram form. He looked at it for a moment and then handed it to each of them in turn.
“It was handed in at the main post office in Casablanca and sent in clear to his cover address yesterday afternoon,” Waverly said. “They must have been pretty hard on his heels. The strips of teletyped lettering spelled out:
CASABLANCA FRA212 HEURE DE DEPOT 1415 DATE DE DEPOT 21/5 MOTS 8
ELT WAVERLY COLORPIX NEW YORK
FLYING EASTWARDS TOMORROW REGARDS — ANAND
“Does that mean he’s leaving today for Alexandria?” Forster asked, handing the telegram back to Waverly.
“No. If he were taking a plane to follow up something, he’d never have bothered to cable me—especially in clear. He’d simply have reported his arrival when he got there. Flying also means birds—and birds imply Thrush to me. I think he was trying to tip me off that the latest consignment of 235, the canister stolen from Aldermaston, is due to leave Casablanca for Alexandria today.”
“You’re speaking of him in the past tense,” Solo said suddenly, accusingly. The gentle-voiced Indian agent was a particular friend of his.
Waverly coughed. “I’m afraid so,” he said gruffly. “They must have caught up with him soon after he sent the telegram. His body was found in an alley in the Casbah this morning. He’d been beaten and robbed—and then knifed. Or so the local police say.”
Solo’s breath hissed between his teeth. “You’re letting me handle this myself, of course,” he said. It was a statement rather than a question.
“You and Mr. Kuryakin together, yes.”
‘When do we leave?”
“Now.”
“Okay, I’ll get back to my apartment and—”
“I said now, Mr. Solo.”
“You mean this instant? Right away? But…”
“What about clothes and things?” Illya asked.
“That will be taken care of. There are Thrush agents everywhere. I don’t want you two seen outside this building again—you may be being watched; you may be picked up, trailed. Anything might tip them off. Go to the armory and draw your weapons. Stores and Equipment already has the necessary clothes, documents, cover stories and so on. You will leave by the East River entrance in…” He consulted his watch. “…fifty-one minutes precisely. The launch will take you to a navy carrier anchored out in the Sound. General Powers has arranged with the Navy Department for a jet to take you to Nice. From there you can adopt your covers and fly to Casablanca on a commercial airline.”
“And keep in touch, gentlemen, please,” Powers said heavily. Any shift—any prospective shift in the balance of nuclear power is vital, absolutely vital information for our strategic planners.”
“Don’t forget, too, that the location of the destination of this material’s not the only thing,” Forster said. “Apart from Martens, every single man responsible for those thefts is still working undercover, undetected, in the nuclear plants where they occurred. We’ll have to have their names, please.”
Solo smiled ruefully. “Any little commissions you’d like me to undertake for you?” he asked. “Some halva, perhaps? A nice rug? No? Oh, well—Mr. Habib Tufik in Casablanca, here we come!”
Chapter 3
Night in Casablanca
AND SO Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin had found themselves—thirteen days before Solo sent his message from the camp in the uplands of southern Sudan—seeking a coffee shop in Casablanca.
Contrary to all expectations, it was raining—a sullen, relentless downpour, slanting under pressure from a westerly wind, which bounced ankle-high off the shining runways, overflowed the gutters of the old town, and cascaded from flapping awnings over the deserted sidewalks. They had gathered from the buildup on Devananda Anand’s posthumous tape that the coffee shop of Habib Tufik might be something of a tourist attraction, the kind of place known to every hotel porter and cab driver in the city. But nobody in their hotels had ever heard of it, it rated no mention in the local guide, and—the first three taxis they hired had to confess themselves beaten after driving—it seemed to Illya and Solo—halfway around Morocco. At last Solo decided to try asking coffee wholesalers—for, presumably, if Habib Tufik ran a coffee shop, he had to obtain supplies from somewhere. And at their second port of call, they finally managed to get the address.
By the time they had found a fourth taxicab, and the driver had found his way to the narrow alleyway in the Casbah where the place was supposed to be, it was well after dark.
“I can go no further, Messieurs,” the driver said, looking at them curiously. “The road becomes too narrow. You will find the place, I think, up there on the left, in a courtyard. It is not my business to ask, but…” He paused.
“Yes?”
The cabbie shrugged. “Nothing. It is of no importance.” He slammed the big Chevrolet into reverse and began backing towards an intersection. “Just keep your hands on your wallets, that’s all!” he yelled as the car drew slowly away from them.
Solo glanced at Illya and raised an eyebrow. “A word to the wise, eh?” he said. “Let’s go.”
Rain was still pelting down. The alleyway, twisting uphill between tall, blank facades, was streaming with water. The gutters, choked every few yards with refuse, formed a series of dams which had spread out and flooded the glistening cobbles, and the agents’ footsteps, as they splashed their way towards a dim street light at a bend in the road, were almost drowned in the gurgling of water.
Beneath the lamp, an archway led to a paved court with ha1f a dozen houses on each side. Faintly above the drumming of the rain they could hear an outdated rock-and-roll number warring with Moorish music.
Habib Tufik’s coffee shop was at the far end of the cul-de-sac. They pushed open a wrought-iron gate set in the crumbling wall, walked down a passageway and went in through a heavy, iron-studded door. Heat and light and noise enveloped them. The low-ceilinged, smoke-filled room was jammed with men of a dozen different nationalities, crouched over low tables around the walls, crowded around a bar, standing in gesticulating groups. Above the babble of voices, the rock-and-roll record blared from a gaudy jukebox in one corner.
The level of conversation dropped abruptly as Solo and Illya entered, but it had resumed its former pitch by the time they had pushed their way to the bar. From behind the handles of an Italian espresso machine labeled FUNZIONE SENZA VAPORE, a hard-faced man in his shirtsleeves looked at them inquiringly. Judging from the condition of a party of French sailors shouting be side them, the place served stronger drinks than coffee.
“Cognac,” Solo said brusquely, mopping his drenched hair with a handkerchief and shaking water from his raincoat. “Two large ones.”
“Bien, M’sieu.”
“The proprietor is here this evening?” Solo asked conversationally after they had surveyed the brawling crowd for a few minutes in silence. There appeared to be no waiters, the ugly-looking customers shouldering their way through the press and shouting their orders across the bar when they needed fresh supplies. And certainly there was nobody who looked as though he might be the owner.