Border, Breed Nor Birth

II

Homer Crawford stared at her, incredulous. The woman couldn’t possibly be an emissary from Isobel or from one of his own companions. This situation demanded the utmost secrecy; they hadn’t had time to screen any outsiders as to trustworthiness.

She turned. It was Isobel. She chuckled softly, “You should see your face.”

His eyes went to her figure.

“Done with mirrors,” Isobel said. “Or, at least, with pillows.”

Homer didn’t waste time. “Where are the others? They should be here by now.”

“We figured that the fewer of us seen on the streets, the better. So they’re waiting for you. Since I was the most easily disguised, the least suspicious looking, I was elected to come get you.”

“Waiting where?”

She licked the side of her mouth, a disconcerting characteristic of hers, and looked at him archly. “Those pals of yours have quite a bit on the ball on their own. They decided that there was a fairly good chance that Sven Zetterberg wasn’t exactly going to fall into your arms, so they took preliminary measures. Kenny Ballalou rented a small house, here in the native quarter. We’ve all rendezvoused there. See, you aren’t the only one on the ball.”

Homer frowned at her, for the moment being in no mood for humor. “What was the idea of sitting here for the past five minutes without even speaking? You must have recognized me, knowing what to look for.”

She nodded. “I … I wasn’t sure, Homer, but I had the darnedest feeling I was being followed.”

His glance was sharp now: first at her, then a quick darting around the vicinity. “Woman’s intuition,” he snapped, “or something substantial?”

She frowned at him. “I’m not a ninny, Homer.”

His voice softened and he said quickly, “Don’t misunderstand, Isobel. I know that.”

She forgot about her objection to his tone. “Even intuition doesn’t come out of a clear sky. Something sparks it. Subconscious psi, possibly, but a spark.”

“However?” he prodded.

“I took all precautions. I can’t seem to put my finger on anything.”

“O.K.,” he said decisively. “Let’s go then.” He came to his feet and reached a hand down for her.

“Heavens to Betsy,” she said, “don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Help a woman in public. You’ll look suspicious.” She came to her own feet, without aid.

Damn, he thought. She was right. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to a man who acted peculiarly.

They made their way out of the food market and into the souk proper, Homer walking three or four paces ahead of her, Isobel demurely behind, her eyes on the ground. They passed the native stands and tiny shops, and the even smaller venders and hucksters with their products of the mass production industries of East and West, side-by-side with the native handicrafts ranging from carved wooden statues, jewelry, gris gris charms and kambu fetishes, to ceramics whose designs went back to an age before the Portuguese first cruised off this coast. And everywhere was color; there are no people on earth more color conscious than the Senegalese.

Isobel guided him, her voice quiet and still maintaining its uncharacteristic demure quality.

He would never have recognized Isobel, Homer Crawford told himself. Isobel Cunningham, late of Columbia University where she’d taken her Master’s in anthropology. Isobel Cunningham, whom he had told on their first meeting that she looked like the former singing star, Lena Horne. Isobel Cunningham, slight of build, pixie of face, crisply modern American with her tongue and wit. Was he in love with her? He didn’t know. El Hassan had no time, at present, for those things love implied.

She said, “Here,” and led the way down a brick-paved passage to a small house, almost a hut, that lay beyond.

Homer Crawford looked about him critically before entering. He said, “I suppose this has been scouted out adequately. Where’s the back entrance?” He scowled. “Haven’t the boys posted a sentry?”

A voice next to his ear said pleasantly, “Stick ‘em up, stranger. Where’d you get that zoot suit?”

He jerked his head about. There was a very small opening in the wooden wall next to him. It was Kenny Ballalou’s voice.

“Zoot suit, yet!” Homer snorted. “I haven’t heard that term since I was in rompers.”

“You in rompers I’d like to see,” Kenny snorted in his turn. “Come on in, everybody’s here.”

The aged, unpainted, warped, wooden house consisted of two rooms, one three times as large as the second. The furniture was minimal, but there was sitting room on chair, stool and bed for the seven of them.

“Hail, O El Hassan!” Elmer Allen called sourly as Homer entered.

“And the hail with you,” Homer called back, then, “Oops, sorry, Isobel.”

Isobel put her hands on her hips, greatly widened by the stuffing she’d placed beneath her skirts. “Look,” she said. “Thus far, the El Hassan organization, which claims rule of all North Africa, consists of six men and one dame … ah, that is, one lady. Just so the lady won’t continually feel that she’s being a drag on the conversation, you are hearby allowed in moments of stress such shocking profanity as an occasional damn or hell. But only if said lady is also allowed such expletives during periods of similar stress.”

Everyone laughed, and found chairs.

“I’m in love with Isobel Cunningham,” Bey announced definitely.

“Second the motion,” Elmer said.

The rest of them called, “Aye.”

“O.K.,” Homer Crawford said glumly, “I can see that this is going to be one tight-knit organization. Six men in love with the one dame … ah, that is, lady. Kind of a reverse harem deal. Oh, this is going to lead to great cooperation.”

They laughed again and then Jake said, “Well, what’s the story, Homer? How does the El Hassan project sound to Zetterberg and the Reunited Nations?”

Cliff Jackson laughed bitterly. “Why do you think we’re in hiding?” Only he and Jake Armstrong wore western clothing. Kenny Ballalou, Bey-ag-Akhamouk and Elmer Allen were in native dress, similar to that of Homer Crawford. Elmer Allen even bore a pilgrim’s staff.

Crawford, glad that the edge of tenseness had been taken off the group by the banter with Isobel, turned serious now.

He said, “This is where we each take our stand. You can turn back at this point, any one of you, and things will undoubtedly go on as before. You’ll keep your jobs, have no marks against you. Beyond this point, and there’s no turning back. I want you all to think it over, before coming to any snap decisions.”

Elmer Allen said, his face wearing its usual all but sullen expression, “How about you?”

Homer said evenly, “I’ve already taken my stand.”

Kenny Ballalou yawned and said, “I’ve been in this team for three or four years, I’m too lazy to switch now. Besides, I’ve always wanted to be a corrupt politician. Can I be treasurer in this El Hassan regime?”

“No,” Homer said. “Bey?”

Bey-ag-Akhamouk said, “I’ve always wanted to be a general. I’ll come in under those circumstances.”

Homer said, his voice still even. “That’s out. From this point in, you’re a Field Marshal and Minister of Defense.”

“Shucks,” Bey said. “I’d always wanted to be a general.”

Homer Crawford said dryly, “Doesn’t anybody take this seriously? It’s probably going to mean all your necks before it’s through, you know.”

Elmer Allen said dourly, “I take it seriously. I spent the idealistic years, the school years, working for peace, democracy, a better world. Now, here I am, helping to attempt to establish a tyranny over half the continent of my racial background. But I’m in.”

“Right,” Homer said, the side of his mouth twitching. “You can be our Minister of Propaganda.”

“Minister of Propaganda!” Elmer wailed. “You mean like Goebbels? Me!”

Homer laughed. “O.K., we’ll call it Minister of Information, or Press Secretary to El Hassan. It all means the same thing.” He looked at Jacob Armstrong and said, “How old are you, Jake?”

“That’s none of your business,” the white-haired Jake said aggressively. “I’m in. El Hassan is the only answer. North Africa has got to be united, both for internal and external purposes. If you—if we—don’t do the job first, somebody else will, and offhand, I can’t think of anybody else I trust. I’m in.”

Homer Crawford looked at him for a long moment “Yes,” he said finally. “Of course you are. Jake, you’ve just been made our combined Foreign Minister and Plenipotentiary Extraordinary to the Reunited Nations. You’ll leave immediately, first for Geneva, to present our demands to the Reunited Nations, then to New York.”

“What do I do in New York?” Jake Armstrong said blankly, trying to assimilate the curves that were being thrown to him.

“You raise money and support from starry-eyed Negro groups and individuals. You line up such organizations as the Africa for Africans Association behind El Hassan. You give speeches, and ruin your liver eating at banquets every night in the week. You send out releases to the press. You get all the publicity for the El Hassan movement you can. You send official protests to the governments of every country in the world every time they do something that doesn’t fit in with our needs. You locate recruits and send them here to Africa to take over some of the load. I don’t have to tell you what to do. You can think on your feet as well as I can. Do what is necessary. You’re our Foreign Minister. Don’t let us see your face again until El Hassan is in control of North Africa.”

Jake Armstrong blinked. “How will I prove I’m your representative? I’ll need more than just a note To Whom It May Concern.”

Homer Crawford thought about that.

Bey said, “One of our first jobs is going to have to be to capture a town where they have a broadcast station, say Zinder or In Salah. When we do, we’ll announce that you’re Foreign Minister.”

Crawford nodded. “That’s obviously the ticket. By that time you should be in New York, with an office opened.”

Jake rubbed a black hand over his cheek as though checking his morning shave. “It’s going to take some money to get started. Once started I can depend on contributions, perhaps, but at first…”

Homer interrupted with, “Cliff, you’re Minister of the Treasury. Raise some money.”

“Eh?” Cliff Jackson said blankly. The king-size, easygoing Californian looked more like the early Joe Louis than ever.

Everybody laughed. Elmer Allen came forth with his wallet and began pulling out such notes as it contained. “I don’t know what we’d be doing with this in the desert,” he said.

Isobel said, “I have almost three thousand dollars in a checking account in New York. Let’s see if I have my checkbook here.”

The others were going through their pockets. As bank notes in British pounds, American dollars, French francs and Common Europe marks emerged they were tossed to the center of the small table which wobbled on three legs in the middle of the room.

Elmer Allen said, “I have an account with the Bank of Jamaica in Kingston. About four hundred pounds, I think. I’ll have it transferred.”

Cliff took up the money and began counting it, making notations on a notebook pad as he went.

Bey said, “We’re only going to be able to give Jake part of this.”

“Hows’ that?” Elmer growled. “What use have we for money in the Sahara? Jake’s got to put up a decent front in Geneva and New York.”

Bey said doggedly, “As Defense Minister, I’m opposed to El Hassan’s followers ever taking anything without generous payment. We’ll need food and various services. From the beginning, we’re going to have to pay our way. We can’t afford to let rumors start going around that we’re nothing but a bunch of brigands.”

“Bey’s right,” Homer nodded. “The El Hassan movement is going to have to maintain itself on the highest ethical level. We’re going to take over where the French Camel Corps left off and police North Africa. There can’t be a man from Somaliland to Mauretania who can say that one of El Hassan’s followers liberated from him as much as a date.”

Kenny Ballalou said, “You can always requisition whatever you need and give them a receipt, and then we’ll pay off when we come to power.”

“That’s out!” Bey snapped. “Most of these people can’t read. And even those that do don’t trust what they read. A piece of paper, in their eyes, is no return for some goats, or flour, camels, horses, or whatever else it might be we need. No, we’re going to have to pay our way.”

Crawford raked a hand back through his wiry hair. “Bey’s right, Kenny. It’s going to be a rough go, especially at first.”

Kenny snorted. “What do you mean, at first? What’s going to happen at second to make it any easier? Where’re we going to get all this money we’ll need to pay for even what we ourselves use, not to speak of the thousands of men we’re going to have to have if El Hassan is ever to come to power?”

Bey’s eyebrows went up in shocked innocence. “Kenny, dear boy, don’t misunderstand. We don’t requisition anything from individuals, or clans, or small settlements. But if we take over a town such as Gao, or Niamey, or Colomb-Béchar, or wherever, there is nothing to say that a legal government such as that of El Hassan can’t requisition the contents of the local banks.”

Homer Crawford said with dignity, “The term, my dear Minister of Defense, currently is to nationalize the bank. Whether or not we wish to have the banks remain nationalized, after we take over, we can figure out later. But in the early stages, I’m afraid we’re going to have to nationalize just about every bank we come in contact with.”

Cliff Jackson said cautiously, “I haven’t said whether or not I’ll come in yet, but just as a point, I might mention issuing your own legal tender. As soon as you liberate a printing press somewhere, of course.”

Everone was charmed at the idea.

Isobel said, “You can see Cliff was meant to be Minister of Treasury. He’s got wholesale larceny in his soul, none of this picayunish stuff such as robbing nomads of their sheep.”

Elmer Allen was shaking his head sadly. “This whole conversation started with Bey protesting that we couldn’t allow ourselves to be thought of as brigands. Now listen to you all.”

Kenny Ballalou said with considerable dignity, “See here, friend. Don’t you know the difference between brigandage and international finance?”

“No,” Elmer said flatly.

“Hm-m-m,” Kenny said.

“Let’s get on with this,” Homer said. “The forming of El Hassan’s basic government is beginning to take on aspects of a minstrel show. Then we’ve all declared ourselves in … except Cliff.”

All eyes turned to the bulky Californian.

He sat scowling.

Homer said easily, “You’re not being urged, Cliff. You can turn back at this point.”

Elmer Allen growled, “You came to Africa to help your race develop its continent. To conquer such problems as sufficient food, clothing and shelter for all. To bring education and decent medical care to a people who have had possibly the lowest living standards anywhere. Can you see any way of achieving this beyond the El Hassan movement?”

Cliff looked at him, still scowling stubbornly. “That’s not why I came to Africa.”

Their eyes were all on him, but they remained silent.

He said, defensively, “I’m no do-gooder. I took a job with the Africa for Africans Association because it was the best job I could find.”

Isobel broke the silence by saying softly, “I doubt it, Cliff.”

The big man stood up from where he’d been seated on the bed. “O.K., O.K. Possibly there were other angles. I wanted to travel. Wanted to see Africa. Besides, it was good background for some future job. I figured it wouldn’t hurt me any, in later years, applying for some future job. Maybe with some Negro concern in the States. I’d be able to say I’d put in a few years in Africa. Something like a Jew in New York who was a veteran of the Israel-Arab wars, before the debacle.”

They still looked at him, none of them accusingly.

He was irritated as he paced. “Don’t you see? Everybody doesn’t have this dream that Homer’s always talking about. That doesn’t mean I’m abnormal. I just don’t have the interest you do. All I want is a good job, some money in the bank, security back in the States. I’m not interested in dashing all over the globe, getting shot at, dying for some ideal.”

Homer said gently, “It’s up to you, Cliff. Nobody’s twisting your arm.”

There was sweat on the big man’s forehead. “All I came to Africa for was the job, the money I got out of it,” he repeated, insisting.

To Homer Crawford suddenly came the realization that the other needed an out, an excuse, an explanation to himself for doing something he wanted to do but wouldn’t admit because it went against the opportunistic code he told himself he followed.

Homer said, “All right. How much are you making as a field worker for the Africa for Africans Association?”

Cliff looked at him, uncomprehending. “Eight thousand dollars, plus expenses.”

“O.K., we’ll double that. Sixteen thousand to begin with, as El Hassan’s Minister of Treasury and whatever other duties we can think of to hang on you.”

There was a long moment of silence, unbroken by any of the others. Finally in a gesture of desperation, Cliff Jackson waved at the money and checks sitting on the center table. “Sixteen thousand a year! The whole organization doesn’t have enough to pay me six months’ salary.”

Homer said mildly, “That’s why your pay was doubled. You have to take risks to make money in this world, Cliff. If El Hassan does come to power, undoubtedly you’ll get other raises—along with greater responsibility.”

He looked into Cliff Jackson’s face, and although his words had dealt with money, a man’s dream looked out from his eyes. And the force of personality that could emanate from Homer Crawford, possibly unbeknownst to himself, flooded over the huge Californian. The others in the room could feel it. Elmer Allen cleared his throat; Isobel held her elbows to her sides, in a feminine protest against naked male psychic strength.

Kenny Ballalou said without inflection, “Put up or shut up, Cliff old pal.”

Cliff Jackson sank back onto the spot on the bed he’d occupied before. “I’m in,” he muttered, so softly as hardly to be heard.

“None of you are in,” a voice from the doorway said.

The figure that stood there held a thin but heavy-calibered automatic in his hand.

He was a dapper man, neat, trim, smart. His clothes were those of Greater Washington, rather than Dakar and West Africa. His facial expression seemed overly alert, overly bright, and his features were more Caucasian than Negroid.

He said, “I believe you all know me. Fredric Ostrander.”

“Of the Central Intelligence Agency,” Homer Crawford said dryly. He as well as Bey, Elmer and Kenny had risen to their feet when the newcomer entered from the smaller of the hut’s two rooms. “What’s the gun for, Ostrander?”

“You’re under arrest,” the C.I.A. man said evenly.

Elmer Allen snorted. “Under whose authority are you working? As a Jamaican, I’m a citizen of the West Indies and a subject of Her Majesty.”

“We’ll figure that out later,” Ostrander rapped. “I’m sure the appropriate Commonwealth authorities will cooperate with the State Department and the Reunited Nations in this matter.” The gun unwaveringly went from one of them to the other, then retraced itself.

Bey looked at Homer Crawford.

Crawford shook his head gently.

He said to the newcomer, “The question still stands, Ostrander. Under whose authority are you operating? I don’t think you have jurisdiction over us. We’re in Africa, not in the United States of the Americas.”

Ostrander said tightly, “Right now I’m operating under the authority of this weapon in my hand, Dr. Crawford. Do you realize that all of you Americans here are risking your citizenship?”

Kenny Ballalou said, “Oh? Tell us more, Mr. State Department man.”

“You’re serving in the armed forces of a foreign power.”

Even the dour Elmer Allen laughed at that one.

Crawford said, “The fact of the matter is, we are the foreign power.”

“You’re not amusing, Dr. Crawford,” Ostrander said. “I’ve kept up with this situation since you had that conference in Timbuktu. The State Department has no intention of allowing some opportunist, backed by known communists and fellow travelers, to seize power in this portion of the world. In a matter of months the Soviets would be in here.”

Isobel said evenly, “I was formerly a member of the Party. I no longer am. I am an active opponent of the Soviet Complex at the moment, especially in regard to its activity in Africa.”

Ostrander snorted his disbelief.

Elmer Allen said, “You chaps never forget, do you?” He looked at the others and explained. “Back during college days, I signed a few peace petitions, that sort of thing. Ever since, every time I come in contact with these people, you’d think I was Lenin or Trotsky.”

Homer Crawford said, “My opinion is, Ostrander, that you’ve had to move too quickly to check back with your superiors. Has the State Department actually instructed you to arrest me and my companions here on foreign soil, without a warrant?”

Ostrander clipped, “That’s my responsibility. I’m taking you all in. We’ll solve such problems as jurisdiction and warrants when I get you to the Reunited Nations headquarters.”

“Ah?” Homer Crawford said. “And then what happens to us?”

Ostrander jiggled the gun impatiently. “Sven Zetterberg is of the opinion that you should immediately be flown out of Africa and the case be brought before the High Council of the African Development Project. What measures will be taken beyond that point I have no way of knowing.”

Bey took a step to the left, Kenny Ballalou one to the right. Homer Crawford remained immediately before the C.I.A. operative, his hands slightly out from his sides, palms slightly forward.

Ostrander snapped, “I’m prepared to fire, you men. I don’t underestimate the importance of this situation. If your crazy scheme makes any progress at all, it might well result in the death of thousands. I know your background, Crawford. You once taught judo in the Marines. I’m not unfamiliar with the art myself.”

Isobel had a hand to her mouth, her eyes were wide. “Boys, don’t…” she began.

Elmer Allen had been leaning on his pilgrim’s staff, as though weary with this whole matter. He said to Ostrander, interestedly, “So you’ve been checked out on judo? Know anything about the use of the quarterstaff?”

Ostrander kept his gun traversing between the four of them. “Eh?” he said.

Elmer Allen shifted his grip on his staff infinitesimally. Of a sudden the end of the staff, now gripped with both hands near the center, moved at invisibly high speed. There was a crack of the wrist bone, and the gun went flying. The other end of the staff flicked out and rapped the C.I.A. operative smartly on the head.

Fredric Ostrander crumpled to the floor.

“Confound it, Elmer,” Crawford said. “What’d you have to go and do that for? I wanted to talk to him some more and send a message back to Zetterberg. Sooner or later we’ve got to make our peace with the Reunited Nations.”

Elmer said embarrassedly, “Sorry, it just happened. I was merely going to knock the gun out of his hand, but then I couldn’t help myself. I was tired of hearing that holier-than-thou voice of his.”

Kenny Ballalou looked down at the fallen man gloomily. “He’ll be out for an hour. You’re lucky you didn’t crack his skull.”

“Holy mackerel,” Cliff Jackson said. “I’m going to have to learn to operate one of those things.”

Elmer Allen handed him the supposed pilgrim’s staff. “Best hand-to-hand combat weapon ever invented,” he said. “The British yeoman’s quarterstaff. Of course, this is a modernized version. Made of epoxy resin glass-fiber material, treated to look like wood. That stuff can turn a high-velocity bullet, let alone a sword, and it can be bent in a ninety degree arc without the slightest effect, although it’d take a power-driven testing machine to do it.”

“All right, all right,” Homer said. “We haven’t got time for lessons in the use of the quarterstaff. Let’s put some thought to this situation. If Ostrander here was able to find us, somebody else would, too.”

Isobel licked the side of her mouth. “He was probably following me. Remember, I told you, Homer?”

Kenny said, “If he had anyone with him, he’d have brought them along to cover him. You’ve got to give him credit for bravery, taking on the whole bunch of us by himself.”

“Um-m-m,” Homer said. “I wish he was with us instead of against us.”

Jake Armstrong said, “Well, this solves one problem.”

They looked at him.

He said, “Just as sure as sure, he’s got a car parked somewhere. A car with some sort of United States or Reunited Nations emblem on it.”

“So what?” Kenny said.

“So you’ve got to get out of town before the search for you really gets under way. With such a car, you can get past any roadblock that might already be up between here and the Yoff airport.”

Elmer Allen had sunk to his knees and was searching the fallen C.I.A. man. He came up with car keys and a wallet.

Homer said to Jake Armstrong, “Why the Yoff airport?”

“Our plane is there,” Jake told him. “The one assigned Isobel, Cliff and me by the AFAA. You’re going to have to make time. Get somewhere out in the ah, boondocks, where you can begin operations.”

Bey said thoughtfully, “He’s right, Homer. Anybody against us, like our friend here”—he nodded at Ostran-der—“is going to try to get us quick, before we can get the El Hassan movement under way. We’ve got to get out of Dakar and into some area where they’ll have their work cut out trying to locate us.”

Homer Crawford accepted their council. “O.K., let’s get going. Jake, you’ll stay in Dakar, and at first play innocent. As soon as possible, take a plane for Geneva. A soon as you’re there, send out press releases to all the news associations and the larger papers. Announce yourself as Foreign Minister of El Hassan and demand that he be recognized as the legal head of state of all North Africa.”

“Wow,” Cliff Jackson said.

“Then play it by ear,” Homer finished.

He turned to the others. “Bey, where’d you leave our two hover-lorries when you came here to Dakar?”

“Stashed away in the ruins of a former mansion in Timbuktu. Hired two Songhai to watch them.”

“O.K. Cliff, you’re the only one in European dress. Take this wallet of Ostrander’s. You’ll drive the car. If we run into any roadblocks between here and the Yoff airport, slow down a little and hold the wallet out to show your supposed identification. They won’t take the time to check the photo. Bluff your way past, don’t completely stop the car.”

“What happens if they do stop us?” Cliff said worriedly.

Kenny Ballalou said, “That’ll be just too bad for them.” Bey stooped and scooped up the fallen automatic of Fredric Ostrander and tucked it into the voluminous folds of his native robe. “Here we go again,” he said.