Border, Breed Nor Birth

III

The man, whose undercover name was Anton, landed at Gibraltar in a BEA roco-jet, passed quickly through customs and immigration with his Commonwealth passport and made his way into town. He checked with a Bobby and found that he had a two-hour wait until the Mons Capa ferry left for Tangier, and spent the time wandering up and down Main Street, staring into the Indian shops with their tax-free cameras from Common Europe, textiles from England, optical equipment from Japan, and cheap souvenirs from everywhere. Gibraltar, the tourist’s shopping paradise.

The trip between Gibraltar and Tangier takes approximately two hours. If you’ve never made it before, you stand on deck and watch Spain recede behind you and Africa loom closer. This was where Hercules supposedly threw up his Pillars, Gibraltar being the one on the European shore. Those who have made the trip again and again sit down in the bar and enjoy the tax-free prices. The man named Anton stood on the deck. He was African by birth, but he’d never been to Morocco before.

When he landed, he made the initial error of expecting the local citizenry to speak Arabic. They didn’t. Rif, a Berber tongue, was the first language. The man called Anton had to speak French to make known his needs. He took a Chico cab up from the port to the El Minza hotel, immediately off the Plaza de France, the main square of the European section.

At the hotel entrance were two jet-black doormen attired in a pseudo-Moroccan costume of red fez, voluminous pants and yellow barusha slippers. They made no note of his complexion; there is no color bar in the Islamic world.

He had reservations at the desk. He left his passport there to go through the standard routine, including being checked by the police, had his bag sent up to his room and, a few minutes later, hands nonchalantly in pockets, strolled along the Rue de Liberté toward the casbah area of the medina. Up from the native section of town streamed hordes of costumed Rifs, Arabs, Berbers of a dozen tribes, even an occasional Blue Man. At least half the women still wore the haik and veil, half the men the burnoose. Africa changes slowly, the man called Anton admitted to himself all over again—so slowly.

Down from the European section, which could have been a Californian city, filtered every nation of the West, from every section of Common Europe, the Americas, the Soviet Complex. If any city in the world is a melting pot it is Tangier, where Africa meets Europe and where East meets West.

He passed through the teaming Grand Zocco market and through the gates of the old city. He took Rue Singhalese, the only street in the medina wide enough to accommodate a vehicle, and went almost as far as the Zocco Chico, once considered the most notorious square in the world.

For a moment the man called Anton stood before one of the Indian shops and stared at the window’s contents: carved ivory statuettes from the Far East, cameras from Japan, ebony figurines, chess sets of water jade, gimcracks from everywhere.

A Hindu stood in the doorway and rubbed his hands in a gesture so stereotyped as to be ludicrous. “Sir, would you like to enter my shop? I have amazing bargains.”

The man they called Anton entered.

He looked about the shop, otherwise empty of customers. Vaguely he wondered if the other ever sold anything and, if so, to whom.

He said, “I was looking for an ivory elephant, from the East.”

The Indian’s eyebrows rose. “A white elephant?”

“A red elephant,” the man called Anton said.

“In here,” the Hindu said evenly, and led the way to the rear.

The rooms beyond were comfortable but not ostentatious. They passed through a livingroom-study to an office beyond. The door was open and the Indian merely gestured in the way of introduction, then left.

Kirill Menzhinsky, agent superior of the Chrezvychainaya Komissiya for North Africa, looked up from his desk, smiled his pleasure, came to his feet and held out his hand.

“Anton!” he said. “I’ve been expecting you.”

The man they called Anton smiled honestly and shook. “Kirill,” he said. “It’s been a long time.”

The other motioned to a comfortable armchair and resumed his own seat. “It’s been a long time all right¯almost five years. As I recall, I was slung over your shoulder, and you were wading through those confounded swamps. The …”

“The Everglades.”

“Yes.” The heavy-set Russian espionage chief chuckled. “You are much stronger than you look, Anton. As I recall, I ordered you to abandon me.”

The wiry Negro grunted deprecation. “You were delirious from your wound.”

The Russian came to his feet, turned his back and went to a small improvised bar. He said, his voice low, “No, Anton, I wasn’t delirious. Perhaps a bit afraid, but then the baying of dogs is disconcerting.”

The man they called Anton said, “It is all over now.”

The Russian returned and said, “A drink, Anton? As I recall you were never the man to refuse a drink. Scotch, bourbon, vodka?”

The other shrugged. “I believe in drinking the local product. What is the beverage of Tangier?”

Kirill Menzhinsky took up a full bottle the contents of which had a greenish, somewhat oily tinge. “Absinthe,” he said. “Guaranteed to turn your brains to mush if you take it long enough. What was the name of that French painter?”

“Toulouse-Lautrec,” Anton supplied. “I thought the stuff was illegal these days.” He watched the other add water to the potent liqueur.

The Russian chuckled. “Nothing is illegal in Tangier, my dear Anton, except the Party.” He laughed at his own joke and handed the other his glass. He poured himself a jolt of vodka and returned to his chair. “To the world revolution, Anton.”

The Negro saluted with his drink. “The revolution!”

They drank.

The Russian put down his glass and sighed. “I wish we were someplace in our own lands, Anton. Dinner, many drinks, perhaps some girls, eh?”

Anton shrugged. “Another time, Kirill.”

“Yes. As it is, we should not be seen together. Nor, for that matter, should you even return here. The imperialists are not stupid. Very possibly, American and Common Europe espionage agents know of this headquarters. Not to speak of the Arab Union. I shall try to give you the whole story and your assignment in this next half-hour. Then you should depart immediately.”

The man they called Anton sipped his drink and relaxed in his chair. He looked at his superior without comment.

The Russian took another jolt of his water-clear drink. “Have you ever heard of El Hassan?”

The Negro thought a moment before saying, “Vaguely. Evidently an Arab, or possibly a Tuareg. North African nationalist. No, that wouldn’t be the word, since he is international. At any rate, he seems to be drawing a following in the Sahara and as far south as the Sudan. Backs modernization and wants unity of all North Africa. Is he connected with the Party?”

The espionage chief was shaking his head. “That is the answer I expected you to give, and is approximately what anyone else would have said. Actually, there is no such person as El Hassan.”

Anton frowned. “I’m afraid you’re wrong there, Kirill. I’ve heard about him in half a dozen places. Very mysterious figure. Nobody seems to have seen him, but word of his program is passed around from Ethiopia to Mauretania.”

The Russian was shaking his head negatively. “That I know. It’s a rather strange story and one rather hard to believe if it wasn’t for the fact that one of my operatives was in on the ah, manufacturing of this Saharan leader.”

“Manufacturing?”

“I’ll give you the details later. Were you acquainted with Abraham Baker, the American comrade?”

“Were? I am acquainted with him. Abe is a friend as well as a comrade.”

The Russian hook his head again. “Baker is dead, Anton. As you possibly know, his assignment for the past few years has been with a Reunited Nations African Development Project team, working in the Sahara region. We planted him there expecting the time to arrive when his services would be of considerable value. He worked with a five-man team headed by a Dr. Homer Crawford, and largely the team’s task was to eliminate bottlenecks that developed as the various modernization projects spread over the desert.”

“But what’s this got to do with manufacturing El Hassan?”

“I’m coming to that. Crawford’s team, including Comrade Baker, usually disguised themselves as Enadeu smiths. As such, their opinions carried little weight, so in order to spread Reunited Nations propaganda they hit upon the idea of imputing everything they said to this great hero of the desert, El Hassan.”

“I see,” the man called Anton said.

“Others, without knowing the origin of our El Hassan, took up the idea and spread it. These nomads are at an ethnic level where they want a hero to follow, a leader. So in order to give prestige to their teachings the various organizations trying to advance North Africa followed in Crawford’s footsteps and attributed their teachings to this mysterious El Hassan.”

“And it snowballed.”

“Correct! But the point is that after a time Crawford came around to the belief that there should be a real El Hassan. That the primary task at this point is to unite the area, to break down the old tribal society and introduce the populace to the new world.”

“He’s probably right,” the man called Anton growled.

He finished his drink, got up from his chair and on his own went over and mixed another. “More vodka?” he asked.

“Please.” The Russian held up his glass and went on talking. “Yes, undoubtedly that is what is needed at this point. As it is, things are trending toward a collapse. The imperialists, especially the Americans, of course, wish to dominate the area for their capitalistic purposes. The Arab Union wishes to take over in toto and make it part of their Islamic world. We, of course, cannot afford to let either succeed.”

The Negro resumed his chair and sipped at his drink and listened, nodding from time to time.

Kirill Menzhinsky said, “As you know, Marx and Engels when founding scientific socialism had no expectation that their followers would first come to power in such backward countries as the Russia of 1917 or the China of 1949. In fact, the establishment of true socialism presupposes a highly developed industrial economy. It is simply impossible without such an economy. When Lenin came to power in 1917, as a result of the chaotic conditions that prevailed upon the military collapse of Imperial Russia, he had no expectation of going it alone, as the British would say. He expected immediate revolutions in such countries as Germany and France and supposed that these more advanced countries would then come to the assistance of the Soviet Union and all would advance together to true socialism.”

“It didn’t work out that way,” the man called Anton said dryly.

“No, it didn’t. And Lenin didn’t live to see the steps that Stalin would take in order to build the necessary industrial base in Russia.” Kirill Menzhinsky looked about the room, almost as though checking to see if anyone else were listening. “Some of our more unorthodox theoreticians are inclined to think that had Lenin survived the assassin’s bullet, Comrade Stalin would have found it necessary to, ah, liquidate him.”

The Russian cleared his throat. “Be that as it may, basic changes were made in Marxist teachings to fit into Stalin’s and later Khrushchev’s new concepts of the worker’s State. And the Soviet Union muddled through, as the British have it. Today, the Soviet Complex is as powerful as the imperialist powers.”

The espionage leader knocked back his vodka with a practiced stiff-wristed motion. “Which brings us to the present and to North Africa.” He leaned forward in emphasis. “Comrade, if the past half-century and more has taught us anything, it is that you cannot establish socialism in a really backward country. In short, communism is impossible in North Africa at this point in her social evolution. Impossible. You cannot go directly from tribal society to communism. At this historic point, there is no place for the party’s program in North Africa.”

The man called Anton scowled.

The Russian waggled his hand negatively. “Yes, yes. I know. Ultimately, the whole world must become Soviet. Only that way will we achieve our eventual goal. But that is the long view. Realistically, we must face it, as the Yankees say. This area is not at present soil for our seed.”

“Things move fast these days,” the Negro growled. “Industrialization, education, can be a geometric progression.”

His superior nodded emphatically. “Of course, and as little as ten or fifteen years from now, given progress at the present rate, perhaps there will be opportunity for our movement. But now? No.”

The other said, “What has all this to do with El Hassan, or Crawford, or whatever the man’s name is?”

“Yes,” the Russian said. “Homer Crawford has evidently decided to become El Hassan.”

“Ahhh.”

“Yes. At this point, in short, he is traveling in our direction. He is doing what we realize must be done.”

“Then we will support him?”

“Now we come to the point, Anton. Homer Crawford is not sympathetic to the Party. To the contrary. Our suspicion, although we have no proof, is that he killed Comrade Abe Baker when Baker approached him on his stand in regard to the Party’s long view.”

“I see,” the man called Anton said.

The Russian nodded. “We must keep in some sort of touch with him—some sort of control. If this El Hassan realizes his scheme and unites all North Africa, sooner or later we will have to deal with him. If he is antagonistic, we will have to find means to liquidate him.”

“And my assignment?”

“He will be gathering followers at this point. Many followers, most of whom will be unknown to him. You will become one of them. Raise yourself to as high a rank as you find possible in his group. Become a close friend, if that can be done.”

“He killed Abe Baker, eh?”

The Russian frowned. “This is an assignment, Comrade Anton. There is no room for personal feelings. You are a good field man. Among the best. You are being given this task because the Party feels you are the man for it. Possibly it is an assignment that will take years in the fulfilling.”

The Negro said nothing.

“Are there any questions?”

“Do we have any other operatives working on this?”

The frown became a scowl. “An Isobel Cunningham worked with Comrade Baker, but it has been suspected that she has been drifting away from the Party these past few years. Her present status is unknown, but she is believed to be with Homer Crawford and his followers. Possibly she has defected. If so, you will take whatever measures seem necessary. You will be working almost completely on your own, Comrade. You must think on your feet, as the Yankees say.”

The man called Anton thought a moment. He said, “You’d better give me as thorough a rundown as possible on this Homer Crawford and his immediate followers.”

Menzhinsky settled back in his chair and took up a sheaf of papers from the desk. “We have fairly complete dossiers. I’ll give you the highlights, then you can take these with you to your hotel to study at leisure.”

He took up the first sheet. “Homer Crawford. Born in Detroit of working-class parents. In his late teens interrupted his education to come to Africa where he joined elements of the F.L.N. in Morocco and took part in several forays into Algeria. Evidently was wounded and invalided back to the States where he resumed his education. When he came of military age, he joined the Marine Corps and spent the usual, ah, hitch I believe they call it. Following that, he resumed his education, finally taking a doctor’s degree in sociology. He then taught for a time until the Reunited Nations began its African porgram. He accepted a position, and soon distinguished himself.”

The Russian took up another paper. “According to Comrade Baker’s reports, Crawford is an outstanding personality, dominating others, even in spite of himself. He would make a top Party man. Idealistic, strong, clever, ruthless when ruthlessness is called for.”

Menzhinsky paused for a moment, finding words hard to come by from an ultra-materialist. His tone went wry. “Comrade Baker also reported a somewhat mystical quality in our friend Crawford. An ability in times of emotional crisis to break down men’s mental barriers against him. A force that…”

The other raised his eyebrows.

His superior chuckled ruefully. “Comrade Baker was evidently much swayed by the man’s personality. However, Anton, I might point out that similar reports have come down to us of such a dominating personality in Lenin, and, to a lesser degree, in Stalin.” He twisted his mouth. “History leads us to believe that such personalities as Jesus and Mohammed seemed to have some power beyond that of we more mundane types.”

“And the others?” Anton said.

The Russian took up still another paper. “Elmer Allen. Born of small farmer background on the outskirts of Kingston, on the island of Jamaica. Managed to work his way through the University of Kingston where he took a master’s degree in sociology. At one time he was thought to be Party material and was active in several organizations that held social connotations, pacifist groups and so forth. However, he was never induced to join the Party. Upon graduation, he immediately took employment with the Reunited Nations and was assigned to Homer Crawford’s team. He is evidently in accord with Crawford’s aims as El Hassan.”

The espionage chief took up another sheet. “Bey-ag-Akhamouk…”

The other scowled. “That can’t be an American name.”

“No. He is the only real African associated with Crawford at this point. He was evidently born a Taureg and taken to the States at an early age, three or four, by a missionary. At any rate, he was educated at the University of Minnesota where he studied political science. We have no record of where he stands politically, but Comrade Baker rated him as an outstanding intuitiver soldier. A veritable genius in combat. He would seem to have had military experience somewhere, but we have no record of it. Our Bey-ag-Akhamouk seems somewhat of a mystery man.”

The Russian sorted out another sheet. “Kenneth Ballalou, born in Louisiana, educated in Chicago. Another young man but evidently as capable as the others. He seems to be quite a linguist. So far as we know, he holds no political stand whatsoever.”

Menzhinsky pursed his lips before saying, “The Isobel Cunningham I mentioned worked with the Africa for Africans Association with two colleagues, a Jacob Armstrong and Clifford Jackson. It is possible that these two, as well as Isobel Cunningham, have joined El Hassan. If so, we will have to check further upon them, although I understand Armstrong is rather elderly and hardly effective under the circumstances.”

The man called Anton said evenly, “And this former comrade, Isobel Cunningham, has evidently joined with Crawford even though he … was the cause of Abe Baker’s death?”

“Evidently.”

The Negro’s eyes narrowed.

The other said, “And evidently she is a most intelligent and attractive young lady. We had rather high hopes for her formerly.”

The Negro Party member came to his feet and gathered up the sheaf of papers from the desk. “All right,” he said. “Is there anything else?”

The espionage chief shook his head. “You do not need a step-by-step blueprint, Anton, that is why you have been chosen for this assignment. You are strongly based in party doctrine. You know what is needed, we can trust you to carry on the Party’s aims.” After a pause, the Russian added, “Without being diverted by personal feelings.”

Anton looked him in the face. “Of course,” he said.

Fredric Ostrander was on the carpet.

His chief said, “You seem to have conducted yourself rather precipitately, Fred.”

Ostrander shrugged in irritation. “I didn’t have time to consult anyone. By pure luck, I spotted the Cunningham girl and since I knew she had affiliated herself with Crawford, I followed her.”

The chief said dryly, “And tried to arrest the seven of them, all by yourself.”

“I couldn’t see anything else to do.”

The C.I.A. official said, “In the first place, we have no legal jurisdiction here and you could have caused an international stink. The Russkies would just love to bring something like this onto the Reunited Nations floor. In the second place, you failed. How in the world did you expect to take on that number of men, especially Crawford and his team?”

Ostrander flushed his irritation. “Next time …” he began.

His chief waved a hand negatively. “Let’s hope there isn’t going to be next time, of this type.” He took up a paper from his desk. “Here’s your new job, Fred. You’re to locate this El Hassan and keep in continual contact with him. If he meets with any sort of success at all, and frankly our agency doubts that he will, you will attempt to bring home to Crawford and his followers the fact that they are Americans, and orientate them in the direction of the West. Above all, you are to keep in touch with us and keep us informed on all developments. Especially notify us if there is any sign that our El Hassan is in communication with the Russkies or any other foreign element.”

“Right,” Ostrander said.

His chief looked at him. “We’re giving you this job, Fred, because you’re more up on it than anyone else. You’re in at the beginning, so to speak. Now, do you want me to assign you a couple of assistants?”

“White men?” Ostrander said.

His higher-up scowled. “You know you’re the only Negro in our agency, Fred.”

Fredric Ostrander, his voice still even, said, “That’s too bad, because anyone you assigned me who wasn’t a Negro would be a hindrance rather than an assistant.”

The other drummed his fingers on the table in irritation. He said suddenly, “Fred, do you think I ought to do a report to Greater Washington suggesting they take more Negro operatives into the agency?”

Ostrander said dryly, “You’d better if this department is going to get much work done in Africa.” He stood up. “I suppose that the sooner I get onto the job, the better. Do you have any idea at all where Crawford and his gang headed after they left me unconscious in that filthy hut?”

“No, we haven’t the slightest idea of where they might be, other than that they left your car abandoned at the Yoff airport.”

“Oh, great,” Fredric Ostrander complained. “They’ve gone into hiding in an area somewhat twice the size of the original fifty United States.”

“Good luck,” his chief said.

Rex Donaldson, formerly of Nassau in the British Bahamas, formerly of the College of Anthropology, Oxford, now field man for the African Department of the British Commonwealth working at expediting native development, was taking time out for needed and unwonted relaxation. In fact, he stretched out on his back in the most comfortable bed, in the most comfortable hotel, in the Niger town of Mopti. His hands were behind his head, and his eyes were on the ceiling.

He was a small, bent man, inordinately black even for the Sudan, and the loincloth costume he wore was ludicrous in the Westernized comfort of the hotel room.

He was attired for the bush and knew that it was sheer laziness now that kept him from taking off for the Dogon country of the Canton de Sangha where he was currently working to bring down tribal prejudices against the coming of the schools. He had his work cut out for him in the Dogon; the old men, the tribal elders they called Hogons, instinctively knew that the coming of education meant subversion of their institutions and the eventual loss of Hogon power.

His portable communicator, sitting on the bedside table, buzzed. The little man grumbled a profanity and swung his crooked legs around to the floor. His eyebrows went up when he realized it was a priority call, which probably meant from London.

He flicked the reception switch and a girl’s face faded onto the screen. She said, “A moment, Mr. Donaldson, Sir Winton wants you.”

“Right,” Rex Donaldson said. Sir Winton, yet. Head of the African Department. Other than photographs, Donaldson had never seen his ultimate superior, not to mention speaking to him personally.

The girl’s face faded out and that of Sir Winton Brett-Homes faded in. The heavy-set, heavy-faced Englishman looked down, obviously checking something on his desk. He looked up again, said, “Rex Donaldson?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I won’t waste time on preliminaries, Donaldson. We’ve been discussing, here, some of the disconcerting rumors coming out of your section. Are you acquainted with this figure, El Hassan?”

The black man’s eyes widened. He said, cautiously, “I have heard a good many stories and rumors.”

“Yes, of course. They have been filtering into this office for more than a year. But thus far little that could be considered concrete has developed.”

Rex Donaldson held his peace, waiting for the other to go on.

Sir Winton said impatiently, “Actually, we are still dealing with rumors, but they are beginning to shape up. Evidently, this El Hassan has finally begun to move.”

“Ahhh,” the wiry little field man breathed.

The florid-faced Englishman said, “As we understand it, he wishes to cut across tribal, national and geographic divisions in all North Africa, wishes to unite the whole area from Sudan to the Mediterranean.”

“Yes,” Donaldson nodded. “That seems to be his program.”

Sir Winton said, “It has been decided that the interests of Her Majesty’s government and that of the Commonwealth hardly coincide with such an attempt at this time. It would lead to chaos.”

“Ahhh,” Donaldson said.

Sir Winton wound it up, all but beaming. “Your instructions, then, are to seek out this El Hassan and combat his efforts with whatever means you find necessary. We consider you one of our most competent operatives, Donaldson.”

Rex Donaldson said slowly, “You mean that he is to be stopped at all cost?”

The other cleared his throat. “You are given carte blanche, Donaldson. You and our other operatives in the Sahara and Sudan. Stop El Hassan.”

Rex Donaldson said flatly, “You have just received my resignation, Sir Winton.”

“What… what!”

“You heard me,” Donaldson said.

“But … but what are you going to do?” The heavy face of the African Department head was going a reddish-purple, which rather fascinated Donaldson, but he had no time to further contemplate the phenomenon.

“I’m going to round up a few of my colleagues, of similar mind to my own, and then I’m going to join El Hassan,” the little man snapped. “Good-by, Sir Winton.” He clicked the set off and then looked down at it. His dour face broke into a rare grin. “Now there’s an ambition I’ve had for donkey’s years,” he said aloud. “To hang up on a really big mucky-muck.”