The Best Ye Breed

X PAUL KOSLOFF

Paul Kosloff took the supersonic to London and from there a jet to Gibraltar and from there a ferry plane to Tangier. The faint scars from the plastic surgery he had gone through were all healed. He had spent the time that took poring over material on North Africa and what little material they had on El Hassan in the State Department files.

He hadn’t liked what he found about El Hassan. The man was obviously an anti-Marxist and had no intention of being swayed by the Soviet Complex. Kosloff had spent his life fighting Marxism and was now being sent out against another who felt the same way he did.

His was a one-man expedition. So hush-hush was it that only the commissioner who had given him his instructions knew that Kosloff was on his way to forestall El Hassan. It was absolutely imperative that the world never learn that the United States was involved in frustrating a revolution against Marxist regimes. No, he didn’t like it but Paul Kosloff was a dedicated member of the Western team and it wasn’t up to him to formulate policy. He fully realized that on occasion the freest of governments must resort to devious ways, to compromise, to outright Machiavellianism, if it wished to survive. He didn’t like it, but Paul Kosloff wasn’t starry-eyed.

There wasn’t a great deal of traffic between Gibraltar and Tangier. There were only two other passengers, both of them, by their looks, North Africans.

At the Tangier airport, he followed the other two to the administration buildings. He’d never been in this city before, and they seemingly knew their way around. They entered through a metal detection booth. Paul Kosloff wasn’t worried. The only metal he carried was a wristwatch, a small pocketknife and some coins. They passed him through and he went on to the customs counters.

His bags were already there and the raggedly uniformed officials were going through them with minute care. They found nothing that mattered. Paul Kosloff wasn’t silly enough to pass over a border carrying anything suspicious.

Next was the immigration desk and the unshaven official there looked at the passport Paul Kosloff presented, then up into the other’s face.

“Why do you come to Morocco, Mr. Smithson?”

Paul Kosloff, alias Kenneth Smithson, said easily, “Vacation. I’m an amateur historian and I want to check out the theory that the Phoenicians first settled Tangier. I’ll do other sightseeing too, but that’s my big interest.”

The other grunted, stared at him some more, but then took up a rubber stamp and stamped the document and handed it over. “Welcome to the Kingdom of Morocco,” he said.

There were a couple of battered-looking Chico hovercabs in front of the airport. With a ragamuffin carrying his bags, Kosloff approached one. He had his luggage put in the back and sat up next to the driver.

He said, in French, “Take me to the Hotel Kebruk.”

The driver said, “Oui,” dropped the lift lever of the hovercab and they took off.

He had been in North African and Near Eastern towns before and thus was neither surprised nor impressed by the appearance of Tangier. If anything, the city was getting a bit shabbier than usual. Some decades past it had been in the hands of France and what semimodern architecture existed obviously went back to that time. Most of this seemed concentrated in the town’s center, along with governmental office buildings.

But first they had entered through a native district where vehicular traffic was at a minimum; pedestrian, swarming. The sidewalks were jammed and the crowds overflowing into the streets. Some rode or led burdened donkeys and he even spotted two or three camels in the souk area on the outskirts. He reminded himself not to bother going into the souk. He had seen North African markets before and they stank.

All in all, Paul Kosloff decided, a pretty crumby-looking bunch. Even the commies, in the Soviet Complex, were far in advance of this feudalistic, absolute monarchy. How could the advent of an El Hassan make it any the worse?

Eventually, they pulled up before a large hotel that had obviously once been luxurious. It was on the weather-beaten side now. There was a large black in front in what was probably meant to be the costume of the sultan’s guard, or some such. He had a monstrous but phony-looking scimitar in his sash.

There didn’t seem to be any bellhops so Paul Kosloff got out of the cab and brought his bags from the rear. He took the luggage and approached the door. The black opened it for him but didn’t make any motions toward the bags. Who in the hell had decided on this hotel for him? Evidently, somebody who had thought he’d be less conspicuous in such surroundings.

Paul Kosloff approached the reception desk and asked for a small suite. His cover was that he was an American businessman on vacation. He would be expected to be in funds.

His suite, he found, was as run-down as the Hotel Kebruk’s lobby. However, there was hot water and he took his time cleaning up and then brought from one of his bags a tourist guide. The guide went back to the days before the Sultan’s return and to the regime of the International Zone but he assumed that the map it contained was still valid, though possibly they had changed some of the street names, He looked up the boulevard the hotel was on, then traced with his finger to another location.

Well, there was no use putting it off. He slipped the guide into his pocket, reached down into the bag again to emerge with an impressive looking, king-size camera. He hung it around his neck, tourist fashion, and headed for the door.

The boulevard outside was named Pasteur, and this obviously was the best part of town, if any part of present day Tangier would be thought of as best. The pedestrians were largely Europeans. Paul Kosloff stuck his hands in his pockets and sauntered along, once again, tourist fashion. He peered into shop windows, took occasional snapshots. He was obviously in no hurry whatsoever, and obviously had no particular destination.

He could hardly know it but he was duplicating the motions of Serge Sverdlov, not long before.

He took a full hour to assure himself that he wasn’t being followed. He hadn’t expected to be, but you never knew in one of these off-beat dictatorial countries.

He drifted down a narrow street that seemed largely devoted to small shops of a type tourists would frequent looking for souvenirs in North Africa, or bargains in the various products manufactured in the Soviet Complex that were sometimes cheaper in the West, including art objects from China.

He entered one establishment, somewhat larger than most of the others and stared at the display of camel saddles, leather dolls, copperwear and babouche slippers. There was one other customer present and the proprietor was showing her about. She didn’t seem to be any more avid than Paul Kosloff to actually buy something. Finally, she left.

Paul went over to the shop owner and said, “Battista?”

The other was seemingly a late middle-aged Arab, on the fat side, djellabah clad and sporting a bedraggled, gray streaked beard.

He frowned and said, “My name is Mohammed-ben-Abdallah.”

“Your name is Joseph Battista and you’re an American Italian. I was instructed to contact you. I’m Paul Kosloff.”

“Of course. The commissioner informed me you were on your way on tight-beam. Shall we go into the back room?” He turned his head and called out something in Arabic.

A young man of possibly twenty-five entered from a back door. He looked at Paul Kosloff questioningly. The older man spoke to him again in Arabic and he answered and went over and stood in the doorway to the street, as though awaiting customers.

Paul Kosloff followed Joseph Battista into a back room. As soon as the door was closed behind them, he made a motion with his head. “Who’s that?”

“Supposedly my son, actually another of our men.”

There was a very low Arabic-type table in the small room’s center, with hassocks about it. The two men seated themselves.

Paul Kosloff said, “How good is your cover here?”

“Excellent. I’ve been a small shopkeeper in Tangier for nearly twenty years.”

“Good. Did the commissioner tell you what my assignment is?”

“No, but I can guess.”

“Oh, you can, eh? Well, what do you guess?”

“You’ve come to help El Hassan. Who else would they send but the famous Cold War’s Lawrence of Arabia to overthrow the corrupt governments now in North Africa?”

Inwardly, Paul Kosloff winced, but he said, “I’m going to need a .38 Recoilless and a shoulder harness holster, some grenades, a Tracy, an electronic mop and a scrambler. You can provide them?”

“Yes, of course. I have already been instructed.”

He got up and went over to a cabinet and brought forth the articles Paul Kosloff had called for. The troubleshooter came to his feet, shrugged out of his jacket and put on the shoulder holster, under his left arm. He put the recoilless, noiseless gun in it, and drew it twice to see if it was riding correctly. Then he got back into his coat. The electronic mop looked like a pen. He clipped it into his breast pocket. He took off his watch and handed it to Battista and took up the Tracy and put it on his wrist. It looked identical to the other watch but wasn’t. It was a watch, true enough, but also had other qualities.

Battista said, “Why in the world do they call it a Tracy?” He seated himself again.

Kosloff said, adjusting the metal straps, “I understand that in the old days they had a comic strip detective who used a two-way radio that was strapped to the wrist like a watch. This, of course, is more than that. It operates on a tight-beam and can’t be tapped.” He picked up the scrambler, which looked something like a cigarette case and dropped it into a side pocket.

He sat down again too. “Now then, brief me a bit on El Hassan. They don’t have too much on him in Greater Washington.”

“I don’t have much on him either. He keeps on the move, usually accompanied by a half dozen close associates.”

“Where is he now?”

“The last report we had, near Tamanrasset, though there are rumors that he is heading north. You can’t depend upon them. All about El Hassan is rumor.”

“So,” Paul Kosloff mused. “There are a group of them and usually on the move. How could I get in touch?”

“El Hassan has various followers here in Tangier. I can get in contact with them and possibly arrange a meeting for you. They’ll be overjoyed to know that a top operative from Greater Washington is coming to El Hassan’s assistance.” He hesitated before adding, “Undoubtedly, you are in a position to promise finanical aid. Any revolutionary organization can use money.”

“Okay,” Paul Kosloff said. “Locate El Hassan for me. Now one thing. You say he keeps on the move with half a dozen close associates. What would happen to this revolution if El Hassan and these closest colleagues were… eliminated?”

“The revolution would collapse,” Battista said definitely. “They are its heart and soul and brains.”

“I see,” Paul Kosloff said.

“Which brings to mind something I must warn you about,” the other said. “Serge Sverdlov is in Tangier. From what I understand, if you’re the Cold War’s Lawrence of Arabia, he’s sort of a Tito, Castro and Ché Guevara rolled into one. By the way, he’s disguised as a black, which might indicate he is preparing to go into the interior.”

Paul Kosloffs eyes narrowed. “Serge, eh? Yes, I’ve run into Serge on occasion. I thought he was in Indonesia on some commie cloak and dagger assignment or other.”

“Possibly the Kremlin is of the opinion that North Africa takes precedence with this threat of counter-revolution by El Hassan. Most of the police in this part of the world are inexperienced clods. But Serge Sverdlov would have lots of know-how if he devoted himself to reaching El Hassan’s team.”

“Yes,” Paul Kosloff muttered. “If he had to liquidate half of the male population, of the area, Serge would get him. Where’s he located?”

“We don’t know. We spotted him entering the Soviet Complex library.”

Kosloff stood and said, “Okay. You’d better wrap up a couple of souvenirs for me to leave with, so that it’ll look as though I bought something here. Contact me at the Hotel El Kebruk, under the name Smithson, as soon as you know where El Hassan is.”

Back at the hotel, Kosloff unwrapped the souvenirs Battista had given him and put them on a table in the suite’s living room. They’d help give him authenticity as a tourist.

He brought the electronic mop from his breast pocket and began going about the room, pointing it here, there, everywhere and especially at any electrical fixtures. Shortly, it began to go beep, beep, beep and he located what he was looking for. The bug was in the base of the telephone.

He took the mop into the bedroom and then the bath but neither were bugged. He went back to the telephone. The fact that there was an electronic bug in his suite didn’t mean that it was being monitored, of course. They probably had a bug in every room in the Hotel El Kebruk, but surely not enough men to monitor them all at once. And from what he had seen thus far of the Moroccan economy he doubted that the bugs would be computerized.

However, he couldn’t take the chance. He brought the scrambler the shopkeeper had given him from his pocket, set it on the stand next to the phone and flicked its stud.

He had to work fast now. There was always the chance that the scrambler would be detected and someone on the other end of the bug become suspicious. Then the fat would be in the fire. What American tourist would be equipped with such sophisticated devices?

He took his Tracy from his wrist and propped it up on the room’s desk and sat before it. He pressed the tiny stud and said, “Paul calling. Paul calling.”

A thin voice came back. It was the commissioner’s. He had arranged for Kosloff’s Tracy to be tuned into his alone. They were really going ape about security on this assignment.

Paul said, “I’ve arrived and made contact with Battista. The subject is in the south. Battista thinks he can find out where. He also thinks I’m here to help the subject and evidently approves of that.”

The thin voice said, “It is not important what he thinks.”

Paul said, “The subject has followers here in Tangier. Battista believes he can make arrangements for a meeting.”

“What is your excuse for such a meeting?”

“It will have to be that I’m an agent from the United States coming to offer him assistance. He’ll take that bait and reveal where he is—I hope.”

“Fine. Get in there and do the job. We’ll never get another chance if you fail. He’ll be leary of our government. Do this right, and there’s a hefty bonus in it for you.”

“I don’t want a bonus,” Paul growled. “I didn’t sign up with the Western team for money. And, listen, Serge Sverdlov’s here in Tangier.”

There was a momentary silence. Then, “Sverdlov’s in Indonesia.”

“Battista says he’s here in Tangier, disguised as a negro. That guy’s the sharpest counter-espionage man in the KGB.”

The thin voice said, “I know who he is. Well, for once you and he are on the same side.”

“Yes, but he doesn’t know it. If anything happens to my cover, he’ll be on me like a ton of uranium and he undoubtedly has plenty of manpower on tap. Can’t you at least send me a couple of heavies from Paris, or wherever, to run interference?”

“Absolutely out of the question. Nobody must know about this but you and me.”

“All right,” Paul said in resignation.

“Good luck,” the thin voice said, before fading. “And reconsider that bonus.”

Paul Kosloff said bitterly, after deactivating the Tracy, “Does he think I’d take on a job like this for the sake of a bonus?”

He went over hurriedly to the scrambler and flicked off its stud.

For the next week, Paul Kosloff spent most of his time in the hotel, taking all of his meals there. He trusted the plastic surgery he’d had in Greater Washington but he was taking no chances. Altered facial features alone are insufficient to disguise a man. There’s the set of shoulders, the way the head is held, the stride, the shape of hands, and all the rest of it. Serge was up on such things and he had no desire to have the other spot him on the streets of Tangier.

On the third morning, he found an envelope that had been slipped under his door during the night. The note inside was typed.

It read: Tokugawa is in town. His cover is that he is a member of a Japanese trade mission here. He is staying at the Japanese embassy.

“It sounds like a convention,” Kosloff muttered. “Sverdlov, Tokugawa and myself.” He grunted. Battista was a more efficient operative than Paul Kosloff had originally given him credit for being.

There was nothing for it. He was going to have to check out the newcomer. He knew where Sverdlov stood, but not the Japanese. He couldn’t afford to begin operations and run the risk of coming up against him. Possibly, it was something entirely divorced from his own mission. Possibly, but he doubted it.

The approach might as well be a direct one. That evening he left the hotel by a side door and got into a cab as soon as possible. He ordered the driver to take him to the Japanese embassy. There was no way he could think of to avoid being seen entering the building, if the place was being observed.

He left the cab half a block from the embassy and walked, wanting the chance to case the place before entering. He couldn’t make out any obvious plants, however, nor even a local policeman.

He entered and approched the petite Japanese girl at the reception desk. She was in western garb and the room was furnished western style.

Her French was perfect. “Good morning, sir.”

Paul said, “I wish to see Colonel Tokugawa.”

Her almond eyes turned wary. “There is no Colonel Tokugawa here, sir.”

“Tokugawa Hidetada. Supposedly he’s here on a trade mission. Tell him Paul Kosloff wishes to see him.”

“I assure you, sir…”

Paul Kosloff simply looked at her.

She flicked on a desk communicator and spoke into it in Japanese, then listened. Her eyes widened slightly in surprise. She deactivated the device and looked up at him. “Yes, sir,” she said.

A door behind her opened and the top Japanese counter-espionage operative entered. By his appearance, he couldn’t have been less offensive, right down to his thick lensed glasses.

“Paul,” he said, his hand outstretched. “I didn’t recognize you at first. Plastic surgery, of course.”

Paul said, “Hidetada,” and they shook.

“Please come in here, Paul” the slightly built Japanese said, leading the way back through the door he had just entered from.

Beyond was an office, simply furnished. On the desk were several piles of what were obviously reports, all of them, of course, in Japanese.

“Sit down, Paul. It seems a long time since last we met during the Asian war.”

Paul Kosloff took a chair and said, “Yeah. And thanks all over again for taking those two commies off my back. I spent three months in the hospital afterward.”

The Japanese bowed his head agreeably in response and said, “It was my duty, Paul. We were on the same side… then.”

Paul Kosloff looked at him.

Tokugawa Hidetada said gently, “Paul, I am afraid we are not on the same side now.”

“Go on.”

“Paul, Japan desperately needs the raw materials of North Africa, resources that are largely going to the United States today. It is in our interest that El Hassan not come to power.”

“Granting that I know what you’re talking about, and I’m not admitting that, why?”

“He is a fanatic. From the rumors we have heard, we prefer his lieutenant Bey-ag-Akhamouk. Although Bey-ag-Akhamouk largely supports El Hassan, it is said that he is at the same time the leader of an element in their organization that has differences. Bey-ag-Akhamouk is an anti-American. You know, the American imperialism thing, so rumors tell us, at least. If he came to power, he would switch trade to Japan. However, he is faithful to El Hassan and on his own would never attempt to replace him. But if something happened to El Hassan, then it would be Bey-ag-Akhamouk who came to power.”

“I see. And you think the American State Department wishes to see El Hassan win his revolution?”

The Japanese said gently, “Of course. He is anti-Marxist.”

Paul thought about it. He said finally, “To sum it up, then, you wish this revolution to take place but you want Bey-ag-Akhamouk to take over rather than El Hassan.”

“Yes, Paul. And, believe me, in spite of past associations, I cannot let you stand in the way. Japan cannot. We must have the oil, iron, copper, nickel of North Africa, or we die.”

Paul Kosloff came to his feet. He said, “I’ll be seeing you, Hidetada.”

“Paul, I am warning you.”

“Yes, I know. I’ll be seeing you, Hidetada. The next time you write, give my regards to your wife. I’ll never forget that tempura she cooked for us.”

By the time he left the embassy, night was well along. The Hotel El Mekruk wasn’t as far as all that. He decided to walk and try to sort things out. It was unlikely that he would be spotted in this darkness.

Things were piling up. The governments of the Soviet Complex and Japan, not to speak of the United States, wouldn’t have their top espionage men in the country unless the revolution some wanted and some didn’t was well under way. For that matter, he wondered if Common Europe had some of their aces around.

Something there is in the man of action that must be an instinct, possibly one come down from the caves, from the time of the saber-tooth, from the time of the cave bear. An instinct for danger. Had Paul Kosloff not had it, he would have been dead long years since.

Suddenly, unconsciously, he dropped to one knee and his right hand blurred for his holstered .38 Recoilless. A pencil-thin hiss of light cut a foot above his head. A laser!

The other was only the vaguest of shapes, back a few feet in the alleyway Paul had been passing. His six silent bullets ripped the man through from the crotch almost to the neck line.

Paul Kosloff shot his eyes up and down the street. He could see no one close enough to have observed the split-seconds of action. He moved in quickly, bent over the fallen would-be assassin.

To his relief, the man was a complete stranger. Seemingly, he was a Moor. That, of course, meant little. He could have been a hired killer in the pay of Sverdlov, Tokugawa or, for all he knew, of some other element on the scene with whom Paul Kosloff was not as yet acquainted. Possibly even an adherent of El Hassan.

He frisked the dead man quickly, efficiently, but, as he had suspected, the other bore no identity papers, nor anything else that would give a clue to who he was, who had sent him on his mission of death.

Paul Kosloff had to get out of the vicinity. The other might have an accomplice around, possibly a driver of a get-away car. And, above that, a supposed American tourist should not be found bent over a corpse and in possession of a .38 Recoilless. He reloaded, then hurried to the street, double-checked for anyone in the vicinity, then hurried along back to the hotel, his right hand ready to dart for the gun again at the slightest indication of additional hostility.

Back at the hotel, he made no further attempt to contact Battista but kept even closer to his rooms than he had before. The American agent knew where Paul was and the only reason for their getting together again was when the plans had been completed for his meeting with El Hassan.

At the end of the week, there was a discreet knock at the door. It was the boy who had been at Battista’s shop. When Paul Kosloff opened the door, the other side-stepped in. The international troubleshooter led him into the living room and looked at him.

The other was sharp. He pointed at his ear and then around the room, his face questioning. Paul took him to the phone stand and pointed at it. He brought his electronic scrambler from his pocket and activated it momentarily.

He said, “I’m afraid to keep this on for any length of time. Don’t say anything you don’t want heard.” He flicked the device off again.

The younger man nodded and said, “Mr. Smithson, sir, I have made the arrangements for your drive into the countryside.”

“Excellent,” Paul Kosloffsaid. “When can we leave?”

“Immediately, sir. The car is outside the hotel. I am to be your chauffeur and guide.”

“Wait just a minute. I’ll pack a small bag and get my camera.”

Paul Kosloff waited until they had got into the countryside on the outskirts of Tangier before saying anything of importance.

He said finally, “All right. What’s your name?”

“Nafi-ben-Mohammed.”

“What’s your real name? You’re an American, aren’t you?”

“No. I am a national of Morocco. I was educated in the American School of Tangier, before it was closed by the Sultan. However, as you know, I am employed by the American government through Mohammed-ben-Abdallah, supposedly my father.”

Kosloff nodded. He said, “Where are we going?”

“Possibly on a wild goose chase. We have been unable to get accurate information on the whereabouts of El Hassan. However, strong rumors are that he is heading for Chaambra country to rescue one of his viziers. Our immediate destination is Ksar-es-Souk on the Moroccan, Algerian border. From there we will have to feel our way eastward, enquiring of news about El Hassan.”

“How far is it?”

“Perhaps five hundred kilometers.”

“About three hundred miles, eh? Can we make it in one day?”

“The roads are quite good. Built by the French in the old days. We should be able to.”

“All right. I assume our power packs are sufficient for the whole trip so we won’t have to make any stops except for food. Then there won’t be any record of the trip.”

“Yes, sir.”

Paul Kosloff looked at the younger man from the side of his eyes. He said, “What do you think of El Hassan?”

The other’s voice took a different tone. “He is the sole hope of North Africa.”

Paul Kosloff thought about that. He said, “Are you armed?”

“Yes. The same as you. With a .38 Recoilless.”

“Ever had to use it?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve been in this service ever since the Sultan took over again here in Morocco. He is at least as bad as the Marxists.”

“Dedicated, I see.”

The Moslem boy was embarrassed. He said finally, “My two older brothers were killed by the Marxists in Algeria.” Then he added: “They aren’t really Marxist, of course.”

“They aren’t? How do you mean?”

“A good many so-called Marxists in all parts of the world, including the Soviet Complex, pay lip service to the name of Marx and his work but their governments have no similarity to what he was talking about. He wanted the State to wither away: they strengthen it and keep it in their own hands and to their own profit.”

Paul Kosloff looked at him from the side of his eyes again. “Did you pick that up at the American School?”

The younger man was embarrassed again. “No, sir. I used to study political economy on my own. That is why I support El Hassan. He wishes to bring both democracy and a modified form of capitalism to North Africa—I think. He realizes that the country is not sufficiently developed to achieve a more advanced society.”

“How do you mean, both democracy and capitalism? And how do you mean, a more advanced society?”

“The words are not synonymous, of course. You can have one without the other, in spite of our western propaganda to the contrary. For instance, we have had democratic societies down through the ages. In your own country, the American Indians were democratic before the coming of the white man, but they were certainly not capitalistic. Nor were the Greeks of the Golden Age. The economic system then was based on slaves, though the government was democratic—among male citizens. Hitler’s regime was certainly not democratic, but it was capitalistic. Capitalism is an economic system, democracy a governmental one. Undoubtedly, one day capitalism will become antiquated, as both slavery and feudalism were in their time, but that does not mean that the next socioeconomic system will not be democratic.”

The international troubleshooter changed the subject and said, “Do you have a map of Morocco and Algeria here in the car?”

“Yes, sir. In the dash compartment there.”

Paul Kosloff got it and opened it up. “Okay. Tell me the route you’re taking, town by town. I want to know where we’re going and how we’re going to get back.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary. I’ll drive both ways, and I know the route quite well.”

Paul Kosloff said coldly, “I want to know in case something happens to you and I have to drive back myself.”

Damn it. Was he going to have to kill this one too? Thus far, he had liked the boy.