The Best Ye Breed

XV EL HASSAN

Their first instinct was to get away soonest and back into the desert, not exposing El Hassan to the limelight, maintaining his mystique. But it wasn’t in the cards. For one thing, Elmer Allen was in no condition to travel, not immediately. For another, the convening of the djemaa el kebar of the Chaambra confederation, not to speak of the chiefs present from other tribes, was too good an opportunity for conversion to the El Hassan movement to be missed. They were going to have to strike while the iron was as white hot as at present.

But it wouldn’t do for El Hassan and his viziers to be seen erecting their tents and utilizing their mundane camping equipment as other men would do.

The problem was solved by El Aicha appropriating for them the quarters of the headman of the small mud-brick settlement of the oasis on which the gathering was taking place. Squalid though it might be, windowless and practically without furniture, it was the best the tiny village provided. There was a smell of mildew, airlessness, sickness and dirty clothes. Strips of old carpet hung from the walls. Some filthy rags had been thrown into corners, here and there, obviously to be used as beds. The owner wasn’t overly put out. In fact his Keifhalak, ‘all in my house is yours,’ was effusive. For the rest of his life he could relate that El Hassan himself had once dwelt in his humble home.

They refused the offer of servants and even armed guards, and although El Hassan himself remained aloof, his three viziers busied themselves in hauling into the interior of the hut various items of folding furniture, cooking equipment and supplies.

Elmer Allen had quickly been rescued and a folding, heavy khaki camp-bathtub used several times over to clean him up. He was too shaky to handle a razor himself and Kenny took over in that department. They had also brought clothing his size. Bey assumed the role of doctor and went over him with what skill he possessed. There was little that could be done until they reached a doctor: the root of the severed finger had festered and this was cleaned, sulfa applied and he was given a double shot of antibiotics along with vitamin and mineral shots.

At first he spoke little, though they gathered about him. When he did, there was a stammer, a stutter in his voice.

In the medical footlocker was a bottle of excellent French cognac, which Kenny opened. He poured a couple of ounces into a tin cup and proffered it, but the hand that Elmer extended shook so that Kenny himself held the cup to the other’s sun blistered lips.

Cliff had been working over the camp stove and now brought over a heavy ceramic mug of steaming broth.

Elmer took several mouthfuls but then snarled, “Fer… fer… crissakes, give a… a chap something to sink… sink his teeth into. I’ve been… been eating camel dung, or what… whatever it was, for donkey’s years.”

The others laughed and Cliff went back to his stove.

Elmer looked over at one of the army cots which had been set up and got out, “I say. I… haven’t really slept since they… they put me in that portable med… medieval torture chamber.”

Cliff said, “Get this stew down and we’ll tuck you into beddy-by.”

Elmer snarled at him and then looked accusingly at Homer Crawford. He said, “What… what in the hell took you so long to clobber those blokes?”

Homer said, humorously placating, “There were twenty-one of them altogether and we didn’t want to hurt our fists.”

Later, when Elmer was snoring in complete exhaustion on the army cot tucked away in one corner of the not overly large hut, Homer, Bey, Kenny and Cliff sat around the folding camp table, finishing their own meal.

Kenny said, “What now?”

And Homer said slowly, poking at his stew with his fork, “We’ll address the djemaa de kebar tomorrow. Present a program for their spreading the word of El Hassan in this area, then make with a quick inspirational, slogan-shouting, address to the assembled multitude, and take off south.”

Bey made a motion of his head toward Elmer. “How about him?”

“We’ll rig up a bed in the back of the lorry. If it looks too tough for him, we’ll camp out in the boondocks somewhere until he’s more nearly recovered.”

Cliff said, “Why not take Elmer to Colum-Béchar and get him into a hospital? One of us could stay to watch over him and the rest could go on.”

Homer thought about it but shook his head. “No. Double reason. Colum-Béchar isn’t in our hands yet. There might be elements that would shoot their way into the hospital and finish you both off—not necessarily local people. The whole damn Reunited Nations has taken a preliminary stand against us, not to speak of the Arab Union. And not to speak of any remnant followers of our chum the mahdi—if any. Besides, it wouldn’t do for word to go out that one of El Hassan’s viziers was in hospital. El Hassan’s viziers are too tough to ever have to go to a hospital.”

Bey looked over at the door, which consisted of a soiled piece of homespun hanging like a curtain. He said, “We’d better take turns as guards tonight. It seems a remote chance, under the prevailing circumstances, but it’s possible that Abd-el-Kader, or some of his lads, might come a-calling. I’ll stand first watch for three hours.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Homer said. “I’ll stand second watch.”

Bey shook his head. “Nope, not you. No one should see you doing guard duty. You’re El Hassan. I’ll wake Cliff in three hours.”

Cliff said, “Dammit, when we started this outfit why didn’t we pick me as El Hassan, instead of Homer? Hell, I’m bigger than he is.”

Bey snorted and picked up his Tommy-Noiseless and turned toward the door.

Kenny swatted at his arm and snarled, “A mosquito. How in the devil do mosquitos get onto these oases, five hundred miles into the desert?”

Cliff said, “They carry canteens.” He looked about the hut. “This is going to be some night. Sandflies, ticks, fleas, scorpions…”

“Scorpions!” Kenny protested. “I’m allergic to scorpions. Even the little ones make me break out in hives.”

“Well, start breaking then,” Cliff said sourly. “Didn’t you see those Saharan chickens running around the settlement? They keep them to scratch up and eat the sand scorpions. Otherwise these damn oases would be unliveable.”

“You mean they’re liveable now?” Kenny growled. “Hell, I’d rather live in Hoboken.”

Homer, Cliff and Kenny were just beginning to slip from their shoes, preparatory to knocking off, when Bey stuck his head through the door’s curtain and said, ironically, “Visitor.” He added in a lower voice, “He speaks Esperanto, the legal language of El Hassan’s domains.” He stuck a hand through the curtain and tossed a pistol onto the camp table. It had an oversized clip.

Homer looked down at it. “A Tokarev. Polish model,” he said. He looked up at Bey. “Wait a minute, then show him in. This is interesting.”

Homer, Cliff and Kenny shuffled back into their shoes and sat behind the camp table, Homer in the middle.

Bey held the curtain aside and a stranger entered. The three took him in.

The newcomer wore the Libyan tarboosh on his head and the white toga-like barracan, of that country, the ends of which were thrown over the left shoulder, toga-style.

He made the standard Arabic obeisance and said, in halting Esperanto, “I am Hassan el Akhdar of Tripoli and seek audience and to offer my services to El Hassan.”

The three looked at him for a long moment.

Finally, Kenny, to Homer’s left, said, also in Esperanto, “If it would suit you, make you more at your ease, you may address El Hassan in Russian.”

The other couldn’t help stare at him. “Russian!”

Kenny sighed and said, “You say you are from Tripoli but you wear the barracan prevalent in the Wadi Rumia of the Gebel country of the Fezzan. On top of which, you speak Esperanto, although admittedly, haltingly, as though you have been given a crash course. There are no scholars in the Gebel. In fact, I doubt if there’s anybody who can read in the Gebel. As one who has in his time studied anthropology, I would say that in spite of your complexion, which resembles that of an Ethiopian Hamitic tribesman, your skull shape leads me to suggest that you are either of Russian or Finnish ancestry. I can think of no reasons why the Finns would be interested in El Hassan.”

Colonel Serge Sverdlov took a deep breath, even as he inwardly cursed the inefficiency of the KGB department in charge of his cover. They should have come up with something else, obviously knowing practically nothing about the interior of North Africa.

However, his expression didn’t change. He said, in Russian, “Then El Hassan speaks Russian? I am admittedly surprised.”

Cliff Jackson said, offhand. “El Hassan speaks every language on Earth—of course.”

The colonel stared at him. Was the man a clown, to expect him to believe that?

But it was then that Homer Crawford spoke up for the first time. He said mildly, in Russian, “I note that you have the Leningrad accent. Please forgive me if I am hesitant in your idiom which is quite picturesque.”

Indeed, Homer Crawford was quite a linguist; aside from an imposing selection of Sahara tongues, including various lingua franca such as Swahili, Wolof of Senegal and Songhoi of the Niger bend, he also had excellent French and Spanish and a smattering of German. But, as a coincidence in this meeting, Russian—as Cliff knew—had especially intrigued him in college and he had taken four years of it. One of his favorite instructors had been from Leningrad.

The other was obviously taken aback.

Homer said politely, “Please draw up the other camp chair, there, and tell us that which you desire. We have had various other representatives from the Soviet Complex attend on us, but, admittedly, none so interestingly attired and disguised.”

Still cursing inwardly, Serge Sverdlov drew up the indicated folding chair. He’d probably be roasted for this fiasco, back in Moscow, but what had the fools expected, from Minister Kliment Blagonravov right on down? And especially Menzhinsky, in Tangier, who was supposedly an expert on North Africa. Though, admittedly, how in the name of Lenin could he be expected to know how they dressed in the Wadi Rumia of the Gebel country of the Fezzan, such information as was seemingly held in detail by El Hassan’s immediate group?

His cover was obviously already blown to the skies. All he could do was improvise.

He looked at Cliff and Kenny, “Am I to assume that these gentlemen are Clifford Jackson and Kenneth Ballalou, and that your guard is the Tuareg-American Bey-ag-Akhamouk?”

Homer eyed him for a moment, then nodded. “You may.”

“Then I suggest that we speak English, since I assume that all here are not as conversant with Russian as you prove yourself to be.”

“Very well,” Homer said in English. “And now, to the point. What is it that you desire of El Hassan?”

Sverdlov said, “To serve him. To join his followers and do all in my power, and I have considerable resources at my command, to further his aims.”

Homer eyed him for another long unspeaking moment, and finally said, “Our aims are not only the assimilation of such presently reactionarily ruled lands as Morocco with its feudalistic, absolute monarchy, but also the Marxist Algeria and Libya, among others.”

The Russian nodded. “We know. And also the assimilation of the dozen and one military dictatorships thoughout North and Central Africa.”

Kenny said evenly, “You don’t deny that you are from the KGB?”

“No. I have been sent from Moscow to forward the program of El Hassan. We are interested in progress, particularly industrial progress, throughout the world. We feel that El Hassan will accomplish this more quickly than the pseudo-socialistic regimes in such countries as Algeria.”

Homer nodded wearily, “Your late colleagues, Abe Baker and Anton, put over the same general idea. But your eventual goal, your long view, involves, of course, your attempting to direct Ifriqiyah, as we call it, to the Communist camp.”

Serge Sverdlov hesitated before meeting that full on, but he realized that this was no time, nor these the men, for ambiguity. He nodded agreement. “But that is far in the future and the future will take care of itself. Meanwhile, we support the program of El Hassan.”

Cliff snorted.

But Homer said, “Just what form could this offered support take?”

The Russian bent forward. “We could supply you with the most modern arms, arms that would enable you to overrun such nations as Morocco, Algeria, Libya, Tunisia, Senegal, at will. We could come to your assistance with our intelligence services, disclosing to you the attempts being planned by your enemies.”

Homer Crawford said, “We don’t need arms.”

The colonel’s eyes narrowed. “You expect to get them from the Americans, then?”

“Nor from them, either. If we are to succeed it will be because the people themselves arise and overthrow their corrupt and inefficient present governments, not because El Hassan shoots his way to power. This so-called arms aid of the great powers is one of the greatest blots of modern history. In the name of aid, the great powers subvert and impoverish half the undeveloped nations of the world. As far back as the nineteen-seventies, the United States was selling twenty billions of dollars a year in armaments to such countries as Israel and the Arab nations who opposed her, to India and Pakistan, to Turkey and Greece. When these nations fought, both sides were armed by America. She sold billions and billions in weapons to impoverished South America, where there hadn’t been a real war in a century and where there was little chance of one developing. The arms there could only be meant for internal difficulties, in short, for the ruling class to keep down the people. El Hassan does not have to defend himself against his people.” He snorted and added, “Nor were you Soviets far behind. You too sold to anyone who would buy.”

Homer grunted contempt. “There are various facets to this so-called arms aid. Suppose we accepted from you a hundred of your most modern tanks, supposedly given free. What would happen when we ran out of the ammunition they utilized, and when we needed spare parts? Where else could we turn but to you, since such spare parts and ammunition are manufactured only in the Soviet Complex? We would be at your mercy when our new mechanized army began to deteriorate.”

He shook his head. “No thank you. And so far as your intelligence is concerned, you see how incompetent you have proven in Ifriqiyah. You Europeans and Americans stand out like sore thumbs in the Sahara. I assume you are a trained KGB agent, but the moment you stepped through that door, in spite of your disguise, we knew that you were no African.”

He shook his head again. “No, we do not welcome your assistance, sir.”

Colonel Serge Sverdlov came to his feet, knowing defeat. “Very well,” he said. “However, we shall continue to assist in your program to the point we can, in spite of your rejection.”

Cliff picked up the other’s pistol, drew the clip and emptied it of its cartridges, then with the heel of his right hand rammed it back into the butt. He handed the gun back to the Russian. “Nice knowing you,” he said.

The colonel took the gun and turned and left the tent.

Paul Kosloff and Nafi-ben-Mohammed had pulled into the small oasis settlement an hour or so before sunset and after most of the excitement had died down. They had avoided the pavilion and the multitude of natives about it and had gone into the small village proper. Kosloff was reminded somewhat of the adobe pueblos of the American southwest. There were swarms of children, swarms of flies, a sufficiency of mangy dogs too listless to bark even at strangers, and filth in plenitude.

Leaving Kosloff in the car, in a narrow, dirty alley, Nafi had gone off to discover the whereabouts of El Hassan, always assuming he was in the vicinity, and the rumors that he was had become thicker as they approached the site of the djemaa el kebar.

By the time he returned, darkness was descending as it can descend only in such areas of the world as the Sahara. One moment, it is bright daylight, a few minutes later, completely dark, save for the moon and stars.

The Moroccan boy started up the car again and drove to the other end of the settlement and parked, once more, in as isolated a spot as he could find.

He said, “El Hassan and his viziers are quartered in that larger hut, there before us.”

Paul Kosloff said, “We’ll wait for a short time, until the town settles down a bit more.” Their car didn’t seem to be overly conspicuous. The swarm of North Africans that had descended upon the oasis had brought in a considerable number of its own vehicles, as Crawford and his group had found earlier.

They witnessed Bey-ag-Akhamouk emerging and assuming the post of guard and, shortly afterward, the appearance of Serge Sverdlov, in his native costume and in his disguise as a black. He disappeared inside and remained there for possibly fifteen minutes, while Paul Kosloff ran in irritation a thumbnail back and forth over his upper lip. There seemed to be something in the other’s stance, the manner in which he held his body, that the American agent recognized but couldn’t put his finger upon.

When Sverdlov had left, Paul Kosloff slipped out of his light jacket and then removed his shoulder harness with its gun and handed it over to Nafi.

“I won’t be needing this in the presence of El Hassan,” he said. “Keep it.”

“Of course,” the Moroccan youth said, as Kosloff slipped back into the jacket and got out of the car.

Paul Kosloff walked up the street to Bey-ag-Akhamouk and said, “I’d like to see El Hassan.”

Bey looked at him quizzically. “White man, eh? And English speaking.”

“American,” Paul said.

“Long way from home,” Bey said. He leaned his Tommy-Noiseless against the mud wall and thoroughly frisked the newcomer. Then he stuck his head around the curtain and said, “This is getting to be like a convention. Another visitor. American this time. He’s clean.”

Somebody inside said something and Bey held the curtain to one side and grinned at Kosloff and said, “Enter into the presence of El Hassan.”

Paul Kosloff went on through and found himself in a small room, furnished only with camping equipment. Aside from a man on an army cot, snoring slightly as he slept, there were three men present, behind a folding camp table. All were blacks, and all dressed in military khakis.

The one in the middle gestured to an empty folding chair across from him.

Paul said, “Professor Crawford? I am Paul Kosloff, presently, in a roundabout way, of the American State Department, and assigned to open preliminary negotiations with you.”

Homer Crawford nodded and said, “And these are my aides, Kenneth Ballalou and Clifford Jackson.”

Kenny said musingly, “Paul Kosloff, Paul Kosloff. I’ve read a bit about you. The so-called Cold War’s Lawrence of Arabia.”

Paul looked at him and said, “In the kind of work I am usually assigned, we seldom welcome publicity.”

He looked back at El Hassan. He had to play this right. It couldn’t be too obvious, or he’d never get his opening. He had to look authentic. These three were no fools.

He said, in answer to Homer Crawford’s questioning look, “Frankly, El Hassan, my superiors have doubts about some elements of your program and would like them resolved before they grant you the all-out support the State Department will possibly provide.”

The big black’s smile was wry. “We have just had—and refused—another offer of support, Mr. Kosloff. But please proceed.”

Paul Kosloff said earnestly, “Of prime importance is your proposal to double or more the price of the raw materials we are at present buying in Morocco, Algeria and other areas you plan to take over. Can we assume this is but a campaign promise, as our politicians call them in the States? That is, you don’t really plan to go through with it?”

El Hassan shook his head. “No. It is no empty promise, Mr. Kosloff.”

“But if the other underdeveloped nations go along with you, it could eventually mean the collapse of the economies of the West.”

El Hassan nodded his head this time. “Yes, the collapse of the economies of the West, as we know them today.”

Paul Kosloff stared at him.

Kenny Ballalou spoke up. “You see, Mr. Kosloff, the economies of the West and of Japan are destroying our world with their ever expanding production. Within decades, there will literally be no more raw materials. Our oil, our minerals, our forests, will have disappeared. The economies of the West, including the United States, must be forced to face reality and readjust, yours is a waste economy. Let us use a few examples of planned obsolescence in your country. You make lead batteries for your cars that are deliberately designed to wear out after a year and a half, when it is possible to build them to last practically the life of the car. And lead is growing scarce. You make electric light bulbs that burn out in one thousand hours, when they could be manufactured to last for practically the life of the house. The houses you build are slum houses in less than twenty years, though your grandparents could build them to last a century or more. All this, of course, to increase sales, to increase profits. Your socio-economic system is one based on production for profit, not for use. It is a mad system and we of the more backward countries must do something to force you to change, or when you go down to economic chaos you will drag us with you.”

Paul Kosloff was scowling. He said, “But we’ve got to have your raw materials if we’re to keep going. We no longer have our own. And you’ve got to have the money we pay you for them, if you’re ever to become developed.”

El Hassan said softly, “That is the point, Mr. Kosloff. We are never going to become developed. Nor are any of the other underdeveloped nations. For one thing, there isn’t enough copper, lead, zinc and other basic necessities of industry to allow the backward countries to ever catch up with you, you’ve so wasted these irreplacable gifts of nature in your mad scramble for increased national product.”

Paul Kosloff said, “Then you are deliberately planning to wreck the economies of the West?”

“Not wreck them. Force them to change. If you are made to pay triple for your copper, I doubt if you will continue to make such items as ladies’ lipstick containers out of it. If you pay triple for your chrome, you will think twice before continuing to make your cars garish with it. Somehow, we of the backward countries and you of the advanced, must amalgamate in such a way that we can improve our living standards without industrialization but only by judicious exploitation of our raw materials and agriculture.”

Paul Kosloff pretended to think about it. He came to his feet and said, “Just a moment, I wish to return to my vehicle and get a device there with which I can communicate by tight-beam to Greater Washington. What you have said is most interesting. We weren’t aware of your motivation.”

“Of course,” El Hassan nodded.

As Paul Kosloff left, he said to Bey, as he went by, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

He returned to the car in which he had left Nafi and said to the young agent, “Give me my gun.” At the same time he reached into the back of the vehicle and secured a small package there.

The boy frowned at him.

Kosloff said impatiently, “They want to see an example of the type of weapons we can supply for their revolution.”

The other handed the gun over and Paul Kosloff put it into his belt, under his coat. He turned and left the car again and headed back toward El Hassan’s hut, emptying the package as he went. It contained two small but ultra-powerful demolition grenades which he put into his side pockets. It was completely dark now with no one at all on the streets.

He squared his shoulders, albeit somewhat unhappily, as he walked. It was simplicity itself. All he had to do was walk up to the guard, who would never suspect that he wasn’t still unarmed, and shoot him down and toss the two grenades into the hut. He’d then stand aside, in the unlikely chance that one or more of those in the interior would survive and emerge, and finish him, or them, too. He doubted that they were suspicious, that they were very old hands at intrigue. They were obviously too idealistic, too honest.

A slightly accented voice from behind him said, “Very well, Paul Kosloff. Put your hands behind your neck.”

He did as he was told and a hand came around from behind him and plucked the .38 Recoilless from his belt.

The voice said, “Turn now.”

Paul Kosloff turned and said, “Hello, Sverdlov. I thought I recognized you earlier. You’re making a mistake, this time.”

The Russian KGB man was slightly smaller than Kosloff but perhaps more lithe. His teeth were white and his smile good, but there was something about his eyes.

“Ah?” he said. “Please elucidate, Kosloff.”

“This time, I have the same assignment you have. We’re on the same side.”

“I doubt it.”

“I’ve been sent here to eliminate El Hassan and his lieutenants. My government wishes to see the regimes in Algeria, Libya and so forth continue.”

“Ah, but mine doesn’t,” the other said evenly, softly.

Paul Kosloff gaped at him.

The Russian agent chuckled. “You see, Kosloff, in spite of the fact that our countries have reached detente, the battle for men’s minds goes on and will not end until one of our sides prevails. We wish to see El Hassan’s program succeed for various reasons. If it does, his regime will be the first major element to collapse your economy. We have not been able to control the governments of Algeria, Libya and the others, in spite of the fact that they call themselves Marxist, but we won’t have to control El Hassan. He wants to do exactly what we would like him to do. We of the Soviet Complex have within our borders all the raw materials we need. You don’t.”

Paul Kosloff looked at him for a long empty moment. He said, “You mean that I, an agent of the West, have been sent to rescue Marxist regimes, and you, an agent of the Soviet Complex, have been sent to insure El Hassan’s take-over in these countries?”

Serge Sverdlov chuckled again. “Quite a contradiction, eh?” His finger began to tighten on the trigger of the heavy pistol he carried.

A voice clipped from the darkness of a narrow alleyway between the mud huts. “In the name of El Hassan, that will be all!”

Serge Sverdlov spun and, simultaneously, from the doorway of a hut across the street a laser beam hissed out. Paul Kosloff took no time to discover who was the target of the deadly ray gun. He fell to the ground and rolled desperately.

The Russian was also on the ground but apparently not out of action. Footsteps came pounding down the street from the direction of the car.

Paul Kosloff recognized the voice that had interrupted Serge Sverdlov as that of Homer Crawford. It would seem that the four revolutionists hadn’t been as naive as he had thought. They had followed him to check what he was doing.

Several figures emerged from the narrow alleyway and spread out, seeking shadows. They carried what seemed to be submachine guns. Serge Sverdlov, from his prone position, began to bring up his gun toward Paul Kosloff.

Nafi-ben-Mohammed, his own gun at the ready, came dashing up. He took in the figures on the ground. Paul Kosloff was still trying to roll to some sort of cover.

The Russian’s pistol barked at the same time that the laser beam hissed from the doorway across the street again. Tokugawa Hidetada stumbled forth from the mud hut, reeling, his pistol dropping from his hand.

Nafi’s gun came up, the .38 Noiseless went ping, ping, ping, and two of the three slugs thunked into the prone Russian agent.

From the shadows into which the figures from the narrow alley had faded came the voice of El Hassan again. “Drop that gun, boy, or you die.”

Nafi obeyed orders, then quickly leaned down over Paul Kosloff. “You are unhurt?”

Kosloff, in disgust, came to his feet. Now he could make out the crumpled body in the narrow alleyway from which El Hassan had first called.

“What is this, a damn massacre?” he growled.

He went over to Tokugawa Hidetada. His once Japanese colleague was going out fast. Paul Kosloff knelt beside him and said urgently, “Is there anything I can do?”

The small man attempted a rueful chuckle. “In the crisis, I attempted to come to your succor, friend Paul. I am not very clear on just what has happened. Whom did I shoot?”

Paul Kosloff took a deep breath. “One of El Hassan’s men, Hidetada.”

“It would be my fate for it to be Bey-ag-Akhamouk,” the Japanese groaned. His eyes closed in pain and he never opened them again.

Paul Kosloff stood and looked back at Sverdlov.

The Russian was also dead.

El Hassan and Cliff Jackson emerged from the shadows, their guns still at the ready. El Hassan’s eyes took in the two fallen agents, then went back to his own valued follower, who was now being helped from the alley by Kenny Ballalou.

“How bad?” Homer Crawford said.

Bey muttered, “Just a crease, but, Jesus, those laser beams hurt.”

“Get him back to the hut, Kenny,” El Hassan ordered and then returned to Kosloff. He indicated the Japanese, “Who is this man?”

“Tokugawa Hidetada. His government wanted to see the regimes in Algeria and the other so-called socialist nations of North Africa overthrown, but Field Marshal Bey-ag-Akhamouk come to power rather than you.”

Homer snorted at the idea that Bey might be a potential rival, but pointed to the Russian and said, “And this one? We have met him, but who was he really?”

“Sverdlov. Serge Sverdlov, of the KGB. His government wanted to see your revolution a success so that the United States and the West would be economically devastated.”

“I see.” El Hassan looked at Paul Kosloff and Nafi for a long thoughtful moment. He said, “I heard enough of your conversation with the Russian to realize that you are not truly interested in supporting my cause. Perhaps I should kill you, Mr. Kosloff, but I do not kill unarmed men. Please leave. And so far as your nations are concerned, the United States of the Americas, the Soviet Complex, and Japan, all I can do is paraphrase the Engish poet. A curse on all your houses.”

Nafi blurted, “But, El Hassan, we came to assist you.”

“It seems unlikely, boy. Now leave.”

Paul Kosloff and the Moroccan youth returned to their car. In silence they got into it and started back for Tangier.

After a time, Paul Kosloff put his Tracy to his mouth and said, “Paul calling. Paul calling.”

The commissioner’s thin voice came through shortly, “Yes, I receive you. What is happening?”

Paul said flatly, “Everything and its cousin has gone to pot. Sverdlov’s dead. Tokugawa Hidetada, of Japan, is dead. I’m not but probably should be. Your strategy laid an egg. El Hassan will undoubtedly take over here.”

“You fouled this up, Kosloff!”

“It’s according to how you look at it. It was fouled before it started,” Paul Kosloff said wearily. “Oh, yes, and one more thing. I’m tired of being the Cold War’s Lawrence of Arabia. It’s getting too complicated for me. I’m resigning.”