The Best Ye Breed

IX SERGE SVERDLOV

Colonel Serge Sverdlov was retracing almost identically the route a colleague and close friend—if it is possible to have a close friend in the colonel’s trade—had taken only short months before.

His complexion, all over his body, was that of a light skinned negro and the cosmetic surgeons in Moscow had also made a few tucks about his lips to give him a heavier mouth. To his disgust, they had also circumcised him, since his cover indicated him to be a Moslem. His darkened skin was reversible, but hardly the circumcision.

He bore a Libyan passport and had flown in to Gibraltar on an Arab Union roco-jet. He had no difficulty whatsoever in passing through immigration and customs and took a taxi the short distance into town. He inquired in a store owned by supposed fellow Arabs, though it turned out they were from Tunisia, rather than Libya, and was told that the Mons Capa ferry to Tangier wouldn’t leave for an hour. He left his two bags at the store and spent the time wandering up and down Main Street which he found to be aptly named, since it was the only main street in town. It was a tourist way par excellence; save for a couple of bars and two or three hotels, all was devoted to tax-free shops, largely in the hands of Indians. With the exception of cameras and other optical and electronic equipment from Germany and especially Japan, the products offered were of second or third rate quality, obviously aimed at sailors and tourists.

He went up a side street, found a bar, and went in to find they stocked only British brews. He had long since arrived at the conclusion that British bitter was the worst beer in the world, but he had no time to spend seeking out another bar. He ordered and drank a pint of bitter.

The ferry running to Tangier took approximately two hours and he spent the time on deck, watching the rock of Gibraltar drop behind. The straits of Hercules were moderately choppy and Tangier, once the Tingis of the Phoenicians and hence one of the oldest continually occupied cities in the world, was at the far end of them, across from Trafalgar where Admiral Nelson triumphed… and died. The city was built on the end of a peninsula with a crescent bay before it and a perfect beach that must have stretched for at least three miles. It was an impressive setting. The town ran up the mountainside and, from a distance, with its mosques, its aged palaces, its white, pink and blue typically Moslem houses, presented an appearance suitable for a time traveler. Tangier must have looked thus when the Moorish hordes swept across the straits to bring the blessings of Allah to Spain.

When he landed, he made the same mistake as had his earlier arriving colleague. He assumed that Arabic would be the prevailing language. It wasn’t. Rif, a Berber tongue, was that largely spoken. Serge Sverdlov resorted to French, both at customs, where again he had no difficulties, and in ordering a Chico mini-hovercab. Peculiar to Tangier, it was the smallest cab he had ever been in with room hardly for himself and his bags.

He directed the driver to the El Minza hotel, which was immediately off the Plaza de France, the main square of the European section, and on Pasteur Boulevard, once, he had read, a financial center rivaling those of Switzerland and New York, when the International Zone had prevailed and Tangier had been a free city.

At the door, there were two natives, jet-black as bantus, rather than Rifs or other Moroccans. They were dressed in red jackets, yellow barbusha slippers, voluminous yellow pants and on their heads wore the red fez of Northern Africa. He had changed money in Gibraltar and hence had the dirhams to pay the cab and later to tip the boys, who took his bags and hustled him to the reservation desk. He had cabled ahead for a room.

It was necessary to leave his passport overnight for the routine of police redtape. He didn’t bother to check out the room but sent the boys up with his luggage and immediately left for his contact.

Had he known, he was duplicating the movements of his colleague almost exactly. But then, they had both received their instructions from the same source.

He strolled, as any tourist might stroll, up the Boulevard Pasteur and turned right at the king-size sidewalk cafe there, across from the imposing French Embassy, and began descending the Rue de Liberté toward the medina, the native section of town. And now those in European dress thinned out and their place was taken by swarms of costumed Rifs, Arabs, blacks, and even an occasional Blue Man up from the desert. The name, he had heard, came from the fact that their cotton robes were dyed in an inadequate indigo that came off on their skins, giving them the eerie blue look.

At least half of the men wore the brown, camel hair burnoose, that universal garment with its hood, which tripled as coat, rain coat and blanket. The women wore either the white tent-like haik and veil, or the more attractive tailored jellabah of the upper classes.

The section he had just come from could have been part of the French Riviera, but now he was descending into the world of Medieval Islam, into the Baghdad of Harun-al-Rashid.

He passed through the teeming Grand Zocco street market, with its hundreds of stands, and multi-hundred merchants squatted down on the ground before rugs upon which sat their products, ranging from fruits and vegetables, through herbs and magic potions, to openly displayed kif—marijuana, as it is called in the Americas—and the Cantharides beetles, commonly known in the West as Spanish fly and utilized in North Africa as an ingredient of El Mojoun, along with kif, in the making of hashish fudge.

Across from the market he passed through the ancient, horse-shoe shaped gates of the old city and took the Rue Singhalese, which was the only street in the medina wide enough to allow even a small car. He descended this as far as the Zocco Chico, once considered the most notorious square in the world.

He was playing the stranger, the tourist, and from time to time stopped to look into windows. As in Gibraltar, most of the shops seemed Indian-owned. At last, he peered into one, as though in indecision. The window featured ebony figurines from the interior, carved ivory from the Orient, Japanese cameras, chessmen of water jade, odds and ends of supposed art objects from all over the world.

A fat Hindu materialized in the doorway, smiled greasily and made motions of washing his hands in a gesture so stereotyped as to be ludicrous. He said in English, “Sir, would you like to enter my shop? I have amazing bargains.” And he repeated the same in French.

Serge Sverdlov assumed that the shop owner could repeat the message in Arabic, Spanish and a dozen other languages, but before the other could do so, seemed to come to a decision and entered. The seemingly innocent invitation had been the first of a routine of passwords.

The Russian looked about the overstocked shop and was satisfied to find it empty of customers. He said to the Indian in French, “I was looking for an ivory elephant from the East.”

The other’s round face went empty but he said, “A white elephant, sir?”

“A red elephant,” the colonel told him.

The Hindu’s face was still bland, but he bowed slightly and said, “In here,” and led the way to the rear where he brushed aside a curtain. Behind it was a heavy door which he opened. The rooms beyond were more spacious than the shop front had been and more comfortable. They passed through a livingroom cum study to an office beyond. The door was fully open and the Indian merely gestured for the colonel to enter, and then left.

Kirill Menzhinsky, agent superior of the KGB for North Africa, looked up from his desk, smiled a greeting and came to his feet and held out his hand to be shaken. The two were passingly acquainted.

“Colonel Sverdlov,” he said. “I have been expecting you.”

Serge Sverdlov nodded acceptance of that. Obviously, the minister would have called ahead on the scrambled tightbeam. The other motioned to a chair before the desk and the colonel took it and crossed his legs. “It’s been quite a time, Comrade Menzhinsky,” he said.

His superior smiled at him. “Yes. I believe the last time was in Moscow when Number One himself decorated you with the Hero’s Award.”

Sverdlov said nothing to that. The other Russian came to his feet and went over to a small bar in a corner.

He looked over his shoulder and said, “A drink, Comrade? As I recall, you were never one to refuse a drink. In Tangier, one can get anything, even the best of vodka.”

“Vodka would be excellent. I suspect that it is the last opportunity I will have to enjoy it for a time.”

The other chuckled as he poured. “Or anything else, for that matter. In the Sahara, one, especially if he is passing as a Moslem, does not drink. The Prophet forbids.” He brought the glasses back. “But then, of course, you know all this, since your record shows you spent considerable time in Algeria during the troubles there.” He made a humorous mouth. “In fact, I understand you caused quite a few of the troubles.” He handed one of the glasses to the colonel.

The KGB official took his chair behind the desk and held up his glass. “To the world revolution, Comrade.”

Sverdlov gave the standard response. “The revolution.”

They knocked back the high proof spirits.

Kirill Menzhinsky put down his glass and said, “And now, I suppose that Comrade Blagonravov has briefed you on this El Hassan and his immediate clique.”

The colonel nodded and said, “Brief, is the only word. Precious little seems to be known about the man, other than that he is an American, which is astonishing.”

The other nodded in his turn and picked up a paper, saying, “Slowly, we are accumulating more information on our mysterious Dr. Homer Crawford. I shall give you the same information I did Comrade Anton before we sent him in.” He read, “Homer Crawford, born in Detroit of working-class parents. In his late teens, interrupted his education to come to Africa and join local revolutionists in Morocco and Algeria. Evidently was wounded and invalided back to the States where he resumed his schooling. When he came of military age he joined the Marine Corps. Following one hitch, as they call it, he resumed his education again, finally taking a doctor’s degree in sociology. He taught for a time until the Reunited Nations began its African program. He accepted a position and soon distinguished himself.”

He took up another paper and went on. “According to both Comrades Baker and Anton, who preceded you and are now dead, Crawford is an outstanding personality, dominating others. Comrade Baker, in particular, reported a somewhat mystical quality in him. An ability in times of emotional crisis to break down men’s mental barriers against him.” He twisted his mouth ruefully at the other’s surprise at his words. “Evidently, throughout history there have been similar examples. Our own Lenin was one, Ghandi of India was another. So have been various religious leaders in the past.”

“And his closest followers?” Sverdlov said, avoiding the unscientific connotations of what his superior had said.

Menzhinsky took up another paper. “Elmer Allen. Born of small farmer background on the Caribbean 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 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 Crawford’s team. He was evidently in full accord with Crawford’s aims as El Hassan.”

“Was?” Sverdlov frowned.

“We have received word that he has been captured by elements of the Chaambra in northwest Algeria who are largely opposed to El Hassan.” The KGB offical shrugged. “Possibly he is still alive, though I doubt it.”

The espionage head took up another sheet. “Bey-ag-Akhamouk, the only real African close to El Hassan. Born a Tuareg, he was taken to America as a child and educated there and took his degree in political science. We have no record of where he stands politically but Comrade Baker and Anton rated him an outstanding intuitive soldier. A veritable genius in combat. It would seem he’s had military experience somewhere, but we have no record of it.”

“Intuitive soldier?” the colonel said, and his tone indicated—more mysticism?

Menzhinsky chuckled sourly and said, “Do not forget such men as Trotsky, Mao, Tito, Castro, none of whom had much, if any, military training, except Tito who was a sergeant in the First World War.”

He sorted out still another sheet. “Kenneth Ballalou, born in northern Louisiana, educated in Chicago. Another young man but evidently as capable and devoted to Crawford as the others. So far as we know, he holds no political stand whatsoever.”

He went over to the bar and brought back the bottle of vodka and poured them both another drink. When it was down, he went on. “Which brings us to Isobel Cunningham. Born in New York or New Jersey, master’s degree in journalism. Comrade Baker recruited her into the Party while he too was a student. On graduation, she went to work with the Africa for Africans Association with two colleagues, Jacob Armstrong and Clifford Jackson. All three became early followers of El Hassan. Indeed, the more elderly Jacob Armstrong is now supposedly El Hassan’s Minister of State and Ambassador to the Reunited Nations in New York. Clifford Jackson we have little information on, beyond the fact that he is an American black and probably from California.” Menzhinsky looked up. “There you have it.”

Serge Sverdlov ran his right hand down over his cheek, thinking about it.

His superior said, “I see that you are disguised as a Negro. How will you maintain the dyeing in the desert?”

The colonel grunted deprecation. “It’s not a dye matter. The pigmentation of my skin has been altered. I’ve also been circumcised. They’re thorough in Moscow.”

Menzhinsky laughed gruffly. “Wait until your girl friend back in Moscow sees you!”

Sverdlov laughed too. “It’s reversible,” he said. “The change in pigmentation, at least. Are there any new instructions, beyond those I received from the Minister? That is, I am to find El Hassan, join him as Anton did, try to rise in his organization, do all that I can in his attempt to come to power and to amalgamate and forward the progress of North Africa until it is advanced sufficiently to be fruitful ground for Party activity.”

The other shook his head. “That’s about it. It’s an assignment, Comrade, that could take the better part of the rest of your life—if you are successful.”

The KGB agent nodded wearily to that. “So it would seem. Do you know where El Hassan was last heard from?”

“Tamanrasset, right in the middle of the Ahaggar, the most desolate area of the Sahara. There is just one thing.”

The colonel looked at him.

Kirill Menzhinsky said slowly, thoughtfully, “As I told you, one of his closest aides has been captured by Abd-el-Kader, who is the chief of the Ouled Touameur clan of the Chaambra nomads. He is also of Shorfu blood, a direct descendent of Mohammed, through his daughter Fatima. Our information is that he has called for ajedah, a holy war, against El Hassan. Since he holds, or has already killed, Elmer Allen, he has put El Hassan in a double spot. If Homer Crawford doesn’t react, he’s going to lose a great deal of face among the desert men. It’s possible that, even now, he’s heading for Chaambra country.”

“I see.” Sverdlov thought about it. “Where can I get detailed information about the Chaambra, the areas they control, what towns, where they rendezvous, that sort of thing?”

His superior said, “The Soviet Complex Embassy has an extensive library. It is open to the public. You need not even reveal your true identity, which might be best, since your assignment is most hush-hush. It would never do that it get out that the Soviet Complex is aiding El Hassan even against such socialist countries as Algeria.”