"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 intuitive 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 scowling 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 and
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, waited 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-bye, 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."