Mack Reynolds - The Best Ye Breed

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.”