Mack Reynolds: The Best Ye Breed

Sean Ryan went to the bar, immediately in front of the row of old style spigots, climbed shakily up onto a stool and said, “A pint.” The bartender had already begun to draw it before the words were out.

An Irish pint is a full twenty ounces, almost as much as an American fifth. The Pearl served foreign export, the double charged Guiness stout. The bartender held his hand on the glass until Sean Ryan had put forth his money. He recognized his man.

With an initial sigh, Ryan got half of the strong brew down before he took his lips away and put the glass down for a moment. He knew that he had to nurse it. Even stout wasn’t as cheap as it once was.

An unctuous voice beside him said, “Major Ryan?”

Sean Ryan turned his head slowly. He had never seen the other before. A roly-poly fat man with a greasy-dark complexion and bland face. He wore clothes that were not quite in place, here in Dublin, nor would they have been in England. Nor, in actuality, in Europe, at least not in the Western countries of Common Europe. The black material was good, the tailoring was fair, but the suit wasn’t of the West.

Sean Ryan said, “All right, one of us knows the name of the other. Shall we go on?”

The greasy one made a slight bow and said, “Saul Saidi, at your service, sir.”

Sean Ryan shifted his eyes and considered the accent. The man looked like a Moslem, but wasn’t. Sean could tell a follower of the Prophet, somewhat in the same manner as an Orthodox Catholic can tell an Orthodox Jew, and vice versa. You can’t exactly put your finger on it, but there is something.

Sean said, “And how is Beirut these days?”

The fat little man looked at him, blinking, but rose to the occasion. “It is beginning to recover considerably. The tourists are beginning to flood in once more, especially from the Arab countries.”

So Ryan had guessed right. The other was a Lebanese. Contrary to popular belief, the Christians in the country immediately north of Israel, are as numerous as the Moslems. Saidi, if that was his real name, was undoubtedly of Christian background, though originally Semitic racially.

Sean Ryan said, “And what would you be wanting?”

The other bowed slightly again. “The honor of buying you a drink.”

Ryan finished his pint of stout in one long swal-low and got down from his stool. “You’ve got a customer, man dear,” he said. “Lead on, MacDuff and damned be he that first calls, hold enough.”

The Lebanese looked at him blankly but led the way to one of the wooden booths that lined the wall parallel to the long bar.

They sat across from each other and the fat man summoned the Pearl’s sole waiter, a bit imperiously. The waiter, a semi-clean apron about his waist, rubbed the table a double meaningless lick with a soiled rag, before saying, “Sure and wot’ll it be, bhoys?”

The Lebanese looked at him reproachfully at the address but turned to his guest.

Ryan said, “I’ll be having a double Jameson.”

Saul Saidi said, “A ginger beer. A chilled ginger beer, if you please.”

While the waiter was away, the Lebanese took in the other across from him. His small, dark eyes were of the type that would miss little. He saw a man of perhaps fifty, who had obviously seen life the hard way. Ryan’s skin, which should have had the lightness of complexion of the Irishman, had a yellowish tinge. Perhaps too much atabrine in his time—or too much quinine? There were two small scars on his face, one on his chin, and fairly deep, one on his forehead, disappearing into an eyebrow. His front teeth were obviously dentures, though the others seemed excellent. His eyes were faded blue, traditionally the killer’s eyes. He even had some pockmarks on his face. Sometimes in the back-areas of the world when they give you a smallpox injection, it can result in your acquiring a slight case of the pox, particularly if the serum is handled in the inadequate manner it often is in the boondocks. It was not a reassuring face, but, then, Saul Saidi had not come here to be reassured.

When the drinks arrived, Sean Ryan steeled himself to hide the trembling of his hand—the strong stout had helped, already—and knocked back half of the Irish whiskey. The Lebanese sipped a few drops of ginger beer politely.

“All right,” Ryan said. “You know my name. Why?”

“I have come a long way to interview you, Major.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“I have a job for you.”

Ryan eyed him for a long moment, before saying cynically, “I’ve retired.”

“So we understand. However, we thought to induce you to come out of retirement for one last assignment.”

“Who is we?”

“I am afraid that I cannot tell you that.”

“Then, thanks for the drink.” Sean Ryan finished it and began to rise.

The other held up a hand. “It involves the payment to you of three hundred ounces of gold, payable in Hong Kong.”

Sean Ryan sank back into his seat and stared at the other. He didn’t know what gold was going for by the ounce in the international banking houses specializing in exchange, these days, but he knew damned well that he had never seen that much money in his life.

“For doing what?” he said.

“For leading a commando group on a single operation.”

“What commando group?”

“A group of twenty-four mercenaries. It hasn’t been recruited as yet. That will be part of your task.”

Ryan had finished his whiskey. He snapped his fingers at the waiter and held up one finger to indicate the need for a refill.

Saul Saidi said, “Major Ryan, what is the highest rank you have ever held in the military?”

Ryan twisted his mouth wryly and said, “General.”

The other blinked at him. “And what is the highest rank you have held in an, ah, orthodox army?”

“Major.”

“In what army, sir?”

“British.”

“You saw action with the British? Where?”

“Among other places, in North Ireland, as a boy, during the troubles in Belfast—and elsewhere.”

The fat man nodded. “That coincides with our research.”

The fresh whiskey came and Ryan knocked a third of it back. He was feeling better by the minute. He said, “What’s this commando assignment?”

“Briefly, you will recruit two experienced junior officers to be your seconds in command, and one sergeant. Your men will consist of twenty, all of them the most highly experienced mercenaries. If your mission is successful, your officers will receive two hundred ounces of gold apiece, the sergeant one hundred and fifty; each man, one hundred. All deposited to your accounts in Hong Kong, and hence tax free.”

Sean said, “Beggin’ your pardon, but what happens if the mission is successful but one or more of the boys take a hit?”

“The gold will be paid over to whatever heirs they designate. If there are no heirs, the sum will be divided amongst the rest of you, evenly.”

“Suppose the mission isn’t a success?”

“You will be paid all expenses, from the moment you sign up. Food, clothing, hotels, travel. If you fail in your mission, your expenses will continue until you arrive back at the point at which you were recruited. In your case, here in Dublin. And there will be a small symbolic payment in cash. Say, one hundred pounds.”

Ryan took back more of the drink. He said, “You still haven’t told me the assignment.”

The Lebanese nodded. “It is necessary to liquidate a group of possibly ten persons, possibly a few more might be involved. One of these is of particular importance. In fact, our group would be inclined to feel the mission accomplished if but the one most important of this number was, as I say, liquidated. Do you speak Arabic, Major?”

“No. French is my only language other than English. Oh, I have a few words and phrases of various other languages, including Arabic, but I don’t pretend to speak them.”