Mack Reynolds: Border, Breed Nor Birth

“It didn’t work out that way,” the man called Anton said dryly.

“No, it didn’t. And Lenin didn’t live to see the steps that Stalin would take in order to build the necessary industrial base in Russia.” Kirill Menzhinsky looked about the room, almost as though checking to see if anyone else were listening. “Some of our more unorthodox theoreticians are inclined to think that had Lenin survived the assassin’s bullet, Comrade Stalin would have found it necessary to, ah, liquidate him.”

The Russian cleared his throat. “Be that as it may, basic changes were made in Marxist teachings to fit into Stalin’s and later Khrushchev’s new concepts of the worker’s State. And the Soviet Union muddled through, as the British have it. Today, the Soviet Complex is as powerful as the imperialist powers.”

The espionage leader knocked back his vodka with a practiced stiff-wristed motion. “Which brings us to the present and to North Africa.” He leaned forward in emphasis. “Comrade, if the past half-century and more has taught us anything, it is that you cannot establish socialism in a really backward country. In short, communism is impossible in North Africa at this point in her social evolution. Impossible. You cannot go directly from tribal society to communism. At this historic point, there is no place for the party’s program in North Africa.”

The man called Anton scowled.

The Russian waggled his hand negatively. “Yes, yes. I know. Ultimately, the whole world must become Soviet. Only that way will we achieve our eventual goal. But that is the long view. Realistically, we must face it, as the Yankees say. This area is not at present soil for our seed.”

“Things move fast these days,” the Negro growled. “Industrialization, education, can be a geometric progression.”

His superior nodded emphatically. “Of course, and as little as ten or fifteen years from now, given progress at the present rate, perhaps there will be opportunity for our movement. But now? No.”

The other said, “What has all this to do with El Hassan, or Crawford, or whatever the man’s name is?”

“Yes,” the Russian said. “Homer Crawford has evidently decided to become El Hassan.”

“Ahhh.”

“Yes. At this point, in short, he is traveling in our direction. He is doing what we realize must be done.”

“Then we will support him?”

“Now we come to the point, Anton. Homer Crawford is not sympathetic to the Party. To the contrary. Our suspicion, although we have no proof, is that he killed Comrade Abe Baker when Baker approached him on his stand in regard to the Party’s long view.”

“I see,” the man called Anton said.

The Russian nodded. “We must keep in some sort of touch with him—some sort of control. If this El Hassan realizes his scheme and unites all North Africa, sooner or later we will have to deal with him. If he is antagonistic, we will have to find means to liquidate him.”

“And my assignment?”

“He will be gathering followers at this point. Many followers, most of whom will be unknown to him. You will become one of them. Raise yourself to as high a rank as you find possible in his group. Become a close friend, if that can be done.”

“He killed Abe Baker, eh?”

The Russian frowned. “This is an assignment, Comrade Anton. There is no room for personal feelings. You are a good field man. Among the best. You are being given this task because the Party feels you are the man for it. Possibly it is an assignment that will take years in the fulfilling.”

The Negro said nothing.

“Are there any questions?”

“Do we have any other operatives working on this?”

The frown became a scowl. “An Isobel Cunningham worked with Comrade Baker, but it has been suspected that she has been drifting away from the Party these past few years. Her present status is unknown, but she is believed to be with Homer Crawford and his followers. Possibly she has defected. If so, you will take whatever measures seem necessary. You will be working almost completely on your own, Comrade. You must think on your feet, as the Yankees say.”

The man called Anton thought a moment. He said, “You’d better give me as thorough a rundown as possible on this Homer Crawford and his immediate followers.”

Menzhinsky settled back in his chair and took up a sheaf of papers from the desk. “We have fairly complete dossiers. I’ll give you the highlights, then you can take these with you to your hotel to study at leisure.”

He took up the first sheet. “Homer Crawford. Born in Detroit of working-class parents. In his late teens interrupted his education to come to Africa where he joined elements of the F.L.N. in Morocco and took part in several forays into Algeria. Evidently was wounded and invalided back to the States where he resumed his education. When he came of military age, he joined the Marine Corps and spent the usual, ah, hitch I believe they call it. Following that, he resumed his education, finally taking a doctor’s degree in sociology. He then taught for a time until the Reunited Nations began its African porgram. He accepted a position, and soon distinguished himself.”

The Russian took up another paper. “According to Comrade Baker’s reports, Crawford is an outstanding personality, dominating others, even in spite of himself. He would make a top Party man. Idealistic, strong, clever, ruthless when ruthlessness is called for.”

Menzhinsky paused for a moment, finding words hard to come by from an ultra-materialist. His tone went wry. “Comrade Baker also reported a somewhat mystical quality in our friend Crawford. An ability in times of emotional crisis to break down men’s mental barriers against him. A force that…”

The other raised his eyebrows.

His superior chuckled ruefully. “Comrade Baker was evidently much swayed by the man’s personality. However, Anton, I might point out that similar reports have come down to us of such a dominating personality in Lenin, and, to a lesser degree, in Stalin.” He twisted his mouth. “History leads us to believe that such personalities as Jesus and Mohammed seemed to have some power beyond that of we more mundane types.”

“And the others?” Anton said.

The Russian took up still another paper. “Elmer Allen. Born of small farmer background on the outskirts of Kingston, on the 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 several organizations that held social connotations, 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 Homer Crawford’s team. He is evidently in accord with Crawford’s aims as El Hassan.”

The espionage chief took up another sheet. “Bey-ag-Akhamouk…”

The other scowled. “That can’t be an American name.”

“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 intuitiver 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.”