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  Homer Crawford phoned the desk and got the manager. Somebody had been in the suite during his absence. Was there any way of checking?

  He didn’t expect satisfaction and didn’t receive any. The manager, after finding that nothing seemed to be missing, seemed to think that perhaps Dr. Crawford had made a mistake. Homer didn’t bother to tell him about the poisoned brandy. He hung up, took the bottle into the bathroom and poured it away.

  In the way of precautions, he checked the windows to see if there were any possibilities of entrance by an intruder, locked the door securely, put his hand gun beneath his pillow and fell off to sleep. When and if Abe returned, he could bang on the door.

  In the morning, clad in American business suits and frankly feeling a trifle uncomfortable in them, Homer Crawford and Abraham Baker presented themselves at the offices of the African Development Project, Sahara Division, of the Reunited Nations. Uncharacteristically, there was no waiting in anterooms, no dealing with subordinates. Dr. Crawford and his lieutenant were ushered directly to the office of Sven Zetterberg.

  Upon their entrance the Swede came to his feet, shook hands abruptly with both of them and sat down again. He scowled at Abe and said to Homer in excellent English, “It was requested that your team remain in Mopti.” Then he added, “Sit down, gentlemen.”

  They took chairs. Crawford said mildly, “Mr. Baker is my right-hand man. I assume he’d take over the team if anything happened to me.” He added dryly, “Besides, there were a few things he felt he had to do about town.”

  Abe cleared his throat but remained silent.

  Zetterberg continued to frown but evidently for a different reason now. He said. “There have been more complaints about your… ah … cavalier tactics.”

  Homer looked at him but said nothing.

  Zetterberg said in irritation, “It becomes necessary to warn you almost every time you come in contact with this office, Dr. Crawford.”

  Homer said evenly, “My team and I work in the field, Dr. Zetterberg. We have to think on our feet and usually come to decisions in split seconds. Sometimes our lives are at stake. We do what we think best under the conditions. At any time your office feels my efforts are misdirected, my resignation is available.”

  The Swede cleared his throat. “The Arab Union has made a full complaint in the Reunited Nations of a group of our men massacring thirty-five of their troopers.”

  Homer said, “They were well into the Ahaggar with a convoy of modern weapons, obviously meant for adherents of theirs. Given the opportunity, the Arab Union would take over North Africa.”

  “This is no reason to butcher thirty-five men.”

  “We were fired upon first,” Crawford said.

  “That is not the way they tell it. They claim you ambushed them.”

  Abe put in innocently, “How would the Arab Union know? We didn’t leave any survivors.”

  Zetterberg glared at him. “It is not easy, Mr. Baker, for we who do the paper work involved in this operation, to account for the activities of you hair-trigger men in the field.”

  “We appreciate your difficulties,” Homer said evenly. “But we can only continue to do what we think best on being confronted with an emergency.”

  The Swede drummed his fingers on the desk top. “Perhaps I should remind you that the policy of this project is to encourage amalgamation of the peoples of the area. Possibly, the Arab Union will prove to be the best force to accomplish such a union.”

  Abe grunted.

  Homer Crawford was shaking his head. “You don’t believe that, Dr. Zetterberg, and I doubt if there are many non-Moslems who do. Mohammed sprung out of the deserts and his religion is one based on the surroundings, both physical and socio-economic.”

  Zetterberg grumbled, argumentatively, though his voice lacked conviction, “So did its two sister religions, Judaism and Christianity.”

  Crawford waggled a finger negatively. “Both of them adapted to changing times, with considerable success. Islam has remained the same and in all the world there is not one example of a highly developed socio-economic system in a Moslem country. The reason is that in your country, and mine, and in the other advanced countries of the West, we pay lip service to our religions, but we don’t let them interfere with our day-by-day life. But the Moslem, like the rapidly disappearing ultra-orthodox Jew, lives his religion every day and by the rules set down by the Prophet fifteen centuries ago. Everything a Moslem does from the moment he gets up in the morning is all mapped out in the Koran. What fingers of the hand to eat with, what hand to break bread with —and so on and so forth. It can get ludicrous. You should see the bathroom of a wealthy Moslem in some modern city such as Tangier. Mohammed never dreamed of such institutions as toilet paper. His followers still obey the rules he set down as an alternative.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “That North Africa cannot be united under the banner of Islam if she is going to progress rapidly. If it ever unites, it will be in spite of local religions—Islam and pagan as well; they hold up the wheels of progress.”

  Zetterberg stared at him. The truth of the matter was that he agreed with the American and they both knew it.

  He said, “This matter of physically assaulting and then arresting the chieftain”—he looked down at a paper on his desk—“of the Ouled Touameur clan of the Chaambra confederation, Abd-el-Kader. From your report, the man was evidently attempting to unify the tribes.”

  Crawford was shaking his head impatiently. “No. He didn’t have the… dream. He was a raider, a racketeer, not a leader of purposeful men. Perhaps it’s true that these people need a hero to act as a symbol for them, but he can’t be such as Abd-el-Kader.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” the Swede said grudgingly. “See here, have you heard reports of a group of Cubans, in the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan to help with the new sugar refining there, being attacked?”

  The eyes of both Crawford and Baker narrowed. There’d been talk about this at Timbuktu. “Only a few rumors,” Crawford said.

  The Swede drummed his desk with his nervous fingers. “The rumors are correct. The whole group was either killed or wounded.” He said suddenly, “You had nothing to do with this, I suppose?”

  Crawford held his palms up, in surprise, “My team has never been within a thousand miles of Khartoum.”

  Zetterberg said, “See here, we suspect the Cubans might have supported Soviet Complex viewpoints.”

  Crawford shrugged. “I know nothing about them at all.”

  Zetterberg said, “Do you think this might be the work of El Hassan and his followers?”

  Abe started to chuckle something, but Homer shook his head slightly in warning and said, “I don’t know.”

  “How did that affair in Mopti turn out, these riots in favor of El Hassan?”

  Homer Crawford shrugged. “Routine. Must have been as many as ten thousand of them at one point. We used standard tactics in gaining control and then dispersing them. I’ll have a complete written report to you before the day is out.”

  Zetterberg said, “You’ve heard about this El Hassan before?”

  “Quite a bit.”

  “From the rumors that have come into this office, he backs neither East nor West in international politics. He also seems to agree with your summation of the Islamic problem. He teaches separation of Church and state.”

  “They’re the same thing in Moslem countries,” Abe muttered.

  Zetterberg tossed his bombshell out of a clear sky. “Dr. Crawford,” he snapped, “in spite of the warnings we’ve had to issue to you repeatedly, you are admittedly our best man in the field. We’re giving you a new assignment. Find this El Hassan and bring him here!”

  Zetterberg leaned forward, an expression of somewhat anxious sincerity in his whole demeanor.

  VIII

  Abe Baker choked, and then suddenly laughed.

  Sven Zetterberg stared at him. “What’s so funny?”

  “Well, nothing,” Abe admi
tted. He looked to Homer Crawford.

  Crawford said to the Swede carefully, “Why?”

  Zetterberg said impatiently, “Isn’t it obvious, after the conversation we’ve had here? Possibly this El Hassan is the man we’re looking for. Perhaps this is the force that will bind North Africa together. Thus far, all we’ve heard about him has been rumor. We don’t seem to be able to find anyone who has seen him, nor is the exact strength of his following known. We’d like to confer with him, before he gets any larger.”

  Crawford said carefully, “It’s hard to track down a rumor.”

  “That’s why we give the assignment to our best team in the field,” the Swede told him. “You’ve got a roving commission. Find El Hassan and bring him here to Dakar.”

  Abe grinned and said, “Suppose he doesn’t want to come?”

  “Use any methods you find necessary. If you need more manpower, let us know. But we must talk to El Hassan.”

  Homer said, still watching his words, “Why the urgency?”

  The Reunited Nations official looked at him for a long moment, as though debating whether to let him in on higher policy. “Because frankly, Dr. Crawford, the elements which first went together to produce the African Development Project, are, shall we say, becoming somewhat unstuck.”

  “The glue was never too strong,” Abe muttered.

  Zetterberg nodded. “The attempt to find competent, intelligent men to work for the project, who were at the same time altruistic and unaffected by personal or national interests, has always been a difficult one. If you don’t mind my saying so, we Scandinavians, particularly those not affiliated with NATO, come closest to filling the bill. We have no designs on Africa. It is unfortunate that we have practically no Negro citizens who could do field work.”

  “Are you suggesting other countries have designs on Africa?” Homer said.

  For the first time the Swede laughed—a short, choppy laugh. “Are you suggesting they haven’t? What was that convoy of the Arab Union bringing into the Sahara? Guns, with which to forward their cause of taking over all North Africa. What were those Cubans doing in Sudan, that someone else felt it necessary to assassinate them? What is the program of the Soviet Complex as it applies to this area, and how does it differ from that of the United States? And how do the ultimate programs of the British Commonwealth and the French Community differ from each other and from both the United States and Russia?”

  “That’s why we have a Reunited Nations,” Crawford said calmly.

  “Theoretically, yes. But it is coming apart at the seams. I sometimes wonder if an organization composed of a membership each with its own selfish needs can ever really unite in an altruistic task. Remember the early days when the Congo was first given her freedom? Supposedly the United Nations went in to help. Actually, each element in the United Nations had its own irons in the fire, and usually their desires differed.”

  The Swede shrugged hugely. “I don’t know, but I am about convinced, and so are a good many other officers of this project, that unless we soon find a competent leader to act as a symbol around which all North Africans can unite, find such a man and back him, that all our work will crumble in this area under pressure from outside. That’s why we want El Hassan.”

  Homer Crawford came to his feet, his face in a scowl. “I’ll let you know by tomorrow, if I can take the assignment,” he said.

  “Why tomorrow?” the Swede demanded.

  “There are some ramifications I have to consider.”

  “Very well,” the Swede said stiffly. He came to his own feet and shook hands with them again. “Oh, there’s just one other thing. This spontaneous meeting you held in Timbuktu with elements from various other organizations. How did it come out?”

  Crawford was wary. “Very little result, actually.”

  Zetterberg chuckled. “As I expected. However, we would appreciate it, doctor, if you and your team would refrain from such activities in the future. You are, after all, hired by the Reunited Nations and owe it all your time and allegiance. We have no desire to see you fritter away this time with religious fanatics and other crackpot groups.”

  “I see,” Crawford said.

  The other laughed cheerfully. “I’m sure you do, Dr. Crawford. A word to the wise.”

  They remained silent on the way back to the hotel.

  In the lobby they ran into Isobel Cunningham.

  Homer Crawford looked at her thoughtfully. He said, “We’ve got some thinking to do and some ideas to bat back and forth. I value your opinion and experience, Isobel. Could you come up to the suite and sit in?”

  She tilted her head and looked at him from the side of her eyes. “Something big has happened, hasn’t it?”

  “I suppose so. I don’t know. We’ve got to make some decisions.”

  “Come on Isobel,” Abe said. “You can give us the feminine viewpoint and all that jazz.”

  They started for the elevator and Isobel said to Abe, “If you’d just be consistent with that pseudo-beatnik chatter of yours, I wouldn’t mind. But half the time you talk like an English lit major when you forget to put on your act.”

  “Man,” Abe said to her, “maybe I was wrong inviting you to sit in on this bull session. I can see you’re in a bad mood.”

  In the living room of the suite, Isobel took an easy-chair and Abe threw himself full length on his back on a couch. Homer Crawford paced the floor.

  “Well?” Isobel said.

  Crawford said abruptly, “Somebody tried to poison me last night. Got into this room somehow and put cyanide in a bottle of cognac Abe and I were drinking out of earlier in the evening.”

  Isabel stared at him. Her eyes went from him to Abe and back. “But… but, why?”

  Crawford ran his hand back over his wiry hair in puzzlement. “I … I don’t know. That’s what’s driving me batty. I can’t figure out why anybody would want to kill me.”

  “I can,” Abe said bluntly. “And that interview we just had with Sven Zetterberg just bears me out.”

  “Zetterberg,” Isobel said, surprised. “Is he in Africa?”

  Crawford nodded to her question but his eyes were on Abe.

  Abe put his hands behind his head and said to the ceiling, “Zetterberg just gave Homer’s team the assignment of bringing in El Hassan.”

  “El Hassan? But you boys told us all in Timbuktu that there was no El Hassan. You invented him and then the rest of us, more or less spontaneously, though unknowingly, took up the falsification and spread your work.”

  “That’s right,” Crawford said, still looking at Abe.

  “But didn’t you tell Sven Zetterberg?” Isobel demanded. “He’s too big a man to play jokes on.”

  “No, I didn’t and I’m not sure I know why.”

  “I know why,” Abe said. He sat up suddenly and swung his feet around and to the floor.

  The other two watched him, both frowning.

  Abe said slowly, “Homer, you are El Hassan.”

  His chief scowled at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  The younger man gestured impatiently. “Figure it out Somebody else already has, the somebody who took a shot at you from that mosque. Look, put it all together and it makes sense.

  “These North Africans aren’t going to make it, not in the short period of time that we want them to, unless a leader appears on the scene. These people are just beginning to emerge from tribal society. In the tribes, people live by rituals and taboos, by traditions. But at the next step in the evolution of society they follow a hero —and the traditions are thrown overboard. It’s one step up the ladder of cultural evolution. Just for the record, the heroes almost invariably get clobbered in the end, since a hero must be perfect. Once he is found wanting in any respect, he’s a false prophet, a cheat, and a new, perfect and faultless hero must be found.

  “O.K. At this stage we need a hero to unite North Africa, but this time we need a real superhero. In this modern age, the old style one won’t do. We need
one with education, and altruism, one with the dream, as you call it. We need a man who has no affiliations, no preferences for Tuareg, Teda, Chaambra, Dogon, Moor or whatever. He’s got to be truly neutral. O.K., you’re it. You’re an American Negro, educated, competent, widely experienced. You’re a natural for the job. You speak Arabic, French, Tamaheq, Songhai and even Swahili.”

  Abe stopped momentarily and twisted his face in a grimace. “But there’s one other thing that’s possibly the most important of all. Homer, you’re a born leader.”

  “Who, me?” Crawford snorted. “I hate to be put in a position where I have to lead men, make decisions, that sort of thing.”

  “That’s beside the point. There in Timbuktu you had them in the palm of your hand. All except one or two, like Doc Smythe and that missionary. And I have an idea even they’d come around. Everybody there felt it. They were in favor of anything you suggested. Isobel?”

  She nodded, very seriously. “Yes. You have a personality that goes over, Homer. I think it would be a rare person who could conceive of you cheating, or misleading. You’re so obviously sincere, competent and intelligent that it, well, projects itself. I noticed it even more in Mopti than Timbuktu. You had that city in your palm in a matter of a few hours.”

  Homer Crawford shifted his shoulders uncomfortably.

  Abe said, “You might dislike the job, but it’s a job that needs doing.”

  Crawford ran his hand around the back of his neck, uncomfortably. “You think such a project would get the support of the various teams and organizations working North Africa, eh?”

  “Practically a hundred percent. And even if some organizations or even countries, with their own row to hoe, tried to buck you, their individual members and teams would come over. Why? Because it makes sense.”

  Homer Crawford said worriedly, “Actually, I’ve realized this, partially subconsciously, for some time. But I didn’t put myself in the role. I … I wish there really was an El Hassan. I’d throw my efforts behind him.”