Part 7 (2/2)

He pa.s.sed through the teaming Grand Zocco market, and through the gates of the old city. He took Rue Singhalese, the only street in the medina wide enough to accommodate a vehicle and went almost as far as the Zocco Chico, once considered the most notorious square in the world.

For a moment the man called Anton stood before one of the Indian shops and stared at the window's contents. Carved ivory statuettes from the Far East, cameras from j.a.pan, ebony figurines, chess sets of water jade, gimcracks from everywhere.

A Hindu stood in the doorway and rubbed his hands in a gesture so stereotyped as to be ludicrous. ”Sir, would you like to enter my shop?

I have amazing bargains.”

The man they called Anton entered.

He looked about the shop, otherwise empty of customers. Vaguely, he wondered if the other ever sold anything, and, if so, to whom.

He said, ”I was looking for an ivory elephant, from the East.”

The Indian's eyebrows rose. ”A white elephant?”

”A red elephant,” the man called Anton said.

”In here,” the Hindu said evenly, and led the way to the rear.

The rooms beyond were comfortable but not ostentatious. They pa.s.sed through a livingroom-study to an office beyond. The door was open and the Indian merely gestured in the way of introduction, and then left.

Kirill Menzhinsky, agent superior of the _Chrezvychainaya Komissiya_ for North Africa, looked up from his desk, smiled his pleasure, came to his feet and held out his hand.

”Anton!” he said. ”I've been expecting you.”

The man they called Anton smiled honestly and shook. ”Kirill,” he said. ”It's been a long time.”

The other motioned to a comfortable armchair, resumed his own seat.

”It's been a long time all right--almost five years. As I recall, I was slung over your shoulder, and you were wading through those confounded swamps. The ...”

”The Everglades.”

”Yes.” The heavy-set Russian espionage chief chuckled. ”You are much stronger than you look, Anton. As I recall, I ordered you to abandon me.”

The wiry Negro grunted deprecation. ”You were delirious from your wound.”

The Russian came to his feet, turned his back and went to a small improvised bar. He said, his voice low, ”No, Anton, I wasn't delirious. Perhaps a bit afraid, but then the baying of dogs is disconcerting.”

The man they called Anton said, ”It is all over now.”

The Russian returned and said, ”A drink, Anton? As I recall you were never the man to refuse a drink. Scotch, bourbon, vodka?”

The other shrugged. ”I believe in drinking the local product. What is the beverage of Tangier?”

Kirill Menzhinsky took up a full bottle the contents of which had a greenish, somewhat _oily_ tinge. ”Absinthe,” he said. ”Guaranteed to turn your brains to mush if you take it long enough. What was the name of that French painter...?”

”Toulouse Lautrec,” Anton supplied. ”I thought the stuff was illegal these days.” He watched the other add water to the potent liqueur.

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