White Death Read online

  Very little was known about this new outlet. The location of the processing laboratory had not been discovered, though Dain was reasonably sure he would find it in northeast Iran, either in the Khurasan Mountains or across the border in Afghanistan or the Turkmen Republic. But that was only the beginning of the problem. Dain also needed to know how the drug was carried across Iran to its place of embarkation, and by whom. He had to learn what port was used; and even more important, he had to find out the method by which the heroin was smuggled so successfully into the United States. Finally, it was his job to discover who were the organizers of the traffic.

  “And that’s all you have to do?” I asked.

  “That about sums it up,” Dain said.

  “Very well. A cache of heroin was found in Meshed, an American agent was killed, some rumors pointed to Imam Baba as a collection point, and other rumors spoke of a Persian Gulf port. Do you have anything else to go on?”

  “We’re fairly sure that the Iran trade is controlled locally by an American,” Dain said. “He is usually referred to as Mr. Smith. There’s also an Arab official involved. But we have no name for him.”

  “And?”

  “That’s about it.”

  “Not very much,” I said.

  “As a start, it should be enough,” Dain said.

  “You don’t know which Persian Gulf port is used? It could be Hormuz, Bushire, Kuwait, or Abadan?”

  “We’ve had rumors about all of those,” Dain said. “It could be any of them.”

  “And the processing factory? What if it is across the border in Soviet Asia?”

  “We’ll worry about that when we come to it,” Dain said. “Our first problem is to get some information. Do you think you can find anyone who’ll talk?”

  “People will always talk, for a price,” I told him. “Every second man in Meshed thinks he has a secret to sell, and those who don’t have a secret will make one up. Your arrival has quite obviously been noted, Mr. Dain; all we need to do is wait for tomorrow. Then you will see.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  My prophecy was soon proved true. The next day, immediately after morning prayer, informants began coming to us. Some strode in boldly, declaring themselves friends of the Americans, and others slipped into the hotel by the back entrance. Most of them were Iranians, but there were also some Bakhtiari tribesmen, a few Arabs, an exiled White Russian, and even one or two Sarts, kinsmen of the assassins who had attacked us last night. I acted as interpreter. Dain sat in a large chair in his hotel room, listening, one hand under his chin, his lower lip pushed out, his eyes narrowed and cynical.

  Many secrets were whispered in that room. Dain rewarded the first two informants, and that encouraged the rest. We were given hints of Russian rocket installations in the Tadzhik Republic, of huge troop concentrations in Russian Azerbaijan, of guilty collusion between Russia and Afghanistan, and of a Soviet plan to unite both Persian and Afghanistan Baluchistan into a single Soviet-controlled republic. Dain gave money to the few who spoke of Iran’s northeast frontier, since that was the area he was interested in. But no one told him what he wanted to know.

  All day the informants came. Even the manager of the hotel had a secret to sell, to say nothing of the bellboys. And there were old men with white beards who came to us in their dotage, confusing this century with the last, and speaking portentously of the Russian designs upon the Khyber Pass, and how the Afghan tribesmen were sure to rise and sweep down upon British India. We treated these old men with courtesy, but got rid of them as soon as we could.

  The day passed, and the number of informants began to lessen. I was sorry to see it. I had charged each man a nominal fee for my services as translator. This sum had reached worthwhile proportions by the time evening came. Dain had not gotten the information he wanted. He sat and brooded over this failure, and I tried to cheer him up.

  “By God!” I said. “Who among us is granted his desire upon this earth? Mr. Dain, you have heard at least a hundred secrets today. Why not take the best of these estimable secrets back to America and let your government file them in a hidden place and thus be satisfied?”

  “My government wouldn’t be satisfied,” Dain said.

  “They would!” I declared. “Believe me, sir, I have worked for other American agents in former years, and each man has brought back secrets just like these.”

  Dain smiled when he heard this. He said, “You’re right, Achmed. If I had come to Iran for secrets, I would take this batch and go home satisfied. Unfortunately, I have work to do concerning heroin.”

  Sadly I said, “None of these men today even so much as hinted at heroin.”

  “Then we must wait,” Dain said, “until someone hints at it.”

  “Perhaps nobody will.”

  “Of course they will. Heroin is a secret, and secrets are for sale. It is only a matter of time.”

  We waited for three nights and three days. Nothing happened in that time, so Dain and I went out to amuse ourselves with the few diversions Meshed has to offer.

  The life of this city, especially after dark, is nothing like the joyous nighttime of Isfahan or Shiraz, or even of Teheran. This is as it should be; one would not expect unmitigated pleasure in the holy city of the Shia. Still, the wise horse knows where the oats are stored, and I was able to take Mr. Dain to a very refined club that someone had once told me about.

  There were girls who danced and girls who sang. There was an Afghan woman who did what is called an Egyptian belly dance, but who did it better than any soft-bodied Egyptian. The muscular control of that Afghan woman was amazing; with body stationary, she was able to make her breasts spin like windmills, clockwise, counterclockwise, and then in opposition. But, amazing and skilled as her performance was, I found something repellent in it since she treated her body as a piece of intricate clockwork, while the soul remained detached and scornful.

  Mr. Dain must have thought the same, for he soon ignored her performance and fell into conversation with a young hostess from Yezd. Here I confess to some feelings of jealousy. This girl, with hair like a black cloud, a well-composed and touching little face, superb carriage, high, pointed breasts, tiny waist and ankles—well, I had more or less selected this girl for myself. In vain I pointed out to Dain women of ampler charm; like me, he was no Turk. And the girl, whose name was Leira, seemed utterly fascinated by this American whose language she could not even understand.

  With difficulty I concealed my irritation. Those two, with not more than a dozen words of Persian and English between them, had already dispensed with my services as translator. Already the girl was showing signs that she considered this a love match, not a business transaction. And Dain, his stony expression vanished, was beaming fatuously upon her as though this thoroughly common little wench were a veritable Scheherazade.

  So strong did my annoyance become that I pre-emptorily left the table, curtly telling Dain that I would see him in the hotel tomorrow, if he could then bring himself to consider business. He merely nodded in an abstracted fashion.

  I started to leave, feeling very low indeed. But at the door, a woman of the house intercepted me. She was large and lively, and nicely colored, though a few years my senior.

  “The evening is still early,” she said to me.

  “I think it is quite late enough,” I replied.

  “My dear,” she said, “you are annoyed about Leira and the foreigner, are you not?”

  I stared at her, marveling at her powers of divination. Then I shrugged and made for the door, telling her that Leira didn’t concern me at all.

  “Well said!” the woman said, catching my sleeve. “I believe that you feel a momentary pique. Such an emotion, believe me, is uncalled for.”

  “What would you know about it?” I asked.

  “Don’t I have eyes?” the woman asked. “Don’t you have eyes? Look at her!”

  “Well?”

  “For one thing, she is too thin even for a refined taste. And that dear
little face of hers reveals a cold and spoiled nature. Can’t you see it?”

  Looking again, I did see something of the sort.

  “Furthermore,” the woman said, “those breasts of hers which you so evidently admire—tell me, where would a girl like that come by them?”

  “It is not unknown,” I answered.

  “Assuredly it is not,” the woman told me. “Such deceptions can be purchased in Teheran, and also in Yezd, the home of falseness.”

  “This is amazing!” I said. “I never considered it!”

  “Of course you didn’t,” the woman said. “You are too good-hearted, anyone can see that. Count yourself lucky, my friend! A night with that bag of bones would be memorable—only for the bruises. Cold and uncaring that one is, skilled only as an illusionist. Accept a woman’s word for it! Furthermore—”

  “My good woman,” I said, “take care not to overstate your case.”

  “I overstate nothing,” she said. “I have told only what I know. But also there is a rumor about her—”

  “What rumor?”

  “Well,” the woman said, “what sort of girl would you expect to come from Yezd? What sort of girl would have a look like that?”

  I stared at her open-mouthed. Then quickly I made a sign to avert the Evil Eye. “Is she a Yezidi then?” I asked.

  “I make no accusations,” the woman said. “For all I know, she is as good a Shia as you or me. God knows, she pretends to be good enough for ten of us. I shall say nothing more about her. You must judge for yourself.”

  “What you have told me is interesting,” I said. “But I have heard nothing about you, not even your name.”

  “My name is Soera,” the woman said. “There is nothing important to tell about me. Still, since you have been so kind to enquire, would you like a cup of coffee in my apartment?”

  “Lead on,” I said. As we left, I looked once more at Dain and Leira. I reminded myself how fortunate I was not to have gotten involved with a cold-faced bag of bones, and possibly Yezidi at that. And that was the extent of the business we transacted that night, and also the next.

  CHAPTER SIX

  On our third night in Meshed, just as I was beginning to enjoy myself fully in that unique and holy city, Dain’s desired information finally sought him out. Or rather, it sought me out. Dain was resting in his hotel after what must have been a strenuous night with Leira. I was returning from Soera, who had turned out to be an extremely pleasant person, though expensive and demanding. As I came to the hotel steps, a hand reached out of the darkness and seized my sleeve.

  My first reaction was to go for my knife, since my head still ached from the attack of the murderous Sarts. But a voice speaking Turki said, “Are you the man who buys the secrets?”

  “Come into the light,” I said, my fingers wrapped firmly around the hilt of my knife.

  “I don’t move anywhere yet,” the man said, in an extremely sullen and peevish voice. “First tell me, are you and the foreigner still buying secrets, or have you bought all that you need?”

  I controlled my impatience and said, “We are still buying secrets, if they are the secrets we want. Now come into the light, unless you’re afraid to show your ugly face.”

  That stung him, and he walked with me to the end of the hotel veranda. He was a yellow-faced young man with a thin black mustache. By a single naked light bulb I saw his high black sheepskin hat, his tattered linen gown, the two cartridge belts looped across his chest, the rifle slung over his back, and the ragged horseman’s boots of soft leather. At the same time, I caught the odors of stale mutton and horse sweat, and knew I was dealing with a Turkoman.

  “Well, you have seen me,” the Turkoman said. “Now take me to your master and let him buy my secret.”

  “The foreigner is not my master,” I said. “He and I are friends, and we work together on important matters.”

  “Well, take me to him.”

  “Go back to your sweetheart, the horse,” I said. “I’ll not waste his time or his money with Turkoman lies. Every nameless beggar in Meshed has a secret to sell, but a Turkoman always hears the news last, and then lies the most.”

  He made a ferocious face at me, which the Turkomans always do, thinking it frightens people. I shrugged my shoulders and turned to go.

  “By God!” the Turkoman said. “I possess a real secret, a secret worth much money and the lives of many men. I risk death to come here and speak with the foreign spy. … And this is the reception I am given!”

  I paused, looked at him, and pulled at my lower lip. At length I said, “Doubtless your story is mostly lies, like all Turkoman stories. But let me hear and judge. If it proves of some worth, I will reward you.”

  The Turkoman burst into bitter laughter. “Do you really think I would tell my secret to a double-faced Persian townsman?”

  “By God!” I cried. “I am a full-blooded Mongol on my mother’s side, in direct descent of the Emirs of Bokhara. You idiot, how else do you suppose I speak your language?”

  “Anybody can learn a language,” the Turkoman said. “What is your name?”

  “Achmed Abotai,” I told him.

  “I once knew a ragpicker in Merv named Abotai,” he said. That is the sort of thing that passes for humor among Turkomans, and this surly young man seemed to think himself very clever for saying it.

  “Come,” he said, “take me to your master.”

  “First tell me the secret.”

  “Never.”

  “Then give me a hint of it, so I can judge its importance.”

  A Turkoman’s habitual expression is a scowl, but this man frowned so deeply that I feared he would paralyze his face. He thought—always a hard task for a Turkoman—and at last he said:

  “My secret is concerned with the town of Imam Baba, and with a substance that is sometimes called White Powder.”

  I tried to keep my face unreadable, but I was startled all the same. In a bored voice I said, “Go on.”

  “I have said my last word,” the Turkoman said. “There must be money before there is more talk.”

  I yawned and said, “Your so-called secret may be of no importance whatsoever; but I will let my friend judge that for himself. I will allow you to see him.”

  Having said this, I stood like a statue while the Turkoman tugged nervously at his fingers. He waited. I waited. He said, “Very well, let us go.”

  “Perhaps,” I said thoughtfully, “I should not disturb my extremely wealthy friend tonight. Perhaps tomorrow would be better, or the day after.”

  The Turkoman knew very well what I wanted, and what was no more than my due. But, like all his lice-ridden tribe, he would have preferred to eat his money rather than give it away. He called me several hard names, thus showing a filthy mind and very little imagination. I ignored him until he paused for breath, and then I said that perhaps next week or the week after would be the best time to see my American friend. Surely, I added, my friend would still have a little money left by then.

  The Turkoman groaned like an animal in pain. Avarice fought with stinginess within his soul; at last he extracted a purse from the folds of his garments. He opened it like a man opening a wound on his own body, and he paid me with a curse.

  “Very good,” I said. “Now you may see him. I trust that you have brought an interpreter with you?”

  “Interpreter?” roared the Turkoman. “You fiend, you bastard, do you mean—”

  “I do exactly what I am paid to do,” I said. “You have paid to see the foreigner, and see him you shall. But as for talking to him—well, perhaps you speak English? If not, I am sure that he would understand you in German or French, or perhaps even Spanish.”

  The Turkoman, barely the master of his own language, was almost speechless with rage, and no scowl or curse could suffice for his emotion. In a low hiss he said, “I swear before God, townsman, that as you have served me, so shall I serve you. My chance will come, never doubt that.”

  “God alone knows the
future,” I said piously. “We rest in His hands.”

  The Turkoman choked down his anger and paid me. Actually, I had demanded double payment only to teach the fellow a lesson in manners, not for the few greasy coins in his purse. These hairy nomads lack the virtue of humility. I put his money away, nearly breaking his heart by doing so, and led him around to the back of the hotel. We slipped quietly inside, and went up unseen, by a rear staircase.

  Dain looked up in mild surprise at the uncouth fellow I had brought. Proudly I said, in English, “Through my many efforts, I have found the key to your riddle. But do not seem eager, otherwise this greedy son of a whore will demand the gold out of your teeth.”

  Dain nodded, looked the Turkoman over, noted his expression, and looked closely at me. He graciously motioned the Turkoman to a chair, but the unwashed savage took one look at the thing and decided to remain standing. After he had glowered for a few moments, the Turkoman abruptly spoke.

  “I have already mentioned Imam Baba and the White Powder,” he said, with me translating. “Before I speak a word more, I want money—not paper, but gold or silver. And if my story interests you, I shall want more money as I go on.”

  Dain was prepared for this. He gave the man five small silver coins, promising more later. The Turkoman bit and smelled each coin, then put them in his purse and began to talk.

  His name, he told us, was Chitai, and he was of the Dushak clan of the Tekke Turkomans. In tedious detail he told us the history of the Turkoman wars in Iran, Afghanistan, and Turkmenistan; of the Tekke fighting prowess against Russians, Iranians, and Afghanistanis; of their obvious superiority to their cousins, the Uzbeks, Kazaks, and Kirghiz; and of their renowned battle fury, their courage, and their untamability.

  “I merely mention this,” Chitai said, ending his preamble, “so that you may know what manner of man you are dealing with.”

  This effrontery was too much for me. I said, “Tell me, my untamable friend, how is it that the Russians destroyed the very name of Turkmenistan, created a new state called Turkmen, captured Merv without noticeable effort, and put your renowned fighters to work tilling the soil on the collective farms?”