Assault on England Read Free Page B

might be one of the international crime syndicates. Or maybe even an ex-con, recently released, with a grudge against official London. Now they think it may be the Russians."
    I was skeptical. "Really?"
    "It may not be as farfetched as it sounds. The Russians are at odds, bitterly, with several of Britain's top leaders. Dumbarton was one of them. They might be trying to effect a change of government in London — the direct way. It's been done before."
    Hawk finished his steak and leaned back. "Maybe Russia is more edgy than we think," he continued. "Dumbarton was pushing the development of a fighter aircraft that would make a MIG look like Von Richtofen's Fokker DR-1. He was also pressing for a bacterial arsenal. British intelligence points to the language of the notes — the repetitive use of 'we' and 'us, the fact that the note paper is the same kind used by a Russian sub-agent in another matter. And, lastly, to the fact that Boris Novosty, who recently showed up in London, has now mysteriously dropped out of sight."
    "He's one of KGB's best," I said thoughtfully.
    Hawk nodded.
    "And that's why you're here. The chief of SOE's Select Missions group and the Prime Minister got together and decided that since you're already in on this thing through Augie Fergus, and especially because Novosty and his people have never seen you, it would be nice if I loaned you to them for a while."
    "And thus ends another brief but glorious holiday," I said. "I just wish I had been able to get something from Fergus."
    "He may not have had anything," Hawk said. "The most they could find out about the poor devil is that he served as a commando quite a few years back and then went downhill from there. Of course, he might have done some sub-agent work for the Commies and overheard something. At any rate, that's irrelevant now. The British need all the help they can get to crack this. I'm sorry, Nick, that you seem to get all the nasty ones, but that goes along with being so good at what you do."
    I acknowledged the compliment. "Thanks. When do I leave?"
    "Early tomorrow morning. It's the first flight out." He grinned. "You'll have time to see her again tonight, I should think."
    I grinned back. "I was counting on it."
    The Mirimar Hotel was a pre-colonial vintage building that managed to retain its european flavor. The club was located at the rear of the lobby. I took a table and ordered a scotch on the rocks. When the waiter left with my order, I scanned the surroundings. The room was dimly lit, with most of the illumination coming from the candles which sat atop each table. The clientele was mainly Europeans in Tangier on holiday, with a smattering of modernized Arabs in western garb sipping Turkish coffee, talking animatedly among themselves.
    Just as my drink arrived, the lights dimmed and the show began. The first act was a French singer who went through several numbers bemoaning the heartache of lost loves. She was followed by a procession of belly dancers whose talent was more worthy of Eighth Avenue in New York than the Mid-East.
    Finally Hadiya was announced, and a respectful hush settled over the room. The musicians struck up a beat, and Hadiya slid onto the stage from the wings.
    She was dressed in the standard belly dancer's costume, but that was as far standard as she was. From the onset it was evident that she was head and shoulders above the average belly dancer. Her abdominal muscles quivered with a control that must have taken years to perfect. Her breasts shook as if they had a mind of their own, and even her arm movements betrayed a grace that was from long ago, when belly dancing was an art rather than the bastardized striptease that it has been relegated to in recent years.
    She swirled on bare feet, her body responding to the tempo of the musicians, rising passionately on the upbeats, slowing seductively on the downs. About me I could hear the labored breathing of the male customers as they bent forward to get a better view