* * *

Homer Crawford played it safe. From the nearest public phone he called
Isobel Cunningham at the Hotel Juan-le-Pin. No matter how fast Sven
Zetterberg swung into action, it would take his operatives some time
to connect Isobel with Homer and his team. As an employee of the
Africa for Africans Association, she would ordinarily come in little
contact with the Reunited Nations teams.

He said, "Isobel? Homer here. Can you talk?"

She said, "Cliff and Jake are here."

He said, "Have you sounded them out? How do they feel about the El
Hassan project?"

"They're in. At least, Jake is. We're still arguing with Cliff."

"O.K. Now listen, carefully. Zetterberg turned thumbs down on the
whole deal, for various reasons we can discuss later. In fact, he's
incensed and threatened to take steps to keep us from leaving Dakar."

Isobel was alerted but she snorted deprecation. "What do you want?"

"They're probably already looking for me, and in a matter of minutes
will probably try to pick up Bey-ag-Akhamouk, Elmer Allen and Kenny
Ballalou, the other members of my team. Get in touch with them
immediately and tell them to get into native costume and into hiding.
You and Jake--and Cliff--do the same."

"Right. Where do we meet and when?"

"In the _souk_, in the food market. There's a native restaurant there,
run by a former Vietnamese. We'll meet there at approximately noon."

"Right. Anything else?"

Homer said, "Tell Bey to bring along an extra 9mm Recoilless for me."

"Yes, El Hassan," she said, her voice expressionless. She didn't waste
time. Homer Crawford heard the phone click as she hung up.

He was in a branch building of the post and telegraph network on the
Rue des Resistance. Before leaving it, he looked out a window. Half a
block away was the office of the Sahara Division of the African
Development Project. Even as he watched, a dozen men hurried out the
front door, fanned out in all directions.

Homer grinned sourly. Old Sven was moving fast.

He shot a quick glance around the lobby of the building. He had to get
going. Zetterberg had started with a dozen men to trail down El
Hassan. He'd probably have a hundred involved before the hour was out.

A corridor turned off to the right. Homer hurried down it. At each
door he looked inside. To whoever occupied the room he murmured a few
words of apology in Wolof, the Sengalese lingua franca. The fourth
office was empty.

Homer stood there