Rhodesia

Chapter Three

If you've never seen two good big men slug it out, "fighting fairly," you hold a lot of misconceptions about fistfighting. The staged mockeries on TV fool you. Those unguarded-against blows would break a man's jaw — but in real scraps they rarely land. TV fights are sucker-punch ballets.

The old bareknuckle boys would go fifty rounds, fight for four hours, because you learn first to take care of yourself. It becomes automatic. And if you can survive for a few minutes, your opponent is shaken up and you're both swinging a shade wild. It becomes a case of two battering rams bearing each other down. The unofficial record is held by unknowns, an English and an American sailor who fought in a Chinese cafe in St. Johns, Newfoundland, for seven hours. No time out. A draw.

Nick recalled this briefly during the next twenty minutes as he and Wilson fought from one end of the office to the other. They slugged toe-to-toe. They parted and traded long shots. They clinched and wrestled and pulled and hauled. Each man passed up a dozen opportunities to use a piece of furniture as a weapon. Once Wilson hit Nick with a low blow on his thigh bone and said instantly, although puffing the words, "Sorry — slipped."

They smashed beyond repair the window table, four light chairs, one priceless buffet, two end tables, a dictating machine, desk computer, and the small bar. Wilson's desk was swept clean, rammed back against the worktable behind it. Both men had their jackets ripped off. Wilson was bleeding from a cut over his left eye, gouts of blood that dribbled down his cheek and spattered the debris.

Nick worked on that eye, ripped open the wound with skidding and scraping hits that did extra damage by their own inaccuracy. His right hand was blood red. His heart pained and there was a nasty buzzing in his ears from the knocks he had taken to the skull. He saw Wilson's head waggle from side to side but those great fists kept coming — slowly it seemed, but they arrived. He beat one down and threw a punch along it. To the eye again. A score.

They both slipped in Wilson's blood and clung to each other, eyeball to eyeball, gasping so hard they almost gave each other mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Wilson kept blinking to clear his eyes of blood. Nick gathered strength desperately into his aching, leaden arms. They gripped each other's biceps, looked at each other again. Nick felt Wilson summon his remaining strength with the same weary hopefulness that prodded his own numb muscles.

Their eyes seemed to say, What the hell are we doing here?

Nick said between breaths, "That's... a... bad... cut."

Wilson nodded, seemed to think about it for the first time. His wind whistled in and out. He puffed, "Yeah... guess... better... fix... it."

"If... you... don't... have... bad... scar."

"Yeah... nasty... call... draw?"

"Or... Round... One."

The powerful grips o Nick's arms relaxed. He eased his own, lurched back, and got to his feet first. He thought he would never reach the desk, made it, and sat on it with his head hanging. Wilson collapsed back against the wall.

Gus and Maurice glanced briefly at each other, like two shy schoolboys. The office was silent for over a minute except for the agonized inhaling and exhaling of the battered men.

Nick run his tongue over his teeth. They were all there. The inside of his mouth was badly cut his lips would soon puff. They would probably both have black eyes.

Wilson got to his feet and stood unsteadily surveying the chaos. "Maurice — show Mr. Grant the bath."

Nick was led outside and a few steps down the hall. He drew a basin of cold water and plunged his throbbing face into it There was a tap on the door and Gus came in, carrying Wilhelmina and Hugo — the thin knife that had been shaken from its sheath on Nick's arm. "You all right?"

"Sure."

"Gee. Andy, I didn't know. He's changed."

"I don't think so. Things have changed. He's got a prime outlet for all his gold — that's if he's got a lot as we think — so he doesn't need us anymore."

Nick drew more water, dunked his head again, dried himself on thick white towels. Gus held out the weapons. "I didn't know you — carried these."

Nick stuck Wilhelmina in his belt under his shirt, replaced Hugo. "Looks like I might need 'em. This is rugged country."

"But... customs..."

"We did all right so far. How's Wilson?"

"Maurice took him to another bathroom."

"Let's get out of here."

"Okay." But Gus hung back. "Andy — I oughta tell you. Wilson has some gold. I bought some from him before."

"So you have an outlet?"

"It was only a quarter-bar. I sold it in Beirut."

"But they don't pay much there."

"He sold it to me for thirty dollars an ounce."

"Oh." Nick's aching head whirled. Then Wilson did have so much gold he was willing to unload it at a bargain, but now he either had lost his source or had developed a satisfactory way of getting it to the markets.

They went out and along the corridor toward the reception lounge and entrance. As they passed an open door marked Ladies, Wilson called, "Ho, Grant."

Nick stopped and looked in cautiously. "Yeah? How's the eye?"

"Okay." Blood still seeped from under a bandage. "You feel all right?"

"No. I feel as if I fell under a bulldozer."

Wilson came to the door and chuckled through swollen lips. "Man, I could have used you in the Congo. How come the Luger?"

"They tell me Africa is dangerous."

"It can be."

Nick watched the man closely. Here was a lot of ego and self-doubt and an extra portion of the loneliness that powerful men build around themselves when they fail to lower their heads and listen to smaller people. They build their islands, apart from the main, and wonder at their isolation.

Nick chose his words carefully. "No hard feelings. I was just trying to make a dollar. I shouldn't have come. You don't know me and I don't blame you for being careful. Gus said it would be all right." He hated to hang a dunce cap on Boyd, but right now every impression counted.

"You really have a line?"

"Calcutta."

"Sahib Sanha?"

"His friends — Goahan and Freed." Nick named two of the leading gold operators on the Indian black market.

"I see. Take a tip. Forget it for a while. Things are changing"

"Yeah. Prices are going up all the time. Maybe I can connect with Taylor-Hill-Boreman Mining. I hear they're loaded. Can you give me a connection or introduction?"

Wilson's good eye widened. "Grant — listen to me. You're no Interpol snoop. They don't carry Lugers and they can't fight I think I have your number. Forget gold. At least in Rhodesia. And stay away from THB."

"Why? You want all their output for yourself?"

Wilson laughed, flinched as his torn cheeks rubbed on his teeth. He was thinking, Nick knew, that this reply confirmed his estimate of "Andy Grant" Wilson had lived all his life in a world of distinct black or white, for us or against us. He was selfish, considered it normal and honorable, and condemned no one else for it.

The big man's laugh filled the doorway. "I suppose you've heard about the Golden Tusks and you can just feel 'em. Or can't you just see 'em? Coming across the bundu. So big it takes six blacks to carry each one? By God, you think about it awhile and you can almost taste 'em, can't you?"

"I never heard about Golden Tusks," Nick replied, "but you draw a nice picture. Where can I find them?"

"You can't. It's a fairy tale. Gold is sweated for — and what there is, is spoken for. Right now, anyway " Wilson's features were puffing up, his lips swelling. He still managed a grin, though, and Nick realized it was the first time he had seen him smile.

"Do I look like you do?" Nick asked.

"I guess so. They'll know you bumped into something. Too bad you're in that panty-waist business, Grant. If you come back this way looking for something to do, come see me."

"For Round Two? I don't think I'd be up to it."

Wilson liked the implied compliment. "No — out where we use tools. Tools that go bu-du-du-du-du brr-r-r-r-." He made excellent imitations of a heavy and a light machine gun. "We've used 'em a little and we're gonna have to use them a lot more. You'd be on the first team."

"For cash? I'm no romantic."

"Of course — although in my case — " He stopped, studying Nick. "Well — you're a white man. You'll understand after you've seen a bit more of the country."

"I wonder if I will?" Nick replied. "Thanks for everything."

Rolling toward Salisbury through the overbright landscape, Gus was apologetic. "I loused it up, Andy. I should have come out alone or checked by phone. Last time he was cooperative and full of promises for the future. Man — that was some scrap. Were you a pro?"

The compliment was partly butter, Nick knew, but the lad meant well. "No harm done, Gus. If his present channels clog up he'll be back to us quick enough, but it doesn't look likely. He's plenty happy the way things are. No, I wasn't pro. Boxed a little in college."

"A little! He would have killed me."

"You wouldn't have tangled with him. Wilson is a big kid with principles. He fights fair. Only kills people when the principle is right as he sees it"

"I... I don't understand..."

"He was a Merc, wasn't he? You know how those boys behave when they get natives under their muzzles."

Gus flexed his hands on the wheel and said thoughtfully, "I've heard. You don't somehow think of a guy like Alan mowing em down."

"You'd better. It's an old, old pattern. Visit Mother on Saturday, church on Sunday, and bombs away on Monday. When you try to square that with yourself, you get tight knots. Inside your head. The connections and relays in there start to smoke and burn out Dangerous. Now what about those Golden Tusks? You ever hear about them?"

Gus shrugged. "Last time I was through here there was a story around about a shipment of Golden Tusks that went out via rail and Beira to beat the sanctions. There was an article in The Rhodesia Herald speculating on whether they were cast that way and painted white, or found in some old Zimbabwe ruins and sneaked out. That's the old Solomon and Sheba myth."

"You think the story was true?"

"Nope. When I was in India I talked it over with guys who oughta know. They said plenty of gold was coming out of Rhodesia but it was all in nice four-hundred-ounce bars."

When they reached Meikles Hotel Nick slipped in through the side entrance and went up to his room. He used cold and hot soaks, a gentle alcohol rub, and took a nap. His ribs hurt, but he found no sharp pain to indicate a break. At six o'clock he dressed carefully and when Gus called for him he used the eye paint that the other had thoughtfully bought. It helped some, but the full-length mirror told him he looked like a very well-dressed pirate after a severe battle. He shrugged, flicked off the light, and followed Gus to the cocktail lounge.

After his callers had left, Alan Wilson used Maurice' office while half a dozen of his staff worked at rejuvenating his own. He studied three photographs of Nick, shot with a hidden camera.

"Not bad. They show his face from different angles. By Jove, he's a scrapper. We could use him someday." He put the prints in an envelope. "Have Herman fly these over to Mike Bor."

Maurice took the envelope, went through the complex of offices and warehouses to a dispatch desk in the rear of the plant, and relayed Wilson's order. As he sauntered back toward the front offices, his lean brown face bore a satisfied expression. Wilson was learning to follow orders; to take photographs at once of anyone interested in buying gold and send them out to Bor. Mike Bor was the chairman of Taylor-Hill-Boreman, and he had had a little temporary trouble bringing Alan Wilson to heel. Maurice was part of the control web. He received a thousand dollars a month to watch Wilson and he intended to continue to deserve it.

At about the moment Nick was masking his darkening eye with cosmetics, Herman Duzen began a very careful approach to the airport of the Taylor-Hill-Boreman Mining Company. The giant installation was classified as an off-limits military research area with forty square miles of protected airspace above it. Before he took off from Salisbury, flying VFR in the sun-seared clear weather, Herman had telephoned the Rhodesian Air Force control and Rhodesian Air Police. As he neared the restricted zone he radioed his position and bearing and received another clearance from the controller at the plant.

Herman did his duty with absolute precision. He was paid more than most airline pilots and vaguely felt that his sympathies lay with Rhodesia and THB. All the world was against them, you might say, just as the world had once been against Germany. It was strange that when you worked hard and did your duty people seemed to dislike you for no reason at all. It was evident that THB had discovered giant gold reefs. Good! Good for them, good for Rhodesia, good for Herman.

He began his first landing leg, flying over the squalid native huts packed like brown marbles in boxes within their guard walls. A long, serpent-like column of human-wound along a road from one of the mines toward the native compound, guarded by men on horses and in jeeps.

Herman made his first ninety-degree turn, on the mark, on air-speed, on rpms, on rate-of-descent, course accurate to a degree. Perhaps Kramkin, the chief pilot, was watching, perhaps not That wasn't the point, you did your job perfectly out of loyalty to yourself and — to what? Herman often puzzled over that Once it had been his father, stern and fair. Then the air force — he was still in the Republic's reserve — then the Bemex Oil Exploration Company; he had been really heartbroken when the young firm failed. He blamed the British and Americans for that You couldn't buck their money and connections.

He made his last turn, saw with satisfaction that he would flare-out exactly on the third yellow crossbar of the runway and settle like a feather. He hoped the Chinese fellow. Si Kalgan, was watching. It would be nice to get to know him better, such a handsome devil with a real brain. If he didn't look Chinese you'd consider him a German — so quiet, alert, and methodical Of course his race didn't matter — if there was one thing Herman really prided himself on, it was an open mind. That was where Hitler, for all his fine points, had gone wrong. Herman had figured it out for himself and was proud of his insight.

A crewman directed him up to the line, waving a yellow paddle. Herman stopped on the spot and saw with pleasure that Si Kalgan and the crippled old man were waiting under the awning of the field operations office. He thought of him as the crippled old man because he usually traveled in the electric cart in which he was sitting now, but there wasn't so much wrong with his body and certainly nothing slow about his mind or tongue. He had an artificial hand and he wore a large eyepatch, but even when he walked — with a limp — he moved as crisply as he talked. He was called Mike Bor but Herman was sure his name had once been something else, perhaps in Germany, but it was best not to think about that.

Herman came to attention in front of the two men and extended the envelope to the cart. "Good evening, Mr. Kalgan — Mr. Bor. Mr. Wilson sent this to you."

Si smiled at Herman. "A beautiful landing, a satisfaction to watch. Report to Mr. Kramkin. I believe he wants you to return in the morning with some staff."

Herman decided against saluting, but came to attention, bowed, and went into the office. Bor tapped the photos thoughtfully against an aluminum armrest. "Andrew Grant," he said softly. "A man of many names."

"He is the one you and Heinrich — met before?"

"Yes." Bor handed him the pictures. "Don't ever forget that face — until we eliminate it Call Wilson and warn him. Order him explicitly to take no action. We will handle this. There must be no error. Come — we must talk with Heinrich."

Seated in a lavishly furnished room with a wall that slid back to join it to a spacious patio, Bor and Heinrich spoke in low tones while Kalgan telephoned. "There is no doubt. You agree?" Bor asked.

Heinrich, a gray-haired man of at least fifty-five who seemed to sit at attention even in a deep, foam-cushioned chair, nodded. "It is the AXEman. I think at last he has come to the wrong place. We have the information early, so we plan, then strike." He brought his hands together with a small slap. "Surprise is with us."

"We will make no mistakes," Bor said, speaking with the measured tones of a chief of staff outlining strategy. "We assume he will accompany the tourist party to Wankie. He must do that to maintain what he assumes is his cover. That is our perfect place to hit, as the Italians say. Deep in the bush. We will have the armored truck. A helicopter in reserve. Use Herman, he is dedicated, and Krol for a gunner, he is an excellent shot — for a Pole. Outposts on the roads. Draw up a complete tactical plan and a map, Heinrich. Some people would say we are using a mallet to swat a beetle, but they don't know this beetle the way we do, eh?"

"He is a beetle with a wasp's sting and a skin like a chameleon. Not to be underestimated." Mullers face showed the ugly anger of bitter memories.

"We want more information if we can get it, but our prime objective is the elimination of Andrew Grant once and for all. Call it Operation Kill Beetle. Yes — a good name, it will keep our main purpose before us.

"Kill Beetle," Muller repeated, savoring the words. "I like that"

"Now," the man called Bor went on, ticking off points on the metal projections of his artificial hand, "why is he in Rhodesia? Political evaluation? Is he looking for us again? Are they interested in the increasing flow of gold which we are so pleased to provide? Could it be they've heard of our well-organized gun boys, guaranteed to succeed? Or is it perhaps none of these things? I suggest you brief Foster and send him to Salisbury with Herman in the morning. Have him talk with Wilson. Give him explicit orders — find out. He is to gather intelligence only, not alarm our quarry."

"He follows orders," Heinrich Muller said approvingly. "Your tactical plan is excellent, as always."

"Thank you." The good eye glittered at Muller, but even in appreciation of a compliment it had the cold, merciless appearance of a cobra viewing a target, plus a speculative narrowing, like a reptile with egomania.

Nick discovered something he had not known — how smart travel agents, tour operators, and travel contractors keep their important customers happy. After cocktails at the hotel Ian Masters and four of his personable merry men drove the party to the South Africa Club, a lovely tropical-style building amid lush grounds lit by colored lights and refreshed by sparkling fountains.

Inside the club the girls, resplendent in their colorful gowns, were introduced to a dozen men. All were young and most were handsome, two wore uniforms, and for solidity there were two older citizens, one with a distinguished grouping of decorations on his dinner jacket.

A long table was reserved for the party in an ell of the main dining room, adjacent to the dance floor, and with its own service bar. After the introductions and pleasant chat, they discovered place cards which cleverly seated each girl between two men. Nick and Gus found themselves side by side at the far end of the table.

The senior escort murmured, "Ian is a good operator. This makes a hit with the women. They see enough of you and me."

"Look where he put Booty. Next to old Sir Humphrey Condon. Ian knows she's VIP. I didn't tell him."

"Maybe Manny sent along her old man's credit rating in the confidential advices."

"With that body she can do all right without a push. She looks class, maybe he guessed." Gus chuckled. "Don't fret You'll have plenty of time with her."

"I haven't been making time lately. But Ruth is good company. Anyway, I've got some worries about Booty..."

"What! Not this soon. Its only been three days — you couldn't have..."

"Not what you're thinking. She's cool. Something's wrong. If we're going into the gold business I suggest we keep an eye on her."

"Booty! Could she be dangerous... spying..."

"You know how these kids like adventure. The CIA has fallen into a lot of messes using kindergarten snoops. Usually they do it for the money, but a gal like Booty might go for the glamour. Little Miss Jane Bond."

Gus took a deep swallow of his wine. "Wow — now that you mention it, this fits in with what happened while I was dressing. She called and said she wouldn't go with the group tomorrow morning. The afternoon is free time for shopping anyway. She has hired a car and is going off on her own. I tried to pin her down and she sounded secretive. Said she wanted to visit something in the Motoroshanga district. I tried to talk her out of it, but hell — if they've got the funds they can do anything they please. She got the car from Selfridge's Self-Drive Cars."

"She could have gotten one easily from Masters, couldn't she?"

"Yes." Gus trailed off the word with sibilant s sounds, his eyes narrow and thoughtful "You may be right about her. I thought she just wanted to be independent, the way some of them do. Showing you they can operate all right on their own..."

"Can you reach Selfridge's and find out about the car and time of delivery?"

"They have a night number. Give me a moment." He was back in five minutes, his expression slightly grim. "A Singer Vogue. At the hotel at eight. It looks like you're right. She had arranged credit and a permit by cable. Why didn't she ever mention that to us?"

"Part of the intrigue, old man. When you have a chance, ask Masters to have a self-drive at the hotel for me at seven. Make sure it's as fast as that Singer."

Later in the evening, between the roast and the sweets, Gus told Nick, "Okay. A BMW-1800 for you at seven. Ian promises it'll be in perfect shape."

Just after eleven Nick said polite good nights and left the club. He wouldn't be missed. Everyone seemed to be having better than a good time. The food had been excellent, the wines plentiful, and the music sweet Ruth Crossman was with a dashing lad who looked as if fun, fellowship, and virility were his prime qualities.

Nick returned to Meikles, soaked his battered body again in hot and cold tubs, and checked his gear. He always felt better when every item was in place, oiled, cleaned, saddle-soaped, or polished according to its needs. Your mind seemed to function faster when you had no small doubts or worries.

He removed the packets of bills from a khaki money belt and replaced them with four blocks of explosive plastique shaped and wrapped like bars of Cadbury chocolate. With them he put eight fuses that normally traveled among his pipe cleaners, identified only by tiny blobs of solder on one end of the wire. He turned on a small transmitter beeper, which had a signal good for eight or ten miles under fair conditions, and noted the directional response to his transistor radio, the size of a pocketbook. Edge toward the transmitter, strong signaL Flat toward the beeper, weakest signal.

He turned in and was grateful that no one disturbed him until the desk called him at six. His travel alarm went off with a burr-r-r-r just as he hung up.

At seven he met one of the muscular young men who had been at the party the night before, John Patton. Patton handed him a set of keys and pointed to a blue BMW gleaming in the fresh morning air. "Full of gas and checked out, Mr. Grant. Mr. Masters said you particularly wanted it in perfect shape."

"Thanks, John. That was a nice party last night. Did you have a good rime?"

"Grand. Wonderful group you brought Have a nice trip."

Patton walked briskly away. Nick grinned slightly. Patton had not betrayed by the flicker of an eyelid what he meant by wonderful, but he had been snuggling Janet Olson, and Nick had seen him drink a goodly amount Stout fellow.

Nick reparked the BMW out of sight, checked himself out on the controls, explored the trunk space, and inspected the motor. He checked the underframe as best he could, then used his receiver to see if the car was bugged. There were no betraying emissions. He worked his way all around the car, scanning all the frequencies his special set could receive, before deciding the car was clean. He went up to Gus's room and found the senior escort hurrying his shaving, his eyes foggy and bloodshot in the glare of the bathroom lights. "Big evening," Gus said. 'You were smart to cut out. Whooh! I got in at five."

"You ought to live the clean life. I turned in early."

Gus inspected Nick's face. "That eye shows black even under the paint. You look almost as bad as I do."

"Sour grapes. You'll feel better after some breakfast I'll need a bit of help. Escort Booty out to her car when it comes, then get her back into the hotel on some excuse. How about having them put up a box lunch and then take her back inside to get it Don't tell her what it is — shell make some excuse not to get it or she probably has one ordered already."

Most of the girls were late for breakfast. Nick haunted the lobby, watched the street, and saw a cream-colored Singer Vogue park in one of the angled spaces at exactly eight o'clock. A young man in a white jacket entered the hotel and the PA system paged Miss DeLong. Through a window Nick watched Booty and Gus meet the delivery man near the desk and go out to the Singer. They talked. The lad in the white jacket left Booty and Gus went back into the hotel. Nick slipped out the door near the arcade.

He walked swiftly behind the parked cars and pretended to drop something at the rear of a Rover parked beside the Singer. He went down out of sight When he came up, the beeper-emitter was fastened under the Singer's rear frame.

From the corner he watched Booty and Gus come out of the hotel carrying a small box and Booty's large handbag. They paused under the portico. Nick watched until Booty got into the Singer and started the engine, then he hurried back to the BMW. When he eased up to the turn the Singer was halfway down the block. Gus spotted him and waved, a small motion with an upward flick of his hand. "Good luck," it seemed to semaphore.

Booty drove north. The day was gorgeous, the bright sun baking a landscape that looked like Southern California in a dry spell — not the desert areas, but the near-mountain country, with thick vegetation and strange rock formations. Nick followed, staying far back, confirming contact by the ba-beep of the radio receiver braced against the back of the seat at his side.

The more he saw of the country the more he liked it — climate, landscape, and people. The blacks looked calm and often prosperous, driving all sorts of cars and trucks. He reminded himself that he was seeing a developed, commercial section of the country and ought to withhold opinion.

He saw an elephant grazing near an irrigation pump, and by the astonished looks of the bystanders he concluded they were as surprised as he was. The animal probably had been driven into civilization by the drought.

The hallmark of England was everywhere and it fitted very well, as if a sun-splashed countryside and hardy tropical vegetation was just as good a background as the mild-damp cloudy landscape of the British Isles. The baobab trees caught his attention. They cast weird arms toward space, looking like the banyan or fig trees of Florida. He passed one that must have measured thirty feet across, and came to an intersection. The signs included Ayrshire, Eldorado, Picaninyamba, Sinoia. Nick stopped, picked up his radio and rotated it The strongest signal came from dead ahead. He went straight and tested the ba-heep again. Right out in front and loud and clear.

He rounded a turn, saw Booty's Singer stopped at a roadside gate; he stamped the BMW's brakes and hid it handily in a turnout evidently used by trucks. He jumped out of the car and peered past the neatly clipped bushes that screened a cluster of rubbish cans. There was no traffic on the road. The Singer's horn bleated four times. After a considerable wait a black man, wearing khaki shorts, shirt, and a peaked cap, trotted up the side road and unlocked the gate. The Singer drove in and the man fastened the gate, got in the car, and drove it down the grade and out of sight Nick waited a moment, then drove the BMW to the gate.

It was an interesting barrier: unobtrusive and insurmountable, though it looked flimsy. A bar of three-inch steel swung on a pivot post with a counterbalance. It was painted with red and white stripes and you might mistake it for wood. Its free end was locked with a sturdy chain and fist-size English padlock.

Nick knew he could pick it or break it, but there was the question of strategy. From the center of the pole a long oblong sign hung down lettered in neat block-yellow — SPARTACUS FARM, PIETER VAN PREZ, PRIVATE ROAD.

There was no fence on either side of the gate, but the ditch from the highroad formed a moat impassable even for a jeep. Nick decided it had been cleverly dug that way with a backhoe.

He returned to the BMW, drove it farther into the bushes, and locked it Carrying the little radio he cut through the bundu on a course parallel to the side road. He crossed several dry creeks that reminded him of New Mexico in the dry season. Much of the vegetation seemed to have desert characteristics, able to hold its own moisture through drought periods. He heard a strange growling sound from a clump of brush and circled it, wondering if Wilhelmina could stop a rhino or whatever you ran into around here.

Keeping the road in sight, he saw the roof of a small house and approached it until he could inspect the terrain. The house was of cement or stucco, with a large kraal or cattle enclosure and neat fields stretching up a valley to the west and on out of sight. The road ran past the house and on into the bush, to the north. He took out his little brass telescope and studied details. Two small horses grazed under a shade roof like a Mexican ramada; a small, windowless building looked like a garage. Two large hounds sat looking in his direction, their jowls gravely thoughtful as they came through his lens like sad giants.

Nick crawled back and continued to parallel the road until he was a mile past the house. The bundu was getting thicker and the going rough. He reached the road and followed it, opening and closing two cattle gates. His receiver showed the Singer to be ahead of him. He trotted on, watchful but covering ground.

The parched road was gravel-surfaced and looked as if it drained well, not that it mattered in this weather. He saw dozens of cattle under trees, some very far away, A small snake scuttled off the gravel as he trotted by, and once he saw a lizard-like creature on a log that would take any ugliness prize — in its six-inch length it had varied colors, scales, horns, glaring eyes, and vicious-looking teeth. He stopped and mopped his head and it regarded him gravely without moving.

Nick looked at his watch — 1:06. He had been on foot two hours; estimated distance covered: seven miles. Using a handkerchief, he made a pirate's cap for protection from the searing sun. He reached a pump installation where a diesel purred smoothly and pipes vanished into the bundu. There was a spigot at the pump house and he drank after smelling and examining the water. It had to come from deep underground and was probably all right; he needed it badly. He mounted a rise in the road and looked ahead cautiously, like a cavalry picket He took out his telescope and extended it.

The powerful little lens showed him a large California-style ranch house amid a cluster of trees and well-trimmed vegetation. There were several outbuildings and kraals. The Singer was in the big looping drive, along with a Land Rover, a sporty-looking MG, and a classic car he did not recognize, a long-hooded roadster that must be thirty years old and looked three.

On a spacious screened patio at one side of the house he saw several people seated in colorful chairs. He focused carefully — Booty, an old man with weathered skin who gave the impression of being the host and leader, even at this distance, three other white men in shorts, two blacks...

He stared. One of them was John J. Johnson — last seen in New York's East Side Air Terminal, described by Hawk as a rare man with a hot trumpet. He had given Booty an envelope then. Nick decided he had come to pick it up. Very clever. The tour group, with its familiar credentials, came through customs easily, with hardly a piece of luggage opened.

Nick crawled back from the rise, made a 180-degree turn, and surveyed his backtrail. He felt uneasy. He had seen nothing behind him, actually, yet he fancied he had heard a short call that did not fit in with the animal noises. Intuition, he wondered? Or just overcaution in this strange country. He studied the road and the bundu — nothing.

It took him an hour to circle, using the five-stall garage to shield him from the patio, and approach the house. He crawled within sixty feet of the group behind the screens and hid behind a fat gnarled tree; the rest of the manicured shrubs and colorful plantings were too small to hide a midget. He focused his telescope through a notch in the branches. At this angle there would be no revealing sunflash from the lens.

He could hear only bits of talk. They seemed to be having a pleasant meeting. There were glasses and cups and bottles on the tables. Evidently Booty had arrived for and enjoyed a good lunch. He wished he had. The patriarch who looked like the host did a good deal of talking, as did John Johnson and the other black man, a wiry, smallish type in dark-brown shirt and pants and heavy boots. After he had been watching for at least half an hour he saw Johnson lift a packet from the table that he recognized as the one Booty had received in New York — or its twin. Nick never jumped to conclusions. He heard Johnson say, "...not much... twelve thousand... to us vital... we like to pay... nothing for nothing..."

The older man said, "...contributions were better before... sanctions... good will..." He spoke evenly and in a low tone, but Nick thought he heard the words "golden tusks."

Johnson unfolded a sheet of paper from the packet Nick heard, "Thread and needles... ridiculous code but clear..."

His rich baritone traveled better than the other voices. He went on, "...they are good guns and the cartridges are dependable. The explosives always work, at least so far. Better than the A16..." Nick lost the rest of it in the chuckles.

A car's motor sounded from back along the road Nick had used. A dusty Volkswagen came into view and was parked in the drive. A woman of about forty went into the house and was greeted by the older man and introduced to Booty as Martha Ryerson. The woman moved as if she spent much of her time outdoors; her stride was brisk, her coordination excellent. Nick decided she was almost beautiful, with intense, open features and neat, short brown hair that stayed in place when she took off her wide-brimmed hat Who would...

A heavy voice behind Nick said, "Don't move quickly."

Very quickly — Nick did not move a muscle. You can tell when they mean it — and probably have something to back it up. The deep voice with its musical British accent said to someone Nick could not see, "Zanga — tell Mr. Prez." Then, louder, "You can turn around now."

Nick turned. A Negro of medium height clad in white shorts and a pale-blue sports shirt stood with a double-barreled shotgun cradled under his arm, aimed just to the left of Nick's knees. The gun was an expensive one, engravings clear and deep in the metal, and it was ten-gauge — a portable short-range cannon.

These thoughts passed through his mind as he calmly watched his captor. He had no intention of moving or speaking first — that made some people nervous. A movement to one side caught his eye. The two dogs he had seen at the small house at the beginning of the road walked up to the Negro and then looked at Nick as if to say, "Our lunch?"

They were Rhodesian Ridgebacks, sometimes called lion dogs, weighing about a hundred pounds each. They can break a deer's leg with a grip and twist, knock down good-size game with their battering-ram charge, and three of them can hold a lion. The Negro said, "Stay, Gymba. Stay, Jane."

They sat down beside him and lolled their tongues in Nick's direction. The other man looked down at them. Nick turned and leaped away, angling to keep the tree between himself and the shotgun.

He was counting on several things. The dogs had just been told to "stay." It might hold them still a moment. The Negro probably wasn't the leader here — not in "white" Rhodesia — and perhaps he had been told not to shoot.

Blam! It sounded like both barrels. Nick heard the whine and shriek of light shot as it cut the air where he had been an instant before. It whacked against the garage he was approaching, forming a jagged circular pattern to his right. He saw it as he leaped up, hooked a hand over the garage roof, and threw his body up and onto the top in a one-hock mount and roll.

As he twisted out of sight he heard the scampering feet of the dogs and the heavier sounds of the running man. The dogs each gave a loud, gruff bark that carried a long way as if to say, "Here he is!"

Nick could imagine them with their forepaws up on the side of the garage, those great mouths with the inch-long teeth that reminded him of crocodiles', open hopefully. Two black hands gripped the edge of the roof. The Negro's angry features rose into view. Nick whipped Wilhelmina out and writhed around, putting the barrel an inch from the man s nose. They were both still for an instant, looking into each other's faces. Nick shook his head negatively, said, "No."

The black face did not change expression. The powerful hands opened, and it dropped from sight. On 125th Street, Nick thought, they'd call him a real cool cat.

He surveyed the roof. It was covered with a light-colored compound similar to smooth, hard stucco, and without obstruction. If it hadn't been tilted slightly toward the rear you could put up a net and use it for a deck tennis court A bad place to defend. He looked up. They could climb any of a dozen trees and shoot down at him, if it came to that.

He drew Hugo and dug at the stucco. Perhaps he could blast a hole with plastique and steal a vehicle — if there was one inside the stalls. Hugo, its steel driven with all his powerful strength, dislodged chips smaller than fingernail parings. It would take him an hour to make a cup for the explosive. He sheathed Hugo.

He heard voices. A man called, "Tembo — who's up there?"

Tembo described him. Booty exclaimed, "Andy Grant!"

The first man's voice, British with a touch of Scots burr, asked who Andy Grant might be. Booty explained and added that he carried a gun.

Tembo's deep tones confirmed it. "He's got it with him. Luger."

Nick sighed. Tembo had been around. He guessed that the Scots burr belonged to the older man he had seen on the patio. It had the ring of authority. Now it said, "Put your guns down, men. You shouldn't have shot, Tembo."

"I didn't try to hit him," Tembo's voice replied.

Nick decided he believed it — but that blast had been damn close.

The voice with the burr sounded louder. "Hello up there — Andy Grant?"

"Yes," Nick replied. They knew it anyway.

"You bear a fine Highland name. You're Scottish?"

"So far back I wouldn't know which end of a kilt to get into."

"Ye should learn, mon. They're more comfortable than shorts." The burr chuckled. "Want to come down?"

"No."

"Well, have a look at us. We won't hurt you."

Nick decided to risk it He doubted they'd murder him casually with Booty looking on. And he wasn't going to win anything from this roof — it was one of the worst positions he'd ever gotten into. The simplest could be the most dangerous. He was glad none of his vicious antagonists had ever gotten him into a bind like it. Judas would have had a few grenades lobbed up and then riddled him with rifle fire from the trees for insurance. He put his head over the side and added a grin to his, "Hello, everybody."

Incongruously, at that instant a PA system flooded the grounds with a drum roll. Everyone froze. Then a good band — it sounded like the Scots Guards Band or the Grenadiers — thundered and piped into the opening bars of "The Garb of Auld Gaul." In the center of the group below him, the old man with weathered skin, standing over six feet of thin length and straight as a plumb line, roared, "Harry! Please go and turn that down a wee bit."

A white man whom Kick had seen in the group on the patio turned and trotted toward the house. The older man looked up at Nick again. "Sorry — we did nae expect conversation wi' tha music. 'Tis a fine tune. You recognize it?"

Nick nodded and named it. The old man smiled. He had a kindly, thoughtful face, and he stood easy. Nick felt uneasy. Until you knew them, this was the most dangerous type in the world. They were loyal and straight — or pure poison. They were the ones who led troops with a riding crop. Marched up and down atop trenches piping "Highland Laddie" until they were shot down and replaced by another. They were in the saddles as Sixteenth Lancers when they came upon forty thousand Sikhs with sixty-seven pieces of artillery at Aliwal. The damn fools charged, of course.

Nick gazed down. History was so helpful; it gave you a line on men and lessened your mistakes. Booty stood twenty feet behind the tall old man. With her were the two other white men he had noticed on the porch and the woman who had been introduced as Martha Ryerson. She had donned her wide-brimmed hat and looked like a pleasant matron at an English garden tea.

The old man said, "Mr. Grant — I'm Pieter van Prez. You know Miss DeLong. Let me present Mrs. Martha Ryerson. And Mr. Tommy Howe at her left and Mr. Fred Maxwell to her right."

Nick nodded to all and said he was delighted. The sun was like a hot iron on the back of his neck where the pirate cap did not reach. He realized how he must look, took it of it with his left hand, gave his forehead a wipe, and put it away.

Van Prez said, "Hot up there. Would ye care to toss your gun down and then join us for something cool?"

"I'd like something cool but I'd rather keep my gun. I'm sure we can talk this out."

"Sur-r-re we can. Miss DeLong says she thinks you're an American FBI agent. If you are, you've no quar-r-rrel with us."

"Of course not I'm just concerned about Miss DeLong's safety. That's why I followed her."

Booty couldn't keep quiet. She said, "How did you know to come here? I watched in my mirror all the way. You weren't behind me."

"Yes, I was," Nick said. "You just didn't look carefully enough. You should have gone by the driveway. Then doubled back. You would have caught me, then."

Booty glared at him. If looks could give you a rash! "The Garb of Auld Gaul," softer now, ended. The band swung into "Road to the Isles." The white man was walking back from the house, slowly. Nick shot a glance under his supporting arm. Something moved at the corner of the roof, at the back.

"Can I come down..."

"Toss down your weapon, laddie." The tones weren't so gentle.

Nick shook his head, pretending to think. Over the martial music something scraped and he was engulfed in a net and swept off the roof. He was groping for Wilhelmina as he landed with a stunning crash at Pieter van Prez's feet.

The older man leaped, got a double-handed grip on Nick's gun hand as Wilhelmina tangled in the net ropes. An instant later Tommy and Fred hit the pile. The Luger was jerked away from him. Another fold of the Bet whipped over him as the white men sprang back and two blacks flipped the net ends across with practiced precision.