Rhodesia

Chapter Four

Nick had landed partly on his head. He thought his reflexes were normal but they were slowed for a few seconds, although he realized everything that was going on. He felt like a TV watcher who has sat so long he is stiff and his muscles refuse to flash into action, although his mind continues to absorb the content of the screen.

It was damned humiliating. The two blacks secured the end ropes of the nets and stepped back. They resembled Tembo. He imagined one of them might be the Zanga who had gone to warn Pieter. He saw John J. Johnson walk around the corner of the garage. He had been back there to give them a hand with the net.

The band struck up "Dumbarton's Drums" and Nick scowled. The stirring music had been deliberately played to cover the sound of the moving men and the net. And Pieter van Prez had organized the movement in seconds, with the smooth tactics of an experienced strategist. He gave the impression of a likable, eccentric old chap who played bagpipes for his friends and rued the loss of horses for the cavalry because it ruined foxhunting when on active duty. So much for historical reference — the old boy probably understood random-selection computer analysis.

Nick took a couple of deep breaths. His head had cleared, but he felt no less foolish trussed up like fresh-caught game. He could reach Hugo and cut himself free in an instant, but Tommy Howe held the Luger very professionally and you could bet there was other firepower hidden here and there.

Booty giggled. "If J. Edgar could see you now..."

Nick felt heat travel up his neck. Why hadn't he insisted on that vacation-or retired? He said to Pieter, "I'll take that cool drink now if you'll get me out of this mess."

"I don't suppose ye have another gun," Pieter said, and then showed his diplomatic generalship by not having Nick searched — after letting him know that he had thought of the possibility. "Unfasten him, lads. Please forgive the rough treatment, Mr. Grant. But you are trespassing, you know. These are bad times. One never knows. It does nae seem to me that we have any quarrel, unless the United States is getting ready to put hard pressure on us and that makes no sense. Or does it?"

Tembo unwrapped the net. Nick stood up and rubbed his elbow. Truthfully — I don't believe you and I have any differences. Miss DeLong is my concern."

Pieter neither bought it nor rejected it. "Come along up in the cool. You can use a glass on a day like this."

Everyone except Tembo and Zanga sauntered to the patio. Pieter personally prepared a tall one and handed it to Nick. Another subtle gesture of mollification. "Any man named Grant takes Scotch and water. Did ye know ye were followed from the highroad?"

"I thought so once or twice but I saw nothing. How did you know I was coming?"

'The dogs at the small house. You saw them?"

"Yes."

Tembo was inside. He phoned me and then followed you. The dogs track silently. What you may have heard was his command to them to hold back and not alert you. It sounds like an animal's growl but your ear may have distrusted it."

Nick nodded agreement and took a long draught of the Scotch. Ah-h-h. He noticed that van Prez occasionally lost the burr from his speech and talked like a well-educated Englishman. He gestured at the beautifully furnished patio. "A very nice home, Mr. van Prez."

"Thank you. It shows what hard work, thrift, and a substantial inheritance can do. You're wondering about my name being Afrikaans and my actions and accent Scotch. My mother — a Duncan — married a van Prez. He came up with the first treks from South Africa and put together much of this." He waved a hand at the great expanse of land. "Cattle, tobacco, minerals. He had a keen eye."

The others had distributed themselves on the foam-rubber chairs and lounges. The patio would have served a small, mom-and-pop resort hotel. Booty was in an adjacent conversation U with John Johnson, Howe, Maxwell, and Zanga. Mrs. Ryerson brought Nick a tray of snacks — meat and cheese on triangles of bread, nuts, pretzels. Nick took a handful. She sat down with them. "You had a long, hot walk. Mr. Grant. I could have driven you in. Was that your BMW parked near the highway?"

"Yes," Nick said. "The strong gate stopped me. I didn't know it was so far."

Mrs. Ryerson pushed the tray nearer his elbow. "Try the biltong. There..." She gestured at what looked like dried beef curled on the bread with dabs of sauce. "Biltong is just salted meat but it's delicious when prepared properly. That's a bit of pepper sauce on the biltong."

Nick smiled at her and tried one of the canapés while his mind clicked. Biltong-biltong-biltong. For a moment he recalled Hawk's last keen, kindly glance and caution. His elbow pained and he rubbed it. Yeah, kindly Daddy Hawk, pushing Junior out the door of the plane for a parachute jump. It has to be done, son. I'II be there when you hit. Don't worry, the chute is unconditionally guaranteed.

"What do you think of Rhodesia, Mr. Grant?" van Prez asked.

"Fascinating. Exciting."

Martha Ryerson chuckled. Van Prez glanced sharply j at her and she returned his look with amusement. "Have you met many of our citizens?"

"Masters, the tour contractor. Alan Wilson, a businessman."

"Ah, yes, Wilson. One of our most enthusiastic advocates of independence. And sound business conditions."

"He mentioned something about it."

"A brave man, too. In his way. The way the Roman legionnaires were brave. A sort of half-interested patriotism."

"I thought he'd have made a fine Confederate cavalryman," Nick said, following the lead. "You get the philosophy by putting courage, ideals, and greed in a Waring blendor."

"Waring blendor?" van Prez asked.

"A machine that whips them all together," Mrs. Ryerson explained. "It stirs everything into a sort of soup."

Van Prez nodded, imagining the process. "It fits. And they can never be separated again. We have a lot like that."

"But not you," Nick said carefully. "I imagine your point of view is — more reasonable." He glanced at John Johnson.

"Reasonable? Some call it treasonable. For the record let's say I can't make up my mind."

Nick doubted that the mind behind those sharp eyes was ever unmade for very long. "I understand it's a very complicated situation."

Van Prez poured a dash of whiskey into their glasses. "It is that. Whose independence comes first? You had a similar problem with the Indians. Should we solve it your way?"

Nick refused to be drawn into that one. When he was silent Mrs. Ryerson interjected, "Are you just conducting the tour, Mr. Grant? Or do you have other — interests here?"

"I've often thought of going into the gold business. Wilson turned me down when I tried to buy some. I hear the Taylor-Hill-Boreman Mining Company has made new strikes. Maybe they'll be more interested."

"I'd stay away from them if I were you," van Prez said quickly.

"Why?"

"They have markets for everything they produce. And they are a tough crowd, with firm political connections. It's rumored that other things go on behind the gold facade — strange rumors of assassins for hire. If they catch you the way we did, you won't just be netted. You wont survive."

"And where does that leave you as a Rhodesian patriot?"

Van Prez shrugged. "On balance."

"Did you know that people also say they are financing the new Nazis? They contribute to the Odessa fund, support half a dozen dictators — with both guns and gold."

"I've heard. I don't necessarily believe."

"Is it improbable?"

"Why would they sell to Communists and finance Fascists?"

"What better joke? First you dump the Socialists, using their own money to bankroll your blows, and then you finish off the democracies at leisure. When it's over they'll build statues of Hitler in every capital of the world. Three hundred feet high. He made it. Just delayed a little while, that's all."

Van Prez and Mrs. Ryerson looked questioningly at each other. Nick guessed the idea had been around here before. The trills and shrieks of the birds were the only sounds. At last van Prez said, "I must think about that Time for tea." He stood up.

"And then Booty and I can depart?"

"You go and have a wash. Mrs. Ryerson will show you the way. About your going, we'll have to have an indaba here on the stoep about that." He waved a hand that took in all the others.

Nick shrugged and followed Mrs. Ryerson through the sliding glass doors into the house. She led him down a long hall and pointed to a door. "There."

Nick whispered, "Biltong is good. Robert Morris should have shipped more to Valley Forge." The name of the American patriot and Washington's winter quarters were AXE identification words.

Mrs. Ryerson gave the correct answer. "Israel Putnam, the general from Connecticut. You came at a bad time, Grant. Johnson was smuggled in via Tanzania. Tembo and Zanga just came back from Zambia. They have a guerrilla group up in the jungle along the river. They are fighting the Rhodesian army now. and they're doing such a good job the Rhodesians have had to bring in South African troops."

"Booty brought money?"

"Yes. She's just a courier. But van Prez may think you have seen too much to be let go. If the Rhodesian police show you pictures of Tembo and Zanga, you could identify them."

"What do you suggest?"

"I don't know. I've lived here for six years. I'm in-place AXE P21. I can probably free you eventually, if they keep you."

"They won't," Nick promised. "Don't disturb your cover, it's too valuable."

"Thank you. And you are..."

"N3."

Martha Ryerson swallowed, regained her calm. Nick decided she had been a beautiful girl. She was still very attractive. And she evidently knew that N3 meant Killmaster. She whispered, "Good luck," and went away.

The bath was ultramodern and well equipped. Nick washed quickly, sampled the men's lotion and cologne, combed his dark-brown hair. When he returned through the long hall, van Prez and his guests were gathered in a large dining room. A buffet — actually a smorgasbord — was spread on a side table at least twenty-five feet long, covered with snowy linen and set with gleaming silverware. Pieter graciously handed the first large plates to Mrs. Ryerson and Booty and invited them to begin the attack.

Nick loaded his plate with meats and salad. Howe was monopolizing Booty, which was all right with Nick until he had eaten a few mouthfuls. A Negro man and woman in white uniforms came from the rear of the house to pour tea. Nick noted the swinging doors and decided the kitchen was beyond a butler's pantry.

When he felt a little less empty Nick said pleasantly to van Prez, "This is an excellent luncheon. It reminds me of England."

"Thank you."

"Did you decide my fate?"

"Don't be so melodramatic. Yes — we must ask you to stay at least until tomorrow. We will telephone your friends and say you had motor trouble."

Nick frowned. For the first time he felt a small measure of hostility toward his host. The old man had put his roots down in a land that suddenly bloomed with problems like a locust plague. He could feel for him. But this is too arbitrary.

"May I ask why we're being detained?" Nick asked.

"Actually only you are being detained. Booty is pleased to accept my hospitality. I don't think you'd go to the authorities. It's none of your affair and you seem a reasonable man, but we cannot take chances. Even when you do leave, I'm going to ask you as a gentleman to forget anything you've seen here."

"I believe you mean — anyone," Nick corrected.

"Yes."

Nick noted the look of cold hate that John Johnson cast in his direction. There had to be a reason they needed the one day's grace. Probably they had a column or tactical group between the van Prez ranch and the jungle valley. He said. "Suppose I promise — as a gentleman — not to talk if you let us return now."

Van Prez's grave glance went to Johnson, Howe, Tembo. Nick read negatives in their faces. "I'm sorry," van Prez answered.

"So am I," Nick murmured.

He finished his meal and lit a small dear, fumbling in his pants pocket for the lighter. You couldn't say they didn't ask for it. He felt satisfaction at going over to the attack, and then reproved himself. A Killmaster must control his emotions, especially his ego. He must for about that surprise plop from the garage roof, about being trussed like a captured animal.

When he put the lighter away he removed the two oval, egglike containers from the pocket of his shorts. He was careful not to mistake them for the pellets on the left that contained explosives.

He studied the room. It was air-conditioned; the patio and hall doors had been slid shut. The servants had just gone through the swinging doors to the kitchen. It was a big room, but Stuart had designed big-expansion into the knock-out gas compressed under very high pressure. He felt the small toggles and turned them off safety. He said loudly, "Well — if we have to stay we'll make the best of it, I suppose. Can we..."

His voice did not cover the loud, double poof-poof and hiss as the two gas bombs released their loads.

"What was that?" van Prez roared and half-stood at the table.

Nick held his breath and began to count.

"I don't know." Maxwell replied from across the table and pushed back his chair. "Sounded like a small explosion. Somewhere on the floor?"

Van Prez bent down, gasped, and slowly collapsed like an oak run through by a chain saw.

"Pieter! What's the matter?" Maxwell started around the table, wobbled, and went down. Mrs. Ryerson's head tilted back as if she napped.

Booty's head fell forward into the remains of her salad. Howe choked, swore, thrust a hand inside his jacket, and then fell backward in his chair, looking like an unconscious, seated Napoleon. Tembo, three seats away, managed to reach Pieter. It was the worst direction he could have taken. He went to sleep like a tired baby.

John Johnson was the problem. He did not know what had happened but he got up and moved away from the table, sniffing suspiciously. The two dogs, which had been left outside, knew intuitively that something was wrong with their master. They hit the glass partition with a double crash, barking, their giant jaws red caverns rimmed with white teeth. The glass was strong — it held.

Johnson put a hand to his hip. Nick picked up his plate and scaled it accurately into the man s throat.

Johnson staggered back, his face calm and without hate, serenity in black. The hand he had at his hip suddenly dangled forward on the end of an arm gone leaden and powerless. He took a gasping breath, tried to control himself, determination clear in the helpless eyes. Nick picked up van Prez's plate and balanced it like a discus. The man didn't give up easily. Johnson's eyes closed and he fell.

Nick put van Prez's plate neatly back where it came from. He was still counting — one-hundred-and-twenty-one, one-hundred-and-twenty-two. He felt no need to breathe. One of his better skills was holding his breath; he could almost reach the unofficial record.

He plucked a small blue Spanish revolver from Johnson's pocket, took an assortment of guns from the unconscious van Prez, Howe. Maxwell, and Tembo. He retrieved Wilhelmina from Maxwell's belt and to make things look right, searched both Booty's and Mrs. Ryerson's handbags. Neither held a weapon.

Trotting to the double doors that opened on the butler's pantry, he slammed them open. The generous-size room, with an astonishing number of wall cabinets and three built-in sinks, was empty. He ran through tie room into the kitchen. Across the room the screen door slammed shut The man and woman who had served them were running across the service yard. Nick closed and latched the door to prevent the dogs getting in.

Fresh, oddly scented air blew softly through the screen. Nick let out his breath and emptied and filled his lungs. He wondered if they had a spice garden near the kitchen. The running Negroes vanished from sight.

The big house was suddenly silent. The only sounds were the distant cheeureep of a bird and the soft burble of water in the teakettle on the stove.

In a storage room off the kitchen Nick found a fifty-foot hank of nylon clothesline. He returned to the dining room. The men and women lay where they had fallen, looking sadly helpless. Only Johnson and Tembo showed signs of returning consciousness. Johnson was muttering unintelligible words. Tembo swayed his head very slowly from side to side.

Nick tied them up first, throwing clove hitches secured by square knots on their wrists and ankles. He did it almost without looking, like an old-time bosun's mate.