Rhodesia

Chapter Five

Securing the others took only minutes. He tied Howe's and Maxwell's ankles — they were earnest chaps and wouldn't be above a foot attack with their hands tied — but fastened only van Prez's hands and left Booty and Mrs. Ryerson free. He collected the guns on the buffet table and unloaded them all, dropping the cartridge into a bowl greasy with the remains of a green salad.

Reflectively he swished the shells around in the goo and then put the bowl with some others and spooned salad into it from another one.

Then he took a clean plate, selected two thick slices of roast beef and a scoop of spiced beans and took the seat he had occupied for lunch.

Johnson and Tembo came to first. The dogs sat outside the glass partition, watching alertly, their hackles up. Johnson said thickly, "Damn... you... Grant. You'll... wish... you... never came to... our land."

"Your land?" Nick paused with a forkful of beef.

"My people's land. We'll get it back and we'll hang bastards like you. What are you interfering for? You honkies think you can run the world! We'll show you! We're doing it now and well do more..."

His tones went up and up the scale. Nick said sharply, "Shut up and get back in your chair if you can. I'm eating."

Johnson hitched himself around, struggled to his feet, and hopped back to his seat. Tembo, seeing the demonstration, said nothing but did the same. Nick reminded himself not to let Tembo get near him with a weapon.

By the time Nick had cleaned his plate and poured himself another cup of tea from the pot on the buffet table, snugly warm in its knitted woolen cozy, the others had followed the example of Johnson and Tembo. They said nothing, just glared at him. He wanted to feel victorious and avenged — instead he felt like the skeleton at the feast.

Van Prez's look was a blend of anger and disappointment that made him feel almost sorry for gaining the upper hand — as if he had done wrong. He had to break the silence himself. "Miss DeLong and I will be going back to Salisbury now. Unless you'd like to tell me more about your — er, program. And I'd appreciate any information you'd like to add about the Taylor-Hill-Boreman outfit."

"I'm not going anywhere with you, you beast!" Booty yelped.

"Now, now, Booty," van Prez said, his voice surprisingly soft. "Mr. Grant has the situation under his command. It would look worse if he returned without you. Do you plan to turn us in. Grant?"

"Turn you in? To whom? Why? We've had a little fun. I've learned a few things, but I'm not going to tell anyone about them. In fact I've forgotten all your names. Sounds silly, my memory is usually excellent. No — I walked into your ranch, found nothing except Miss DeLong, and we returned to town. How does that sound?"

"Spoken like a Highlander," van Prez said thoughtfully. "About Taylor-Hill. They made a pegging. Perhaps the greatest in the country. They're selling fast — but that you know. To everybody. And my advice still goes. Stay away from them. They have the political connections and the force. They'll scrag you if you go against them."

"How about both of us going against them?"

"We have no reason to."

"You believe your problems don't concern them?"

"Not yet. When the day comes..." Van Prez looked around at his friends. "I should have asked if you agree with me."

Heads nodded affirmatively. Johnson said, "Don't trust him. Honkie government man. He..."

"Don't you trust me?" van Prez asked gently. "I'm a honkie."

Johnson looked down. "I'm sorry."

"We understand. There was a time my people killed Englishmen on sight. Now some of us call ourselves Englishmen without thinking much about it. After all, John, we are all... men. Parts of the whole."

Nick stood up, slid Hugo from the sheath, and cut van Prez loose. "Mrs. Ryerson, please take a table knife and free all the others. Miss DeLong — shall we go?"

With an expressively silent flounce Booty picked up her handbag and opened the patio doors. The two dogs burst in, beaded for Nick but with their eyes on van Prez. The old man said, "Stay... Jane... Gymba... stay."

The dogs halted, wagged their tails, and caught pieces of meat on the fly which van Prez tossed them. Nick followed Booty outside.

Seated in the Singer, Nick looked at van Prez. "Sorry if I spoiled everybody's tea."

He thought there was a twinkle of amusement in the keen eyes. "No harm. It seemed to clear the air. Perhaps we all know better where we stand. I don't think the boys will really believe you till they find out you meant it about not talking." Suddenly van Prez straightened and held up a hand and bellowed, ""No! Wallo. It's all right."

Nick had ducked, his fingers probing toward Wilhelmina. At the foot of a low, green-brown tree two hundred yards away he saw the unmistakable silhouette of a man in prone firing position. He narrowed his remarkably keen eyes and decided Wallo was the Negro of the kitchen staff who had served them and run when Nick invaded the kitchen.

Nick squinted, compressing his 20/15 vision into sharp focus. There was a telescopic sight on the rifle. He said, "Well, Pieter, the tables turned again. Your men are determined. I thought that man and the woman who worked with him would be still running."

"We all jump to conclusions sometimes," van Prez answered. "Especially if we're preconditioned. None of my people have ever run very far. One of them gave his life for me, many years ago in the jungle. Perhaps I feel I owe them something for that. It's hard to untangle our personal motivations and social actions."

"What's your conclusion about me?" Nick asked, both curious and because it would be a valuable note for future reference.

"Are you wondering if I'll have you shot on your way to the highway?"

"Of course not. You could have let Wallo pot me a moment ago. I'm sure he's hunted enough big game to hit me dead center."

Van Prez nodded. "You're right. My opinion of you is that your word is good, as mine is. You have genuine courage, and usually that means honesty. It is the coward, dodging fear through no fault of his own, sometimes, who double-deals or stabs in the back or shoots wildly at foes. Or... bombs women and children."

Nick wagged his head without smiling. "You're leading me toward politics again. They're not my dish. I just want to get this tour group safely through..."

A bell rang, a trilling, amplified blurr-r. "Wait a moment," van Prez said. "That's the gate house you passed coming in. You don't want to meet a cattle truck on that road." He trotted up the wide steps — his step as light and springy as a youth's — and took a telephone instrument from a gray metal box. "Pieter here..." He listened. "Right" he barked, his whole attitude changed. "Stay out of sight."

He slammed the receiver down and yelled into the house. "Maxwell!'

An answering shout came. "Yes?"

"Army patrol coming in. Get on the horn to M5. Make it short. Code four."

"Code four." Maxwell's head appeared briefly at a porch window and then he vanished. Van Prez bounded down to the car.

"Army and police. Probably just checking up."

"How do they get through your highway gate?" Nick asked. "Smash it?"

"No. They demand duplicate keys from all of us." Van Prez looked worried, tension drawing extra lines in his weathered features for the first time since Nick had met him.

"I guess every minute counts now" Nick said softly. "Your code four must be between here and the jungle valley, and whoever they are they can't move fast. I'll give you a few more minutes. Booty — let's go."

Booty looked at van Prez. "Do as he says," the old man barked. He put his hand through the window. "Thanks, Grant. You must come from Highlanders."

Booty headed the Singer out the entrance road. They topped the first rise and the ranch vanished behind them. "Step on it!" Nick said.

"What are you going to do?"

"Give Pieter and the others a little time."

"Why would you do that?" Booty increased speed, bouncing the car through dips in the gravel.

"I owe it to them for an interesting afternoon." The pump house came in sight. It was as Nick remembered it — the pipes ran under the road and surfaced on both sides; there was room for only one car. "Stop right between those pipes — at the pump house."

Booty gunned the few hundred yards, braked to a halt in a shower of dust and dry earth. Nick jumped out, unscrewed the right rear tire valve, and the air whooshed out. He replaced the stem.

He went to the spare, removed its valve stem, and twisted it in his fingers until its core was bent. He leaned on Booty's window. "Here's our story when the army arrives. We had a flat. There was no air in the spare. I think it was a bum valve stem. All we need now is a pump."

"Here they come."

A sheet of dust billowed up against the cloudless sky — of a blue so clear it looked luminous, retouched by bright ink. The dust formed a soiled panel, rising, spreading. The road formed its base, a notch in the bundu. Through the notch came a jeep, a small red-and-yellow pennant whipping from its aerial as if an ancient lancer had lost his spear and flag to the machine age. Three armored personnel carriers followed the jeep, giant armadillos with heavy machine guns for snouts. Behind them came two six-by-six trucks, the last one towing an impudent little tank trailer that danced along the rough road as if to say, I may be littlest and last but not least — for it's water that you'll want when you're on the bloomin' trot...

Gunga Din with rubber tires.

The jeep stopped ten feet from the Singer. The officer in the right seat casually climbed out and approached Nick. He wore a British-type tropical rig with shorts, retaining a garrison cap instead of a solar topee. He was not over thirty, and had the strained expression of a man who takes his job seriously and is unhappy because he's not sure he's got the right one. The curse of modern military service was eating at him; they tell you it's your duty but they make the mistake of teaching you to reason so you can handle the modern equipment. You get your hands on the story of the Nuremberg trials and the Geneva Conferences and you realize that everybody is mixed up, which means that somebody must be lying to you. You get hold of a copy of Marx to see what they're all arguing about and you suddenly feel balanced on a shaky fence, listening to shouted bad advice.

Trouble?" the officer asked. He surveyed the surrounding bush carefully.

Nick noted that the quick firer in the first personnel carrier stayed on him, and the officer never got in the line of fire. The steel snouts in the next two carriers traversed outward, one left, one right. A soldier dropped from the first truck and made a quick inspection of the little pump house.

"Flat tire," Nick said. He held out the valve. "Bad valve. I replaced it but we don't have a pump."

"We may have one," the officer replied without looking at Nick. He continued to calmly survey the road ahead, the bundu, nearby trees, with the avid interest of a casual tourist, anxious to see everything but not worried at what he missed. Nick knew he wasn't missing anything. At last he looked at Nick and the Singer. "Odd place you stopped."

"Why?"

"Completely blocking the road."

"It's about where the air came out of the tire. I guess we stopped here because the pump house is the only bit of civilization in sight."

"Hm-m. Ah, yes. You're American?"

"Yes."

"May I see your papers? We don't usually do this but these are unusual times. It will simplify things if I don't have to question you."

"What if I'm not carrying any papers? We weren't told this country is like Europe or some Iron Curtain places where you have to have a dog tag around your neck."

"Then please tell me who you are and where you have been." The officer casually checked all the Singer's tires, even kicking one with his foot.

Nick handed him his passport. He was rewarded with a look that said, You might have just done this in the first place.

The officer read carefully, made notes on a small pad. As if to himself he said, "You might have mounted your spare tire."

"It was flat," Nick lied. "I used the valve stem from it You know these for-hire cars."

"I know." He handed Nick his passport and Edman Tour identification card. "I'm Leftenant Sandeman, Mr. Grant Have you met anyone in Salisbury?"

"Ian Masters is our tour contractor."

"I've never heard of Edman Educational Tours. Are they like American Express?"

"Yes. There are dozens of smaller tour companies who specialize. Everybody doesn't want a Chevrolet, you might say. Our group is made up of young ladies of wealthy families. An expensive jaunt."

"What a lovely job you have." Sandeman turned and called to the jeep. "Corporal — please bring over a tire pump."

Sandeman chatted with Booty and glanced at her papers while a short, rugged-looking soldier pumped up the flat tire. Then the officer turned back to Nick. "What were you doing in here?"

"Visiting Mr. van Prez," Booty broke in smoothly. "He's a pen pal of mine."

"How nice for him," Sandeman answered pleasantly. "Did you come in together?"

"You know we didn't," Nick said. "You saw my BMW parked near the highway. Miss DeLong left early and I followed later. She forgot that I didn't have a key to the gate and I didn't want to damage it. So I walked in. I didn't realize how far it was. This part of your country is like our West."

Sandeman's tense, young-old face was expressionless. "Your tire is inflated. Please pull over there and let us by."

He gave them a salute and swung into the jeep as it rolled by. The little column vanished in its own dust.

Booty drove the Singer toward the main road. After Nick had unlocked the barrier with the key she gave him and closed it behind them, she said, "Before you get your own car I want to tell you, Andy — that was nice of you. I don't know why you did it, but I know that every minute of delay helped van Prez."

"And some others. I like him. And the rest of those people are nice folks, I think, when they're home and standing at ease."

She halted the car beside die BMW and thought for a moment. "I don't understand. Did you like — Johnson and Tembo too?"

"Of course. And Wallo. Even if I hardly saw him, I like a man who sticks at his job."

Booty sighed and shook her head. Nick thought she was positively beautiful in the fading light Her bright blonde hair was awry, her features betrayed weariness, but her pert chin was up and the graceful line of her jaw was firm. He felt a strong interest in her — why would such a beautiful girl, who could probably have anything in the world she wanted, get involved in international politics? It was more than just discovering a relief from boredom or a way to feel important. When this girl gave herself it was a commitment with a reason.

"You look tired, Booty," he said gently. "Shall we stop somewhere for a pick-me-up as they say around here?"

She tilted her head back, pushed forward her legs, and sighed. "I am. I guess all those surprises wore me down. Yes, let's stop someplace."

"We'll do better than that." He got out and walked around the car. "Move over."

"What about your car?" she asked as she obeyed.

"I'll have it picked up and brought in. I guess my expense account can stand it as personal service to special client."

He rolled the car toward Salisbury at an easy pace. Booty peeked at him, then laid her head against the backrest and studied this man who was becoming more and more of a puzzle, and more and more of an attraction for her. She decided he was handsome, an advance over her first opinion when she had considered him good-looking and empty, like so many she had met. His features had the flexibility of an actor's. She had seen them look hard as granite, yet she decided there had always been a certain kindness in the eyes which never varied.

There was no doubting his strength and firmness of purpose, but it was tempered with — mercy? That wasn't quite right but it would have to do. He probably was a government agent of some kind, although he could be a private detective hired by — Edman Tours — her father? She recalled how van Prez had failed to press him for his exact alliance. She sighed and let her head sag onto his shoulder and put one hand on his leg, not a sensuous touch, just because it was the natural position in which it fell. He patted her hand and she felt a warmth in her chest and stomach. The gentle gesture aroused her more than an erotic caress. A lot of man. He probably was positively thrilling in bed, although that did not necessarily follow. She was fairly sure he had slept with Ruth, and Ruth looked satisfied and dreamy-eyed the next morning, so maybe...

She slept.

Nick found her weight pleasant, she smelled nice and felt nice. He put his arm around her. She purred and relaxed even more against him. He drove automatically and built a few fantasies that involved Booty in various interesting attitudes. When he pulled up at the Meikles Hotel he murmured, "Booty..."

"Hmpf...?" He enjoyed watching her awaken. "Thanks for letting me sleep." She became fully alert, not half-conscious as so many women did, as if they hated to face the world again.

At the door of her room he paused until she said, "Oh, c'mon in for a drink. I don't know where the others are now, do you?"

"No."'

"Do you want to dress and go down for dinner?"

"No."

"I hate to eat alone..."

"So do I." Normally, he didn't, but he" was surprised to realize that tonight it was true. He did not want to leave her and face the loneliness of his room or a single table in the dining room. "Ill order from room service."

"Please get ice and a couple of bottles of soda first."

He called for setups and menus, and then phoned Selfridge's to pick up the Singer and Masters' to bring in the BMW. The girl on the phone at Masters' said, "This is a bit unusual, Mr. Grant. There will be an extra charge."

"Check it out with Ian Masters," he said. 'I'm a tour escort."

"Oh — then there may be no extra charge."

"Thank you." He hung up. They learned quickly in the travel business. He wondered if Gus Boyd received a cash payment from Masters. It wasn't his business and he really didn't care, you just liked to know exactly where everyone stood and how tall.

They enjoyed two drinks, an excellent dinner with a good bottle of rosé, and pulled the couch around so they could look out over the city lights with coffees and brandies. Booty turned out the lights except for a bedlamp over which she hung a towel. "It's soothing this way," she explained.

"Intimate," Nick replied.

"Dangerous."

"Sensual."

She laughed. "A few years ago a virtuous girl wouldn't consider getting into a situation like tills. Alone in her bedroom. Door closed."

"I locked it," Nick said cheerfully. "That's when virtue was its own reward — boredom. Or are you reminding me that you're virtuous?"

"I... I don't know." She stretched on the lounge, giving him an inspiring view of her long, nylon-clad legs in the gloom. They were lovely in daylight; in the soft mystery of near darkness they became twin patterns of exciting curves. She knew he was looking at them dreamily over his brandy snifter. Let him — she knew they were good In fact she knew they were excellent — she often compared them with the supposedly perfect ones in The York Times Magazine ads on Sundays. The sleek models had become standards of perfection in Texas, although most women in the know kept their Times hidden and pretended they loyally read only the local papers.

She studied him with a sidelong glance. He gave you the darnedest warm feeling. Comfortable, she decided. He was very comfortable to be with. She remembered their contacts on the plane that first night. Whoo! All man. She had been so sure he was a snoopy nothing that she load misplayed her hand — that was why he had gone with Ruth after that first dinner. She had turned him away, now she had him back, and he was worth having. She saw him as several men in one — friend, adviser, confidant. She slid over father, lover. You knew you could depend on him. Pieter van Prez had found that out. She felt a glow of pride at the impression he had made. The glow spread up to the back of her neck and down to the base of her spine.

She felt his hand on her breast and suddenly he fingered the right spot and she had to catch her breath to keep from jumping. He was so gentle. Did that mean a terrible lot of practice? No, he was naturally gifted with a delicate touch, he moved like a trained dancer at times. She sighed and put her lips to his. Hmmm. She was falling deliciously through space, but with the ability to fly when she wanted to just by putting out a hand like a wing. She closed her eyes tightly and did a slow loop that jumbled the warmth in her stomach the way the looping machine did at the Santone amusement park. His mouth was so pliable — should you say that a man had wonderfully kissable lips?

Her blouse was off and her skirt unzipped. She raised her hips to make it easier for him and finished unbuttoning his while shirt. She pulled up his undershirt and found the soft fluff of hair on his chest with her fingers, smoothing it this way and that the way you would groom a dog's tufts. He smelled so entrancingly male. His nipples reacted to her tongue and she giggled inwardly, pleased that she wasn't the only one to be stimulated by the right touch. Once his spine arched and he breathed a pleased, humming sound. She sucked the hardened cones of flesh slowly, capturing them again instantly as they popped from her lips, delighted at the way his shoulders squared with reflexive pleasure at each loss and recapture. Her bra was gone. Let him discover that she was better built than Ruth.

She felt positively burning — with delight, not pain. No, not burning, vibration. Warm vibration, that was it, as if one of those throbby massage machines was all over her body at once.

She felt his mouth descend to her breasts, kissing her with narrowing circles of damp warmth. Ooh! a very good man. She felt him ease her garter belt down and unfasten the tabs from one stocking. Then they were rolled down — gone. She extended her long legs, feeling the tension leave her muscles to be replaced by a delicious relaxed warmth. Oh yes, she thought — in for a penny in for a pound, is that what they would say in Rhodesia?

The back of her hand brushed his belt buckle and almost without thought she turned her hand over and unbuckled him. A soft thud — she supposed that was his pants and shorts hitting the floor. She opened her eyes to the half-light. True. Ah — She swallowed and felt deliciously smothered as he kissed her and rubbed her back and rump.

She blended herself against him and tried to lengthen her breaths, they were so short and gusty it was embarrassing. He would know she was actually panting for him. His fingertips caressed her thighs and she gasped and her self-criticism flew away. Her spine was a column of warm, sweet oil and her mind a pressure boiler of assent. After all, when two people really enjoyed and cared...

She kissed his body, responding to a forward tug and push of her libido that broke her last cords of conditioned restraint It's perfectly all right, I need it, this is so — good. A perfect contact made her tense. She stiffened for an instant, then relaxed like an opening flower in a slow-motion nature film. Oh-h. The column of warm oil came to a near-boil in her belly, churned and throbbed deliciously around her heart, flowed through her flexing lungs until they felt hotly awash. She swallowed again. Shivery shafts like glowing pellets of neon arced from her loins to her scalp. She imagined her golden hair standing straight out and up, flooded with static electricity. Of course it wasn't, it just felt that way.

He left her for an instant and turned her. She remained utterly pliant, only the quick rise and fall of her generous breasts and the quick beat of her breath showing she was alive. He's going to take me, she thought, as he should. A girl likes — in the last analysis — to be taken. Oh-h. A gasp and a sigh. A long breath and a murmur, "Oh yes."

She felt herself receive deliciously, not once, but over and over. Layer after layer of warm depth spread and welcome and fall away and make room for the next advance. She felt as though she were built like an artichoke with delicate leaves inside and every one was possessed and taken. She writhed and worked with him to speed the harvest Her cheek was wet and she supposed some tears were flowing with the shocking delight of it but they didn't matter. She did not realize that her nails dug into his flesh like the flexing claws of an ecstatic cat. He eased his loins forward until their pelvic bones locked as tightly as a closed fist, feeling her reach avidly with her body for his steady lunge.

"Darling," he murmured, "you're so damn beautiful you scare me. I meant to tell you before..."

"Tell... me... now," she gasped.

Judas, before he called himself Mike Bor, had found Stash Foster in Bombay, where Foster was a dealer in humanity in die many vicious ways that arise when there are uncounted, unwanted, gross masses of it Engaged by Judas to bring three minor wholesalers of dope aboard Judas' Portuguese motor-sailer, Foster fell right into the middle of one of Judas' small problems. Judas wanted the good-quality cocaine they carried, and he did not care to pay for it, especially since he wanted the two men and the woman out of the way because their operation fitted nicely into his developing organization.

The three were tied up as soon as the vessel was out of sight of land, plowing through the hot-looking Arabian Sea, bound south for Colombo. In his lavishly furnished cabin Judas said thoughtfully to Heinrich Muller, while Foster listened, "Best thing for them is overboard."

"Ja," Muller agreed.

Foster decided they were testing him. He would pass the test, because Bombay was a lousy place for a Pole to make a living even if he was always six jumps ahead of the local banditti. The language problem was just too much, and you were so damn conspicuous. This Judas was building a big operation and he had real money.

"Want me to dump 'em?" he had asked.

"If you would be so kind," Judas purred.

Foster took them up on deck with their hands tied, one by one, the woman first He slit their throats, severed the heads completely from the bodies, and stripped the corpses before dropping the bodies into the greasy-looking sea. He made a weighted bundle of the clothes and dropped it over. When he was done there was only a yard-across puddle of blood on the deck, forming a red, liquid tray for the three heads, eyes-adroop.

Fastidiously, Foster pitched the heads over, one by one.

Judas, standing with Muller near the helm, nodded approvingly. "Have that hosed down," he ordered Muller. "Foster — let's have a talk."

This was the man Judas had ordered to watch Nick, and in so doing had made a mistake, although it might turn into a plus. Foster had the greed of a pig, the morals of a weasel, and the reasoning power of a baboon. A full-grown baboon is a match for most dogs, except a Rhodesian Ridgeback female, but the baboon thinks in odd little circles and has been bested by men who had the time to fashion weapons from available sticks and stones.

Judas told Foster, "Watch this Andrew Grant Stay out of sight. We're going to take care of him."

Foster s baboon brain promptly concluded he would gain acclaim by "taking care" of Grant If he had succeeded, he probably would have; Judas considered himself an opportunist. He came very close.

This was the man who watched Nick leave Meikles in the morning. A small, neatly dressed man with powerful shoulders that hunched over rather like a baboon's. So unobtrusive among the people on the sidewalks that Nick did not notice him.