Safari for Spies

The Dying Immortals

It was the goddamndest, smelliest cave in all the hills of Africa. She knew it had to be, though she was no expert on the subject, because there couldn’t possibly be a worse smell in all the world. It was mountain goat and monkey, dank moss as old as time and human filth almost as old, and the sickly-sweet smell of — now what the hell was it? — death, maybe, or that obscene looking root some of the old-time herbalists seemed to set so much store by.

Liz moaned and stirred. Her head throbbed like last New Year’s day and her stomach churned. Cut that out, she told herself sternly, struggling against nausea and fear. Whaddya want to do — add to the mess?

The faint light of approaching dawn filtered into the cave. So at least there was fresh air somewhere near. She dragged herself into a sitting position and muttered angrily at the damp leather thongs that bound her wrists and ankles. Very clever, she thought bitterly. As they dry, they tighten. Don’t take any chances, these mad bastards. Very goddamn clever...

They had come during the night when she was getting ready for bed, about half an hour before the one man Abe had left on duty had been due to change shift and go home. She knew that he had never made it, because when she was through wrestling with the two thugs in her living room and was dragged outside, she had seen him lying outside her front door with a dagger in his back. She had yelled again and bitten hard into a fleshy hand, and then darkness had fallen like a bomb and blotted out her consciousness. After that there was a wild ride, more choked screams, more painful darkness slamming at her head.

And now this foul, filthy cave.

Come now, Elizabeth, she admonished herself. What would Aunt Abigail think, to hear you talk like that? Aunt Abigail... A sudden stab of terror shot through her. Aunt Abigail Nick Carter Abe Jefferson and Julian Makombe. They were all somehow part of this and she’d never see any of them again but what in God’s name was she doing here and where why who?

Why was the only question that made any possible sense. Never before had she been in a spot like this, and never before had she met anyone like Ambassador Nicholas J. Huntington Carter. Trouble was his middle name, though how J. could stand for trouble was more than she could...

When she regained consciousness for the second time she felt infinitely stronger and almost able to think straight. Get out of here! she thought.

The bonds were tighter than before, and the gray-pink light showed the silhouettes of two men standing at the entrance to the cave, one looking into it and the other facing outward. And she was cold. Who wouldn’t be, she thought crossly, with nothing on but panties and a bra and a bandage on the shoulder? The knowledge of her near-nakedness made her feel twice as uncomfortable but not quite twice as scared. Covered by a wave of indignation, she thought wryly; too bad it’s transparent.

The sun came up more slowly than she had seen it rise over the flatness of Abimako. So I’m probably in some godforsaken valley, she thought, miles away from any hope of help. Nicholas Carter, where are you!

There were sounds of life from somewhere near. Tin clanked against tin and a low voice hummed with early morning song. The tang of wood smoke caught at her nostrils, dimming out the other odors in her prison cave. Footsteps scrunched outside. The two guards came to attention and a third man stepped between them and entered the cave.

He walked around her, silently at first, and then he laughed.

“So the elegant Miss Ashton has come to join us in our mountain retreat,” he said. “Improperly clad, I see, but no doubt feeling that anything is good enough for your inferiors. Is that it?” He laughed again. “But we must not be ungrateful. You have come here to see how the other half lives, and I will make sure that you do see.”

His face was in darkness but his lilting voice was unmistakable.

“Rufus,” said Liz. “Well, well, well. And just how do you expect me to see the sights, tied up in this foul cave of yours? And what in hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Do you talk to me as your servant, Miss Ashton?” His voice was thin and dangerous. “Do you think you are in a position to take that tone with me?”

Liz sat up as straight as she could and stared at him in the gloom. “Servant”? So he was still licking those old colonial wounds...

“My tone be damned. What do you expect — thanks? You must be crazy, to do a thing like this. What’s the idea?” But she knew even as she spoke that it didn’t make the slightest difference what she said. The very fact of her abduction made that obvious enough, even without the bitterness of his words and the unbalance she sensed in his voice. The lilt was just a little ragged around the edges, and it rose a note or two too high. Besides that, his men had killed to bring her here. She wondered, with a chill, how many others he’d had killed. And why?

“The idea, Miss Ashton? You cannot guess? And I thought you were so clever!” he mocked. A knife came out from somewhere within the folds of his toga-like garment and raked down toward her, almost skidding to a stop in the air a bare half-inch short of her chest.

Rufus laughed softly. “You flinch, do you?”

“Naturally,” she said, with icy anger. “Who wouldn’t? If you want to kill me, go ahead. But don’t play games with me. Just tell me why first, then get it over with. Or do you have a real reason, Rufus? Is it only spite?” She tugged at her bonds in the gloom as she spoke. Hopeless. Goddamn things were tighter than ever. Fear butterflied inside her.

“Spite?” he said thoughtfully. “No-ooo, I wouldn’t say that. Not altogether. Natural hatred, one might say, of one part of the world for another. And I have no intention of killing you just yet. You see, as you continue to enjoy your stay here, I may need to offer proof that you are still alive — that is, if you are to serve your purpose. My purpose, I should say. And so, we will keep these in good condition, yes?” The knife jabbed lightly at her ears. “And this, and this, and these.” He chuckled and probed her body with the knife point. Liz sucked in her breath. The light jabs didn’t hurt but they suggested a most unpleasant future. Beads of cold sweat formed suddenly on her forehead. “You understand me now?” Rufus continued. “You are a hostage. For your friend Carter. In case my other efforts to quiet him down should come to nothing. He seems to be a very hard man to pin down. Or perhaps your experience has been otherwise? Never mind; you can tell me about that some other time.” The knife snaked down between her feet, slicing carelessly through the leather thong and nipping at her flesh. “Ah! How clumsy of me. But you may as well get used to it, because if Carter does not contact my colleagues quickly — that is, supposing they have not already taken care of him — then he will have to be prodded. One or two little mementoes should do the trick, I would think, if he is anything of a gentleman. Now get up, Miss Ashton, and follow me. Up! That’s it. This way, please.”

He bowed with mock courtesy and waved her out of the cave. The morning glowed with a light far more cheerful than she felt was fitting, and when she looked down from the slight rise on which they stood she could see the whole sweep of the settlement he had brought her to. It was not big, but it was concentrated, a little stronghold of huts and tents virtually surrounded by low hills. An army camp, with half-uniformed muscular hulks of men attending to the morning chores. Not a very strategic position, she thought; not for defending. But what a hiding place! Especially if no one was looking for it.

“Move, please.” Rufus prodded her down the slope. The two guards eyed her scanty costume with stoic indifference. Couple of queers, I’ll bet, she told herself, feeling relief at their lack of interest. “Here we stop,” said Rufus. “Unfortunately I must tie you up again. But you win find it warm here in the sun, and the view is good. In fact, you will find it very, very warm.” He tied her by the shoulders to the crossbar of an H-shaped wooden frame, facing the busiest section of the camp, and secured each leg to one of the uprights. “So, that should be sufficiently uncomfortable. Please do not concern yourself with thoughts of discomfort, heat, thirst, hunger. Think of a persuasive message to send to the prying Carter, so that he will respond while you are in reasonably good condition. And — oh, yes!” He snapped his fingers. “I almost forgot, and the fat one so badly wants to know. Perhaps you will tell me who he really is?”

“Who he really is?” Liz stared back at him. “Why, you know as well as I do who he is. What ‘fat one’? What’re you talking about?”

“Ah, no. I ask the questions.” Rufus smiled. “But I will give you time to think. Meditate, enjoy the scenery and the country air. I will come back later to continue our pleasant little chat.” He inclined his head graciously and turned away, heading for the largest of the camp buildings. The little breeze that fingered his toga swirled around the camp, touched her straining body, and died a sudden death. The sun burst full into the valley and rekindled the heat of yesterday.

The nearest shade tree was many yards away. There must have been a swamp or a stagnant pool nearby, because an odor of warm rot began to rise and the mosquitoes soon rose with it. They and the big bluebottle flies descended swiftly on the tempting expanses of her bare skin and began their tortuous symphony of buzzing and high whining. After a while they started biting...

Liz gritted her teeth and made herself concentrate on the scene before her. It was not a pleasing prospect. Between her and the nearest tents was a tall pole topped with an aged human skull that seemed to be staring straight down at her and sneering at her predicament. Beyond it, a little yellow man in drab uniform seemed to be lecturing a group of Nyangese tribesmen on the art of — what? Godalmighty, slitting open abdomens! His gestures were hideously graphic. In front of a low, shedlike structure another yellow man was talking quietly to a second group of avid listeners. Now what would a couple of Chinamen, Liz wondered, be doing and saying in the heart of this troubled little African nation in Rufus Makombe’s cozy mountain hideaway? Unite, Colored Nations of the World! Black and Yellow, Stick Together! Spread the Word! Kill, like this, and this and this!

She shuddered under the blazing heat of the sun. Kill your own brother, maybe? For an ideal? Hell, no. For gain. Power. Helped on by a group of yellow men with ideas of their own. Christ, how was she going to get out of this mess and get word to Jefferson or Carter?

The mosquitoes whined and bit incessantly. The sun bore down mercilessly and the angry blotches on her body became one blazing, unbearable and sweating rash. And what exactly did Rufus expect her to do? Chew off a fingertip and send it to Nick Carter’s hotel room in Dakar with her love, and would he please call upon her at his earliest convenience?

She strained against her bonds for the hundredth time. Rufus knew how to tie knots, that was for sure. Womanizing, hot-rodding, debonair younger-brother-Makombe had managed to keep a bundle of secrets hidden away beneath that handsome, carefree exterior.

Her head began to swim. She closed her eyes and tried to remember a childhood prayer. The gentle words turned into a string of curses, at herself for her helplessness and at Rufus for whatever the! hell he was.

An angry, agonized bellow ripped the air. She opened her eyes to see Rufus bursting from one of the huts, his toga flapping around his ankles and his hands clenched into fists that beat furiously around him. He shouted at the groups of men as he strode toward her; the words tumbled out too quickly for her to understand, but she thought she heard a name. What was it? Mirella? Yes, that was it. Mirella...

Rufus advanced upon her, his face muscles working and the whites of his eyes showing huge and staring against the glossy blackness of his face.

His clenched right fist lashed out and slammed at her face.

“killers! Killers! Killers! All of you!” He hit her on the other side of her face, and her head jerked painfully sideways. “Now you will die. Mirella — my beautiful — my Mirella! Why should you live when she is dead?” His fist came at her again. She ducked her head and caught the blow with her forehead. “She is dead! He killed her!” His breath came in heavy, jerking gasps, and she could see his muscles straining against the loose cloth. “Now you die, without him. Now there is no hope for you!” He kicked her brutally, like an enraged child.

“Rufus Makombe, stop!” Liz threw back her head and yelled at him. “You crawling yellow bastard, is that all the guts you have? Tie me up and make goddamn sure I don’t kick you back? Get me off this thing and stop screaming like a bloody fairy!”

His fist stopped in mid-air and slowly fell to his side. She could see the yellowish-white foam that flecked the corners of his mouth. And the tears in his eyes. Rage or anguish? Both, she decided, blinking back her own.

“So you still dare to talk to me like that. And you really expect me to untie you and let you go, I suppose.” The words came out of his mouth like poisoned arrowheads. “No. But you are right about one thing — it is beneath my dignity to touch you. You will die as she died.” Rufus swallowed heavily and his mouth twisted into an odd, inhuman shape. “Only for you it will take longer. For you there will be suspense and fear — and then sudden death that you can see coming at you, and you will be able to do nothing but watch it and scream and take it here!” His voice rose to a shout and he clasped his hand to his chest like a man clutching at a knife thrust through his heart. “And then...” his voice dropped again, so low that it was almost a whisper, “and then your friend Carter can enjoy what’s left of you before we finish him.”

He wheeled suddenly and strode away toward the skull-topped pole, his toga flapping around his ankles and his arms outstretched like some maddened prophet of doom. He stopped suddenly, beneath the leering skull, and placed one hand on the pole as if it were a weird lance he meant to carry into battle. His other hand swept a gesture at the waiting men and his voice roared and echoed across the valley.

“My warriors — your spears!”

Liz gave a silent, hopeless cry for help. There was a swift flurry of action in front of the huts and tents, and then each man stood at attention under the burning sun with the light glinting off the razor-tips of their spears.

Rufus threw back his head and cried out: “Who is your leader?”

And the skull at the top of the pole clacked its jaws and screeched — “Rufus is your leader! Honor him — kill for him — and this land is yours! Rufus is your leader!”

Scores of voices picked up the cry and boomed it back. “Rufus is our leader!”

“What manner of men are you?” cried Rufus.

“You are invincible!” shrieked the skull. “You are invulnerable! Believe, and you will never die!”

“We will never die!” came back the chorus.

“Is your aim true?” roared Rufus. “Can you throw a ring of death around the enemy and yet let the enemy live to die a thousand deaths?”

“You will throw a ring of death,” the skull said hollowly. “Rufus, your one true leader, commands it. You will throw!”

“We will throw!” the voices thundered. “The enemy will die a thousand deaths!”

“Then throw!” screamed Rufus.

“Throw, and live forever!” ordered the skull.

Feet shuffled forward and glistening arms raised their assegais in the air. The first row threw.

Liz closed her eyes.

A dozen little breaths of wind whistled past her body — over her head, between her legs, past her cheeks, skimming her shoulders... She opened her eyes. She was still alive. Spears were embedded all around her in the dank earth. The second row went into action and the hideous blades soared through the air to miss her by inches of the breadth of one thin hair. A couple of them thudded into the crossbar behind her. She was a living target at a circus sideshow, a human pincushion waiting to be pricked, and she was dying a thousand deaths of agonized suspense.

The volley of spears whistled and screamed and soared and thudded and stopped; there was a ring of death around her.

The hated voice called out: “Enough of play! We will finish the woman with two more, and those two must be perfect. Who would have the honor?”

Liz opened one sweat-burned eye and waited for the clacking skull. Its jaw opened creakily. Attaboy, she thought. But Jesus God Almighty, a miracle for me too, please — don’t let me die don’t let me die!

“It is ordered!” shrilled the skull. “Give Rufus two good men who will not miss. Two killing spears, two men who will have eternal life!”

More spears appeared as if from nowhere and a dozen enthusiasts for eternity leapt forward. A huge man, dressed in remnants of American battledress, separated himself from the horribly exhilarated crowd and bellowed like a sergeant major. The volunteers went one by one back into the ranks until only two remained, spears ready and sleek bodies taking up the throwing stance.

“One high, one low!” screamed Rufus. “Two spears for the creature in the pit! Kill, and you will live forever!”

“Kill, and live!” the skull echoed feverishly.

The first man flexed his powerful body and drew back his arm.

And suddenly his head seemed to blow off.

The second man grunted with surprise and quietly dropped.

For a moment the only sound was the echo of the shots.

And then the skull split into a hundred tiny pieces and dribbled down the pole.

Rufus stamped his feet and screamed.

An eerie voice from nowhere echoed across the valley and rolled over the stunned, disordered ranks, and shocked into silence the one man who stood and shouted his frustration to the sky.

“Are you the leader, Rufus? Are you sure that you’re the leader?”

Rufus swung his head wildly, searching for the sound. “I am the leader! I am the leader! What is this trick? Where...?”

“What do you lead, Rufus? Are you the Chief of all Nyanga?”

Rufus stood stock-still for a moment. Then a smile crossed his face and he clutched his breast dramatically.

“I will be the Chief,” he said proudly. “I will be King, I will be President, I will be all Nyanga!”

“Good, Rufus! Nobly said!” the voice boomed approvingly. “But what about Julian and his Russian friends? And your American enemies?”

“They are nothing!” Rufus roared triumphantly. “They will die, they will all die! I have more powerful friends, and we fight together. The gods are with me!”

“The gods and the Chinese,” the voice said reverently. “Do they work together for you, Rufus? To make you the leader, Rufus?”

“They do as I tell them,” Rufus shouted arrogantly. “Even the gods speak with my voice...” His body suddenly tightened and he looked down at the shattered skull and then at the two dead men. He looked up again and his eyes darted to the living warriors. There was silence among them but they, too, stared down at the crumpled bodies and the splintered skull; and they glanced sideways at Rufus; and they sought the source of the strange sound; then they looked back at Rufus. A low mutter ran through the tattered ranks. The two little yellow men started talking together in low, excited voices.

Rufus seemed to shrink where he stood. “Who are you?” he choked. “Come out where I can see you! Are you enemy or friend? Show yourself! Men! My warriors! Into the hills and kill!”

“No!” boomed the voice. “You will all stay where you are. I am coming down. Watch the sky behind you!”

The unidirectional microphone wavered on its slim fish-pole and withdrew.

“Behind ’em? That was a sneaky one.” It was Hakim who whispered admiringly. “Here, I’ll take the mike boom. Just drop the megaphone.”

Nick swiftly disconnected the tiny wire recorder that was strapped to his wrist and pulled two pineapple-shaped objects out of his pocket. Behind him, Chief Abe Jefferson spoke urgently into a walkie-talkie. Several yards from him, on a high point looking straight down into the valley, Corporal Stonewall Temba adjusted his grip on the machine gun and rose from a prone position to a low crouch. Between two and three miles away, toward Abimako, a helicopter waited with its blades whirring up a wind in the hot air. And some miles behind the helicopter a line of military jeeps received a relayed message and increased its speed.

Nick rose amidst the rocks and gnarled trees of that hillside in the district called Duolo. He pulled back his arm and thrust it forward in a powerful pitching motion. The pineapple lobbed through the air. He drew back his arm again, ready for the second pitch, and watched the gratifying results of his throw. It was as if a bolt of summer lightning had struck down from the sky, and he could hear the low but startled cry of dozens of voices in the valley. Thank you, Madame Sophia, honey, Nick whispered fervently, watching the great fat billowing clouds swelling into the air; thank you, for giving me the address. He threw again.

“Let’s go, Hakim. At ’em, Abe!”

They ran over the hilltop and down into the smoke-filled valley.

Liz saw the figure looming up through the thick, reddish-gray smoke and felt her heart lurch wildly. Oh, God, it’s Nick, she cheered within herself. And then— Oh, God! It’s not! The awful shock of seeing that hideous, leering, evil face, after all the other terrible experiences, was almost too much to bear. She came close to fainting as the figure reached for her with a knife and said cheerfully: “Compose yourself. You must realize that I cannot possibly be half as evil as I look!” The awful face split into a wonderfully radiant, reassuring smile, and one firm arm held Liz while the other lashed swiftly at her bonds. “The Cavalry has come, and I am one of it!”

Several yards away the powder-bomb smoke cleared slightly and Nick appeared silently and suddenly in front of Rufus, Wilhelmina in his hand. Rufus stepped backward with a gasp. Then he stared.

“It’s Carter!” he screamed. “Kill him, kill him, kill him!”

Another voice, unknown to Nick, boomed through the drifting smoke.

“No, you kill him, Rufus — man who cannot die!”