Safari for Spies

Mysterious Africa

Rufus Makombe’s sports car preceded them to the city, buzzing shrilly like an outraged bee. He had not stopped to waste insincere courtesies on anyone. The roar of his exhaust was like a slap in the face.

The Police Chief’s car made its way back to town more sedately. Nick had time to fill in the details missing from his first hasty survey of the troubled town. There had been armed guards and military vehicles at the hospital. Now he saw them everywhere. Hard-faced, uniformed men sat poised on throbbing motorcycles at the roadside, as if waiting for the starter’s signal. Armed men patrolled on foot. A convoy of jeeps passed them on the highway, heading out of town toward the hilly north.

Chief Jefferson sat in the front seat murmuring quietly into a two-way radio. Liz stared out of the window away from Nick, her lovely face pinched into a frown. Now that the sun had climbed past ten o’clock the day was hot and bright and the light almost harsh in its incredible clarity. The birds still sang as though they had something to be happy about and the air was fragrant with the warm scent of leaves and honeyed flowers in the sun. But there was something ominous in the very intensity of the light and the wild sweetness of the birdsong. The shadows appeared all the darker and the sound of marching feet and barked command all the more incongruous and unwelcome.

Jefferson clicked off his radio mike and turned to Nick.

“Government House?”

Nick shook his head. “This afternoon. As part of a general tour. I’ll have to send my respects to Vice-President Adebe, I expect, and then make arrangements with young Makombe for a car and some introductions.”

“I’ll supply the car,” said Jefferson. “In fact, if you will permit the suggestion, you may find it more satisfactory to put all your requests to me until Rufus Makombe is more himself.” His dark monkey-face was pleasant but inscrutable. “It is understandable that he is extremely distressed right now and is not concerned with the amenities. I shall be honored to assist you in any way I can.”

Nick smiled faintly. “You should have been the diplomat,” he commented. “May I ask why you don’t seem to share the prevailing resentment toward Americans in general and me in particular? Is it because your job demands that you keep an open mind, or has it something to do with your name?”

Abe Jefferson bared white, perfect teeth in a companionable grin. “Both. And more. I would gain nothing for my country by antagonizing you, whether or not the United States is behind all these frightful crimes. And then I have to admit that I am slightly prejudiced in America’s favor. I was brought up by an American family, on their farm about two hundred miles south of here. They taught me everything they could, from how to wash behind my ears to how to listen to music. Somewhere along the way they let me choose a name for myself. I’d lost my own, you see.” He said it casually, as though losing one’s name was an everyday sort of thing requiring no explanation. “We were doing history at the time. Otherwise you might have come to Africa to meet Huck Finn or Davy Crockett. Oh... by the way — slow down, Uru — that’s the Russian Embassy.”

He pointed out of the right hand window. Nick saw a mess of jagged walls and fallen brick. Torn trees thrust their raw branches through spaces that had once been windows. A piece of roof hung crazily over part of the front wall like a flap of torn and bleeding scalp. The rest of it had either crashed down inside the building or been blown to powder. Two soldiers stood watch over the ruins. But there was little left that needed watching.

“Two people were killed in that one,” said Liz, and her voice cracked. “It’s a miracle that it wasn’t any worse.”

Nick grunted agreement. “Pick up anyone for that, Chief?”

Jefferson shook his head. “No one even saw anyone. We think it was a time fuse. Could have been planted by any messenger or tradesman or repairman.”

“How about our Embassy? In anything like that shape?”

Liz answered. “Not quite that bad, but bad enough. The living quarters held up pretty well, and it happened over the weekend so no one was in the offices. Good thing, too, because they were wrecked.”

“I’d like that car for this afternoon, Chief,” Nick said thoughtfully. “And your presence too, if you can make it. My hotel at two o’clock?”

“Without fail,” nodded Jefferson.

“And something else,” said Nick. “I’m going to be at the Café Croix du Nord at noon. Uh... at the risk of stepping on someone’s toes, may I talk freely?”

“Absolutely.” Jefferson’s nod was emphatic. “Stonewall and Uru are more than staff. They are trusted friends.”

“Good.” Nick pulled thoughtfully at his ear, a habit he had caught from Hawk. Liz watched him, thinking to herself that he had very finely shaped ears. And a strong, decisive chin. Not to mention the almost godlike nose. And piercing eyes that could look hard as steel one moment and be filled with laughter the next. And beautifully muscular chest and shoulders... Down, girl, she told herself. These lonesome travelers with kiss appeal always turned out to have a wife and six or seven children.

“I’d like a messenger,” said Nick, pleasantly conscious of her scrutiny. “Someone you can trust, who isn’t known to be associated with you. I’ll be at a table near the door, conspicuously waiting for someone. Getting nervous and looking at my watch, because your man’s a little late. Have him there at about ten minutes past twelve, and let him bring me a verbal message of some kind. I don’t care what it is, just so long as he’s properly secretive and gives the impression that he’s bringing me information of immense significance. I’ll talk to him for a few minutes and then give him his cue to leave. Do you have anyone who can play a role like that? It’s particularly important that he should look capable of... let’s say, selling information, and yet be completely trustworthy. Also, as I said, that he has no known connection with you.”

Jefferson thought for a moment and then grinned suddenly. “I have a friend visiting me from Cairo. He is the gentlest, most honest man in the world, and I would trust him with my last sou if he were starving, but he is afflicted with a most sinister looking cast in his eye. He looks capable of the most appalling crimes. Yet he is decent and quick-witted and is known to no one in this part of the country. I am positive he will cooperate. You will be going to your hotel now? I will call you there and confirm the arrangement.”

“Do that,” said Nick, “bearing in mind that all the walls have ears. Or did you perhaps know that already?”

Jefferson stared at him. “Do they indeed?” he said at last. “No, I did not know that. I was not even aware which room was yours until I enquired of the desk clerk. Do you not wish to have the encumbrances removed?”

“Not yet,” said Nick. “Not as long as they amuse me. Miss Ashton, may we drop you at your office? Oh, that’s right. You don’t have an office, do you? What sort of arrangements are there for me to meet the Ambassador?”

“In answer to your string of questions,” she said, smiling, “No, please don’t drop me. I have to talk to you on behalf of my boss — as his representative. You’re going to have to put up with me until this afternoon, when he’ll have gotten rid of some outraged Soviet visitors whom he doesn’t want to inflict on you. One of my jobs is to keep them out of your hair. And yes, we do have an office, temporary quarters in the Sun Building. There’s a skeleton staff on duty. His name is Tad Fergus,” she added.

Abe Jefferson chuckled. “Shocking, the way the emancipated female talks about the pursuant male. Ah, here we are.”

Uru slid the big car to a stop alongside the curb. Corporal Stonewall Temba leapt out and opened the curbside rear door with a casual strength that nearly ripped it off its hinges. Nick’s mouth twitched into a slight smile. He liked these people, all of them. He only hoped to God that he could trust them. But he would soon be sure of that, after today — and the small traps he had set.

Jefferson let Liz walk on ahead and did not speak again until he was out of earshot of all but Nick. Then he spoke very softly.

“I do not know, as yet, how much you care to say in front of others,” he murmured. “Myself, I am sure of all these people. But if your room is wired, you must be very, very careful. Now.” Once again he reminded Nick, fleetingly, of Hawk. “I shall speak to my friend. If he agrees, I will call and simply say ‘The meeting is arranged.’ If not, I will say, ‘The meeting is postponed.’ Agreed?”

Nick nodded. “Any other prospects if he falls through?”

“I will try to think of someone and let you know in time. There is one other thing that may be of help to you.” Liz stopped at the entrance to the hotel and waited for them. Jefferson stopped as if about to turn back to the car. “The two addicts we are still holding in the jail. We knew at once that they are not from these parts. We find that they are known in Dakar, that they are common criminals with no political affiliations but who will do anything to support their vice. Of late they have been seen frequenting a back-street place in Dakar called The Hop Club.” His expression reflected his distaste. “It is a gathering place for the beatniks of the new world, the worst type. Not poets drinking coffee, but the lost ones. Now, I do not know how this can help you, but perhaps something will suggest itself to you.”

“Something just may,” Nick murmured. “Thanks. I’D hear from you, then.”

He shook hands with Jefferson. Stonewall saluted mightily from his post beside the car.

Liz was tapping her foot impatiently at the hotel entrance.

“Secrets, already,” she said disapprovingly as Nick joined her.

“Uh-huh,” he agreed cheerfully. “I wanted to know what he meant by ‘the pursuant male’ in connection with Tad Fergus.”

“Oh, really!” she protested. “Is that all you have to think about?” A little pink spot appeared provocatively on each cheek.

“Of course not,” Nick said reproachfully. “I’m also thinking it’s about time I had some breakfast.”

She stood watching him with that Men-Are-Impossible look on her face while he checked at the desk for messages or callers. Nothing had come in. They walked together up the one flight of stairs to what the management persisted in calling his first floor room and what all Americans think of as the second. Nick remembered to use his cane to help him up the stairs.

“Back injury?” Liz enquired sympathetically.

“Mm. Slipped in the bathtub as a lad,” he lied.

He stopped outside Room 101, rear, and fished for his keys.

But the door was already unlocked.

Nick pushed Liz gently away from the door. “Stay back,” he whispered urgently. With one long arm he thrust the door abruptly inward and waited.

Nothing happened.

A breeze from the open window fluttered the breakfast tablecloth on the service cart. Nick hefted his cane experimentally and glided silently into the room, his eyes darting about like pinpoint flashlights. The built-in geiger counter that was his sixth sense was sending him urgent warning signals. The desk drawer he had locked so carefully was open. A floorboard creaked faintly. Inside the closet? Sounded like it.

“Why, it was only the waiter,” Liz said from behind him, relief and amusement in her voice. “He forgot to lock the door.”

Nick cursed her silently and flung her a furious look.

“Sure,” he said, as easily as he could. “Just wait outside for me, will you? I’ll pick up the book and be right with you.”

The closet door flung open even as he spoke and a black-and-white figure shot out, one arm raised and flashing forward with the suddenness of a bolt of lightning in a summer storm. Nick raised the cane like a shield and twisted his body sideways. He saw the flash of silver and heard the click of metal against the cane, and then he heard Liz scream.

What happened next was scarcely a credit to agent N-3, the man whose fellow agents called him Killmaster. He lost his legendary balance. And as he stumbled the flying figure snarled and flung itself full-tilt against the service cart. The metal table overturned and slammed down on Nick. Plates, coffee pot and scrambled eggs cascaded over him. He swore bitterly and fluently and made a wild grab for the bare black legs that streaked past him toward the window. His clutching fingers slid off a sleek greased surface and scrabbled at thin air. With a blistering oath that outdid all his previous efforts he gathered himself together and sprang at the black man whose long, greased legs were straddling the window sill. Nick grasped furiously at a pair of soiled white shorts and heard them tear. The man made a strange yelping sound and disappeared over the window sill, leaving Nick with his hands full of torn shorts and his face full of egg.

Below him, in the square, the man ran off with a curious hobbling gait. Clearly, he had hurt his leg on landing. Clearly, too, he was much concerned at pulling down his shirttails as far as they would go. The last Nick saw of him was a pair of frantically bobbing buttocks followed by a yapping dog.

Nick was grinning and cursing to himself when he heard Liz’ half-sobbing giggle. Christ Almighty! He had forgotten all about her. He swung around, still clutching the foolishly torn pants, and saw Liz inside the room slumped against the wall. She was pointing feebly at him and shaking with weak laughter, even though tears of shock and pain trickled down her face.

“Oh, you look... you look so... you look so funny! And him!” She went off into gales of laughter. The blood spread inexorably across her left breast and oozed through the cloth of her dress in tiny globules.

“Goddamn!” Nick dropped the shorts and moved toward her, unaware that he was dripping with cold coffee. One hand slammed the door shut and the other went around her waist. “I told you to stay outside!”

She giggled again. “I wouldn’t have missed it... for the... world,” she managed, and her eyes closed. She slumped into his arms.

Nick stood there for a long moment, just holding her and thinking dark thoughts about himself. The thrown knife, deflected by his cane, lay near the door where it had fallen after it had struck her. Special Emissary Carter’s hotel room was an unholy mess. He called himself one last, unflattering name and hoisted Liz gently by the legs and shoulders and picked his way past the mess of overturned breakfast cart to the bed. He put her down as carefully as he would a sleeping child.

The wound, he soon saw, was more blood than serious damage. And Liz was far more woman than sleeping child. He slowed the bleeding with a damp towel and rummaged in the bureau drawer for his flask. Two of his clean shirts were smudged with grease, he noted bitterly, and then reproached himself for even thinking of it while she lay there bleeding.

He uncapped the flask and poured a shot into the metal cup.

“Do I smell good Scotch?” she asked interestedly.

Nick turned. Liz was sitting up on the bed and clutching the towel to her well-rounded bosom. She was pale but in full control of herself.

“You do,” he said, and made his way around the mess to give it to her.

She sipped and spluttered and the color came back into her face.

“I’m sorry...” they began at once, and stopped.

Nick tried again. “I shouldn’t have let you come back with me. I did, and I’m sorry. Now pull the top of that dress down and let me have a look — at the wound, of course.”

She reached up obediently and let out a little gasp of pain.

“I can’t do it with one hand. My God, look how it’s spreading! You’ll have to help me take it off.”

He fumbled cautiously with the small hook at the back. At last it loosened, and the short zipper slid down its appointed course.

“Can you stand up? I can’t seem to get it off this way.”

She nodded and rose shakily.

The dress got as far as her hips and stuck. Nick maneuvered and tugged.

“For God’s sake, how can you wear these tight things in this hot climate?” he grumbled.

“It’s not tight. You just don’t have the knack.”

“Hmmph. I don’t have the shape. Wiggle a bit, will you?” Liz wiggled. He tried not to notice how seductively her hips moved. “Now raise your right arm and try to get it out.”

Liz concentrated for a moment.

“Okay. Now pull down,” said Nick, thoroughly engrossed in his task. Liz pulled. Nick tugged.

“There! That’s one,” he said triumphantly. “Now sit down and let me get it over your head.”

There was silence but for their breathing and the rustle of cloth.

“Ah! That does it. Take it easy while I get the left arm out. This may hurt a bit.”

“Yes, Doctor,” she said bravely.

She winced only slightly as her left arm parted from the dress. The other sound was Nick’s involuntary sigh of approval at her scantily clad form. Bloodstains and all, she was delectable in her half-slip and not much else. He was amazed at the magnificence of her high, full breasts, at the ripe but firm perfection of her body. Strange that he hadn’t fully appreciated it before. Obviously her dress wasn’t nearly tight enough.

She looked up into his eyes and saw him staring down at her alluring softness. Her right hand reached up and gently touched his face.

“What a way to have to start,” she said ambiguously, and smiled. Her hand caressed his cheek. He put his own hand over hers and bent to kiss her lightly on the cheek. But somehow his lips found hers and lingered on them, and one hand stole around her back and stroked it soothingly.

She drew her lips away from him with a little gasp and he straightened up immediately. There was a compact first aid kit in his luggage and he made use of it. He cleansed and bound the wound with a light, quick touch, forcing his fingers to behave themselves and his eyes to attend to the business at hand. While he worked his mind reconstructed the hectic events of the last few minutes. Intruder entered via bedroom door. Opened window in readiness for rapid escape. Searched in obvious places, including locked desk drawer, found nothing. Luggage undamaged. Intruder anxious to make getaway, willing to kill and run rather than hang about and answer questions. Naturally.

It didn’t prove a thing. The visit may have had nothing to do with whoever might be listening in. Nick wished he knew if the desk drawer had been opened first or last.

He helped Liz into the seersucker robe he usually forgot to wear himself and went into the bathroom for a rapid wash and change. When he rejoined her he was wearing clean trousers, a fresh shirt with a small grease smudge, and a calculating look. Liz lay back on the bed and watched him, feeling sensual and adventurous.

“I have to get you out of here,” Nick said, “and put in a report on this crazy mess.” For Chrissake, if he’d only removed that bugging mechanism before, he could have called Abe Jefferson and had him straighten this out in one swift, easy motion. But it was too obvious a thing to do just now; he’d have to leave it there. How would a genuine diplomat react? Flustered. Indignant. Ineffectual... Fine, I’m doing fine, Nick told himself with bitter self-disgust. Show me a mouse, and I’ll faint. He eyed Liz.

“Is there some woman friend you can call who can bring you a dress? I can’t let you out of here looking like that.”

“I have no women friends,” Liz said with languid pride.

“Then what about Tad?”

The phone rang.

He scooped it up impatiently.

A muffled voice said distantly: “Carter?”

“Yes!” Nick snapped.

“The meeting is arranged,” the voice said sepulchrally.

“Oh!” said Nick. The light dawned. “I’ll be there.” There was a click. Nick stood there holding the telephone, and a slow grin spread across his face. There he was, in the midst of an ungodly mess — throwing knife, toast and coffee, an ineffectual cane, an undressed girl with large breasts and a shoulder wound, and the memory of a greasy would-be killer with no pants. What he needed more than anything in the world was an honest cop. And here he stood, a telephone in his hand and an honest police chief at the other end. And he couldn’t say a word. It would screw up his whole undercover deal with his friend, the honest cop.

He looked at Liz and slowly replaced the receiver. A score of pictures tumbled through his mind, of the Africa he had adventured through not so many years before. Of the wild journey through the bush, the trumpeting of the great bull elephants, the chanting of the red-eyed woman witchdoctor, the hideous rituals of the leopard men, the eerie stillness of the dripping forests and the sudden animal screams. Mysterious Africa... with not a single bottle-opener in the bathroom. And now? A wild jumble of conflicting politics and bomb fragments and bugs that didn’t wiggle through the beds but listened in on conversations. Intrigue in high places and sinister visitors in search of documents. He shook his head. In some ways this new-old continent was even more mysterious than before. Nick glanced at his watch. After eleven. “The meeting is arranged.”

He’d have to hurry. He reached again for the inquisitive telephone.