Safari for Spies

Aunt Abigail and Others

The flowing clothes concealed nothing but a short stabbing knife, some crumpled Nyangese notes and a set of rather gaudy underwear. Nick left the tall man where he had fallen and peered out through the partly open door. Hakim’s follower had left the footpath and was standing near the curve of the uneven roadway. His shuttered eyes roamed back and forth along the street and found nothing that pleased them. He could see Nick’s open door, but he could not possibly know its significance. There were other open doors on that shabby little street.

Not once had he looked back while trailing Hakim. Probably he had relied on the second man to guard his rear, or else he had not even thought of being followed and had intended to use the cloaked man as a substitute shadow in case Hakim had spotted him. But whatever he’d intended hadn’t worked. His face was a study in bafflement.

Nick watched him standing there looking impotent and angry and saw him purse his lips into a whistle. A fluting sound hung on the air and faded. He waited, tried again. Two small children and a mangy mongrel bounded down the slope to investigate. The dog barked. The children turned and ran.

The man stood there for another moment and then turned and walked slowly back in the direction from which the trailing procession had come.

Nick left the snoring stranger and the unconscious one, thinking to himself what a nice chat they could have when they woke up, and glided like a phantom after the man with the green face.

At first it was about as tricky as Nick had thought it would be. His quarry stopped at every shadow and started at every sound. Once in a while he would swing about and stare up the street behind him, his head darting about in little searching motions. Now and then he stopped on a corner and whistled hopefully, as though he thought the man in the cloak might have turned up the wrong narrow street and was waiting to be found. Nick cursed his conspicuously American clothes and the telltale cane, and dodged and hung back until he felt sure he would lose his man.

But then, unaccountably, the man quickened his pace and gave up his futile search. He walked rapidly into a street parallel to the one they had started from and cut briskly through the business section. Nick followed him easily, picking his way politely through the pedestrian traffic and waiting patiently at stop lights. He stopped at a flower stall to buy himself a boutonniere and decline the offer of a shoeshine, and watched his man turning into the Avenida Independencia.

The man slowed his pace and dawdled on the sidewalk opposite Nick’s hotel until something seemed to decide him to move on. Nick glanced across the street. There was nothing out of the way, so far as he could see, and the Police Chiefs car hadn’t yet arrived. He checked his watch. Twenty minutes to two. He hoped his man would go to cover soon.

He did.

His movement was so sudden that Nick almost missed it while concentrating on making his own movements seem appropriately casual. He was a roving diplomat, taking in the sights of the city while waiting for his touring car to...

The corner of his eye caught Green Face turning briskly into a doorway under a sign reading “Herbalist.” Nick strolled slowly to within a few doors of the place and gazed entranced into an art store window. Five minutes was enough of that. The shop next door was a Beauty Parlor. He skipped it and spent some time looking into the window of an ultra-modern drug store. The shop next door was the herbalist’s. His man had not come out. How like Africa, Nick thought, to put the drug store next to the herbalist’s and let you take your choice. He ambled over to the next window, with a few minutes still to kill before meeting his car and with no intention of flushing out his quarry.

The window was a fascinating junkpile of suggestively shaped roots and small bottles filled with revolting fluids. An ancient elephant’s foot served as a tray for an assortment of dried bones and tufts of hair, and a sunburned sign exhorted him to SHOP HERE FOR WONDER DRUGS AND MIRACLE CURES. It was dark inside the shop and the crammed window almost obscured the counter. But he could see enough to know that the man behind the crowded counter was old and wizened and that the man who faced the old one was the man he had been following.

He decided to go in and buy an amulet.

The door came open with a rusty jangle of bells. There was a swish and a slam at the rear of the shop, and as the door closed behind him he saw that he and the old man were alone in the store. He blinked dazedly as if to accustom himself to the gloom, but he saw every detail of the musty little shop and knew that there was a door behind a curtain that was still swaying. He could even hear the footsteps going up uncarpeted stairs.

“Help you, sir?” the proprietor crooned. “Souvenir? Love potion? Strength of elephant or heart of lion? Or do you wish to look around?”

“I’d love to look around,” Nick said truthfully, “but right now I haven’t got time. A good luck charm, that’s all I need. Something to ward off evil.”

“Ah! Many kinds of evil, many kinds of charms.” The old man busied himself beneath the counter. “This one, against wicked men. This for illness. This, to bring success in business...”

“I’ll take that,” Nick said, noting that it was a relatively clean old coin while most of the other offerings were shapeless little bags or yellowed teeth, and also noting the brand new telephone that squatted so incongruously on the counter. He paid the man and slipped the charm around his neck while his eyes found the telephone wires that ran up one low wall and through the ceiling.

“I wonder if I might use your telephone?” he said suddenly. “I see that I am late for an appointment.” He put some of his change back on the counter and lifted the receiver without waiting for an answer. The old man sucked in his breath sharply.

“Oh, no! I am sorry, Senhor... M’sieu! No, I am afraid you cannot.” He anxiously pulled the phone away from Nick and pushed down the bar. “It does not work very well — I am afraid it is out of order.”

Nick raised his eyebrows. “It seemed to be working very well,” he said coldly. “I distinctly heard another voice on the line.”

“That is the trouble,” the old man panted, making what Nick thought was a rather good recovery. “There always seem to be other voices on the line. There are telephones across the street at the hotel. I am sure you will find better service there.”

“All right. I’ll try.” Nick irritably took back his change and walked out of the shop. The bells clanged discordantly behind him.

He looked across the street at his hotel. Its main entrance was almost directly opposite. Some of its windows were straight across from the small window above the “Herbalist” sign. Very convenient, he thought, wondering how long the herbalist had had his telephone — or phones. He also wondered how he had been fortunate enough to draw a room in the rear overlooking the quiet square.

It was still a few minutes before two and there was no car waiting for him in front of the hotel. It suddenly struck him that there were very few cars on the streets at all; perhaps it was something to do with the long lunch hours he’d heard about. Two cars were parked just beyond the loading zone of the hotel, both empty, and another idled on a corner while its driver chatted with someone on the sidewalk. The atmosphere was so strangely quiet that it was somehow not peaceful at all.

Nick thought of the fragments of speech he had heard on the telephone. A deep voice had said in French: “...dangerous to wait.” The second voice was a strange mixture of nasal whine and sibilance, and it had said plaintively: “But we must find out what...”

And a little old man who sold herbs and charms had abruptly cut him off. A little old man who was about as unlikely a candidate for high-powered international intrigue as Nick had ever seen.

Nick stepped off the curb and felt that familiar, crawling tingle at the back of his neck. He almost turned, but he made himself walk on into the street. There was no sense tipping off Green Face too soon — he’d find out much more by stringing him along. And, by the same token, Green Face had no reason — yet — to put a bullet in the back of Nick’s head.

The roar of the motor slammed through Nick’s ears and ripped his thoughts apart. The idling car no longer idled; it threw itself at Nick like an angry elephant but with much greater speed. Tires screamed and a horn blared furiously and Nick threw himself forward to miss the monster by inches. He cartwheeled on to the sidewalk and drew himself up by a lightpole, reaching reflexively for Wilhelmina. A police whistle shrilled and something flew past his ear to slap into the wall behind him and roll back almost to his heels. Thoughts of grenades leapt into his mind but he saw instantaneously that it was a rough stone with a piece of paper wrapped around it. A motorcycle cop roared out of a side street and flung after the fleeing car. Wilhelmina stayed where she was.

Nick picked up his cane and the stone and peeled off the wrapping paper. The crudely scrawled message read: YANKEE MURDERER GO HOME!

Abe Jefferson’s car was engaged for some time that afternoon before it was free to take Nick on the tour, and so was the Chief of Police. When they did meet briefly, it was only to exchange rapid bursts of information and arrange an evening meeting. In the end it was Tad Fergus who acted as guide while Uru lashed the big car into breathtaking feats and Stonewall sat stolidly beside him with his tremendous right hand resting on his gun butt.

“Look, keep your car,” Nick had protested vigorously. “Let somebody from the Embassy take me.”

Jefferson’s refusal was emphatic. “Mr. Fergus will show you around, since I cannot, but I insist that you take my car. It is bulletproof, whereas the Embassy cars are not. And Vice-President Adebe is using the only other safe car in the city. No, please do not argue. I have my hands full as it is.”

Nick capitulated. “What news about the President?”

“ ‘As well as can be expected,’ the doctors say. I personally do not know what that means. But I would say that somebody has leaked out the story, or at least part of it. I don’t know who it could have been. But there is an undercurrent in the city that I do not like. You must be very careful.”

At Nick’s request Tad directed Uru to take them to all sites of shootings and explosions in the vicinity of Abimako. They drove along the seashore between the brilliance of the sea and the biting blue of the sky and then inland to the small mission stations on the outskirts of the city and the lovely, lazy suburbs where the Russian residents lived. The lanky, redheaded Tad filled in the background with vivid detail and a wealth of knowledge that warmed Nick to him, and crisply gave him capsule reports of eyewitness accounts and local reactions to the incidents. Nick stopped at damaged homes and shattered warehouses, picking his way thoughtfully among the ruins until he had seen enough to set a pattern in his mind. Then they drove back into the heart of town and stopped at the old fort that served both as the Presidential residence and the Government Offices to meet various officials and see the site where Julian Makombe had been shot.

Nick’s only non-business question of the afternoon related to Miss Elizabeth Ashton.

“How is she?” Tad looked at him, surprised. “Why, fine. Busy at the office this afternoon. You’ll see her later, at the Patricks.”

So Liz hadn’t told him what had happened that morning. Nick felt oddly pleased. “Who are the Patricks?”

“Oh, sorry, I forgot to tell you. They’re friends of the Ambassador’s. Dinner there tonight with Sendhor and Adebe and Rufus Makombe and several others. The Ambassador and his wife are staying with the Patricks; have been since the Embassy was bombed. Nice people.”

They were nice people, Nick discovered that evening. So nice that they didn’t even seem to think he was being undiplomatic when he wandered off into the garden with Liz during the pre-dinner cocktail hour.

“I’m surprised to see you looking so full of beans and vigor,” said Nick approvingly. In the soft afternoon light, with the sun gleaming over her dark hair and her creamy, flawless skin, Liz looked more delectable than ever. Her wide, huge eyes looked directly into his with a frankness he seldom met in his profession. For the first time in years he wondered briefly if his own eyes revealed the counter-plotting and the murder that lay behind them. “How’s the shoulder?”

“A little sensitive, that’s all. Abe’s doctor looked at it; it’s fine. How was your day?” She dismissed the subject of her shoulder carelessly.

He told her what he thought she should know, and they talked with growing ease beneath the swaying leaves and brilliant wild trees that arched above their heads. As they talked he became increasingly aware of the warmth and vitality of the tall and generously proportioned girl beside him.

“We’d better get back to the others,” she said at last “I really wanted to talk to you alone for a minute to tell you about your invitation.”

“Invitation?”

“Uh-huh.” The small lines crinkled at the corners of her eyes. “We’ve regretted not putting you up in true ambassadorial splendor. And since this morning... well, I had to mention to Ambassador Thurston that there was some little contretemps in your hotel room, and he was most upset. Oh, I just said that your room was searched, that’s all. It’s up to you to tell him whatever you think best. But he was very concerned, and after beating about the bush for about fifteen minutes he finally managed to suggest that I ask you to stay with me, since my Aunt Abigail is visiting and can be our chaperone. So, naturally, I agreed. Don’t worry, I have lots of room. A darling little house in N’domi — that’s a suburb — about five minutes’ walk from everything.”

Nick raised his eyebrows at her. “That’s a very tempting invitation,” he said, turning its advantages over in his mind. “And very kind of you to let yourself get pushed into it. But are you sure Aunt Abigail won’t mind?”

Liz smiled cheerfully. “Quite sure. She left last week — how could she mind?”

They laughed so much that Tad Fergus came to find out what the joke was. They fobbed him off with an ancient elephant story and went into formal dinner in the Patricks’ enormous paneled dining room.

The Nyangese guests did their best to be cordial but it was clear that they were worried and distracted. Vice-President Adebe left early with his lovely chocolate-colored wife and a harried looking Sendhor. Rufus Makombe, about to leave after ignoring Nick all evening, changed his mind suddenly on hearing a fragment of conversation and made a point to draw Nick into a corner. In his clipped but lyrical language he apologized for his earlier coolness — “Inexcusable bad manners” — and begged indulgence. With the preliminaries over, he said: “So you are going to Dakar? I hope you have found some important lead to take you there. We need it; we desperately need it.” His strong young face was taut and a tiny muscle twitched uncontrollably. “You do not realize — but of course you do. Have you found out something?”

Nick nodded slowly. “Not much. Just enough to make me want to look around outside the borders of this country.”

Rufus nodded with satisfaction. “Ah! I also feel it is something bigger than this little country of Nyanga. If you have no hotel reservations, may I suggest the Hotel Senegal? It is not so lavish as the N’Gor, but it is much more convenient and I am well known there. I can arrange the booking, if you wish.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, but please don’t bother. Perhaps if I mention your name...?”

Rufus nodded vigorously. “Do that, and they will give you the hotel. I wonder if you are by any chance interested in some form of entertainment? Probably not anything too frivolous, but there is a place called the Kilimanjaro where there is magnificent entertainment in the true African style.” His words hung questioningly in the air.

“If there’s time, I’d be most interested,” Nick answered. “What sort of place is it?”

“Not a club, not a club,” Rufus shook his head emphatically. “I cannot quite describe it to you because there is nothing exactly like it in Europe or America. No liquor is served, only many kinds of wine. Also very strong African beer. No meals, but many interesting little sample dishes of regional specialties. There is a circular stage in the center of the one big room, and there you will see such entertainment as you have never seen. The African High Life, you have heard of that? Yes, there is that. And the drums of the Congo, and the Chopi pianos. Also magnificent singing of the songs of our tribes and our cities. Nothing borrowed from other cultures. All our own!” The crest of his enthusiasm suddenly dropped him and the light went out of his eyes. He ended lamely, “Well, perhaps you will not like it. I only mention it in case you wish to experience something remarkable that you will never find in Washington.”

The party broke up shortly afterwards.

Liz took Nick home with her in her own battered old car, which she handled with an assurance that pleased him. He noticed that she kept a wary eye on the rearview mirror and the cross streets and was driving faster than was necessary on the quiet residential streets.

“Is it armored?” he asked sardonically.

“Huh?” Liz kept her eyes on the road.

“Your car. The Chief’s concerned about bullet-proofing me. Far more concerned than I am.”

“Oh. No, of course it isn’t. But he was the one who suggested that his big battlewagon might look a bit conspicuous sitting outside my place. With any luck, no one’ll find out you’re staying with me. The Ambassador’s sworn to secrecy. Of course I told Abe Jefferson.”

“Of course.” He eyed her ample good looks with a slight feeling of resentment. She and Abe and the Ambassador were arranging him to death. Maybe one of these days he’d actually be allowed to make some decisions for himself.

She caught his eye. “Don’t feel bad about us pushing you around,” she said, with an extraordinary flash of intuition. “It’s just that you’re an important visitor who mustn’t be bothered with trifles. Besides, we want to keep you safe. We like you — had you noticed?”

And she liked his answering smile.

“I’ve noticed a good many things that I like very much,” he answered, “and you’re one of them. And because of that, I’m not so sure it’s a good idea for me to stay with you. I could be a danger to you.”

“Guess who thought of that?” she said, maneuvering the wheel and darting the old car up a narrow side street. “We’ll have plainclothes-police protection. We’ll be able to come and go as we please. But no one else can. Is that all right with you?”

“Great. And my checkout from the hotel? My baggage? Have you arranged that, too?”

“Uh-huhm.”

“Abe Jefferson?”

“Abe Jefferson. He will call — let’s see — one hour and fifty minutes from now.”

Liz turned briefly and flashed a grin at him. “You see, we have you all wrapped up.”

Moments later she slid the serviceable car into her garage, murmured a greeting to a dark young man who slid out of the shadows then slid back again, and let Nick into her house. The latch clicked decisively behind them.

Her house was like her. Soft, sturdy carpeting and big lamps that gave off a comforting and mellow glow. Big, vivid pictures on the walls, modern, but not abstract. Splashes of wild flowers in bright ceramic vases, and huge chairs for sinking into. A vast, embracing sofa and a pile of gaily colored cushions.

What happened was inevitable.