Safari for Spies

The Silent Visitor

The Hotel Senegal in Dakar was all that Rufus Makombe had said it was, and more. So much more that as soon as Nick got to his room, after his swift morning flight from Abimako, he began to wonder if they weren’t overdoing things a little. He also thought over the short list of people who had known he would be staying at the Senegal, and wondered if he shouldn’t have obeyed his initial impulse to check in at the Majestic under one of his many imaginative pseudonyms.

He was thinking all these things in a series of simultaneous flashes as the bellhop, carrying his one bag, locked the door behind him, dropped the bag, and said almost as musically as Stonewall: “Put your hands up, white Yankee, and do not make a sound. You will die instantly if you call out.”

Nick turned slowly with his hands half-raised and saw the muscular dark figure and the long-nosed gun with its cumbersome silencer. Cumbersome or not, it was a type he knew would stifle harsh reports sufficiently to let them pass unnoticed in this busy, chrome-plated palace on Dakar’s noisiest street.

“You fool!” Nick hissed. “You treacherous blind fool!” His arms dropped to his sides. “Don’t you even know who you’re working for?” The gun faltered almost imperceptibly and Nick pressed his flickering advantage. “Tell me the words that were agreed upon or you will die like the creeping rat you are.” The liquid eyes clouded with puzzlement but the gun steadied and pointed inexorably at Nick.

“There are no words...” the big man began. Nick cut him off with an exclamation that spat across the room.

“No words! You ignorant ape! Is that how much you know about our operations here? Pah! Put that foolish gun away at once or you will suffer for your idiocy. The Cause will not put up with such bunglers as you. Didn’t you understand your orders, pig?”

The gun drooped hesitantly and Nick leapt. His sinewy hands caught hold and twisted agonizingly. The gun came free in his right hand and he slammed it lightly against the big man’s temple. The fellow staggered and fell back. Nick drew back his leg and slammed his weighted heel, against one flailing limb. It caught the shin where he’d intended, and the big bellhop screamed and dropped.

“Now,” said Carter menacingly. “Perhaps you will understand that you do not trifle with your superiors. Stop your whining and tell me instantly who caused you to make this unthinkable blunder. Weren’t you told that the white Yankee made arrangements to check into the Majestic? And that I have come from headquarters to find out where he goes and who he sees? Sit up and talk to me as you have been taught. As I hope you have been taught.”

The big man groaned and pulled himself painfully to a sitting position.

“I thought — they told me — who are you?” he stammered.

“I ask, you answer!” Nick snapped at him. “What were your orders, and who gave them to you, that you did not know my true identity?”

“Laszlo, Laszlo!” the man said earnestly. “He said the American Carter might come here and I was to...” he stumbled over his words and his eyes wandered over Nick’s shoulder and pulled themselves away with visible effort. Nick twisted a swift look behind him and jumped simultaneously.

The flying figure that burst from the bathroom doorway missed Nick by inches and crashed into the big bellhop. Two big, muscular bodies sprawled on the floor and the first one cursed obscenely. The second extricated himself with a leaping turn and faced Nick in a crouch with his weird weapon raised. Nick flicked himself out of reach and pointed the bellhop’s gun.

“Get back!” he ordered. “Get your hands up or I’ll shoot.”

The man lunged at him. Nick cursed softly and aimed for the bunched shoulder that was one great weapon in itself, starting from the straining neck and extending to the pointed tip of the odd weapon in the massive hand.

The gun clicked uselessly.

Nick cursed again and flung it viciously across the room as he wheeled sideways and let the man come at him. His body bent slightly forward, his steel-and-whipcord arms lashed out to push and pull in a series of swift moves so smoothly coordinated that they seemed like one. The wooden striking blade of the flat club — used like the hard edge of the hand in Karate — soared forward and down. Nick let it come toward him, then he pivoted and grasped the bulging arm that held the club and swung it downward like a pump handle. The left arm and foot flailed wildly in the air. Nick completed the twist and the man somersaulted floorward like a wheel ripped from its axle and rolling crazily. The man made a sound like a watermelon splitting open. Nick scooped up the sword-shaped club and tossed it after the gun. In this kind of fight he preferred to use his hands. And feet. He kicked viciously at the groin. The man gave a groan like a mighty belch and jerked convulsively, drawing up his legs and clutching himself like a caterpillar curling itself into an aching ball.

Nick saw the movement near the bedroom door from the corner of his eye. His first assailant was raising himself painfully to one knee and pulling a knife from inside the jacket of his loose uniform. Nick watched the arm go back and start forward before he moved, and then he moved like greased lightning. The knife hissed past his ear and buried its thin blade in the hard wood of the closet door. Nick leapt up from his low crouch and flicked the knife straight out of the wood and snapped it back at its owner in one smooth motion. It caught the killer-busboy as he scrabbled painfully toward the door just as he reached upward for the doorknob. His upraised chin had made his thick neck an easy, irresistible target. He gargled horribly and fell to the floor clutching his throat and hiccuping.

The second man was slowly uncoiling at Nick’s feet. Nick, avoiding the man’s outstretched, grasping hands, slid Hugo out of his slender sheath.

Hugo was a deceptively small Italian stiletto that concealed its deadly ice-pick blade in a thin bone handle until released by the flick of a finger on a tiny switch. Then Hugo would spring into fighting position, and fighting for Hugo was killing. Unless, of course, Hugo succeeded by gentle persuasion instead of dealing instant death.

Nick flicked the small trigger and Hugo darted out of hiding like a snake flashing out its tongue.

“Now sit up with your hands behind your back. Come on! Move!”

The man sat up slowly, making little grunting noises and seeking a weapon with his eyes. When he saw the gun and his swordlike club at the far end of the room well out of his reach, he lost interest in them and stared hopefully at Nick’s feet, his shoulders bunching reflexively as if his arms were itching to get at his captor.

Nick’s gray eyes were cold, cruel steel as they gazed down at the captive.

“Now you’re going to tell me where you get your orders,” he said quietly in French. “You’re not leaving here until you do. Understand?”

The dark head nodded, but there was a contemptuous smile on the fleshy lips.

“I don’t think you do,” Nick said. He strode to the bedroom door and locked it, keeping his eyes on the silent, cross-legged figure. “No one will be let in or out of this room until I have finished with you. And I will not finish with you until you have told me what I want to know.” He moved back to his victim and looked down at him, thoughtfully fingering Hugo’s tapering point. “It may hurt.” He waited. The man said nothing. “Who sent you?” Nick said sharply. “Start with that and start now. Or I’ll start.”

The man shook his head emphatically.

“All right, start talking.”

The man shook his head again. The muscles in Nick’s face tightened. Killmaster or not, he didn’t like what he was going to do.

“Then get up and turn your face to the wall.” Nick s voice was ice and his mouth closed in a cruel, determined line.

The man looked back at Nick and got slowly to his feet, a big bullock of a fellow with deep, angular tattoo marks on his cheeks.

“Either turn around or talk,” Nick lashed at him.

The man opened his mouth but neither turned around nor talked. Instead he leaned slightly forward and put his head back, pointing into his mouth like a kid bragging about a newly extracted tooth.

What was missing was not a tooth. It was his tongue.

Nick’s eyes widened involuntarily as he stared.

The incomplete mouth closed and the tattooed face took on an expression that was half-fearful, half-contemptuous.

“Who did that — the people you work for?” The question at least drew some reaction.

The head wagged vigorously from side to side.

“Who, then?” The tongue had been cut out many years before; perhaps his own people had done it. “Your tribesmen?” A negative shake of the head. “Rival? Witchdoctor?” Two more decisive shakes. “White man?” An emphatic, multiple nod, and a baring of the teeth. “Portuguese?” Again a nod. “French?” Another nod. “Belgian?” Nod. Nick raised a mental eyebrow, though his face was stony. What was this — a variation on the all-white-men-are-the-same theme? “American?” Emphatic nod. “Russian?” A half-nod that stopped in the middle. “Chinese?” A shaking, nodding, rolling motion accompanied by confusion of the eyes and a troubled frown. “English?” A nod that finished with a chin on the chest and downcast eyes. The man without a tongue knew he had goofed. “Recently?” No reaction. “Long ago?” No reaction.

Nick surveyed his victim without satisfaction. He and Hugo could probably extort something out of this man before the day was out. A jab here, a nod there, a pinprick now and a headshake then, and some kind of answer would eventually emerge. But would it be worth the time it would take? Doubtful. And there was no guarantee that he was going to be left undisturbed for as long as he needed.

“Put those hands behind your back and hold them there,” he ordered. “That’s better.” Nick studied him. The man wore his European-style suit without ease, as though he were uncomfortable in it. And he wore his ill-fitting shoes as though they were instruments of torture. He was not an unusual type for an African city. Nevertheless...

“You can write, can’t you?” Hugo wagged threateningly.

The man shook his head triumphantly. Hugo darted at his face with vicious speed and bit lightly into the fleshy part of his left cheek. He gasped and took an involuntary step back.

“You can write, can’t you?” Hugo nipped hungrily at the other cheek and withdrew with incredible speed.

The head shook violently. Surprise and pain replaced the scorn on the man’s face and little mewling sounds came from his throat.

“Show me your hands. Slowly. Bring them from behind your back. One side first, then turn them over.”

The hands reached slowly and — it seemed — supplicatingly toward Nick.

They were the scarred and calloused hands of a man who worked in the soil and on the carpenter’s bench and maybe with bricks. None of the calluses had anything to do with holding a pencil or pushing a pen. Nick sighed silently to himself. It was not conclusive, but the man was probably telling the truth.

“All right, then. There’s only one way you can answer me and you’re going to do it. Remember, I’m armed with more than a knife. And I’m not alone, as you seem to think.”

Blood trickled down the dark face from the two small perforations and two wary eyes watched Nick uncertainly.

“You’re going to take me to the people who sent you here,” Nick said conversationally. “And if you do it without trying to tip me to them you may even live through the meeting. Or you may not. Let’s go. But first of all you can pick up that buddy of yours and put him in the closet. Hurry, friend. I haven’t got all day.”

Hugo sliced the air, waggling impatiently.

The man stayed where he was. He was cringing now and shaking his head without the slightest trace of arrogance or scorn, and pitiful gurgling noises came from his throat.

“Get moving.” Nick’s voice was as cold as Hugo’s steel; and Hugo spoke as he did. The lightning blade slashed down one large, fleshy ear and slid gracefully off the bottom of the chin.

Nick’s victim growled and backed away, shaking his head like a lion in pain. He seemed to be trying desperately to form words.

“What is it?” asked Nick. “Do you want someone to talk for you?”

The head swung wildly and the thick lips drew back to show the teeth and gums.

“Then move!” Nick rapped.

The fellow moved with the speed of desperation and struck with the blind strength of terror. His arms tore at Nick’s knife hand and the sounds he made were those of an animal fighting for its life. Nick let his grasp tighten, then pivoted on the balls of his feet and flipped the man over his shoulder to the floor.

“Get up!” he grated. “You’ve got one last chance to do as I tell you or you’re through.”

The man squirmed to his feet and stood there panting. Then he leapt again, grasping for the knife and grappling like a madman. Nick raised his knee sharply and brought it up into the dumb man’s crotch. His visitor made an awful gasping sound but went on clawing at Nick. One tremendous arm tried to lever the knife arm down while the other went for Nick’s face.

Nick threw him off once more.

“You fool!” he said, almost pleadingly. “Take me where I want to go — or I’ll kill you.”

The man drew himself into a crouch and leapt. Hugo met him in the air and plunged into his heart.

The body was still fighting for a life already lost when Nick pulled the twitching arms away from him and let the dead weight fall to the floor.

Nick moved swiftly then, thinking bitterly to himself of the hazards of hotel living and how he always managed to get his room cluttered up with dead or dying or escaping visitors. He dragged the stilled, speechless man into the bathroom. He had the bellhop halfway across the floor when his door vibrated with a heavy knock. He dumped the man onto his companion in the bathroom and ripped off his own jacket and tie. When he reached his bedroom door he picked up his bag, tossed it on the bed and opened it. He tore off his shirt and tossed it onto the nearest chair. His feet moved smoothly against the scuff marks on the carpet and his hand was on the doorknob by the time the second knock began. His other hand was ready for whatever was outside.

He pulled the door open several inches and snapped: “Who is it?”

Another bellhop stood outside, his hand still raised for knocking.

“Sir, excuse me,” said an obsequious voice. “The porter Amos — may I speak to him?”

“By all means speak to him,” snapped Nick, “but don’t bother me about it. If you mean the fellow who brought my bag up, he left some time ago. Now if you don’t mind...” He glanced down at his bare chest and tried to look as though he’d been disturbed in the middle of changing. The man’s gaze traveled up the arm that loosely held the doorframe and stopped on the inside of Nick’s right elbow. His eyes clung to the little blue axe-shaped tattoo that had been a part of Nick ever since he’d joined AXE years before.

“Is there something else?” Nick asked, impatient but polite.

“Oh! Are you sure he’s gone, sir? He’s needed for...”

“Of course I’m sure! Do you think I’m hiding him?”

The bellhop laughed ingratiatingly. “I’m sorry, sir; naturally not, sir.” He peered into the room beyond Nick’s outstretched arm before stepping back and bobbing his head. “Sorry to have bothered you, sir.”

Nick closed the door and double-locked it quietly.

The phone rang. He scooped it up and barked into it irritably.

“I say, we’re touchy today,” a cheerful voice said into his ear. “What’s new?”

“What could be new?” he snapped back. “For God’s sake, I just got here! What’re you calling about?”

“About the meeting.” The voice sounded hurt. “Is it on?”

“Of course it’s on. At headquarters, and don’t be late. In fact, be there early if you can. I want to talk to you before the others get there. And for the luvva Pete, be on the ball with those minutes, will you?”

“Yes, sir,” the voice said crisply. “May I remind you that it’s not necessary to pull rank with me, sir.” The caller rang off abruptly.

Nick replaced the receiver with a grin and moved to the windows to admire — and size up — the view.

His room was on the seventh floor. The morning traffic roared busily beneath him. There were no projections anywhere on the smooth wall. The windows were far enough apart to make a visit from an adjoining room hazardous if not impossible. He latched them to be sure and closed the shutter-blinds.

His visitors awaited him on the bathroom floor.

The bellhop’s body revealed one interesting item: a healthy bundle of Senegalese spending money. Nick counted it quickly and decided that it was worth a good three months of honest work or maybe a few minutes of something more spectacular — like knocking off a snoop.

The other man was different.

His upper body was scarred and pitted with tattoo marks similar to those on his face except that they were bigger and bulged outward in wormlike ridges. Some dirt or dye substance had been rubbed into the wounds while they were raw and had been sealed in, a score of years before, beneath the healing scars. A tribal custom, Nick knew. Performed by rite — but just exactly where? The marks were strange to him.

So was the dried root in the pouch that dangled from the cord around the man’s neck. It was forked, like the mandrake root, and when he pressed it between his fingers it gave off a strange odor. But it was smaller than the typical mandrake and grayish-blue in color. And the odor? Nick remembered: In the filthy room above the herbalist’s shop — blood, alcohol, and... heroin. Heroin! That was it. But this, this was something very different. It was a pretty effective narcotic and a very powerful charm.

By the time the second knock sounded at the door Nick had washed and changed and was wishing that he’d had more than coffee on the plane. But this looked like another day in which he’d miss his breakfast.

He opened the door with his usual care after hearing the unusual rap that spelled out — though the caller didn’t realize it — “Lizzie Borden took an axe...” and stared out at his visitor.

“Yes? What is it?” he snapped.

His new visitor darted a look down the passage and quickly lifted a corner of the handsome rubber mask he was wearing.

“It is I, Hakim the Hideous,” he hissed. “With a new shipment of feelthy pictures.”

Nick grinned and let him in.

“I have a grubby job for you,” he said, and locked the door.

It took them only minutes to make their plans. Hakim would check into a nearby room and under cover of night would move the bodies into it and then check out. Ambassador Carter would stay at the Senegal as long as was convenient and then ostensibly fly back to Abimako.

Hakim studied the bodies. With his fleshlike mask pulled on top of his head, he looked more like a nightmare than ever.

“The root and the marks...” he murmured thoughtfully. “Together they are found in only one place — the hill country north of Abimako. We go there, perhaps?”

“Undoubtedly,” said Nick. “When you’ve told me more about it. And when I’m finished in Dakar.”

“And that will be when?” Hakim’s good eye questioned him.

“When I’ve seen what’s hopping at the Hop Club and what’s so high about the ‘high life’ at the Kilimanjaro.”