Assignment- Tyrant's Bride

by Will B Aarons

  Indrani’s shoulders fell, and her eyes turned sulky.

  Durell said: "For six months, renewable by agreement of both sides.”

  Indrani said, to Ogwang: "So. You really are going.”

  He stared at her from heavy-lidded eyes, his jaw slack. The gin was getting to him. For all Durell knew, he’d been drinking since morning. "It’s my duty,” he said.

  "Another American will contact you shortly,” Durell said.

  "Ah.” A nod.

  "A man named Kenneth Dager.”

  "Ndio, Dager.” Another nod.

  "Don’t send her to meet him. Please?”

  "She will cause no more trouble.”

  Indrani’s gaze fell to her knees. She was too pretty not to cause trouble for Ogwang, Durell thought. "Don’t even tell her when he is arriving,” he said.

  "What is this Dager’s purpose?”

  "He will escort you to a rendezvous with my party on the border, north of Kipora, the Ndolo capital.”

  "And Teresa will be in your party.”

  "One way or the other,” Durell said.

  "It won’t be easy for you. She’s a prisoner in all but name.”

  "So they say.”

  "You must be tired; you will spend the night here,” Ogwang said, by way of dismissal.

  As Durell left, escorted by a servant clad in a starched white mess jacket, Ogwang was pouring himself another gin.

  His room faced the sea, where breakers smoked in the moonlight. An African Christus, carved in mahogany, clung to a white wall. Ogwang was a Christian, as were about eighty percent of his countrymen. President for Life Field Marshal Ausi and most of his cronies were Moslem. Ausi had three wives, if you included Teresa. He had compounded the terror of his rule by importing Moslem mercenaries from villages just across the Sudanese border to do his dirty work.

  The door had no lock.

  He stretched out on top of the sheets and tried to get some sleep. He kept his revolver under his hands. He told himself the general was on his side; that Indrani was a little hothead who wouldn’t try something twice.

  The last thing he remembered was marimba music, before the crackling call of a peacock awakened him. It strutted somewhere close to his window. The moon was low and brilliantly detailed, without the surrounding aura of radiance it would show against a fully nighttime sky. A promise of dawn was in the air. Then a sixth sense jangled alarms.

  Someone was in the room.

  4

  "Indrani?” Durell spoke the name quietly.

  "Yes.”

  He stared into the gloom and did not move. The grip of his snub-nosed gun was warm under his hand; his arm had not moved through the night.

  "What are you doing here?” he asked.

  "Albert is drunk.”

  "Does he drink like this often?”

  "When he is sad, but. . ."

  "But he is sad all the time, right?”

  "Listen.” He could not see her; her voice came from the shadows of a darker corner. "He is singing,” she said.

  Now he heard a dim caterwauling in the distance. "Go to your room,” he said. "Get some sleep. The world looks better when the sun comes up.”

  She moved into the pale light, and he sat up in bed. His pulse quickened in spite of himself. She wore a filmy dressing gown, nothing under it. Her hair shimmered and rippled in a black cascade, the braids undone. The breeze that came through the grilled window brought air laden with spices and perfumes. He swallowed thickly.

  She said: "Albert is sad, because he cannot go home.”

  "Not true. He will.”

  "To die? And what is to become of me?” The mattress sagged a little as she sat on the edge of the bed. She sighed, so that he heard the sad little gust, and her moon-clad breasts rose small, dark tips. "What am I, except for loving, making a man happy?” she asked.

  "Then get yourself a young man; the general’s too old for you. But first, get out of here.”

  "I’m sorry about what I did—tried, to do—to you.”

  "No you’re not.”

  "I have been crying.” She took his hand in both of hers. Her hands were small; the fingers looked fragile around his big knuckles. She bent her face to his fingertips.

  "You haven’t been crying over that,” he said.

  "Are you so sure?”

  "I can judge character as well as the next man.”

  "Then you have judged me?” Her green eyes watched from beneath fans of black lashes. Her cheek was damp to his touch.

  "From a certain perspective, yes; you presented your side of the argument when you tried to kill me.”

  "But there’s more, Bwana Durell. Left homeless at thirteen. Both parents murdered. No relatives; no place to go—it makes one cling to whatever one finds.”

  "How did it happen?”

  "When Ausi deported the Indians of Mobundu. He gave them a deadline to leave by, but my father didn’t believe any harm would come to him. He was a dukawalla, a shopkeeper, in a country village. His father had been there before him. The Africans were our friends. When he did not leave, nothing happened at first. One day passed, then another, and everything was just as it had been. But when a week had passed, soldiers came and looted our store and our house. They—” Indrani’s eyes showed the pain of memory. "They—raped my mother; that was when I got away. I was next in line, but the bush was close by. They couldn’t find me. Later I sneaked back—and found them.” She took a shuddering breath. "I wish I hadn’t gone back. Then I ran away, deep into the bush. The people were good; they fed and helped me. Finally, I found General Ogwang. We have been together ever since.” She hesitated uncertainly, her face earnest. "Can’t you see why there is no place in Albert’s life for Teresa any more? She no longer has any right to him.”

  She had moved closer, her lips inches from his. Her body was a lush provocation, golden and sugary in the moon’s flat rays, as Ogwang continued to bellow sour notes off in the distance.

  Durell did not find it easy just to sit there. But he still had no trust of her, with her panther-green eyes.

  "You’d best go,” he said.

  "'Yes. Albert wouldn’t like me talking to you.” Her face was turned up to his.

  "Not like this, certainly.”

  "He’s really very jealous.” She took his fingertips, guided them down the smooth arch of her neck, below the hollow at the base of her throat, and said: "You could arrange to pay Albert his full wages for six months in advance.”

  "I don’t think that would be wise.” He took his hand away from her.

  "What would you have to do?”

  "Cable our bank in Switzerland.”

  "Bwana—”

  "Please stop calling me that.”

  "Sam. . .?”

  He made no reply. More light was coming into the room every second. If Ogwang found her here, the whole mission could go up in smoke. Some of his men must be awake, acting as sentinels. They’d be just as bad.

  Unless the general had sent her, of course.

  She was saying: "Sam, if you obtained the total, perhaps we could arrange for you to receive a percentage—”

  "We call that a kickback.”

  "Ah? A kickback.” The word stood out as "keekback” in her Swahili, and she turned enthusiastically toward him, crossing her legs on the bed. "Yes, that is what we would do.”

  "So that you and the general could take the rest and thumb your noses at Mobundu and the Ndolo and the United States government. Right?”

  "Is that so bad? America is rich. We are poor.”

  "And the Ndolo are as good as dead.”

  "So true, Sam.” Her full, serious lips tut-tutted. "This scheme is hopeless. You know it.”

  Anger passed like a shadow over Durell’s face. "Did General Ogwang put you up to this?” he demanded. "No—”

  "Because I said he didn’t have to go.”

  "He wants to.” She shook her head, and the dawn light played in her hair. "He’s a fool. If I got the money, I c
ould change his mind. Money talks: isn’t that what you Americans say?”

  "Could be he still has a grain of honor; you might be wrong.”

  She kissed him, and he felt the point of her tongue. Her mouth was scented and moist. He was aware of the heat and magnetism of her flesh as the sea breeze soughed in the warm predawn.

  She moved her lips to his cheek, and whispered: "There would be other compensations for you.”

  "No.” She was still in his embrace; he did not want to turn her loose.

  "Yes,” she pleaded.

  "No,” he said.

  She made a guttural, angry noise and flung herself away and stamped out of the room on lovely, naked feet. Durell felt hot and troubled and sat staring as the general sang on.

  She returned moments later, surprising him. She did not come in, but spoke from the doorway. "You will watch over Albert, won’t you? Promise me.”

  "I’ll do my best. It’s my job.”

  "I can trust you—I see it in your face. Thank you.”

  Yes, Durell thought as she left, but who could he trust?

  5

  President for Life Field Marshal Azo Ausi had played the recording a dozen times in the last three days and still found no clue as to why Samuel C. Durell of K Section was in Kenshu. He felt cheated, then angry. He would smash the machine. He stopped the massive fist that reached out from behind his gilded desk, and the motion brought a tinkling sound from the thirty-six medals penned across his barrel chest.

  No. He must be patient. He would listen again.

  "General Ogwang is dragging his heels, Mr. Dager.”

  "I find that hard to believe; he must be convinced, or the whole plan is worthless. Who is your informant, Mr. Durell?”

  "I’m not free to say. Someone who knows him well.”

  "You must take me into your confidence.”

  "Only so far.”

  "Is there anything we can do to persuade him?”

  "Yes, Mr. Dager, he made a suggestion.”

  "Money?”

  "Only partly.”

  "Not too much, I hope. He’s a notorious spender. What else?”

  Ausi shifted his seat in a silence that continued for several seconds. He had the broad face of a Cape buffalo, and small, red eyes that mirrored a nasty disposition. He was frighteningly immense, larger than Ogwang. All his clothing had to be specially made, most of it in Paris, since he’d cut his ties with the Commonwealth; today’s uniform was resplendent with red piping and gold braid. At last, Durell answered Kenneth Dager’s question.

  "I can’t tell you what else.”

  "Listen: I’ve confided in you.”

  "It's best you don’t know too much, Mr. Dager."

  "I can’t work with blinders on.”

  "This isn’t the Peace Corps. None of us wants to know any more than he has to, to protect the others.”

  "I hope you’re not sneering at the Peace Corps, Mr. Durell. I put six years of my life into that organization, all of them in Africa. Since then, I’ve worked in seven countries as a private agricultural consultant, sometimes hand in hand with the top leaders.”

  "As in Mobundu? I’ve read your dossier, Mr. Dager”

  "If I hadn’t worked in Mobundu, how in blazes could I have brought you word of Field Marshal Ausi’s plan to wipe out the Ndolo?”

  "Your efforts are appreciated. It might just stir the Ndolo to rise up and wring Ausi’s neck, if we can provide them with a leader.”

  "But now I’m in the way; is that it?”

  "Wrong. We have further use of you.”

  "What happened this morning? You said General McFee was to meet with the Joint Chiefs.”

  ”Condition green.”

  "The go-ahead?”

  "All down the line.”

  "Does my father know?”

  "Senator Dager will be informed, in a general way, that his suggestion is being acted on.”

  "Suggestion, hell. If it hadn’t been for Dad, K Section wouldn’t have—”

  "If it hadn’t been for your father, you wouldn’t have got those juicy import-export deals that benefited you and your African friends so much.”

  "If you are accusing me of something, you’d better be ready to prove it.”

  "We’re touchy, aren’t we, Mr. Dager? All I’m. accusing you of is having an influential father. But don’t flaunt it. If I’d had my way, you would be out of this. So would the senator.”

  "Without me, you wouldn’t be able to find your ass, Durell. Not in East Africa.”

  "I can do without you, Mr. Dager. Don’t forget it.”

  Field Marshal Ausi grinned, sitting behind the big desk on which the tape recorder played. He liked Durell’s spunk. Durell was a man not likely to be caught napping. He could use a man like Durell for a consultant, but he’d already marked Durell for death, so he’d have to find someone else. His security forces certainly needed upgrading. Dager’s voice came from the tape now.

  "What's next—or am I allowed to know?”

  "You’re going back to Africa; you’ll meet General Ogwang in Zanzibar. There will be further briefings before you leave.”

  "I won’t let you down.”

  "Forget me; think about the Ndolo. They’re slated for genocide, and we can’t even supply them with arms for fear of an international outcry that we are neocolonialists.”

  ”Ogwang has a way of coming up with weapons; he never lacked them when fighting Ausi before.”

  "If we succeed, it's just a beginning.”

  "What's lost by trying?”

  "A few more lives. Mine; yours. I’ll call you.”

  The tape went silent. That was the end. Field Marshal Ausi rose from his red damask chair, thumbed the machine’s stop button and strolled to the enormous arched window of his study. He liked to stand before it and imagine the awe created by sight of his stupendous figure, displayed like a heroic statue. Trouble was, no one saw it, save an occasional red-bereted sentry. Too much danger of assassination.

  His small, evil eyes dropped to view his personal aircraft, a Polish Swidnik Mi-2 helicopter parked on the terrace just below. It never left without him aboard, was always flight-ready.

  He might need to make a quick getaway someday. The tape recording had not answered what Samuel Durell was doing in Kenshu, when the stronghold of the Ndolo and his accomplice, General Ogwang, were far away. That annoyed Ausi unspeakably, and his big fists clenched and unclenched. He weighed alter

  natives, as his gaze roamed beyond the city fringe, to jungle-clad mountains and Lake Lumumba, where his victims often floated.

  He could have Durell arrested, but he might not talk, even under torture. Ausi felt he had to know his mission here: it might uncover a nest of traitors who would go undetected otherwise.

  After all, Ausi decided, he could have Samuel Durell’s life anytime he wanted it. And General Ogwang was as good as dead.

  For now, he would wait and watch.

  6

  "Are we being followed?”

  Durell glanced at the rearview mirror. "I’m not sure, Jerry.”

  "There isn’t much traffic. I thought you were trained to know.”

  "Sometimes. Don’t get spooked.”

  'This is a spooky town, man.”

  The red-headed man turned his face back to the front of Durell’s rental Volvo. His normally good-humored blue eyes looked worried. He wore khaki trousers and jacket with cargo pockets. He said: "The kind of shooting I’m accustomed to takes a pretty model and a camera; I can’t get used to guns and bullets.”

  Pairs of armed soldiers patrolled the streets; now and then an uncovered truck zoomed by, troops seated stiffly, rifles between their knees.

  The nervous energy of a dictatorship tossing in the night.

  An atmosphere of siege.

  Durell didn’t like it, either. Kenshu seemed a crazy, trigger-happy city tonight, with the wet fog of Lake Lumumba snaking among its green palm-and-cassia-clad hills, writhing around its signs and streetlamp
s.

  Most residents were staying home, to judge by the few pedestrians.

  It didn’t help that he was stuck with Jerry Chase, an amateur recruited to this one assignment because of his trade as a fashion photographer. He was a frightened man, a civilian, unreliable. Everything could come apart in the first crisis. Jerry had put him off three days before arranging this rendezvous with Deirdre Padgett. The two of them, along with Willie Wells of K Section, composed the magazine crew here to do the story with Teresa. It had been decided in Washington that Jerry would be the go-between, meeting Durell in Unity Park to avoid the use of Ausi’s bugged telephones.

  Jerry said: "There are rumors of a coup.”

  "There always are.”

  "You don’t believe them?”

  "Not when they come from barkeeps and cabbies.” He switched his eyes over Jerry. "Are your sources any better?”

  "I was just trying to be helpful.”

  "You can be. Just stick to your assignment.”

  Durell turned onto Malyamu Avenue, namesake of Field Marshal Ausi’s second wife. Mary Square, in front of the post office, was named after his first. So far, no signpost bore Teresa’s name. Many of the shops had steel shutters drawn down over their fronts. In others that didn’t, smashed display windows gaped.

  "What happened here?” Jerry wondered.

  "They were owned by Indians; Ausi kicked them out of the country and confiscated their property.”

  "Mobundu for the Mobundans?”

  "Officially, yes.” Durell’s mouth turned down. "In fact, most of it went to foreigners, the Nubians that Ausi imported. Their only allegiance is to him—he can’t trust his countrymen. When the Indians were expelled, they took over their assets, cash and otherwise.” It made him think of Indrani and wonder what would become of her.

  They were near the palm-studded campus of the university, where modern buildings seemed about to soar on outspread wings of concrete. Durell whipped the Volvo abruptly into a one-way street, headed the wrong way. Fortunately traffic was light, as he threaded between oncoming cars with blaring horns.

  "What are you doing?” Jerry cried.

  "Look back there.” Durell nodded at the rearview mirror.