"Very much.” Durell shook the old man’s hand; it felt like a dried root.
"Unataka kahawa?” Mkondo knew a smattering of Swahili.
"Asante,” Durell thanked him. "Coffee would be good.”
Mkondo left, still frowning, but that must have been his normal expression.
Durell sat beside the window and slapped a mosquito. Wells had told him something of Mkondo, who was that rarity, a terrorist who had lived to a ripe age. He had seen Mobundu when the Germans still controlled it and had fought the English after they had taken it from the Kaiser’s troops. Over many years he had distinguished himself in a savage underground struggle to wrest freedom from the English. After independence, the kabaka had rewarded him. Thus he had risen, obtained his own stone house and a generous pension, which Ausi’s government still paid. He had everything to lose by supporting those who threatened the status quo, and Durell was forced to consider whether Wells had made the right choice in enlisting him. He hadn’t seemed exactly overjoyed with the situation.
Daylight came rapidly. He made out details of banana trees and moonflowers that grew in a distant corner of the market clearing, down by the river. A big, open-sided shelter under a sheet-metal roof took up the center of the square, and it held much of the shamba harvest, vegetables and bright fruits laid out in artistic patterns or stacked in pyramids. A bewildering variety of wares cluttered countless patchwork stalls that filled the rest of the square. Their sackcloth roofs sheltered potters with water jars and preserving bowls; weavers hanging plaited rugs and stacking baskets; carpenters arranging handmade mbusi chairs that had serrated knives attached to them for scraping out the meat of coconuts. A barber hung his mirror under a mango tree. Vendors roasted fish, ears of corn, roots and nuts over charcoal that glowed in metal suitcases. There were silvery bins of fresh fish from Lake Lumumba, and raw beef, mutton, goat and pork hung in cages surrounded by fly nets.
A stake-bed truck dappled in brown-and-olive camouflage paint swung in among the barnyard animals and thronging people.
Durell sat back, puzzled and apprehensive. Wells had mentioned no military presence. Another truck followed the first, and in it he saw a squad of soldiers dressed in green fatigue uniforms and red berets. Both trucks crossed the square and parked near a plastered stone wall. He hadn’t noticed, but half a dozen large stakes stood in a row there.
The soldiers got down and cleared the people away.
The sky was the color of fish scales; smoke pushed from chimneys, wafting down to mingle with thinning mist that lurked in low places.
Birds chatted and piped.
Durell watched from the shadows as the soldiers escorted five men from the first truck and stationed them before the posts, one at a time.
So this was to be another of Ausi’s executions.
The crowd that gathered was sullen and mute, hating terror—if someone raised the torch of rebellion, there was plenty of reason to hope that it would spread, Durell decided.
A robed priest spoke with each of the condemned. Hoods were slipped over their heads.
The commands came in English: "Ready!” Troops jacked cartridges into the chambers of their rifles; the square was dead quiet.
"Aim!” Durell scented charcoal and roasting nuts and oleander.
"Fire!”
12
The rifles crashed, and Durell saw the five hooded men jerk. They slumped to their knees, leaving a swash of bright blood down the splintered posts, and sagged away, their limp and buckled weight held from the earth by bindings.
The market crowd seemed incapable of movement for a long moment, then milled and murmured darkly as the soldiers went post to post, cutting the dead men loose.
The officer followed, bent over the first crumpled body, placed the muzzle of his pistol above its ear. The gun kicked, and he went to the next, methodically repeating the coup de grace. The corpses then were heaved unceremoniously into a truck to be dumped somewhere in the countryside, if past practices were followed, Durell supposed. Relatives lucky enough to find them could have them.
Old Mkondo brought the coffee, a harsh-smelling brew that Durell decided would take the scale out of boiler pipes. It was hot, nevertheless, and he sipped it avidly on an empty stomach.
Mkondo pointed at the departing trucks. "See?” he asked.
Durell nodded, sipping.
"Every day.” Mkondo showed his fist. "Bad.” He shook his head. "Shame!”
"Maybe your turn will come,” Durell said, but he was not sure that Mkondo understood him.
"Today,” Mkondo said.
"What do you mean, today?”
"Yes.”
"Yes’ what?”
"Today.” Mkondo spread his arms. "Boom!”
Alarm suddenly skewered Durell’s chest. "What are you talking about?”
Mkondo crossed his arms and looked stubborn. Durell said: "You are to do nothing foolish today.” "Fool—?”
"Foolish. Understand?”
"Foolish.” Mkondo frowned. He did not understand. Or did he?
Durell handed him his empty cup, and he started down the ladder, and Durell said: "I’ll call you when they come. Be ready.”
The old man held his gaze. "Yes, Durell. Be lucky.” Mkondo descended out of sight.
Durell remembered there were rumors of a coup, and Mkondo’s words nagged at him. Today. Boom! But surely not here; not by a graybeard like Mkondo. He told himself to relax. One old man wasn’t likely to make a difference; maybe he’d heard of something somewhere else by someone else, though. If that was the case, more power to them—just so long as they didn’t make it harder than ever to spring Teresa. Any more roadblocks, and the Ndolo were sunk for certain.
All he wanted to do for now was impress on Teresa the necessity for her active cooperation with Wells—it wasn’t going to work for her to sit back and wait for things to happen. And he’d have to find a place to hide. He gave the room a quick scan and thought it might do as well as any other.
He chewed his lip and watched the African market. The sun was fully up now, out of the trees, and the sky was a limpid blue. Far away the Ruwenzori, the Mountains of the Moon, made a ragged purple horizon. The downtown district of Kenshu, viewed beyond the market, was all stark whites and black shadows, the colors of a pirate’s flag; the air was warming. Dust began to rise, hazing the market place, where women in kangas lent a flower-garden brightness. Other women wore Moslem black or western dress. Most men wore shorts and short-sleeved shirts, but there was a smattering of business suits and the traditional cowl and robe. Strolling nearby were three warrior herdsmen in loincloths and beads, spears in hand, their hair elaborately coiffured in tribal braids.
The magazine crew arrived about eight-fifteen, as Durell watched from the second-story window. First there was a Land Rover carrying Deirdre, Jerry and Willie; then a Rolls-Royce, painted silver, that delivered Teresa and three competent-looking plainclothes bodyguards or wardens, whichever the case was.
So Jerry had screwed up enough courage to show up. Durell watched him through narrowed eyes and wondered if he’d ever know whether the man had informed on him. At least Jerry knew nothing about today; he was out of it; Durell would never trust him again.
His eyes traveled to Deirdre. She hadn’t slept much, but she looked fresh and scrubbed in slacks and crisp blazer of pin-striped white linen. A floppy tie lent her a carefree air. She was the only one who seemed in high spirits, as she discussed camera angles and props with Jerry, whose eyes flitted about distractedly. A tense and somber Willie brought a bulky camera bag and tripod from the Land Rover. Unlike Jerry, who wore a short-sleeved shirt outside his belt and locally made sandals, Willie was dressed for heavy work in khakis and Bata safari boots, imported from Kenya.
Teresa’s squad of toughies, undoubtedly from the Second Bureau, kept curious onlookers at a respectful distance as she alighted from the Rolls. An awed murmur swept the crowd at the sight of her. She was tall and moved with a stately walk and w
ore layer upon
floating layer of golden-colored silk with flowers embroidered of golden thread, and a king’s ransom in emeralds and diamonds that sparkled about her face, neck and hands.
She was a beauty: Durell did not have to wonder if Ausi’s interest in her was all politics. She had skin the color of sweet milk chocolate and ripe lips on a face that baited with mocking innocence. Durell looked at her as she waited in the market amid the animal dung and swirling jabber and artist’s-palette colors of fruits and vegetables, and he saw strength in the jut of her jaw, the flare of her almond eyes. She certainly was not helpless; not with that beauty and evident intelligence. On the contrary, he decided, considering her further, she could be quite dangerous.
Jerry waved her toward a mound of bananas, beckoned to Wells for his camera bag.
Durell looked through the hole in the floor, down the ladder. "Mkondo?” he called. The old man’s grizzled face and cunning eyes came into view. "She’s here,” Durell said.
"Come.” Mkondo beckoned with a bent forefinger.
Durell climbed down. Mkondo’s eyes were fierce and eager, shining from a face wrinkled as mud. The old man took work gloves and rubber boots from a cupboard in a corner of the dusky room and offered them to Durell. These had been furnished by Wells. They worked hurriedly, slipping the boots and gloves on, then entered the latrine. Each gripped a rusted iron ring in the concrete, and they heaved the pierced square manhole cover aside. Durell’s stomach-rolled. The stench was acute and stifling. He stared into a gloomy stream of slush and slime eight feet below, exchanged looks with Mkondo a last time and lowered himself into the opening. He found servicing rungs on the side, crusted with fecal matter and rust, and went on down to the bottom, where the fetid stream slid around his shins with oily gravity.
He looked one way, then the other. A dim radiance fell from other toilet openings down the way.
The ladder shook as old Mkondo descended. Rubber boots gaped around his skinny legs. He carried a pouch slung from the shiny black flesh of his naked shoulder; he took a flashlight from it and led the way with a quick gesture to follow.
There was no raised walkway. The tunnel was constructed of brick. The bottom was three or four inches deep in fecal solids and other sewage matter, but that was less than Durell might have expected. He supposed seasonal downpours washed it out.
They splashed and slogged along. The fetor made his head reel, but he told himself they couldn’t have far to go. The market was right next to the house.
"What’s in the bag?” he asked.
Mkondo shifted the shoulder strap and gave him a cautious look. He made no answer, perhaps because he had not understood.
Durell said: "The bag?”
Mkondo kept his face turned to the front and kept on wading. "Tools,” he replied, in his own good time.
They hugged the wall as they passed another of the toilet holes. Sweat gleamed dully on Mkondo’s back; Durell’s shirt was rapidly becoming soaked in the humid closeness.
Here and there they encountered branching corridors. Mkondo seemed to know where he was going. He stopped and flagged Durell to the left, holding up two fingers and pointing toward a latrine hole. "Go,” he said.
"You come, too.”
"No. Me bad.” Mkondo shook his head and put both hands over his ears.
He was right: the less he heard the better. "Very well. See you in a few minutes,” Durell said, and sloshed on, the slick, clotted flow splashing about his boots. There was no other sound down here.
He arrived at the second latrine hole, as Mkondo had indicated, and waited uncomfortably. He was beneath a public restroom in the market square.
Five minutes later a brusque male voice sounded above, ordering anyone inside to come outdoors. The order was repeated, then a long pause.
Durell tried not to think where he was, what he stood in, what he breathed. The stench stung his eyes. He loosened his tie, glanced back the other way, looking for Mkondo, then looked harder. The old man was not in sight anywhere in the arched, gloomy tunnel.
Durell’s thin mouth frowned with worry.
There came a sound of a door opening and men’s voices, and he guessed Teresa’s bodyguards were making a visual check. They spoke in English. One of them said: "It’s empty; let her come in.”
Durell waited some more.
He did not hear her enter. All he heard was her voice, low and taut. "Are you there?” she asked.
"Kabakaliya Teresa? Yes, I’m here.” Durell turned his face up. He could not see her.
"I haven’t much time.” She had moved nearer, to judge by the loudness of her voice. She had a British accent.
"You are needed in Kipora, the capital of your Ndolo ancestors, Kabakaliya Teresa.”
"I know.”
"You will go?”
"Where is Albert?”
"General Ogwang is waiting on the border.”
"I won’t go with him, but I’ll go.”
"You have no choice.” Durell had feared this.
"He let that beast take me, sir. I’ve lived in hell, with no hope of redemption, until now. I’ve been hardened in the fires, so get this straight: I do not propose to be used by the United States of America or anyone else.”
Durell kept his voice calm and reasoning. "It’s to help your people. Without you, they are sure to be slaughtered.”
"I won’t be pushed back into the arms of Albert,” she hissed.
"You must work together, that’s all. Your feelings for each other can’t be allowed to stand in the way. Will you try?”
"You sound like a good man. I trust Mr. Wells.” She paused briefly, as if uncertain, then said: "I will try. Day to day, you understand?”
"Fine. There’s only one trouble.” Durell’s neck ached from looking up.
"What is that, sir?”
"We haven’t had much luck finding a way to get you out of the palace.”
"Don’t worry—”
Their voices collided in their urgency.
"If you find, a chance to slip away, go to the cathedral,” he said.
"Can I hide there? Thank God.”
"Archbishop Kavuma will help you.”
"The archbishop is dead.”
The news stunned Durell; his thoughts scattered like fallen marbles. Everything was unraveling.
She called quietly, "Are you there?”
Durell swallowed. "All right, look: there’s a stairway; it’s hidden beneath the bishop’s throne in the cathedral; just push the dais aside. Think you can find it?”
"I am familiar with the cathedral.”
"If you can slip out of the palace—”
"I am to go there?”
"Yes. Wait for me; I’ll get you out of the city.”
"And what if you don’t come?”
Durell was beginning to feel sick in the hot miasma of the sewer. He felt as if he would suffocate. "The stairs lead to a tunnel; the tunnel goes to a boat that is waiting on the river, night and day.” He took a foul breath. "But wait for me; I’ll check the cathedral. I’ll be there.”
"I must go back outside; they will wonder—”
Durell broke in. "How did it happen?”
"The archbishop?”
"You said he is dead. I saw him last night.”
Her voice assumed a veneer of hardness, as if to cover any hint of feminine weakness. "They took him to the barracks this morning. Crushed him under a tank. That is the rumor.”
"We’ll get you out,” Durell said. "You must think how you can help us.”
"I have.” Her voice was testy.
”Let Mr. Wells know. Try harder. Time’s running out.”
The rise and fall of a siren sounded abruptly, not far from where they spoke. It came very close, and Durell heard a confusion of many voices as it wound down to a low growl, then went off.
"What’s happening?” he called.
"Let me look out.”
Seconds passed. Durell waited in the sweltering stench. The
n Teresa said: "It’s President Ausi.”
"What’s he doing here?”
"He’s taken a personal interest, didn’t you know? He likes to be in the middle of things. I must go.”
"Tell your guards to put this restroom off limits to the public, when you get outside, so that it will be available for you and the crew.”
"Very well. They’re calling. Goodbye.”
When Durell felt the building had been secured, he climbed iron rungs, put his shoulders to the square concrete manhole cover and heaved it aside. The room was fairly large and airy, with a thatch roof and windows high on each of its stone walls. With a little effort, he could see out.
There were four vehicles in Ausi’s train: first, a scout car with a .50-caliber machine gun; next, a black Lincoln limousine stuffed with generals and civilian officials; then an open command vehicle with Ausi at the wheel and his chauffeur beside him; and, finally, a French-manufactured Panhard armored car with a pair of 7.62mm machine guns protruding from its squat turret. They had parked right in the market square, as people congregated to watch from a respectful distance.
Ausi swaggered over to Jerry, who was posing Teresa against a pile of melons. It was the first time Durell had seen him in the flesh, and he regarded him with interest. The first thing that struck him was the man’s immense size, close to seven feet tall. He must have weighed ill the neighborhood of three hundred pounds. He wore a simple camouflage-fabric uniform of combat fatigues, black paratroop boots, web belt and pistol. A red beret sat at a rakish angle atop his smallish, bald head. He clearly loved the limelight, and Durell watched with a sort of grim fascination as he strutted and gestured with farcical exaggeration, his small reddish eyes glancing with tyrannical power and the joys of center stage.
Teresa pointedly ignored him, until he went to her and began moving her about to show which poses he thought best. She endured this humiliation with quiet reserve and said nothing, so far as Durell could tell.
The crowd watched and chatted in something of a holiday mood, the executions of this morning evidently forgotten or put aside.
The bell of a train tolled from the railyard. Fog had lifted from Lake Lumumba, and its vast expanse was a sparkling sheet. Above the odor of the latrine, which was mild compared with that of the sewer, he scented a mingling of essences of bruised fruit, citrus peels and roasting nuts. He decided he’d best return to Mkondo’s house and took one last deep breath.
Assignment- Tyrant's Bride Page 7
