Safari for Spies

by Nick Carter

  "Have you made any arrests in connection with previous events?" asked Nick.

  Jefferson nodded. Their car swooped across an intersection and threw itself toward a traffic circle. The tires screeched angrily but took them safely onto a broad, tree-lined highway leading out of the city. "Yes. Six arrests. One accidental death due to frenzy caused by overuse of hemp. One suicide. Two who produced a dozen witnesses to say they were fifty miles away from the scene of the crime…" Jefferson's lips curled. "And two who were so drug-ridden that they did not appear to know where they were — they were in jail — or what they'd done. And of course the Army has rounded up a number of prisoners in connection with the attacks on white settlements. They will say nothing. Nothing at all."

  "So nobody talks," said Nick. "Not even to pass the buck — or cast the blame."

  "That is correct. Not one of them will speak. But memory talks," Chief Jefferson said obscurely. "We are here."

  The car swerved into a wide driveway and stopped in front of a pleasant, low-slung white building.

  Liz and Chief Jefferson waited in the sunny reception room while Dr. Ngoma took Nick Carter up to the secluded suite on the second floor.

  "For one moment only," he warned emphatically. "I would not have allowed this at all if the President had not insisted. I must urge you to receive his message, talk as little as possible, and leave at once. He is in the gravest danger."

  Nick inclined his head. "I understand. I am only here to listen. Is there anything I can do to help?"

  The young doctor shook his head. "Just be quick; that is all I ask,"

  President Makombe lay like a graven image amongst the white sheets, tubes clutching at his limbs like suckers at a rosebush. A strikingly handsome young man with a troubled face stood at his bedside. Nick looked down at the prone man and his agony. Rage and sympathy surged within him.

  "President Makombe," he said, his voice low but firm. "Carter. My deepest regrets that we should have to meet this way."

  Makombe's eyes fluttered open.

  "Carter… And mine. I had to see you. And I had to tell you this." He coughed painfully, and the young man at his bedside drew in a sharp breath and touched his shoulder gently. "This… ultimatum comes too soon. You must… you must work quickly." He closed his eyes for a moment, then forced them open with a visible effort. Nick stared down at the pained face on the pillow. The dull eyes looked back at him. "Whether I live or die," the voice said, "my country's future is in your hands. And all of Africa could be at stake. You must prove… you must prove…" The voice trailed off, and then began again. "It is up to you to find out who is doing these things. When I am better I will work with you. But now I cannot. My brother Rufus…" the dark head turned and faced the troubled young man. "My brother will help you. He knows all my affairs. He is not much interested in matters of state… but he is… aware…" The agonized eyes looked directly into Nick's. "I had… much more to say. But somehow… I think you know. I found out… today… it is… not so obvious as I thought. Or perhaps too obvious." The head lolled. "Rufus… be of help."

  Julian Makombe's eyes closed.

  Nick heard his own swift intake of breath and stepped back swiftly from the bed. Dr. Ngoma stepped forward and took the President's hand.

  "Go now, both of you," he ordered sharply. "Yes, yes, he's still alive. But get out of here!" He bent over the leader of his country, oblivious to the two men quietly leaving the shadowed room.

  Rufus Makombe plunged out into the sunlight like a man wrenching himself from a nightmare. Nick stood behind him on the hospital porch, half-hearing the call of the wild birds that reminded him of Kenya and half-seeing the brilliance of the extravagant flowers that thrust their way through the vines that lovingly entwined themselves about the huge, gnarled trees.

  Jefferson and Liz walked quietly past them toward the waiting car. Nick turned to Rufus Makombe, searching for the right words to say to a man whose brother was the President of his country and a man whose brother was so close to death by the bullet of an assassin. But he stopped before he started.

  The look that Rufus Makombe turned upon him was one of absolute hatred.

  "He still thinks there can be some other explanation," he said very softly, his handsome face working. "But I do not. What is clear, is clear." His hot eyes bored into Nick's. "As long as he says I must help you, so I will. But I will tell you this: Only the gods themselves can help you if my brother dies."

  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 Cafe 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 fello
w 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.