Safari for Spies

by Nick Carter

  The wound, he soon saw, was more blood than serious damage. And Liz was far more woman than sleeping child. He slowed the bleeding with a damp towel and rummaged in the bureau drawer for his flask. Two of his clean shirts were smudged with grease, he noted bitterly, and then reproached himself for even thinking of it while she lay there bleeding.

  He uncapped the flask and poured a shot into the metal cup.

  "Do I smell good Scotch?" she asked interestedly.

  Nick turned. Liz was sitting up on the bed and clutching the towel to her well-rounded bosom. She was pale but in full control of herself.

  "You do," he said, and made his way around the mess to give it to her.

  She sipped and spluttered and the color came back into her face.

  "I'm sorry…" they began at once, and stopped.

  Nick tried again. "I shouldn't have let you come back with me. I did, and I'm sorry. Now pull the top of that dress down and let me have a look — at the wound, of course."

  She reached up obediently and let out a little gasp of pain.

  "I can't do it with one hand. My God, look how it's spreading! You'll have to help me take it off."

  He fumbled cautiously with the small hook at the back. At last it loosened, and the short zipper slid down its appointed course.

  "Can you stand up? I can't seem to get it off this way."

  She nodded and rose shakily.

  The dress got as far as her hips and stuck. Nick maneuvered and tugged.

  "For God's sake, how can you wear these tight things in this hot climate?" he grumbled.

  "It's not tight. You just don't have the knack."

  "Hmmph. I don't have the shape. Wiggle a bit, will you?" Liz wiggled. He tried not to notice how seductively her hips moved. "Now raise your right arm and try to get it out."

  Liz concentrated for a moment.

  "Okay. Now pull down," said Nick, thoroughly engrossed in his task. Liz pulled. Nick tugged.

  "There! That's one," he said triumphantly. "Now sit down and let me get it over your head."

  There was silence but for their breathing and the rustle of cloth.

  "Ah! That does it. Take it easy while I get the left arm out. This may hurt a bit."

  "Yes, Doctor," she said bravely.

  She winced only slightly as her left arm parted from the dress. The other sound was Nick's involuntary sigh of approval at her scantily clad form. Bloodstains and all, she was delectable in her half-slip and not much else. He was amazed at the magnificence of her high, full breasts, at the ripe but firm perfection of her body. Strange that he hadn't fully appreciated it before. Obviously her dress wasn't nearly tight enough.

  She looked up into his eyes and saw him staring down at her alluring softness. Her right hand reached up and gently touched his face.

  "What a way to have to start," she said ambiguously, and smiled. Her hand caressed his cheek. He put his own hand over hers and bent to kiss her lightly on the cheek. But somehow his lips found hers and lingered on them, and one hand stole around her back and stroked it soothingly.

  She drew her lips away from him with a little gasp and he straightened up immediately. There was a compact first aid kit in his luggage and he made use of it. He cleansed and bound the wound with a light, quick touch, forcing his fingers to behave themselves and his eyes to attend to the business at hand. While he worked his mind reconstructed the hectic events of the last few minutes. Intruder entered via bedroom door. Opened window in readiness for rapid escape. Searched in obvious places, including locked desk drawer, found nothing. Luggage undamaged. Intruder anxious to make getaway, willing to kill and run rather than hang about and answer questions. Naturally.

  It didn't prove a thing. The visit may have had nothing to do with whoever might be listening in. Nick wished he knew if the desk drawer had been opened first or last.

  He helped Liz into the seersucker robe he usually forgot to wear himself and went into the bathroom for a rapid wash and change. When he rejoined her he was wearing clean trousers, a fresh shirt with a small grease smudge, and a calculating look. Liz lay back on the bed and watched him, feeling sensual and adventurous.

  "I have to get you out of here," Nick said, "and put in a report on this crazy mess." For Chrissake, if he'd only removed that bugging mechanism before, he could have called Abe Jefferson and had him straighten this out in one swift, easy motion. But it was too obvious a thing to do just now; he'd have to leave it there. How would a genuine diplomat react? Flustered. Indignant. Ineffectual… Fine, I'm doing fine, Nick told himself with bitter self-disgust. Show me a mouse, and I'll faint. He eyed Liz.

  "Is there some woman friend you can call who can bring you a dress? I can't let you out of here looking like that."

  "I have no women friends," Liz said with languid pride.

  "Then what about Tad?"

  The phone rang.

  He scooped it up impatiently.

  A muffled voice said distantly: "Carter?"

  "Yes!" Nick snapped.

  "The meeting is arranged," the voice said sepulchrally.

  "Oh!" said Nick. The light dawned. "I'll be there." There was a click. Nick stood there holding the telephone, and a slow grin spread across his face. There he was, in the midst of an ungodly mess — throwing knife, toast and coffee, an ineffectual cane, an undressed girl with large breasts and a shoulder wound, and the memory of a greasy would-be killer with no pants. What he needed more than anything in the world was an honest cop. And here he stood, a telephone in his hand and an honest police chief at the other end. And he couldn't say a word. It would screw up his whole undercover deal with his friend, the honest cop.

  He looked at Liz and slowly replaced the receiver. A score of pictures tumbled through his mind, of the Africa he had adventured through not so many years before. Of the wild journey through the bush, the trumpeting of the great bull elephants, the chanting of the red-eyed woman witchdoctor, the hideous rituals of the leopard men, the eerie stillness of the dripping forests and the sudden animal screams. Mysterious Africa… with not a single bottle-opener in the bathroom. And now? A wild jumble of conflicting politics and bomb fragments and bugs that didn't wiggle through the beds but listened in on conversations. Intrigue in high places and sinister visitors in search of documents. He shook his head. In some ways this new-old continent was even more mysterious than before. Nick glanced at his watch. After eleven. "The meeting is arranged."

  He'd have to hurry. He reached again for the inquisitive telephone.

  The Cockeyed Optimist

  "Try to get hold of a what for Miss Ashton?" Abe Jefferson's voice was incredulous. It had taken some time before the Police Chief could be reached on the telephone. Apparently he had been thoughtful enough to place his mystery call from somewhere other than his office. During that time Nick had been able to think himself into the person of an enraged, bewildered diplomat and prepare a carefully guarded story that would fit in with an eavesdropper's version of what had happened in Special Emissary Carter's room.

  "A dress," Nick repeated patiently. "I'll explain it all when you get here. But she can't go around in her…"

  "I shop at the Paris Boutique," Liz called out helpfully. "They know my size and everything."

  Nick relayed the information.

  Jefferson chuckled. "I'll ask my wife to take care of this, or I'll never hear the end of it. In the meantime I'll be on my way."

  He was there with his estimable Corporal in a matter of minutes. His face was a kaleidoscope of expressions as he stared around the room. Liz sat on the edge of the bed clutching Nick's bathrobe to her ample bosom and trying to look demure. With her long, dark hair falling loosely about her shoulders and the robe revealing lengths of lovely leg and her eyes sparkling with Scotch and excitement, she looked anything but. The overturned service cart, instead of suggesting a brush with death, only contributed to the general impression of an uninhibited romp.

  "Well!" Jefferson remarked appraisingly. "It must have
been quite a party!"

  "It was nothing of the sort," said Nick severely. "It was a shocking experience. If that fellow isn't picked up…"

  "He already has been," said Jefferson, his lips twitching. "Charged with indecent exposure and being improperly clad in public."

  Liz giggled. "I'll be next."

  The soothing cadence of Corporal Stonewall Temba's voice rippled across the room. "Chief Jefferson, sir. Mr. Carter, sir. Are you aware that there are listening devices implanted in this room?"

  Nick turned and stared at the massive African with the mellifluous voice. Chief Jefferson smiled benignly.

  "No, really?" said Nick at last, acid thinning his voice. "Then I suggest that you find out at once who is responsible for this further outrage…"

  "Remove them, Corporal," Jefferson said crisply.

  Stonewall's huge hands clawed at the wall and something snapped decisively. A loose wire dangled from the ceiling. "Done, six," he boomed melodiously. "Perhaps, also, the telephone." He lifted the instrument between vast thumb and massive forefinger and plucked at something beneath the base. "Excuse me now."

  He wafted swiftly from the room like some storybook genie and closed the door silently behind him.

  "I had hoped," Nick said carefully, fixing Jefferson with a stony stare, "to catch the eavesdropper in the act. But now, my friend, you've blown it."

  "Not necessarily, Mr. Carter." Jefferson picked up the intruder's throwing knife by the tip and viewed it thoughtfully. "You told us about it, you know. And we prepared ourselves. Oh, I realize what you intended." He raised a placating hand. "But you must not forget that I am the Chief of Police, and I must handle these things in my own way." His monkey face was serious, and the sharp eyes held assurance and command. "You have your job, sir, and I have mine. Now suppose you tell me just what happened."

  Nick scanned his face and made a rapid assessment. If this was round two, he'd lost two in a row without throwing a punch. But he liked what he saw in Jefferson's face, and perhaps it was just as well that he could talk in front of these two people without wondering who else was listening in.

  "Right," he said. "Sit down. I called you because I think Miss Ashton may be in danger if she stays here. And as you know I have to leave here in a few minutes. What happened was this…"

  In a few crisp phrases he sketched the details. Abe Jefferson frowned and smiled alternately.

  "What I would like you to do," Nick wrapped up his story, "is square this with the hotel people — I don't want to hang around explaining things to them — and take care of the lady for me. And of course try to sweat something out of the fellow with the bare behind. Who sent him, what for, how his orders — well. As you said, you're the Chief." It was the first time in years that Nick had spoken freely to a policeman, and it made him feel wildly indiscreet and slightly hamstrung at the same time. "By the way, is the meeting still arranged?"

  Jefferson nodded. "Oh, yes. There was no need to interfere with that. You must not worry, Mr. Carter. I shall not get in your way." His lively eyes probed at Nick's face. "I will only intrude myself when I am sure there is police business to be done. Catching wiretappers, protecting undraped ladies, and the like." His face crinkled. "Even in those somewhat specialized areas I shall endeavor to be less a hindrance than a help. The attention you are attracting is of much interest to me. We can be of mutual value."

  "I hope so," Carter said sincerely. "Any word from the hospital?"

  "The President is holding his own," the Chief said quietly. "That is all we know. We have not yet made the news public. There is a danger of Anti-American demonstrations — like the retaliatory bombing of the American Embassy."

  "Is that what you think it was?" Liz spoke up unexpectedly. "I don't think so."

  Nick flashed her an approving look.

  "I'd like to hear more from you later on, when you're decently dressed and we have some time," he told her. "Chief, you'll see that she gets home, will you? I'll have to be on my way. Meet you in the lobby at two?"

  Jefferson nodded. "If not myself, then Stonewall. He and Uru will take you wherever you wish to go."

  "See you later," Liz murmured comfortably. "Perhaps we can have breakfast together some time this afternoon."

  Nick walked swiftly down the broad main street and consulted his mental map. The Croix du Nord was four blocks south and three to the west on a broad thoroughfare in the business district. His cane tapped rhythmically along the smooth sidewalk and across the streets thinly speckled with traffic. The town was oddly silent — he could hear with separate clarity each swish of tires and each honk of a horn and each peddler's call. There was something ominous about it, as if the town had stilled its normal sounds to listen. Or wait. Or watch. He wondered if the news about Makombe had somehow managed to leak out, or if it was just that he was not yet attuned to the natural quietness of an African city. Abimako, after all, was not New York.

  And yet it was big enough to support a stunning array of adolescent skyscrapers and a downtown section of unrivaled department stores and restaurants flanked by markets ablaze with brilliant color and usually frenetically busy. No, the quiet tension was real, almost real enough to touch.

  Nick detoured suddenly from his appointed course and strode swiftly into the newly completed railroad station. The morning's dispatches were burning a hole in his inside pocket and there was no knowing what the rest of the day would bring. He found the men's toilets and made himself at home in one of them. When he had mentally photographed the contents of the papers he tore them into miniscule pieces and flushed them into oblivion. Then he left the station and made his way briskly to the Cafe Croix du Nord.

  It was five minutes to twelve when he sat down at a sidewalk table near the door and ordered a cup of Nyanga's thick, strong coffee and an aperitif. After a few minutes of nervous sipping and watch-glancing he walked into the café and bought himself a pack of Players at an exorbitant price. He peeled it open while his eyes grew accustomed to the comparative gloom and lit one as he glanced casually around.

  He knew even before his eyes told him that one of his visitors had already arrived, because little snakes seemed to be slithering down his back. The man with the unhealthily green face was sitting at a corner table half-hidden in the shadows, studiously not watching him. But his view of Nick's chosen table was perfect.

  Nick walked back into the sunlight and sat down. Five past twelve. He scanned the sidewalk with what he hoped looked like controlled eagerness.

  An unusual number of soldiers and police constables mingled with the brightly robed figures who were passing by. A beggar with shriveled arms stopped at his table with his outstretched hands. Nick shook his head sternly and turned his face away. The man whined and shuffled off.

  At a few seconds before ten past twelve a tall man with hunched shoulders walked slowly past the cafe and turned back. He ignored the one free table and came over to Nick in a curious sideways shamble, and the face that darted about suspiciously was one that would have been conspicuous for its villainy even in an Arab bazaar. The cast in his eye, the cruelly curved thin lips and the dingy, pitted skin all added up to a picture of unbelievable malevolence.

  He sidled closer to Nick.

  "Feelthy pictures?" he hissed.

  "Later, perhaps," Nick muttered. "Got anything else?"

  "A question. You are Carter?" One surprisingly limpid eye stared down at Nick. The other went off on a trip of its own.

  "Uh-huh. You have a message?"

  The newcomer nodded. "From Cousin Abe." He glanced around furtively. "Are we alone?"

  "We are surrounded. Sit down and hiss me a message of great import, stopping only to demand money in the middle of it. But tell me first what I can call you."

  "You can call me Hakim, because that is my name. And you will have to plot the moves for me because I am new at this sort of thing."

  He pulled up a chair and sat down close to Nick, contriving by his manner to suggest some hideous c
onspiracy. The back of his head faced the watcher in the cafe. His unmatched eyes struggled valiantly to peer at Nick.

  "I have been sent by my superiors to bring you news that the enemy would give their balls to hear," he said darkly. "But I am not a ball-collector and therefore I have come to you. You must understand, though, that the information has great value. I cannot speak until I have your promise to pay my price." He leered horribly at Nick.

  Nick frowned and shook his head.

  "I refuse to be intimidated," he said coldly. "You may frighten me to death with that ferocious leer, but your demands will get you nowhere. My Government has instructed me to lose my virtue rather than their money."

  "Then buy me a drink, at least," Hakim said threateningly.

  "I do not buy drinks for informers," Nick answered stuffily.

  Hakim pushed back his chair. "I do not inform unless I drink."

  "All right, all right, stay where you are. Why didn't Abe warn me you're a blackmailer?" Nick signaled a waiter. "Better order for yourself. I'd feel shy, asking them for human blood."

  Hakim ordered a double shot of an ill-reputed local painkiller.

  "I hate the stuff," he confided after the waiter had looked at him with loathing and gone back to the bar. "But I feel it fits the part."

  "What do you actually do for a living?" Nick asked curiously.

  "How nice of you to put it that way. Many people ask me — 'What did you do when you were alive? Unkind, are they not? I teach. In fact, I am a professor at the University of Cairo, God help them."

  "What do you teach? Medieval Eastern Torture?"

  The incredible face split into an even more incredibly attractive grin. "I call my course The Seven Lively Arts."