Safari for Spies

by Nick Carter

  Nick capitulated. "What news about the President?"

  " 'As well as can be expected, the doctors say. I personally do not know what that means. But I would say that somebody has leaked out the story, or at least part of it. I don't know who it could have been. But there is an undercurrent in the city that I do not like. You must be very careful."

  At Nick's request Tad directed Uru to take them to all sites of shootings and explosions in the vicinity of Abimako. They drove along the seashore between the brilliance of the sea and the biting blue of the sky and then inland to the small mission stations on the outskirts of the city and the lovely, lazy suburbs where the Russian residents lived. The lanky, redheaded Tad filled in the background with vivid detail and a wealth of knowledge that warmed Nick to him, and crisply gave him capsule reports of eyewitness accounts and local reactions to the incidents. Nick stopped at damaged homes and shattered warehouses, picking his way thoughtfully among the ruins until he had seen enough to set a pattern in his mind. Then they drove back into the heart of town and stopped at the old fort that served both as the Presidential residence and the Government Offices to meet various officials and see the site where Julian Makombe had been shot.

  Nick's only non-business question of the afternoon related to Miss Elizabeth Ashton.

  "How is she?" Tad looked at him, surprised. "Why, fine. Busy at the office this afternoon. You'll see her later, at the Patricks."

  So Liz hadn't told him what had happened that morning. Nick felt oddly pleased. "Who are the Patricks?"

  "Oh, sorry, I forgot to tell you. They're friends of the Ambassador's. Dinner there tonight with Sendhor and Adebe and Rufus Makombe and several others. The Ambassador and his wife are staying with the Patricks; have been since the Embassy was bombed. Nice people."

  They were nice people, Nick discovered that evening. So nice that they didn't even seem to think he was being undiplomatic when he wandered off into the garden with Liz during the pre-dinner cocktail hour.

  "I'm surprised to see you looking so full of beans and vigor," said Nick approvingly. In the soft afternoon light, with the sun gleaming over her dark hair and her creamy, flawless skin, Liz looked more delectable than ever. Her wide, huge eyes looked directly into his with a frankness he seldom met in his profession. For the first time in years he wondered briefly if his own eyes revealed the counter-plotting and the murder that lay behind them. "How's the shoulder?"

  "A little sensitive, that's all. Abe's doctor looked at it; it's fine. How was your day?" She dismissed the subject of her shoulder carelessly.

  He told her what he thought she should know, and they talked with growing ease beneath the swaying leaves and brilliant wild trees that arched above their heads. As they talked he became increasingly aware of the warmth and vitality of the tall and generously proportioned girl beside him.

  "We'd better get back to the others," she said at last "I really wanted to talk to you alone for a minute to tell you about your invitation."

  "Invitation?"

  "Uh-huh." The small lines crinkled at the corners of her eyes. "We've regretted not putting you up in true ambassadorial splendor. And since this morning… well, I had to mention to Ambassador Thurston that there was some little contretemps in your hotel room, and he was most upset. Oh, I just said that your room was searched, that's all. It's up to you to tell him whatever you think best. But he was very concerned, and after beating about the bush for about fifteen minutes he finally managed to suggest that I ask you to stay with me, since my Aunt Abigail is visiting and can be our chaperone. So, naturally, I agreed. Don't worry, I have lots of room. A darling little house in N'domi — that's a suburb — about five minutes' walk from everything."

  Nick raised his eyebrows at her. "That's a very tempting invitation," he said, turning its advantages over in his mind. "And very kind of you to let yourself get pushed into it. But are you sure Aunt Abigail won't mind?"

  Liz smiled cheerfully. "Quite sure. She left last week — how could she mind?"

  They laughed so much that Tad Fergus came to find out what the joke was. They fobbed him off with an ancient elephant story and went into formal dinner in the Patricks' enormous paneled dining room.

  The Nyangese guests did their best to be cordial but it was clear that they were worried and distracted. Vice-President Adebe left early with his lovely chocolate-colored wife and a harried looking Sendhor. Rufus Makombe, about to leave after ignoring Nick all evening, changed his mind suddenly on hearing a fragment of conversation and made a point to draw Nick into a corner. In his clipped but lyrical language he apologized for his earlier coolness — "Inexcusable bad manners" — and begged indulgence. With the preliminaries over, he said: "So you are going to Dakar? I hope you have found some important lead to take you there. We need it; we desperately need it." His strong young face was taut and a tiny muscle twitched uncontrollably. "You do not realize — but of course you do. Have you found out something?"

  Nick nodded slowly. "Not much. Just enough to make me want to look around outside the borders of this country."

  Rufus nodded with satisfaction. "Ah! I also feel it is something bigger than this little country of Nyanga. If you have no hotel reservations, may I suggest the Hotel Senegal? It is not so lavish as the N'Gor, but it is much more convenient and I am well known there. I can arrange the booking, if you wish."

  "That's very thoughtful of you, but please don't bother. Perhaps if I mention your name…?"

  Rufus nodded vigorously. "Do that, and they will give you the hotel. I wonder if you are by any chance interested in some form of entertainment? Probably not anything too frivolous, but there is a place called the Kilimanjaro where there is magnificent entertainment in the true African style." His words hung questioningly in the air.

  "If there's time, I'd be most interested," Nick answered. "What sort of place is it?"

  "Not a club, not a club," Rufus shook his head emphatically. "I cannot quite describe it to you because there is nothing exactly like it in Europe or America. No liquor is served, only many kinds of wine. Also very strong African beer. No meals, but many interesting little sample dishes of regional specialties. There is a circular stage in the center of the one big room, and there you will see such entertainment as you have never seen. The African High Life, you have heard of that? Yes, there is that. And the drums of the Congo, and the Chopi pianos. Also magnificent singing of the songs of our tribes and our cities. Nothing borrowed from other cultures. All our own!" The crest of his enthusiasm suddenly dropped him and the light went out of his eyes. He ended lamely, "Well, perhaps you will not like it. I only mention it in case you wish to experience something remarkable that you will never find in Washington."

  The party broke up shortly afterwards.

  Liz took Nick home with her in her own battered old car, which she handled with an assurance that pleased him. He noticed that she kept a wary eye on the rearview mirror and the cross streets and was driving faster than was necessary on the quiet residential streets.

  "Is it armored?" he asked sardonically.

  "Huh?" Liz kept her eyes on the road.

  "Your car. The Chief's concerned about bullet-proofing me. Far more concerned than I am."

  "Oh. No, of course it isn't. But he was the one who suggested that his big battlewagon might look a bit conspicuous sitting outside my place. With any luck, no one'll find out you're staying with me. The Ambassador's sworn to secrecy. Of course I told Abe Jefferson."

  "Of course." He eyed her ample good looks with a slight feeling of resentment. She and Abe and the Ambassador were arranging him to death. Maybe one of these days he'd actually be allowed to make some decisions for himself.

  She caught his eye. "Don't feel bad about us pushing you around," she said, with an extraordinary flash of intuition. "It's just that you're an important visitor who mustn't be bothered with trifles. Besides, we want to keep you safe. We like you — had you noticed?"

  And she liked his answering smile.r />
  "I've noticed a good many things that I like very much," he answered, "and you're one of them. And because of that, I'm not so sure it's a good idea for me to stay with you. I could be a danger to you."

  "Guess who thought of that?" she said, maneuvering the wheel and darting the old car up a narrow side street. "We'll have plainclothes-police protection. We'll be able to come and go as we please. But no one else can. Is that all right with you?"

  "Great. And my checkout from the hotel? My baggage? Have you arranged that, too?"

  "Uh-huhm."

  "Abe Jefferson?"

  "Abe Jefferson. He will call — let's see — one hour and fifty minutes from now."

  Liz turned briefly and flashed a grin at him. "You see, we have you all wrapped up."

  Moments later she slid the serviceable car into her garage, murmured a greeting to a dark young man who slid out of the shadows then slid back again, and let Nick into her house. The latch clicked decisively behind them.

  Her house was like her. Soft, sturdy carpeting and big lamps that gave off a comforting and mellow glow. Big, vivid pictures on the walls, modern, but not abstract. Splashes of wild flowers in bright ceramic vases, and huge chairs for sinking into. A vast, embracing sofa and a pile of gaily colored cushions.

  What happened was inevitable.

  The Diplomatic Touch

  They had a glass of wine, and he asked about her shoulder. She told him, showed him, and they kissed.

  The shoulder was no bother at all. Neither were the soft folds of the evening dress that slid, unhindered, down the full length of her desirable form. Her breasts were like small mountains begging to be scaled, and the peaks were rose-shaped lollipops demanding to be tasted.

  There was time; he took it, and she made it fly. It was all so natural and irresistible that he scarcely noticed how it had begun. One moment they were fully dressed and sipping wine and talking about men who carried knives to fling at unsuspecting Second Secretaries, and the next moment they were naked together and hardly talking at all.

  She drew him close to her with one wonderfully supple arm and let the other play gently over his tanned, muscular body. He touched the marvelous full breasts and tasted them, and held her close to him for some time without moving just to feel the soft, firm length of her against him. She matched him perfectly. His hard muscles strained against her pliant strength and soon he was no longer lying quietly beside her but discovering her urgently. There was a perfume about her that was not Paris or New York or London but just Liz — a kind of clean freshness that reminded him of fresh-cut grass and freshwater mountain streams. And there was an exuberance about her that was not wanton but exhilarating. He buried his face in her hair while his arms encircled her body and said things that surprised him.

  "I want to be with you in a haystack," he murmured, "with the hay in your hair and all over you. I want to roll you over in it and make you laugh so you can't breathe, and love you till you lie back gasping. I want to take you on the beach, in the sand and under the water, and dry you myself and make love to you again. And I want you now… right now… I want you now."

  Their mouths melted together and their bodies clung. Her warmth and gentleness enveloped him and he sank himself into the fullness of her body, excited by the wonderful size and shape of her and elated by her response to him.

  By unspoken consent they prolonged each moment and lived it to the fullest, luxuriating in each lingering sensation and repeating it in half a dozen different, delicious ways.

  She laughed once, in the middle of a voluptuous sigh.

  "What is it?" he asked idly, fondling the luscious mound of her left breast and watching it come into flower.

  "Just thinking of my position," she whispered. "Lady diplomat of rank. And yours. Special emissary, awesomely important…"

  "I try to be special," he said modestly. "And as for your position, it is almost perfect."

  What she could do with her magnificent body and all its large-scale wonders was a revelation and delight. She was absolute comfort and contentment, a refuge after a long journey, a refuge that offered its own thrills and surprises.

  He went on thinking in terms of haystacks and beaches and soft grass while they clung together and moved in a perfect rocking rhythm that was tranquility and excitement wrapped up in one. She was like some glorious slightly-larger-than-life statue suddenly and miraculously come to life. No; that was wrong. She had never been a statue, never been cold. Then she was mother earth, embracing him, doing these incredibly delicious things to him. Uh-uh. Liz was nibbling his ear and swiveling against him in a provocative way that suggested the favorite of the harem rather than a mother. And the things she breathed into his ear were not for children. Then she was a mountain that lay beneath a blanket of deceptively soft grass and pretended to be tranquil until the giant came to rouse her… He hadn't known he could be so fanciful. He was getting lightheaded with the wonder of her. Every move of hers was sudden pleasure laced with lingering magic; each touch of trailing fingertip and tightening of firm young muscle was a new excursion into a world of forbidden delights that suddenly were his.

  The mountain was only pretending to be tranquil. It shivered and shook and changed color and turned into a volcano.

  Two beautifully muscled, finely tuned and energetic bodies merged and clashed and merged again. Mountains, statues, beaches, soft grass all be damned. These were two people of more than ordinary proportions and bigger-than-everyday passions, making uninhibited and galvanic love on a giant-size sofa in a house belonging not exactly to a giantess but to a passionate witch with nothing small about her — neither her perfect body nor her capacity for love and laughter nor her enthusiasm for life. They joined together in a crescendo of emotion and physical sensation and stretched the moment of perfection for an incredibly long time. And then the earth moved and the room turned upside down.

  At last they lay back, panting. Liz released a long, tremulous sigh. Nick's own body was trembling with the aftershock. He let the tremors roll away and then pulled her close to him again so that he could feel the heavenly breasts against his chest. They lay together with eyes half-closed, arms around each other, until their breathing became steady and the warm glow of release seemed to fill the room. And then they talked a little, just to get to know each other.

  She sat up suddenly and said: "Abe Jefferson."

  Nick sat up too. "You mean you checked this with him, too?"

  "Silly." She grinned at him. "He'll be here soon. He wants to talk to you."

  "Oh Christ, that's right." He started pulling on his clothes. Liz disappeared into the bathroom and came back in seconds wearing a long hostess gown that made her look dignified and desirable at the same time. Nick was busy with drinks, fixing something tail and cold and refreshing after the love and wine. His tie was slightly crooked and his thick hair, sometimes so slick, flopped down over one eye. His jacket straddled the back of a chair.

  "Does Abe have the password?" he asked, handing her a drink. "We can't let just anybody in here, you know."

  "Oh, yes." She sipped gratefully. "It's something I remember from when I was a little girl, and the boys used to say it: 'Button your lip, pull up your zip… " She stopped suddenly and blushed. "I don't know what there is about you that makes me say things like that. But you'd better put your jacket on."

  Nick slid into his jacket and regarded her with interest. "You must have been a depraved little girl. Under what circumstances did you hear this particular rhyme?"

  "Never mind. Straighten your tie."

  The doorbell gave off three short, sharp bursts of sound. Liz glanced swiftly into a pocket mirror and dabbed powder on her nose. Nick stood there laughing at her.

  "Please," she said. "Your glasses. Your dignity. Your stuffed shirt. What have you done with them?"

  He transformed himself for her, starting by slicking back his hair and ending by assuming a pompous air.

  "Only I don't think Abe Jefferson particular
ly expects it of me," he said as he completed the transformation. "But I'd better keep up appearances — you're absolutely right."

  The doorbell rang again. Liz started toward it.

  "I'll get it," said Nick. "You stay out of line of the door. Get over in the corner. And this time do as I say."

  Liz stepped aside a little shamefacedly. Nick went to the door. "Who is it?" he called.

  "Jefferson." It was Abe, unmistakably. "But be careful how you open the door. Don't make yourself a target."

  Nick clicked the latch and drew the heavy door in toward him, stepping back with it and using it as a shield. He let one eye peer cautiously around the edge to seek the dimly lit figure of Abe Jefferson, standing expectantly on the far side of the door frame.

  "Get him, sergeant," Jefferson said softly. There was a movement in the shrubbery behind him.

  For one incredulous moment Nick thought the Chief of Police had ordered an attack on him. And the second moment almost proved it.

  A sizzling bolt of lightning flashed into the room and lashed at the far wall before rebounding onto an overstuffed chair and then onto the carpeted floor. It lay there smoking and sizzling and giving off little tongues of flame.

  "What the hell!" Liz cried out indignantly, and made a move toward the flaming object.

  "Oh, for the luvva Christ do as I tell you and stay where you damn well are!" Nick roared back, even as he leapt with one arm outstretched to slam the door shut and the other reaching for the burning thing.

  The flames flickered out as he touched it. It was a burnished assegai with a razor-sharp arrowhead of a tip, and it smelled of gasoline. If it had hit anyone, it could have killed. And if it had landed on something instantly flammable, it would have made the most godawful of messes.

  Wheels screamed on the rough pavement outside and someone hammered on the door.