Safari for Spies

by Nick Carter

  The waiter raised one eyebrow. "I'll find out if it's convenient. What kind of business?"

  Nick's eyes narrowed and his mouth became a thin, hard line.

  "I'll tell him myself. Just get him." The malevolence in his face and the ice in his voice were not wasted. The man turned abruptly and walked to the door in the rear.

  The gin was awful but the brandy was surprisingly smooth. Nick drank them both, swallowing the gin like medicine but lingering over the brandy. He pretended not to see the waiter stopping to exchange confidences with the bouncer, and looked pointedly at the radium dial of his watch. The bouncer — a bruiser in a bulging American suit — nodded and went in to deliver the message himself.

  Nick was reaching into his pocket for the pack of Moroccan cigarettes he'd bought earlier in the day when the inner door opened wide and closed firmly. Nick concentrated on lighting up, forcing himself not to swing his head and stare and wondering how surprised it was politic for him to be.

  The floor shook near him.

  He let himself look up.

  An immensity of female flesh wallowed to a stop beside his table. It was dressed in a vast and shapeless black thing that had to be a dress because it wasn't anything else, and it was one bulging roll of fat after another from the improbable ankles to the melon cheeks. Little piggy eyes peered at him from between the folds of face-fat, and huge earrings descended from the pendulous ear lobes. There were white, grandma ruffles at the sausage neck and lacy frills at the hem of the black sack. The incredibly dainty fingers of both chubby hands were dripping with rings. The small round mouth opened and a sound emerged from hiding.

  "I am the manager," it mooed. "What is your business with me?"

  Nick pushed back his chair but did not rise. He reached into an inner pocket and pulled out a card case.

  "You're the manager? I didn't expect — uh — a woman. My card."

  The moo turned into a bray of laughter. The great body shook and heaved like a mountain in an earthquake.

  "That's not all you didn't expect, is it, meanface? What's this card?" She snatched at it with her bejeweled fingers and went on chuckling hugely. A scene from Coney Island flashed into Nick's mind, of the huge and madly laughing female who used to sit in her vast chair outside one of the amusement tunnels, rocking back and forth and exhorting customers to come in and thrill to the wild fun of the crazy mirrors and the rocketing cars and the things that popped up screaming from the cobwebby darkness. She had been carried off one day, still laughing, by the men in white coats and she had died in an insane asylum.

  "A. Sigismondi!" she read out incredulously. "That's not your name, is it? It's not anybody's name!"

  "Maybe it isn't," Nick admitted. "But I use it. Is there some place we can talk in private?"

  "Novelties and Specialties," she read. "Casablanca."

  "For God's sake," Nick murmured. "Not so loud. I didn't come here to talk to the whole damn room — just you."

  Her small eyes stared into his face. "We'll talk here."

  "I don't like it," Nick said flatly. "Maybe I better talk directly to the owner."

  "You don't have to like it," she said, just as flatly. "And I am the owner. What are these specialties of yours? And why tell me about them?"

  "I heard about your place, in Casablanca," he said softly. "And my contacts tell me that you might be interested in what I have to offer. That is to say, they referred me to the Hop Club, but not to you by name. They are discreet. I hope that you are, too. Now perhaps you will let me talk to you without an audience."

  She peered down at him, her eyes bright and penetrating.

  "The Big One sent you?" she murmured.

  He stared back at her, trying to look treacherous and reproving at the same time. "I know nothing of the Big One," he said, wishing that he did. "My business is my own. Except, of course, for my… associates in other countries."

  "Ah, other countries." She flicked out a chair as though it had been made of matchsticks and scrunched down upon it. Her body and the chair groaned simultaneously. "You have samples of your novelties with you? They must be small enough to be hidden by my body!" She laughed hugely. "If we are going to talk, we must call each other something. I am Madame Sophia. Sophia, like Sophia Loren!" Her body rippled with enjoyment. "But how can I call you Sigismondi? It is impossible!"

  "Call me anything you like," he said shortly. "Let's not waste each other's time. First give my card back, if you please, and then make no move until I have shown you what I have. If you are not interested, say so, and I will leave. But I warn you, Madame Sophia, when I go I do not intend to be interfered with by your hired hands." His expression was concentrated menace.

  She pierced him with her bright, tiny eyes and pushed the card to him across the table. One sleeve slid inches up her fat arm and he saw the pinpricks. At least she wouldn't holler for the cops. "You are hard," she whinnied approvingly. "I like a ruthless man. These others are — pah!" Disdain shivered through her body. "You have strength. Show me what else you have." Her tone and her glance were so suggestive that she seemed to be talking of things other than the samples in his pocket.

  He hid his feeling of revulsion and looked away from her at the two new customers coming in. They belonged in dark, dockside alleys, or at some Mau Mau campfire, mouthing horrible oaths and thrusting their clawed hands into living human entrails; or they belonged to the Hop Club and whatever organization collected degenerate beings and turned them into murderers.

  Nick watched them find a table in the rear before pulling the first of the packets out of his pocket. At the same time he noticed several other men leaving their tables and shambling through the door beyond the skinny piano player.

  He hunched his shoulders and leaned down over the table, shielding the packet from all eyes but hers. His hand bared it but did not let go. It was transparent plastic, filled with a white powder more sought after and carrying a higher price tag than gold dust, even though it had been cut and sliced and powdered by one soulless thief after another. She would never know this until she tried it — and he hadn't brought it here for anyone to use.

  "I have more of that," he murmured. "Much more. Bigger packets, many of them, worth millions if I could reach the American market. But this is more convenient for me — especially if I can unload in quantity. Understand, I do not have to. I know of other markets. And I will go to them if you are not interested."

  "Let me open it," she breathed.

  "Here?" Nick hissed. "You must be mad. You must have an office or a back room we can use."

  Madame Sophia looked from him to the packet.

  "Perhaps we can," she cooed. "Perhaps. You had something else to show me?"

  He slid the packet away from her grasping fingers and reached inside his jacket for the second of the two most vital items he had managed to secure during the day.

  It was tube-shaped, more or less, and smaller than his hand, so that concealing it on its trip across the tabletop was easy. He opened his hand in front of her and her huge breasts drooped down to meet it.

  He heard a tiny gasp coming from the elephantine frame.

  "Where did you get this?" Her fat but dainty fingers pinched at the root and squeezed obscenely.

  Nick shrugged. "What difference does it make, if you have a use for it?"

  Her tiny mouth pursed. "There is not much use for only one."

  Nick clicked his tongue impatiently. "One! I told you these are samples. I have unlimited supplies."

  "That is most unlikely," Madame Sophia said skeptically. "I know the source of these things, and I know that they grow only under very rare conditions. Your supplies cannot possibly be unlimited. You are lying."

  Nick filled his voice with impatience and contempt.

  "You know the source! When it has only been discovered by my people within the last few weeks? Pah! I suppose you are referring to that dried-up vegetable patch in — what's the place's name? — that place in the Nyanga hills."

>   "Duolo," she said thoughtfully. "So. Dried-up vegetable patch. Hmm. Yes, I think we can come to terms. We will go to my rooms in the back." She heaved and grunted her way up from the chair. Nick put the samples into his inside pockets and significantly patted a hidden holster. "No tricks, now," he warned. "I don't give up anything for nothing."

  "Why should you?" she mooed understandingly. "Come."

  It seemed to him that there was no sound in the room but the tinny tinkle of the piano and the creaking of the floor beneath her feet. And it felt as though every eye in the room was boring into him.

  Madame Sophia made a reassuring gesture to the brawny bouncer and waddled majestically through the inner door with Nick trailing in her wake. She led the way down a narrow passage barely large enough to let her through, grazing past several closed doors and one slightly open one. Nick paused behind her to light up one of his Casablanca cigarettes and dart a swift look in through the crack. What he saw and heard in that brief flash of time was worth his entire trip.

  A bland-faced young man in a bright American shirt was talking into a radio transmitter. His face was the typical yellow-beige of China, and his voice was pure Chinese American. It was saying: "…success is ours if the President dies. Our cause goes well…"

  Nick caught up silently with Madame Sophia and followed her into a room at the end of the passage.

  She closed the door behind them.

  "My office," she said.

  It was some office. It was furnished with an immense desk, immense chairs, and an immense bed.

  "Sit, and let us talk."

  Nick chose a straight-backed chair and sat down. For some reason his cigarette tasted foul and there was an unaccountable queasiness at the pit of his stomach. He looked around for an ashtray and stubbed out the cigarette.

  "I want it understood," he said, "that I'm in this business because it's business, and that's all. I can supply as much as you need whenever you need it. There is of course a delivery charge that's added to the sale price." Nausea almost overwhelmed him and dizziness flooded his head.

  "Ah, delivery charge," murmured Madame fatly. "But you look a little pale. A drink, perhaps?"

  A drink! Sweet Jesus, that was it! Never take a chance on a stranger in a place like this — never. A mickey, a quick frisk, then either truce or death.

  "No, thanks," he said. "That gin was poison. You're right, I don't feel good. Think I'll get some fresh air." He staggered to his feet.

  Madame Sophia laid her fat little right hand on his arm and squeezed. "Why don't you just he down until you feel better? Sleep a little. Rest." She tugged at him suggestively, maneuvering him toward the bed. The old elephant had muscle hidden beneath that fat, he thought dazedly. Got to get out of here. Got to get out of here. They'll see through disguise. Find weapons Wilhelmina Hugo Pierre see AXE tattoo take heroin and dump me.

  He took a deep breath and shook her hand off.

  "No," he snarled. "You think I'm crazy? You'll be sorry for this filthy trick."

  "Why, sweetie," she cooed. "I don't know what you mean by trick. Come, now, lie down on the bed." Her strength seemed to be growing while his faded. It was hopeless; he had to go before he blanked out altogether.

  He sank one fist into her great belly. She gave a belching gasp and clutched herself without falling. Christ! She was whale blubber and rhino hide and giant sandbag all rolled into one. One fat hand reached for an alarm button near the desk and the other scrabbled at his throat. The O-shaped mouth and pouter-pigeon chest were gathering for a scream. Nick drew back his failing right arm and slammed the hard side of his hand against that ugly mouth and up at the button nose. This time Madame grunted and staggered back, blood spurting from her nose. It seemed an eternity before she dropped, but drop she did. Nick planted one more vengeful blow in the vast abdomen and stumbled to the «office» door.

  How the hell get out of this place before he dropped in his tracks… His head was swinging like a yo-yo and his legs were turning to spaghetti.

  Wilhelmina came out of her holster as Nick swung open the door and shuffled into the passage. She was noisy, but she was his best bet under these conditions. Wilhelmina was a 9mm stripped-down Luger who had done time in the SS Barracks at Munich before Nick had killed her owner and adopted her. She had become his most trustworthy troubleshooter.

  A wave of sickness came over him, and he moaned. The door to the radio room swung open and the operator stepped out and stared at him. So soon! Nick moaned to himself. One shot here and the whole house is down upon me and I don't even know how to get out of here.

  He leapt at the blurred colors of the plaid shirt and drew back Wilhelmina with all his strength. Wilhelmina struck quietly but with a force as deadly as her bullets, dealing the blow to the throat that crushes the windpipe, and delivering it with lethal power and precision.

  The fellow in the plaid shirt managed one awful noise and dropped. Suddenly all the doors down the passage flew open and it seemed that the floor swayed and the whole length of the narrow hallway was a gauntlet filled with scarecrow creatures with goggling eyes and clutching, clawing hands.

  Something Old, Some New

  Wilhelmina wavered in his faltering grasp. The impossibly big eyes of the human scarecrows swam before Nick's face.

  He gritted his teeth and swore bitterly to himself. Goddamn you Carter pull yourself together and get out get out get out! A hand plucked at his sleeve. He pulled his arm away angrily as if he'd been jostled by a beggar in a crowd, and the feebleness of his own gesture alarmed him so much that a little shiver of awareness ran through him and his eyes pulled briefly into focus. Nick tightened his grip on Wilhelmina and willed his feet to walk in a straight, agonized line down the narrow passage. As he walked he whispered, like a man in his own dream or someone else's nightmare.

  "One move out of any one of you," he crooned maliciously, only dimly conscious of what he was saying, "and I shoot. One sound, one tiny move, one step in any direction…" Wilhelmina's one black eye scanned the hallway, probing back and forth, back and forth."…and you die. Anybody want to die?" He reeled forward and the gaunt figures drew away from him without moving their feet, without moving their hands, just swaying back and watching him with their sick, frightened eyes. "Because whoever gets in my way is going to die." One foot, other foot, one foot, other foot, choke down the sickness and keep it in your stomach, half-close the eyes and keep them in your head, blink away the blackness, pinch your brain to stay awake… The passage forked. One fork led back to the cafe. The other probably led to the rear and a door to the street. But maybe not.

  "You. You." Wilhelmina jabbed at a tattered sleeve. "Which way outa here? Show me. Lead the way."

  A frightened junkie tried to backtrack into his cubicle. Nick snarled and prodded him with the Luger. "Come on! Show me! And not the front. The back." The man shook convulsively, but managed a shambling turn toward the left and into another short passage with a door at the end of it. Nick plodded after him, fighting to keep his mind alert amidst the red haze that swirled around it.

  "Open that door. Tell me if there's anyone outside. Don't lie — I'll blow your head off."

  Trembling fingers fumbled at the knob. The door swung open. Nick's unwilling escort shot him one burning look of hatred and stepped outside.

  "No one," he reported. "People end of block, not here."

  Nick loomed up behind him and pressed Wilhelmina into the gaunt back. He stared dazedly out into the street. Seemed clear, so far as he could see through the thick, painful mist that was almost drowning him. A door opened some feet or yards behind him and through the roaring in his ears he heard a strangled shout, or perhaps it was nothing but a sharp intake of breath. He pushed past the fellow in the doorway with such surprising force that the man stumbled and fell with a sharp, sibilant curse. Nick sucked in the late afternoon air and willed his feet into a run. They were lead, and he was living death, and his senses screamed at him to give up the unequal battle and let the
red darkness swallow him. But the one glowing spark that was his sixth sense told him that he must run and dodge and run again, because danger ran behind him and he could not let himself go down or else… or else… or else what? He felt dimly that the end of the world would come if he gave in, and it would be all his fault. A gust of wind slapped lightly at his face, lending him fleeting strength. His dulled hearing caught the sound of footsteps much too near him and he darted a glance over his shoulder. The footsteps slowed and Nick's half-focused eyes saw the man with the green face and the froggy lids raise an arm, thrust it down between its own shoulder blades and come up with something long that glinted ominously.

  Instinct welled up from some hidden depth and made Nick fire even as he twisted his unwilling body to one side. A long, wicked knife sang past him to clatter uselessly to the sidewalk; the man called Laszlo yelped and clutched his shattered shoulder. Nick fired again and saw Green Face throw himself down into the street and scrabble crabwise into an open doorway. My God! Was that doorway still so close? Nick forced himself upright and stumbled into a run, pumping one more useless shot over his shoulder.

  It seemed to him that there was a thundering of feet from somewhere behind him, somewhere behind Laszlo, somewhere in that crazy house with all the doors and cubicles. He made his tired mind pump sparks of energy into his heavy body, and he ran.

  His mental map shimmered, blurred out, re-formed into the small blocks, side streets, broad avenues and twisting alleys that he'd scouted so painstakingly hours or weeks or years before. He ran like one possessed, forgetting that the clever fugitive won't run but blend into his surroundings, remembering only that he must follow his planned route of escape. His heart was pounding harder than his footsteps, and his stumbling feet were enemies of speed and caution. At last he found the archway and the unpaved lane he sought. A tall man in a flowing blue robe stared at him as he entered, but made no move to stop him.

  Nick staggered through the lane and came out into a narrow back street lined with shacks that were little more than straw-hut dwellings. He crossed it in a loping run that seemed to him no more than a crawl, and when he reached the other side he tripped on the low walk and fell.