Safari for Spies

by Nick Carter

  Nick fingered her hair thoughtfully. Rufus had an interesting way of being on stage front even when he wasn't in the act.

  "You do not mind?" She glanced at him anxiously.

  "Of course not. How could I mind, as long as I'm with you?" His arm tightened about her shoulders.

  They drove on in silence for some time. The road began to wind again and branch off into unpaved offshoots that led through thickening trees to what he thought must be small farmhouses.

  "Ah! Nearly missed it. I do this every time." She swung the wheel suddenly and the big car skidded into a narrow, bumpy road that Nick decided must be the track to the Baako farmhouse. But it went on for several miles before she pulled up in front of a barred gate and locked the hand brake.

  "Now I have bad news for you," she said apologetically. "We must go the rest of the way on foot. I should have told you before. Anyway, it is not so important if you do not mind walking a little with your evening shoes."

  "My evening shoes be damned," Nick said, and kissed her. "I'll gladly walk wherever you say." Something in him ticked a warning. While there was still time, he kissed her again until his racing pulse almost drowned out the ticking. Then he stopped and looked longingly at the incredibly lovely face. "Let's go then, shall we? Walk in the woods, and meet the people, and then go home together." He smiled at her and touched her cheek. She took his hand and caressed it with her lips.

  "Yes," she said softly. "Let us do that."

  He helped her out of the car and she led him past a wide barred gate to another smaller one that opened easily. A moss and twig-covered path led through the overhanging trees.

  "They have closed the road," she explained, "because the last rains made it almost impassable and they decided to grade it, perhaps pave it when there is time. But in the meantime the only way to the house is this path. I'm afraid it is almost a mile before we reach the house. But it is a pleasant walk, and this is a lovely night."

  "It is indeed," Nick agreed. "But what do they do with their own cars?"

  He felt rather than saw her sudden head movement. "Their own cars?" she repeated. "Oh, they are horsemen, all of them. There are many paths for horses through these trees."

  It sounded reasonable; but his nose was sensitive and he could not smell horse along the path they walked upon. The trees were too low, anyway.

  "Is this one of the bridle paths?" he asked, knowing that it couldn't be.

  "Bridal…? Oh, for the horses, you mean." She took his hand and laughed quietly in the darkness. "Of course not. It is easy to see that you are from the city. No, the horses cannot use this path. This is just for people."

  "…The only way to the house is this path…" Plus innumerable paths for horses. Was it a slip? Or just the usual imprecise way people talked? No doubt what she meant was that this was the only footpath. Which of course was what they would be expected to use.

  Nick decided to be extra careful where he put his feet. As for whatever may be hidden behind the trees, he would have to rely on the darkness and those same trees to keep him from presenting too obvious a target. He jabbed the cane in front of him like a blind man. Even Mirella seemed to be having some difficulty in finding her way.

  "It's even darker than usual tonight," she murmured. "Because it's later, I suppose." And she squeezed his fingers lightly.

  A gnarled tree loomed up squarely in their path. To the left of it was a narrow track and then another tree with sprawling roots; to its right there was a space, a clump of thick bush, then another space. Mirella paused hesitantly.

  "I think it must be the center track," she said thoughtfully. "Not that it makes much difference — they all go in the same general direction. But only one of them is the real path, and we may as well take that. Wait here for a moment." She pressed his hand. "I will take a look on this side — we should be able to see their light from here." She glided away from him in the darkness and he could hear the soft rustle of leaves and the crackle of tiny twigs beneath her feet.

  Then there was silence. He waited.

  After a minute her voice came back to him as clearly as if she had been standing beside him. It sounded puzzled.

  "I see nothing," she called. "I cannot understand it. I know we should be able to see the light by now. Nicholas, you take the other path — the one to the right — while I look a little further up this one. But don't go far, please. And talk to me, so that I don't lose you."

  "All right," he said. "I'll take a look." He heard the rustle of leaves again and shuffled his feet where he stood so that she might think he was moving. "But be careful, now." And you too, Carter, he told himself.

  He heard a little laugh. "Of what? We are bound to find the way before too long."

  "If not," he said cheerfully, starting to follow her and leaving the other tracks severely alone, "we can always give up the whole thing and go back into town. I'm sure we'll find something to do there."

  A little chuckle floated back to him, and then a gasp as her foot struck something and she stumbled. He pushed aside a low-hanging branch and saw a dim shape pitching forward and trying to regain balance by thrusting out its leg and clutching at the nearest tree. The muted rustle of twigs suddenly became a cracking, tearing sound, and even as he leapt forward to grab her falling figure she screamed "No — No — Rufus! Oh, my God! Help!" Nick's fingers had no more than touched the softness of her stockinged ankle when the ankle was gone and he was groping uselessly at the edge of a jagged pit and he heard an awful thudding sound. Mirella started screaming like a soul in hell and then the scream became an awful bubbling sound that suddenly stopped and left nothing but the rustle of leaves and the sound of falling twigs.

  He fell to his knees and groped at the blackness in front of him. He knew without having to think about it that there was nothing he could do and that it was insane for him to stay in this dark, hideous place for one moment longer, but he had to see; he had to know for sure. The pencil flashlight came out of his pocket and jabbed its light into the pit below.

  Mirella lay face downward six feet below, her arms outstretched, her hands still clutching broken twigs, her thick black hair tossed to one side… But it was wrong to say that she was lying down. Her lovely, twisted body hung inches above the floor of the dreadful pit, impaled on two wickedly pointed spikes that protruded from her back. One had thrust its way through her abdomen; the other through her lungs. The pit was lined with spikes; she had needed only two.

  He knew for sure. She was dead, and horribly dead. It had been quick, but she had felt it. God, how she had felt it! He doused the tiny fight and heard her terrified scream echoing in his ears. Its sound was so overwhelming that he almost missed the other sound. He heard the distant rustling only when he saw the will-o'-the-wisp flicker of a light coming through the trees beyond the pit. A deep voice called out — "Mirella? Mirella?"

  Nick thrust the flashlight into his pocket and pulled off his shoes. Right pocket, one; left pocket, the other. He backed silently away from the pit and melted into the cover of a tangled thicket. A second light flicked on and came slowly toward the death hole. It struck him that one animal scream was very much like another, especially from a distance. And all the flickering lights were coming from afar. Perhaps the hunters did not know which victim they had so cruelly caught. Again he waited, his mind thrusting painful questions at him. Had she known where she was leading him, and had she made a terrible mistake — for her? Or had these fiends made use of her, played some awful trick, forcing her to innocently fall into a frightful trap they'd meant for him?

  The flickering lights came closer. He imagined her lovely, living body in his mind and felt its passionate embrace, and a wave of agony washed over him.

  "Goodbye, Mirella," he whispered to the night, and raised his cane.

  The poisonous sliver flew silently through the air toward the nearest of the lights. The light arced downward, and he heard a startled curse. A patch of blackness swayed and fell. Nick fired again. A muffled ga
sp. The second light blinked out.

  For a few moments there was nothing but the darkness and the silence, and then the woods became alive with lights and sounds.

  Nick's instinct screamed to him to run back down the path to the waiting car and get the hell away, but his mind told him to wait. He let the next light dip into the pit before he fired again, and heard an unfamiliar, grating voice cry out: "Oh! God! It is Mirella in the pit! Why do you fools lie there staring…?" The voice broke off, and when it came again it was a whisper packed with maniacal hatred. "The swine. The swine. The swine. Get him! You, you! To the road. He cannot be far away."

  Oh, I'm not far away, Nick thought grimly, and he fired. The grating voice ended in a satisfying scream. Voices babbled, and shushed themselves, and drifted apart in the darkness carrying their small lights with them.

  Nick crouched back in his thicket and followed the moving lights with his poison-dart cane as if he were a customer at a shooting gallery. Ping-pssst! Another light went out.

  A machine gun chattered in the night, raking the trees too goddamn close to where he was. He darted down the path in his stockinged feet and fired once more. No cry, no falling fight. He cursed and aimed again. Pow! A yelp. Good. He moved further down the path and brushed against a broken bough. A yell of triumph, damn their souls! and a shot ripped past his ear. The second tore through the cloth on his shoulder and left a searing pain. He ran for several zigzag yards and threw himself down flat, holding in his mind the memory of where their shots had come from.

  Silence again. No flickering lights. Then footsteps crackling over twigs. He fired in their direction and enjoyed the gargling sound that followed. More rustling footsteps and a whispered consultation. His fingers itched to reach for Wilhelmina, to pump her explosive venom at them and make them feel his hatred, but he made himself sidle quietly down the rough path with his silent killer at the ready. One shot from him, and they would have him. But the stinging darts would not give him away.

  Footsteps followed close behind him. He froze into the shadows and let two dark figures come toward him, jabbing their flashlights into the air for seconds and then dousing them. One, he saw, was holding the machine gun and the other a revolver. Miraculously, the stabbing flashlights missed him. The two men passed within inches and the one nearest to him brushed his sleeve and then stopped several feet away and swung around toward Nick with a whisper to his comrade. The second man turned and they both came back toward him with their weapons raised.

  Nick shot at the machine gunner first and threw himself across the path. The expected scream sliced through the air… but the gun chattered and the forest path threw up little chunks of dirt over Nick's head and shoulders. He fired again, and bullets slammed into the tree behind his ear. The revolver spat. Nick aimed the dart-cane inches to the right of the spitting flame and flung himself sideways in a twisting roll. The revolver spat again even as the machine gunner moaned and dropped, and a bullet ploughed into the fleshy part of Nick's left thigh. He managed to stifle a grunt as his eyes watched the two men fall into a tangled heap and twitch together in a sort of strange love scene and then lie quiet.

  He dragged himself to his feet and listened. Wind in the trees and a nightbird calling, soaring high into the air as if the world had no ceiling and the night was for beauty and love… Nick forced his aching body to walk quietly down the path to the tiny gate next to the big barred one. He was alone with the night and Mirella's expensive car. And he could feel the blood oozing down his shoulder and trickling down his leg.

  The urge to get into that car and drive away like a bat out of hell was almost overpowering.

  But Mirella was dead, and so were two four six eight God knows how many other people, and he had been seen leaving her apartment earlier in the evening, and if he went back in her car without her… But he was bleeding and aching in two places and it was hard enough to think, let alone to walk, and what difference did it make, anyway? He had been with her, Ambassador Nicholas Carter, and people — people like cops and big fat government officials — would talk and accuse and there'd be God knows what kind of international stink… Yeah, but she could have dropped him off before coming out here. Who was to associate him with this mess in the woods if he left the car here and — and what? And got back into town like a well-behaved Ambassador, that's what. But Christ, how? It would take hours to walk, and his leg was murder.

  Nothing to it, Carter. There is no pain. Jesus loves me this I know 'cause my Yoga tells me so.

  He was a mile away from the battle scene before his dazed mind stopped arguing with itself. Ambassador Carter would have to disappear, and his disappearance would look more authentic if he were not seen driving back into town in Mirella's big car. He walked another mile along the fringe of the narrow road before stopping to rest and listen. No sound but a quiet chirping and the faintest rustle of a breeze. No action from the Baako farmhouse, if there had ever really been a farmhouse. Nick pulled out his shirttails, tore off as wide a strip as he could without completely baring his chest, and wadded most of the cloth against his bleeding thigh. The rest he combined with his handkerchief to fashion a crude dressing for his shoulder. When he buttoned his jacket it looked almost as though nothing was amiss, except for the two holes and the two dark stains. In the dark, no one would ever notice. He hoped.

  He breathed deeply before moving on. Fortunately his feet were tough from years of barefoot walking on the shale, the burning sand and pebbles of AXE's practice grounds, and from even more years of putting his training to the test. The only thing that really bothered him was his thigh, and here the cane came in handy. His progress to the main road was rapid and almost painless, although he knew he must be losing far too much blood for a man with a walking tour ahead. Maybe, at some point he could hitch a ride…

  A car swished past him on the highway, heading out of town. He went on walking, hugging the shadow of the trees, relying heavily on the cane but using it carefully so that he would not leave a giveaway trail of puncture marks in the earth. A truck roared by, toward the city. Ten minutes later it was followed by a car. Then nothing for a half hour.

  His leg was beginning to feel the strain. Nick stopped for a few moments to draw breath and give himself a lecture on the non-existence of pain. It had taken Mirella almost an hour to drive from her place to the side road and the barred gate. That meant he had something like forty-five miles to go, or about a day's walk. Flag a passing car? What passing car? Anyway, that would be just as bad as roaring into town in the flashy car. He chewed over the disadvantages of a hijack, presuming anything came along to be hijacked, and discarded the idea. He started walking again. His thigh complained with every step. Three or four cars passed him during the next forty-five minutes. He ignored them all and stayed beneath the trees, walking endlessly as if on some nightmarish treadmill. And then, at last, he heard a sound he hadn't dared hope for — the slow clip-clop of horses' hooves and the creaking of cartwheels. It was coming from behind him, heading in the direction of Dakar.

  He waited until he could see it coming toward him on the road. It was an open cart piled high with produce, and its driver was nodding over the reins. Surely he wouldn't mind giving a stranger a ride into town, especially if he didn't know…

  The cane. Too bad, but it was too closely associated with Ambassador Carter to be allowed to come with him. He carefully unloaded its deadly contents and slid the darts into his wallet. Then, as the cart drew almost abreast, he scraped a groove into the earth, buried the cane and covered it with leaves. The cart had passed him. He threw himself into a loping run alongside the road and had almost made it when he saw the headlights behind him. The shadows covered him again until the big sedan had thundered by, and then he ran along the road behind the cart until he had caught it with his finger tips and could feel it pulling him. Gradually he increased his weight upon it, and when he felt completely in control of its pace and his own muscles, he pulled himself up onto it and lay flat. There had bee
n no jolt, he knew, no sudden increase of weight to alert the driver or his horses.

  Nick burrowed into the piles of bulging sacks and made himself relax. The market opened at four-thirty… this fellow would be late if he didn't get cracking. As if on cue, the fellow yawned mightily and lashed out with the whip. The cart's pace increased comfortably. Nick drowsed a little, then sat up very cautiously and put on his shoes. Might as well be ready to enter the city with his boots on.

  Occasional cars passed them on both sides, but if anyone saw the huddled, sack-covered form on the back of the cart, they couldn't have cared less. It was a common enough way to travel and rest, and the slightly lightening darkness made his evening clothes look like any other set of rags.

  When he saw the wattle-and-daub huts of the suburban villages gliding by on either side, he knew that he was close to journey's end.

  The false dawn was already beginning to mellow the sky when the cart clip-clopped into the city's back streets and wound its way toward one of the market places. Nick stayed with it until he saw the pre-dawn traffic thickening, and slid silently off the back of the slowing cart when it turned a corner into a cobbled street. He walked several blocks toward the city center and then slowed into a late-night stagger. Near one of the smaller hotels he flagged a sleepy taxi driver and directed him, in a drink-sodden voice, to the Hotel Majestic. The lobby was almost deserted and no one paid any attention to him when he rolled in and headed for a call box.

  The Hotel Senegal took its time about answering him and putting him through to Ambassador Carter's room. Hakim finally answered in a sleepy voice. Nick chose his words carefully.

  "Is your mission accomplished?"