"To Prince Tim?"
"Prince Atimboku Mari Mak Mujilikaka, yes. Do not be impertinent to the Lion of Lions. Come."
Durell felt the impatience in the warriors; they were very intense, which was peculiarly gratifying. He nodded and said, "Fine," to the first assassin and then took one step forward, which put them a little behind him, and then he turned quickly, chopping with both hands at the knives that pointed laterally now, for just that instant, at his back. The right-hand blow broke a wrist; his left hit the dark strong fingers holding the second knife. It sent the shining weapon in a twinkling blur across the scruffy corridor carpet. Sally made a quick yelping sound, unbecoming to her royal station. The man with the broken wrist howled and turned aside. Durell hit him low in the back and drove him into the opposite wall with a thump. The second man swung, his great height a handicap now, and Durell ducked under the hammer-like blow and straightened, kneed him, and sent him doubling up. Sally screamed something. Durell scooped up the knife on the floor and came up behind the first man and pricked the point just under the African's ear, drawing blood.
"One move," he said quietly, "And your throat is opened like a pig to be slaughtered. Do you understand?"
The man hissed. "Yes. Ngumi?"
The other Pakuran was on all fours, holding his broken wrist. "I hear."
"This man is Durell, Ngumi. We will kill him later."
Great beads of sweat stood out on the bony face of Ngumi as he held his wrist. "If you will permit us, sir—"
"I permit nothing." Durell looked at Sally's golden face. No one in O Rei Philipe had been disturbed.
Prince Tim had gained weight since his radical college days at Yale, when he went barefooted and played a flute. He had been a lean and handsome youth then, a powerful man when Durell had helped him escape from Pakuru to claim his royal rights. Now he had gone to seed. His face was still handsome, black and aquiline like most Bandas, a startling contrast to his half-sister with her Boer and Chinese blood; but there was a fleshiness to the jawline, a hint of pouches under his ever-angry eyes, a sense of fat around the middle. He had enjoyed the booming prosperity of Pakuru when copper and diamond mines were discovered, making himself virtually a dictator among the restless nations of the Organization of African Unity. The violence in his angry mind had not ended with his assumption of ruthless power.
"You have not changed, Mr. Durell."
"But you have. Tun."
"Ah. My little paunch? I eat well, remembering my hungry days. Is that Salduva with you?"
Sally stood behind Durell, and the two warriors looked bent and broken in the hotel-room doorway. Atimboku had chosen a suite on the third floor and made himself comfortable. He looked in contempt at his two men and ordered the one with a broken wrist to find a doctor. Atimboku wore a white suit of Shantung silk, with a striped shirt open at the collar, leather English boots, an Egyptian scarab ring. He lolled back m a Bombay chair and grinned at Durell.
"Many things have changed, in addition to my waistline. Of course you know that Pakuru, my once-impoverished little country, is now wealthy beyond anyone's dreams. We can now export money, so to speak, to achieve our aims."
"Yes," Durell said, "I know you finance mercenary terrorists against the Portuguese in Mozambique and sabotage against the Ndohuzas, your so-called Neighbors."
"One must implement foreign policy for the benefit of the nation," Atimboku said.
"So you've come here to bid for the Zero Formula?"
"I shall buy it. Nothing can stop me."
"And you'll sell Pakuru back into poverty?"
"The formula will achieve all things for us."
"And horror for the Neighbors?"
"They deserve to be destroyed." Atimboku smiled. "T never really liked you, Durell. I expect you want me to be appreciative for helping me several years ago. I thank you for it. But I never liked you. You never wanted me to rule Pakuru. But now we shall bid against each other, and I shall win in this bidding, rest assured. You will take me to the auction, and Sally will give me all the help I need against you. I understand you Americans; I know your strengths and weaknesses. I was educated among you. You are too romantic, too naive, too susceptible to idealism in a world hostile to you." He clenched his fist on his knee. "You will be mine, Durell."
It was 9:30 when he returned to his own room on the second floor. Captain O'Hara was asleep, snoring on one of the four beds in the huge room. He smelled even worse than before. Agosto was eating a breakfast of eggs, ham, and manioc bread. Willie Wells sat tilted in a chair beside the door, his face hard and angry. The sound of the tepid shower in the big tiled bathroom told Durell where Inocenza was. He pointed to O'Hara's snoring figure.
"Roll him out of bed. We're going to the boat and heading upriver, right now."
Agosto waved his fork and said mildly, "Belmont has not come back yet, Senhor Sam."
"He hasn't called in?"
"He has an itch, senhor, to kill. He is still hunting for Stepanic in this town. He surely has not succeeded. And he has not yet returned."
Willie Wells said grimly, "I think Stepanic got him— just like Stepanic got Andy Weyer in Belem."
Chapter Six
DURELL remembered Belem. It was where Agosto had been recruited to join their team. And where Andy Weyer had died in such an ugly fashion.
The city of Nossa Senhora de Belem, the Lady of Bethlehem, commanded the many mouths of the giant Amazon, and its harbor was clogged with freighters that came ninety miles up the Para River to serve the area. In spite of the traffic jams at the rush hour and the green parks that separated bright, towering skyscrapers, it was a city of sweet scents, with oases of colonial quiet and charm. It was the cultural capital of northern Brazil, grown to well over half a million people since it was first founded by Portuguese adventurers in 1616.
They had been directed to check into the Grao Para Excelsior, after their flight from Tokyo and Peru. They had dinner at the Hotel Vanja, eating pato no tucupi, a duck soup that warmed the stomach long after dinner. Nobody seemed to be following them, although Andy Weyer was a bit jumpy. He did not go with them to dinner. He ate his nuts and raisins, and then picked up a bowl of tacaca, a hot soup served by sidewalk venders who used painted gourds for plates. Afterward, to check surveillance, Durell and Wells walked down the crowded Praca da Republica, with its looming statues in turn-of-the-century style, the parks where youngsters played futeball, and the shills offering Cessna rides to Marajo Island to see the herds of water buffalo. When they returned to the Grao Para Excelsior, there was still no message directing them to the next destination.
Weyer wondered what came next. "I think we're close, Sam. According to the time schedule, there aren't too many days left before this alleged auction."
Belmont said, "First time there hasn't been a directive waiting for us." He had bought some thin Brazilian cigars and he lit one now, the match flaring in the equatorial afternoon sun. The room was air-conditioned and comfortable against the humid heat outside. The sound of traffic down below made a pervasive hum. "I agree with Andy. We're getting near."
Willie Wells said, "Maybe, without a new note, we're being told to jump through a hoop."
"Take it easy, all of you," Durell said. "Andy, our Central here isn't much—a little shop off the Praca da Republica. Sells tourist stuff—Amazon skins, caiman leather, Indian things. The man's name is Velho. Maybe he has a message for us. Go there and see Velho—and check out if you're still being tailed."
Belmont said, "Andy's supposed to stick with you, Sam. I'll do it."
Durell shook his head. "Let's pull some teeth, if Andy has a tiger following him."
The shop was closed. A sign in the window announced it would open again at six. It was only five o'clock. Restive, Weyer clipped sun-lenses over his horn-rimmed glasses and stared into the dusty window, with its jumble of tourist junk and reflections of passersby. The place was near the Tapa Taloca, a restaurant popular with the Belemese, decorated like a t
hatched Indian hut and huddled between tall business buildings. Traffic hooted and tires screeched in the busy rush hour. Not far off was the Bosque, a public garden saved from the original jungle. Weyer felt a prickling sensation on the nape of his neck. He was wearing dungarees, a flapping white shirt, and sandals. Except for his height and coloring, which proclaimed him as a North American, he had done nothing to attract attention.
But a small yellow Toyota had circled the block twice, passing him.
He could not see who was in it.
He rapped on the shop door, but the steel shutters were down, and after waiting another minute, he turned and walked away. Strapped to his right calf was a six-inch knife. Under the flapping white shirt whose tails he wore out over his slacks, he carried a flat .32 Beretta, pressed hard against his stomach. He did not know why he should feel uneasy. He joined the throngs back on the Praca da Republica, and turned toward the Bosque. The chatter of amiable Portuguese surrounded him. The flowering trees filled the hot evening air with a sweet scent. The yellow Toyota rounded the corner once more. The sun glared on its windshield. He did not see it again.
In the gardens, he deliberately took paths through the densest foliage and along the reflecting pools covered with big water lilies. Flat-faced Indian women with obedient children in white and a few businessmen and lovers strolled here. The lovers made Andy Weyer feel suddenly lonely.
In half an hour he emerged and saw the man in the white straw hat waiting for him. He took a taxi to the docks at Ver o Peso and wandered through the market, looking at the fishing boats. It was almost six o'clock. He saw the white Panama twice more. He used evasive tactics, testing gently. The man was good at his job, but he could not know if the tail was aware that he knew of the surveillance. He wondered if it was assumed he was Durell. He considered calling the hotel and stepped into a booth at the entrance of Ver o Peso and then stepped out again.
"Come along," the man said. "We have played enough with each other, eh?"
Weyer poked up his glasses. He was getting sunburned, and his face was sensitive. "Where do you want to go?"
"You will see."
"Do you know me?"
"I know you."
"Are you fuzz?"
"No fuzz. Not exactly. Come."
The weapon the man pressed against the lower lumbar region of Weyer's spine was a persuasive argument. Andy didn't mind. You never learned anything by ducking out, he thought.
The yellow Toyota was parked a short walking distance from the waterfront market. The lights were coming on in Belem's skyscrapers. Dusk gathered in the streets and alleys. The man seemed pleasant enough, except for his gun. But Andy felt capable of beating him. The man was short and stocky, perhaps in his late forties, with a bland olive face, not quite Portuguese. And the accent was of an oddly mixed origin. He had a pleasant, mature expression, with intelligent, careful eyes.
"Have you got me confused with Durell?" he asked.
"Get in the car. Please do nothing foolish."
"Have you a message for us?"
"We will go back to the shop where you were waiting."
"Are you from Central?"
The man ignored him and started the Toyota and drove back toward the center of the city, deftly weaving his way through the traffic. The restaurants were beginning to open, but the major patronage would not come for three hours yet. Andy relaxed, but not too much. He was aware of his gun pressing against his belly, of the knife strapped to his right leg. No sweat. He said, "Have you a name?"
"I will tell it to you soon."
"I could jump out of the car," Andy suggested.
"Then you will not learn what you must learn."
"So you do have a message for Durell? If you do, let's go to the hotel."
"No. The shop. Don't worry about anything, Andy."
"Then why do you use a gun against me?"
Again the pleasant, middle-aged man ignored him. There was an alley behind the shop and an iron-grilled gate to the right. The man parked and took out a key and gave it to Andy. He kept his gun in his lap, a heavy Browning with a silencer on it. "Please unlock the gate for me. We will put the car inside. One cannot find a place for a car here unless one has a private area for it."
Weyer did as he was told. The heavy gate swung inward and the man drove the Toyota through. It was growing dark now. He could have escaped down the alley then and there. But the man spoke softly and Andy felt he could take command whenever he wished. There were flowering shrubs in the tiny garden. The man called to him and Andy came through the gate and closed it and returned the key.
“Thank you, senhor."
They went into the building by the back way.
"You first," the stranger said.
He looked like an amiable shopkeeper. K Section always chose such innocuous types. Andy went ahead into a back room, a kitchen, he thought, although the gloom was too deep to see distinctly. The gun prodded him again. Unnecessary, Andy thought. You're too careful, old buddy.
"Please go up the stairs," the man said. "Be careful, do not stumble. I would rather not put on any lights."
The stranger's footsteps made no sound on the wooden treads behind him. Andy made a note that the man was light and quick on his feet. There was a smell in the air as if a toilet had overflowed. A door opened. A faint light came in from the street lights in front of the small building. He smelled cooking and saw the gleam of metal from a radio transmitter and felt better, since it was standard equipment for a K Section Central.
"Go ahead," the man said, pushing with his gun.
"Put that thing away," Andy said.
"Sim. Yes. In a moment. When I see your papers. One must be careful, eh? A lot of money is involved."
"I don't have any money on me."
"Sim. I know. Go in, please."
He saw the dead man first. The body sprawled across a green metal desk with a gooseneck lamp shining on the bullethole behind the man's left ear. The victim had been bald, plump, wearing a shabby shopkeeper's coat and scuffed, pointed shoes. He looked as if he had been shot while sitting in the swivel chair behind the desk. He hadn't much of a face left, from what Weyer could see, since the bullet had come out the right side of his round head, blowing away teeth, brains, cheekbone, and flesh in a wide spatter over the edge of the desk and on the floor.
Weyer drew a deep breath.
"The shopkeeper?"
"Sim."
"No wonder you were careful."
''Sim."
"Who did it?" Andy asked.
"I did," said the man, and shot Andy in the back.
The shock of the bullet slammed through his right kidney and out through the lower right front quadrant of his stomach. He felt as if he had been struck with a poleaxe. He went down on all fours, knocking his head against a comer of the bloody desk, then plowing the dusty, stained carpet with his face. Dimly, conscious that he was badly wounded, not yet questioning why, Andy tried for the knife strapped to his right calf, but his reflexes were slow, nonexistent, and the man kicked at him, then stamped on his wrist and broke the bones in there and then kicked him again and rolled him over on his back. He felt no pain yet. He knew only numbness. The gooseneck lamp on the desk glared into his eyes. The man who had shot him stood over him, looking enormous, yet still mild, smiling with his gentle mouth, his eyes almost sorrowing.
"It is too bad, senhor."
Andy made vague movements with his left hand, toward the gun in his belt under his white shirt which was white no longer. "Why?" he whispered.
"It is necessary. You were overconfident, eh?"
"Son of—a bitch—"
The man broke his left arm, kneeling down beside him to do it. He worked meticulously, expertly. He knew how to hurt, but Andy was beyond hurt. He felt the gun ripped from his belt, and the zipper of his slacks came undone and the man clucked and took the knife from its sheath on Andy's leg and quickly, expertly, emasculated him. This time he felt the pain and opened his mouth to scream, but
there was blood on his tongue and he knew he had bitten halfway through it. The man then took the knife and jabbed it into Andy's throat and quickly sawed back and forth, jumping back as the blood spurted.
There was nothing more he could do to Andy that Andy Weyer would ever know about.
The middle-aged man stood up with a sigh, carefully avoiding the blood now spattered and puddled around Weyer's ruined body. He pressed his gun into the hand of the man sprawled on the desk, the K Section Control who ran the souvenir shop downstairs. The smell of feces and urine in the room increased sharply. From the desk, the assassin took a few papers and cards, carefully put them in his pocket, then wiped the desk and the doorknob with a cloth taken from one of the desk drawers, and then very meticulously flicked the cloth over his pointed shoes, restoring them to a high, pleasing polish.
He picked up the telephone and dialed the Hotel Grao Para Excelsior and soon got the room he wanted.
His voice was gentle.
"Senhor Durell?"
"Yes."
"Ah. I am sorry to have been a little late. My instructions are to join you—your team, sim? I am the man from Lisboa. But there has been an unfortunate event here in the Central. Your friend, Senhor Weyer, has been killed. It is a dangerous assignment we are on, is it not so? It is very shocking."
Durell's voice crackled harshly. "Andy is dead? Who is this?"
"Why, you asked especially for me to join your team, senhor. My name is Agosto. Agosto Laurentino de Mello. Agosto, senhor. I shall come to you at once."
Chapter Seven
"Anda nao," Agosto said quietly. "Not yet. Shall I go to the police and look for him? I can use my credentials."
"No," Durell said. "Belmont has to take care of himself. Manoel, let's shove off."
"Sim, senhor."
The young pilot turned his bruised face away. Agosto took one of his thin cigars from his natty uniform pocket and watched the docks of Paramaguito. At eleven in the morning, the waterfront was crowded with fishermen, vendors, wandering animals. A small crowd of hopeful passengers looked disconsolate as the Duos Irmaos shuddered, bell ringing, and the big paddlewheels began to churn and open the distance between the vessel and the wharf. The engine gang and deck crew went about their duties with Indian stolidity, asking no questions. Manoel had decided to cooperate, as long as Inocenza was aboard. They had taken on some freight, but the second-class passenger quarters on the main deck was empty of the usual hammocks, crates, wives, children and livestock. They had the ship to themselves.
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