by Nick Carter
The black face did not change expression. The powerful hands opened, and it dropped from sight. On 125th Street, Nick thought, they'd call him a real cool cat.
He surveyed the roof. It was covered with a light-colored compound similar to smooth, hard stucco, and without obstruction. If it hadn't been tilted slightly toward the rear you could put up a net and use it for a deck tennis court A bad place to defend. He looked up. They could climb any of a dozen trees and shoot down at him, if it came to that.
He drew Hugo and dug at the stucco. Perhaps he could blast a hole with plastique and steal a vehicle — if there was one inside the stalls. Hugo, its steel driven with all his powerful strength, dislodged chips smaller than fingernail parings. It would take him an hour to make a cup for the explosive. He sheathed Hugo.
He heard voices. A man called, "Tembo — who's up there?"
Tembo described him. Booty exclaimed, "Andy Grant!"
The first man's voice, British with a touch of Scots burr, asked who Andy Grant might be. Booty explained and added that he carried a gun.
Tembo's deep tones confirmed it. "He's got it with him. Luger."
Nick sighed. Tembo had been around. He guessed that the Scots burr belonged to the older man he had seen on the patio. It had the ring of authority. Now it said, "Put your guns down, men. You shouldn't have shot, Tembo."
"I didn't try to hit him," Tembo's voice replied.
Nick decided he believed it — but that blast had been damn close.
The voice with the burr sounded louder. "Hello up there — Andy Grant?"
"Yes," Nick replied. They knew it anyway.
"You bear a fine Highland name. You're Scottish?"
"So far back I wouldn't know which end of a kilt to get into."
"Ye should learn, mon. They're more comfortable than shorts." The burr chuckled. "Want to come down?"
"No."
"Well, have a look at us. We won't hurt you."
Nick decided to risk it He doubted they'd murder him casually with Booty looking on. And he wasn't going to win anything from this roof — it was one of the worst positions he'd ever gotten into. The simplest could be the most dangerous. He was glad none of his vicious antagonists had ever gotten him into a bind like it. Judas would have had a few grenades lobbed up and then riddled him with rifle fire from the trees for insurance. He put his head over the side and added a grin to his, "Hello, everybody."
Incongruously, at that instant a PA system flooded the grounds with a drum roll. Everyone froze. Then a good band — it sounded like the Scots Guards Band or the Grenadiers — thundered and piped into the opening bars of "The Garb of Auld Gaul." In the center of the group below him, the old man with weathered skin, standing over six feet of thin length and straight as a plumb line, roared, "Harry! Please go and turn that down a wee bit."
A white man whom Kick had seen in the group on the patio turned and trotted toward the house. The older man looked up at Nick again. "Sorry — we did nae expect conversation wi' tha music. 'Tis a fine tune. You recognize it?"
Nick nodded and named it. The old man smiled. He had a kindly, thoughtful face, and he stood easy. Nick felt uneasy. Until you knew them, this was the most dangerous type in the world. They were loyal and straight — or pure poison. They were the ones who led troops with a riding crop. Marched up and down atop trenches piping "Highland Laddie" until they were shot down and replaced by another. They were in the saddles as Sixteenth Lancers when they came upon forty thousand Sikhs with sixty-seven pieces of artillery at Aliwal. The damn fools charged, of course.
Nick gazed down. History was so helpful; it gave you a line on men and lessened your mistakes. Booty stood twenty feet behind the tall old man. With her were the two other white men he had noticed on the porch and the woman who had been introduced as Martha Ryerson. She had donned her wide-brimmed hat and looked like a pleasant matron at an English garden tea.
The old man said, "Mr. Grant — I'm Pieter van Prez. You know Miss DeLong. Let me present Mrs. Martha Ryerson. And Mr. Tommy Howe at her left and Mr. Fred Maxwell to her right."
Nick nodded to all and said he was delighted. The sun was like a hot iron on the back of his neck where the pirate cap did not reach. He realized how he must look, took it of it with his left hand, gave his forehead a wipe, and put it away.
Van Prez said, "Hot up there. Would ye care to toss your gun down and then join us for something cool?"
"I'd like something cool but I'd rather keep my gun. I'm sure we can talk this out."
"Sur-r-re we can. Miss DeLong says she thinks you're an American FBI agent. If you are, you've no quar-r-rrel with us."
"Of course not I'm just concerned about Miss DeLong's safety. That's why I followed her."
Booty couldn't keep quiet. She said, "How did you know to come here? I watched in my mirror all the way. You weren't behind me."
"Yes, I was," Nick said. "You just didn't look carefully enough. You should have gone by the driveway. Then doubled back. You would have caught me, then."
Booty glared at him. If looks could give you a rash! "The Garb of Auld Gaul," softer now, ended. The band swung into "Road to the Isles." The white man was walking back from the house, slowly. Nick shot a glance under his supporting arm. Something moved at the corner of the roof, at the back.
"Can I come down..."
"Toss down your weapon, laddie." The tones weren't so gentle.
Nick shook his head, pretending to think. Over the martial music something scraped and he was engulfed in a net and swept off the roof. He was groping for Wilhelmina as he landed with a stunning crash at Pieter van Prez's feet.
The older man leaped, got a double-handed grip on Nick's gun hand as Wilhelmina tangled in the net ropes. An instant later Tommy and Fred hit the pile. The Luger was jerked away from him. Another fold of the Bet whipped over him as the white men sprang back and two blacks flipped the net ends across with practiced precision.
Chapter Four
Nick had landed partly on his head. He thought his reflexes were normal but they were slowed for a few seconds, although he realized everything that was going on. He felt like a TV watcher who has sat so long he is stiff and his muscles refuse to flash into action, although his mind continues to absorb the content of the screen.
It was damned humiliating. The two blacks secured the end ropes of the nets and stepped back. They resembled Tembo. He imagined one of them might be the Zanga who had gone to warn Pieter. He saw John J. Johnson walk around the corner of the garage. He had been back there to give them a hand with the net.
The band struck up "Dumbarton's Drums" and Nick scowled. The stirring music had been deliberately played to cover the sound of the moving men and the net. And Pieter van Prez had organized the movement in seconds, with the smooth tactics of an experienced strategist. He gave the impression of a likable, eccentric old chap who played bagpipes for his friends and rued the loss of horses for the cavalry because it ruined foxhunting when on active duty. So much for historical reference — the old boy probably understood random-selection computer analysis.
Nick took a couple of deep breaths. His head had cleared, but he felt no less foolish trussed up like fresh-caught game. He could reach Hugo and cut himself free in an instant, but Tommy Howe held the Luger very professionally and you could bet there was other firepower hidden here and there.
Booty giggled. "If J. Edgar could see you now..."
Nick felt heat travel up his neck. Why hadn't he insisted on that vacation-or retired? He said to Pieter, "I'll take that cool drink now if you'll get me out of this mess."
"I don't suppose ye have another gun," Pieter said, and then showed his diplomatic generalship by not having Nick searched — after letting him know that he had thought of the possibility. "Unfasten him, lads. Please forgive the rough treatment, Mr. Grant. But you are trespassing, you know. These are bad times. One never knows. It does nae seem to me that we have any quarrel, unless the United States is getting ready to put hard pressu
re on us and that makes no sense. Or does it?"
Tembo unwrapped the net. Nick stood up and rubbed his elbow. Truthfully — I don't believe you and I have any differences. Miss DeLong is my concern."
Pieter neither bought it nor rejected it. "Come along up in the cool. You can use a glass on a day like this."
Everyone except Tembo and Zanga sauntered to the patio. Pieter personally prepared a tall one and handed it to Nick. Another subtle gesture of mollification. "Any man named Grant takes Scotch and water. Did ye know ye were followed from the highroad?"
"I thought so once or twice but I saw nothing. How did you know I was coming?"
'The dogs at the small house. You saw them?"
"Yes."
Tembo was inside. He phoned me and then followed you. The dogs track silently. What you may have heard was his command to them to hold back and not alert you. It sounds like an animal's growl but your ear may have distrusted it."
Nick nodded agreement and took a long draught of the Scotch. Ah-h-h. He noticed that van Prez occasionally lost the burr from his speech and talked like a well-educated Englishman. He gestured at the beautifully furnished patio. "A very nice home, Mr. van Prez."
"Thank you. It shows what hard work, thrift, and a substantial inheritance can do. You're wondering about my name being Afrikaans and my actions and accent Scotch. My mother — a Duncan — married a van Prez. He came up with the first treks from South Africa and put together much of this." He waved a hand at the great expanse of land. "Cattle, tobacco, minerals. He had a keen eye."
The others had distributed themselves on the foam-rubber chairs and lounges. The patio would have served a small, mom-and-pop resort hotel. Booty was in an adjacent conversation U with John Johnson, Howe, Maxwell, and Zanga. Mrs. Ryerson brought Nick a tray of snacks — meat and cheese on triangles of bread, nuts, pretzels. Nick took a handful. She sat down with them. "You had a long, hot walk. Mr. Grant. I could have driven you in. Was that your BMW parked near the highway?"
"Yes," Nick said. "The strong gate stopped me. I didn't know it was so far."
Mrs. Ryerson pushed the tray nearer his elbow. "Try the biltong. There..." She gestured at what looked like dried beef curled on the bread with dabs of sauce. "Biltong is just salted meat but it's delicious when prepared properly. That's a bit of pepper sauce on the biltong."
Nick smiled at her and tried one of the canapés while his mind clicked. Biltong-biltong-biltong. For a moment he recalled Hawk's last keen, kindly glance and caution. His elbow pained and he rubbed it. Yeah, kindly Daddy Hawk, pushing Junior out the door of the plane for a parachute jump. It has to be done, son. I'II be there when you hit. Don't worry, the chute is unconditionally guaranteed.
"What do you think of Rhodesia, Mr. Grant?" van Prez asked.
"Fascinating. Exciting."
Martha Ryerson chuckled. Van Prez glanced sharply j at her and she returned his look with amusement. "Have you met many of our citizens?"
"Masters, the tour contractor. Alan Wilson, a businessman."
"Ah, yes, Wilson. One of our most enthusiastic advocates of independence. And sound business conditions."
"He mentioned something about it."
"A brave man, too. In his way. The way the Roman legionnaires were brave. A sort of half-interested patriotism."
"I thought he'd have made a fine Confederate cavalryman," Nick said, following the lead. "You get the philosophy by putting courage, ideals, and greed in a Waring blendor."
"Waring blendor?" van Prez asked.
"A machine that whips them all together," Mrs. Ryerson explained. "It stirs everything into a sort of soup."
Van Prez nodded, imagining the process. "It fits. And they can never be separated again. We have a lot like that."
"But not you," Nick said carefully. "I imagine your point of view is — more reasonable." He glanced at John Johnson.
"Reasonable? Some call it treasonable. For the record let's say I can't make up my mind."
Nick doubted that the mind behind those sharp eyes was ever unmade for very long. "I understand it's a very complicated situation."
Van Prez poured a dash of whiskey into their glasses. "It is that. Whose independence comes first? You had a similar problem with the Indians. Should we solve it your way?"
Nick refused to be drawn into that one. When he was silent Mrs. Ryerson interjected, "Are you just conducting the tour, Mr. Grant? Or do you have other — interests here?"
"I've often thought of going into the gold business. Wilson turned me down when I tried to buy some. I hear the Taylor-Hill-Boreman Mining Company has made new strikes. Maybe they'll be more interested."
"I'd stay away from them if I were you," van Prez said quickly.
"Why?"
"They have markets for everything they produce. And they are a tough crowd, with firm political connections. It's rumored that other things go on behind the gold facade — strange rumors of assassins for hire. If they catch you the way we did, you won't just be netted. You wont survive."
"And where does that leave you as a Rhodesian patriot?"
Van Prez shrugged. "On balance."
"Did you know that people also say they are financing the new Nazis? They contribute to the Odessa fund, support half a dozen dictators — with both guns and gold."
"I've heard. I don't necessarily believe."
"Is it improbable?"
"Why would they sell to Communists and finance Fascists?"
"What better joke? First you dump the Socialists, using their own money to bankroll your blows, and then you finish off the democracies at leisure. When it's over they'll build statues of Hitler in every capital of the world. Three hundred feet high. He made it. Just delayed a little while, that's all."
Van Prez and Mrs. Ryerson looked questioningly at each other. Nick guessed the idea had been around here before. The trills and shrieks of the birds were the only sounds. At last van Prez said, "I must think about that Time for tea." He stood up.
"And then Booty and I can depart?"
"You go and have a wash. Mrs. Ryerson will show you the way. About your going, we'll have to have an indaba here on the stoep about that." He waved a hand that took in all the others.
Nick shrugged and followed Mrs. Ryerson through the sliding glass doors into the house. She led him down a long hall and pointed to a door. "There."
Nick whispered, "Biltong is good. Robert Morris should have shipped more to Valley Forge." The name of the American patriot and Washington's winter quarters were AXE identification words.
Mrs. Ryerson gave the correct answer. "Israel Putnam, the general from Connecticut. You came at a bad time, Grant. Johnson was smuggled in via Tanzania. Tembo and Zanga just came back from Zambia. They have a guerrilla group up in the jungle along the river. They are fighting the Rhodesian army now. and they're doing such a good job the Rhodesians have had to bring in South African troops."
"Booty brought money?"
"Yes. She's just a courier. But van Prez may think you have seen too much to be let go. If the Rhodesian police show you pictures of Tembo and Zanga, you could identify them."
"What do you suggest?"
"I don't know. I've lived here for six years. I'm in-place AXE P21. I can probably free you eventually, if they keep you."
"They won't," Nick promised. "Don't disturb your cover, it's too valuable."
"Thank you. And you are..."
"N3."
Martha Ryerson swallowed, regained her calm. Nick decided she had been a beautiful girl. She was still very attractive. And she evidently knew that N3 meant Killmaster. She whispered, "Good luck," and went away.
The bath was ultramodern and well equipped. Nick washed quickly, sampled the men's lotion and cologne, combed his dark-brown hair. When he returned through the long hall, van Prez and his guests were gathered in a large dining room. A buffet — actually a smorgasbord — was spread on a side table at least twenty-five feet long, covered with snowy linen and set with gleaming silve
rware. Pieter graciously handed the first large plates to Mrs. Ryerson and Booty and invited them to begin the attack.
Nick loaded his plate with meats and salad. Howe was monopolizing Booty, which was all right with Nick until he had eaten a few mouthfuls. A Negro man and woman in white uniforms came from the rear of the house to pour tea. Nick noted the swinging doors and decided the kitchen was beyond a butler's pantry.
When he felt a little less empty Nick said pleasantly to van Prez, "This is an excellent luncheon. It reminds me of England."
"Thank you."
"Did you decide my fate?"
"Don't be so melodramatic. Yes — we must ask you to stay at least until tomorrow. We will telephone your friends and say you had motor trouble."
Nick frowned. For the first time he felt a small measure of hostility toward his host. The old man had put his roots down in a land that suddenly bloomed with problems like a locust plague. He could feel for him. But this is too arbitrary.
"May I ask why we're being detained?" Nick asked.
"Actually only you are being detained. Booty is pleased to accept my hospitality. I don't think you'd go to the authorities. It's none of your affair and you seem a reasonable man, but we cannot take chances. Even when you do leave, I'm going to ask you as a gentleman to forget anything you've seen here."
"I believe you mean — anyone," Nick corrected.
"Yes."
Nick noted the look of cold hate that John Johnson cast in his direction. There had to be a reason they needed the one day's grace. Probably they had a column or tactical group between the van Prez ranch and the jungle valley. He said. "Suppose I promise — as a gentleman — not to talk if you let us return now."
Van Prez's grave glance went to Johnson, Howe, Tembo. Nick read negatives in their faces. "I'm sorry," van Prez answered.
"So am I," Nick murmured.
