Rhodesia

by Nick Carter

  "And some others. I like him. And the rest of those people are nice folks, I think, when they're home and standing at ease."

  She halted the car beside die BMW and thought for a moment. "I don't understand. Did you like — Johnson and Tembo too?"

  "Of course. And Wallo. Even if I hardly saw him, I like a man who sticks at his job."

  Booty sighed and shook her head. Nick thought she was positively beautiful in the fading light Her bright blonde hair was awry, her features betrayed weariness, but her pert chin was up and the graceful line of her jaw was firm. He felt a strong interest in her — why would such a beautiful girl, who could probably have anything in the world she wanted, get involved in international politics? It was more than just discovering a relief from boredom or a way to feel important. When this girl gave herself it was a commitment with a reason.

  "You look tired, Booty," he said gently. "Shall we stop somewhere for a pick-me-up as they say around here?"

  She tilted her head back, pushed forward her legs, and sighed. "I am. I guess all those surprises wore me down. Yes, let's stop someplace."

  "We'll do better than that." He got out and walked around the car. "Move over."

  "What about your car?" she asked as she obeyed.

  "I'll have it picked up and brought in. I guess my expense account can stand it as personal service to special client."

  He rolled the car toward Salisbury at an easy pace. Booty peeked at him, then laid her head against the backrest and studied this man who was becoming more and more of a puzzle, and more and more of an attraction for her. She decided he was handsome, an advance over her first opinion when she had considered him good-looking and empty, like so many she had met. His features had the flexibility of an actor's. She had seen them look hard as granite, yet she decided there had always been a certain kindness in the eyes which never varied.

  There was no doubting his strength and firmness of purpose, but it was tempered with — mercy? That wasn't quite right but it would have to do. He probably was a government agent of some kind, although he could be a private detective hired by — Edman Tours — her father? She recalled how van Prez had failed to press him for his exact alliance. She sighed and let her head sag onto his shoulder and put one hand on his leg, not a sensuous touch, just because it was the natural position in which it fell. He patted her hand and she felt a warmth in her chest and stomach. The gentle gesture aroused her more than an erotic caress. A lot of man. He probably was positively thrilling in bed, although that did not necessarily follow. She was fairly sure he had slept with Ruth, and Ruth looked satisfied and dreamy-eyed the next morning, so maybe...

  She slept.

  Nick found her weight pleasant, she smelled nice and felt nice. He put his arm around her. She purred and relaxed even more against him. He drove automatically and built a few fantasies that involved Booty in various interesting attitudes. When he pulled up at the Meikles Hotel he murmured, "Booty..."

  "Hmpf...?" He enjoyed watching her awaken. "Thanks for letting me sleep." She became fully alert, not half-conscious as so many women did, as if they hated to face the world again.

  At the door of her room he paused until she said, "Oh, c'mon in for a drink. I don't know where the others are now, do you?"

  "No."'

  "Do you want to dress and go down for dinner?"

  "No."

  "I hate to eat alone..."

  "So do I." Normally, he didn't, but he" was surprised to realize that tonight it was true. He did not want to leave her and face the loneliness of his room or a single table in the dining room. "Ill order from room service."

  "Please get ice and a couple of bottles of soda first."

  He called for setups and menus, and then phoned Selfridge's to pick up the Singer and Masters' to bring in the BMW. The girl on the phone at Masters' said, "This is a bit unusual, Mr. Grant. There will be an extra charge."

  "Check it out with Ian Masters," he said. 'I'm a tour escort."

  "Oh — then there may be no extra charge."

  "Thank you." He hung up. They learned quickly in the travel business. He wondered if Gus Boyd received a cash payment from Masters. It wasn't his business and he really didn't care, you just liked to know exactly where everyone stood and how tall.

  They enjoyed two drinks, an excellent dinner with a good bottle of rosé, and pulled the couch around so they could look out over the city lights with coffees and brandies. Booty turned out the lights except for a bedlamp over which she hung a towel. "It's soothing this way," she explained.

  "Intimate," Nick replied.

  "Dangerous."

  "Sensual."

  She laughed. "A few years ago a virtuous girl wouldn't consider getting into a situation like tills. Alone in her bedroom. Door closed."

  "I locked it," Nick said cheerfully. "That's when virtue was its own reward — boredom. Or are you reminding me that you're virtuous?"

  "I... I don't know." She stretched on the lounge, giving him an inspiring view of her long, nylon-clad legs in the gloom. They were lovely in daylight; in the soft mystery of near darkness they became twin patterns of exciting curves. She knew he was looking at them dreamily over his brandy snifter. Let him — she knew they were good In fact she knew they were excellent — she often compared them with the supposedly perfect ones in The York Times Magazine ads on Sundays. The sleek models had become standards of perfection in Texas, although most women in the know kept their Times hidden and pretended they loyally read only the local papers.

  She studied him with a sidelong glance. He gave you the darnedest warm feeling. Comfortable, she decided. He was very comfortable to be with. She remembered their contacts on the plane that first night. Whoo! All man. She had been so sure he was a snoopy nothing that she load misplayed her hand — that was why he had gone with Ruth after that first dinner. She had turned him away, now she had him back, and he was worth having. She saw him as several men in one — friend, adviser, confidant. She slid over father, lover. You knew you could depend on him. Pieter van Prez had found that out. She felt a glow of pride at the impression he had made. The glow spread up to the back of her neck and down to the base of her spine.

  She felt his hand on her breast and suddenly he fingered the right spot and she had to catch her breath to keep from jumping. He was so gentle. Did that mean a terrible lot of practice? No, he was naturally gifted with a delicate touch, he moved like a trained dancer at times. She sighed and put her lips to his. Hmmm. She was falling deliciously through space, but with the ability to fly when she wanted to just by putting out a hand like a wing. She closed her eyes tightly and did a slow loop that jumbled the warmth in her stomach the way the looping machine did at the Santone amusement park. His mouth was so pliable — should you say that a man had wonderfully kissable lips?

  Her blouse was off and her skirt unzipped. She raised her hips to make it easier for him and finished unbuttoning his while shirt. She pulled up his undershirt and found the soft fluff of hair on his chest with her fingers, smoothing it this way and that the way you would groom a dog's tufts. He smelled so entrancingly male. His nipples reacted to her tongue and she giggled inwardly, pleased that she wasn't the only one to be stimulated by the right touch. Once his spine arched and he breathed a pleased, humming sound. She sucked the hardened cones of flesh slowly, capturing them again instantly as they popped from her lips, delighted at the way his shoulders squared with reflexive pleasure at each loss and recapture. Her bra was gone. Let him discover that she was better built than Ruth.

  She felt positively burning — with delight, not pain. No, not burning, vibration. Warm vibration, that was it, as if one of those throbby massage machines was all over her body at once.

  She felt his mouth descend to her breasts, kissing her with narrowing circles of damp warmth. Ooh! a very good man. She felt him ease her garter belt down and unfasten the tabs from one stocking. Then they were rolled down — gone. She extended her long legs, feeling the tension leave her mus
cles to be replaced by a delicious relaxed warmth. Oh yes, she thought — in for a penny in for a pound, is that what they would say in Rhodesia?

  The back of her hand brushed his belt buckle and almost without thought she turned her hand over and unbuckled him. A soft thud — she supposed that was his pants and shorts hitting the floor. She opened her eyes to the half-light. True. Ah — She swallowed and felt deliciously smothered as he kissed her and rubbed her back and rump.

  She blended herself against him and tried to lengthen her breaths, they were so short and gusty it was embarrassing. He would know she was actually panting for him. His fingertips caressed her thighs and she gasped and her self-criticism flew away. Her spine was a column of warm, sweet oil and her mind a pressure boiler of assent. After all, when two people really enjoyed and cared...

  She kissed his body, responding to a forward tug and push of her libido that broke her last cords of conditioned restraint It's perfectly all right, I need it, this is so — good. A perfect contact made her tense. She stiffened for an instant, then relaxed like an opening flower in a slow-motion nature film. Oh-h. The column of warm oil came to a near-boil in her belly, churned and throbbed deliciously around her heart, flowed through her flexing lungs until they felt hotly awash. She swallowed again. Shivery shafts like glowing pellets of neon arced from her loins to her scalp. She imagined her golden hair standing straight out and up, flooded with static electricity. Of course it wasn't, it just felt that way.

  He left her for an instant and turned her. She remained utterly pliant, only the quick rise and fall of her generous breasts and the quick beat of her breath showing she was alive. He's going to take me, she thought, as he should. A girl likes — in the last analysis — to be taken. Oh-h. A gasp and a sigh. A long breath and a murmur, "Oh yes."

  She felt herself receive deliciously, not once, but over and over. Layer after layer of warm depth spread and welcome and fall away and make room for the next advance. She felt as though she were built like an artichoke with delicate leaves inside and every one was possessed and taken. She writhed and worked with him to speed the harvest Her cheek was wet and she supposed some tears were flowing with the shocking delight of it but they didn't matter. She did not realize that her nails dug into his flesh like the flexing claws of an ecstatic cat. He eased his loins forward until their pelvic bones locked as tightly as a closed fist, feeling her reach avidly with her body for his steady lunge.

  "Darling," he murmured, "you're so damn beautiful you scare me. I meant to tell you before..."

  "Tell... me... now," she gasped.

  * * *

  Judas, before he called himself Mike Bor, had found Stash Foster in Bombay, where Foster was a dealer in humanity in die many vicious ways that arise when there are uncounted, unwanted, gross masses of it Engaged by Judas to bring three minor wholesalers of dope aboard Judas' Portuguese motor-sailer, Foster fell right into the middle of one of Judas' small problems. Judas wanted the good-quality cocaine they carried, and he did not care to pay for it, especially since he wanted the two men and the woman out of the way because their operation fitted nicely into his developing organization.

  The three were tied up as soon as the vessel was out of sight of land, plowing through the hot-looking Arabian Sea, bound south for Colombo. In his lavishly furnished cabin Judas said thoughtfully to Heinrich Muller, while Foster listened, "Best thing for them is overboard."

  "Ja," Muller agreed.

  Foster decided they were testing him. He would pass the test, because Bombay was a lousy place for a Pole to make a living even if he was always six jumps ahead of the local banditti. The language problem was just too much, and you were so damn conspicuous. This Judas was building a big operation and he had real money.

  "Want me to dump 'em?" he had asked.

  "If you would be so kind," Judas purred.

  Foster took them up on deck with their hands tied, one by one, the woman first He slit their throats, severed the heads completely from the bodies, and stripped the corpses before dropping the bodies into the greasy-looking sea. He made a weighted bundle of the clothes and dropped it over. When he was done there was only a yard-across puddle of blood on the deck, forming a red, liquid tray for the three heads, eyes-adroop.

  Fastidiously, Foster pitched the heads over, one by one.

  Judas, standing with Muller near the helm, nodded approvingly. "Have that hosed down," he ordered Muller. "Foster — let's have a talk."

  This was the man Judas had ordered to watch Nick, and in so doing had made a mistake, although it might turn into a plus. Foster had the greed of a pig, the morals of a weasel, and the reasoning power of a baboon. A full-grown baboon is a match for most dogs, except a Rhodesian Ridgeback female, but the baboon thinks in odd little circles and has been bested by men who had the time to fashion weapons from available sticks and stones.

  Judas told Foster, "Watch this Andrew Grant Stay out of sight. We're going to take care of him."

  Foster s baboon brain promptly concluded he would gain acclaim by "taking care" of Grant If he had succeeded, he probably would have; Judas considered himself an opportunist. He came very close.

  This was the man who watched Nick leave Meikles in the morning. A small, neatly dressed man with powerful shoulders that hunched over rather like a baboon's. So unobtrusive among the people on the sidewalks that Nick did not notice him.

  Chapter Six

  Nick had awakened before dawn and ordered coffee sent up as soon as room service could manage it He kissed Boots' awake — noting with satisfaction that she matched her mood to his own; love-fun had been great, now on with the business of a new day. Make the parting perfect and your anticipation of the next kiss would ease you by many a rough moment She drank a quick coffee red a long good-bye embrace, and slipped away after he checked the corridor as all clear.

  As Nick was brushing a sports jacket, Gus Boyd arrived, bright and bouncy. He sniffed the air of the room. Nick frowned inwardly, the air-conditioner hadn't carried away all of Booty's perfume. Gus said, "Ah, friendship. Wonderful Varia et mutabilis semper femina."

  Nick had to grin. The lad was observant and his Latin wasn't bad. How would you translate that? Woman is always a switcheroo?

  "I prefer happy clients," Nick said. "How's Janet doing."

  Gus poured himself coffee. "She's a sweet jellyroll. There's lipstick on one of these cups. You leave clues all over."

  "No, there isn't" Nick did not waste a glance at the buffet. "She didn't put any on before she left. All the other girls — er, satisfied with Edman's efforts?"

  "They're absolutely enthusiastic about the place. Not a single damn complaint, which you know is unusual. Last night was a free night so that they could explore restaurants if they wanted to. Every one of them had a date with one of the colonial types and they lapped it up."

  "Ian Masters put his boys up to it?"

  Gus shrugged. "Could be. I encourage it. And if Masters puts a few dinner checks on the account, I never object as long as the tour has gone well."

  "Are we still leaving Salisbury this afternoon?"

  "Yes. We fly to Bulawayo and take the morning train to the game preserve."

  "Can you get along without me?" Nick snapped off the lights and threw open the balcony door. Bright sun and fresh air flooded the room. He gave Gus a cigarette, lit one himself. "I'll join you at Wankie. I want to check into the gold situation more thoroughly. We'll beat the bastards yet. They've got a gravy train going and don't want to let us ride."

  "Sure." Gus shrugged. "It's all routine. Masters has an office in Bulawayo that handles the transfers there." Actually, although he liked Nick, he was pleased to lose him — for long periods or short. He preferred to dispense tips without observation — you could pick up quite a percentage over the long pull without shorting the waiters and porters, and there was a lovely shop in Bulawayo where women usually lost all thrift-control and spent dollars like dimes. They bought Sandawana emeralds, copperwarc, and antelope
and zebra-skin items in such quantity he always had to arrange a separate baggage shipment. He had a commission arrangement with the shop. Last time through his cut had been $240. Not bad for a one-hour stop. "Be careful, Nick. The way Wilson talked this time was a lot different from when I did business with him before. Man, what a scrap you put on!" He shook his head at the recollection. "He's become — dangerous, I think."

  "So you got that impression too, did you?" Nick winced as he probed his sore ribs. That flop from the roof at van Prez's hadn't helped any. "That guy can be black murder. You mean you didn't notice it before? When you bought the thirty-dollar-an-ounce gold?"

  Gus flushed. "I figured — aw hell, I don't know what I figured. This thing has started swinging. I'd just as soon drop it, I think, if you figure we'll get jammed up bad if anything goes wrong. I'm willing to take chances, but I like to watch the odds."

  "Wilson sounded like he meant it when he told us to forget the gold business. But we know he must have found a helluva market since you were here last. First he sells you gold cheap, so he must have had it spilling out of his treasure rooms. Then he doesn't have any at any price. He's found a pipeline, or his associates have. Let's find out what it is, if we can."

  "Do you still believe there are Golden Tusks. Andy?"

  "Nope." It was a rather simple catch question and Nick gave a straight answer. Gus wanted to find out if he was working with a realist. They might have dummied a few up and painted the gold white. Hollow tusks of gold to beat the sanctions and help smuggle the stuff into India or wherever. Even London. But now I think your friend in India is right. There's plenty coming out of Rhodesia in nice four-hundred-ounce bars. Notice he didn't say kilos or gram-weights or jockey leads or any of the slang terms the smugglers use. Nice, big standard bars. Yummie. One feels so wonderful in the bottom of your travel case — after you've cleared customs."