Rhodesia

by Nick Carter

  Gus grinned, chasing a fantasy. "Yeah — and a half-dozen of 'em shipped with our tour baggage would feel even better!"

  Nick slapped him on the shoulder and they went down to the lobby. He left Gus at the dining-room passage and went out into the sun-splashed street. Foster picked up his trail.

  Stash Foster had an excellent description of Nick and the picture, but he countermarched once, near Shepherds', so that he could see Nick full-face. He was sure of his man. What he didn't realize was that Nick had an astonishing photographic eye and memory, particularly when concentrating. At Duke, in a controlled test, Nick had once remembered sixty-seven photographs of strangers, and was able to fit them to their names.

  Stash had no way of knowing that, as he passed Nick amid a group of shoppers, Nick caught his direct glance and catalogued him — baboon. Other people were animals, objects, emotions, any related detail to help his memory. Stash received an accurate description.

  Nick heartily enjoyed his brisk walk — Salisbury Street, Garden Avenue, Baker Avenue — he strolled when there were crowds, swung at marching double-time when the walk was empty. His strange pattern irritated Stash Foster, who thought, What a nut! Going nowhere, doing nothing: stupid physical culturist. It would be a pleasure to let the lifeblood out of that big, husky body; to see that straight spine and those wide shoulders fallen, twisted, crumpled. He scowled, his wide lips pulling on the skin of his high cheekbones until he looked more apelike than ever.

  He was wrong about Nick's going nowhere, doing nothing. Every moment the AXEman's mind was absorbing, contemplating, filing, studying. When he finished his long walk there was little about the major area of Salisbury he did not know, and a sociologist would have been delighted to receive his impressions.

  Nick was saddened by his conclusions. He knew the pattern. When you have traveled in most of the countries of the world, your capacity for evaluating groups expands like a wide-angle lens. A narrow view would show hard-working, sincere whites who had wrested a civilization from nature by bravery and hard work. The blacks were lazy. What had they done with it? Weren't they now — thanks to European ingenuity and generosity — better off than ever?

  You could sell this picture easily. It had been bought and framed many times, by the defeated Confederate South in the United States, by Hitler's listeners, by grim-jawed Americans from Boston to Los Angeles, especially many in police departments and sheriffs offices. Outfits like the KKK and Birchers made careers out of recooking it and serving it under new names.

  The skin didn't have to be black. The stories had been woven about red, yellow, brown — and white. The situation is easy to set up, Nick knew, because all men carry the two basic explosives within themselves — fear and guilt. The fear is the easiest to see. You've got your precarious blue- or white-collar job, your bills, your worries, taxes, overwork, and boring or despised future. They are competition, tax-eaters, who crowd the labor offices, mob the schools, roam the streets ready for violence, mug you in the alley. They probably don't know God, like you do, either.

  The guilt is more insidious. Every man has once or a thousand times rolled round in his brain perversion, masturbation, rape, murder, theft, incest, corruption, brutality, knavery", debauchery, and having a third martini, cheating his income tax report a little, or telling the cop he was only doing fifty-five when it was over seventy.

  You know you don't-won't-can't do these things. You're good. But they! My God! (They really don't love Him either.) They do all of them all the time and — well, anyway, some of them every chance they get.

  Nick paused on a corner, watching the people. A pair of girls, lovely in flouncy cottons and sun hats, smiled at him. He smiled back, and kept it turned on for a homely girl who came along behind them. She beamed and blushed. He took a cab to the office of Rhodesian Railways.

  Stash Foster followed him, guiding his driver by watching Nick's cab. "I'm just seeing the town. Please turn right... now up that way."

  Strangely enough, a third cab was in the weird procession, its passenger using no subterfuge on his driver. He told him, "Follow number 268 there and don't lose him." He was following Nick.

  Because the journey was short, and Stash's cab moved erratically, not steadily on Nick's tail, the man in the third cab didn't notice it. At the railroad office Stash let his cab go on by. The third man got out, paid off his driver, and followed Nick right into the building. He caught up with Nick as the AXEman strode through a long, cool, covered passageway. "Mr. Grant?"

  Nick turned and recognized the law. He sometimes thought that professional criminals were right when they claimed they could "smell a plainclothesman." There was an aura, a subtle emanation. This one was tall, slim, an athlete. A serious type about forty.

  "That's right," Nick answered.

  He was shown a leather case with an ID card and a badge. "George Barnes. Rhodesian Security Forces."

  Nick grinned. "Whatever it was, I didn't do it."

  The quip fell flat as a beer from last night's party left open by mistake. Barnes said, "Leftenant Sandeman asked me to speak with you. He gave me your description and I saw you on Garden Avenue."

  Nick wondered how long Barnes had followed him. "That was nice of Sandeman. Did he think I'd get lost?"

  Barnes still did not smile, his clean-cut face stayed grave. He had the accent of north-country England, but spoke his words round and rolling-clear. "You remember seeing Leftenant Sandeman and his party?"

  "Yes, indeed. He was helpful when I had a flat."

  "Oh?" Evidently Sandeman had not had time to fill in all details. "Well — evidently after he aided you he ran into trouble. His patrol was in the bush about ten miles beyond van Prez's farm when they came under fire. Four of his men were killed."

  Nick dropped his half-smile. "I'm sorry. News like that is never pleasant."

  "Would you please tell me exactly whom you saw at van Prez's?"

  Nick rubbed his broad chin. "Let's see — there was Pieter van Prez himself. A well-weathered old-timer who looks like one of our western ranchers. A real one, who worked at it. About sixty, I guess. He wore..."

  "We know van Prez," Barnes prodded. "Who else?"

  "Well, there were a couple of white men around there and a white woman and I guess about four or five black men. Although I might have seen the same black men coming and going because they sort of look alike — you know."

  Nick, gazing reflectively at a point above Barnes's head, saw suspicion cross the man's face, linger, then fade to resignation.

  "You don't remember any names?"

  "No. It wasn't that formal a call."

  Nick waited for him to bring up Booty. He didn't. Perhaps Sandeman had forgotten her name, dismissed her as unimportant, or Barnes was holding back for his own reasons or to question her separately.

  Barnes switched his approach. "How do you like Rhodesia?"

  "Fascinating. Except I'm surprised at the ambushing of that patrol. Bandits?"

  "No, politics, as I imagine you know very well. But thank you for sparing my feelings. How did you know it was an ambush?"

  "I didn't. It's pretty obvious, or perhaps I connected up your mentioning in the bush."

  They came to a rank of telephones. Nick said, "Will you excuse me? I want to make a call."

  "Certainly. Who do you want to see in these buildings?"

  "Roger Tillbourne."

  "Roggie? I know him well. Make your call and I'll show you his office."

  Nick called Meikles and had Booty paged. If the Rhodesian police could bug the call this fast they were ahead of AXE, which he doubted. When she answered he told her briefly about George Barnes's questions and explained that he had only admitted meeting van Prez. Booty thanked him, adding, "I'll see you in Victoria Falls, darling."

  "I hope so, sweet. Have a good time and play it cool."

  If Barnes was suspicious of the call, he did not let it show. They found Roger Tillbourne, an operating director of Rhodesian Railways, in a hi
gh-ceilinged office that looked like a movie set for a picture about Jay Gould. There was a lot of beautiful oiled wood, the smell of wax, heavy furniture, and three magnificent models of locomotives, each on its own table about a yard long.

  Barnes introduced Nick to Tillbourne, a short, thin, quick-moving man in a black suit who looked as if he turned in a terrific day's work.

  "I got your name from the Railway Age library in New York," Nick said. "I intend to write an article to go with the pictures I'll take of your railways. Especially your Beyer-Garratt engines."

  Nick did not miss the look that passed between Barnes and Tillbourne. It seemed to say, Maybe, or maybe not — every unwanted rascal seems to think he can cover up anything by posing as a journalist.

  "I'm flattered," Tillbourne said, but he didn't sound it "What can I do for you?"

  "Oh, I don't want you to do anything, just tell me where I can photograph one of the German-built Union class 2–2–2 plus 2–6–2 with the swinging front water tank. We've nothing like them in the States, you know, and I don't suppose you'll go on using them for long."

  A pleased, slightly glassy look spread over Tillbourne's earnest features. "Yes. A most interesting engine." He opened a drawer in his giant desk, produced a photo. "Here is a picture we took. Almost a builder's photo. No life to it but excellent detail."

  Nick studied it and nodded admiringly. "Beautiful brute. This is a wonderful shot..."

  "You may have it. We made several prints. If you use it, credit Rhodesian Railways. Did you notice the model on that first table?"

  "Yes." Nick turned and looked at the gleaming little locomotive and put love in his glance. "Another Garratt. The GM class with four cylinders. The most powerful engine in the world to operate on sixty-pound rail."

  "Right! What would you say if I told you we still have one in service?"

  "No!"

  "Yes!"

  Tillbourne beamed. Nick looked astonished and delighted. He tried desperately to remember how many of the unique locomotives there were listed. He could not.

  George Barnes sighed and handed Nick a card. "I see you two will get along. Mr. Grant — if you remember anything about your trip to van Prez that might help Leftenant Sandeman or me, will you give me a ring?"

  "I certainly will." You know I won't remember anything, Nick thought, you're hoping I'll stumble into something and have to call you, and you'll work on it from there. "Pleased to have met you."

  Tillbourne didn't even notice his departure. He was saying, "You'll get your best opportunities for pictures, of course, around Bulawayo. Did you see David Morgan's pictures in Trains?"

  "Yes. Excellent"

  "How are your unit trains doing in the United States? I've been wondering..."

  Nick actually enjoyed the half-hour of railroad talk, thankful for his minute research into Rhodesian Railways and his unusual memory. Tillbourne, a genuine buff in love with his field, showed him pictures, related incidents about the country's transport history that would have been priceless to an authentic journalist, and had tea sent in.

  When the conversation got onto air and truck competition, Nick made his move. "The unit trains and new types of big, specialized freight cars are saving us the in United States," he said. "Although thousands of small freight sidings are abandoned. I suppose you have the same problem, as they do in England."

  "Ah, yes." Tillbourne went to a giant map on the wall. "See the blue marks? Unused sidings."

  Nick joined him, shaking his head. "Reminds me of our western roads. Fortunately, the few new sidings that go in are for new business. A giant factory or a new mine that provides big tonnage. I suppose with the sanctions you're not getting big plants built now. A lot of construction is postponed."

  Tillbourne sighed. "You're so right. But there will come a day..."

  Nick nodded confidentially. "Of course the world knows about your interline traffic. From the Portuguese and South African connections to Zambia and so on. But if the Chinese build that road they threaten to..."

  They may. They have teams working on the surveys."

  Nick pointed to a red mark on the rail line near the border on the route to Lourenco Marques. "I'll bet that's a new yard for the cross-country oil and stuff. Do you have enough power for it?"

  Tillbourne looked pleased. "You're right. We are using all the power we have, that's why the Beyer-Garratts are still running. We just don't have enough diesels yet."

  "I hope you never get enough. Although I suppose as an operating official you like their efficiency..."

  "I'm not so sure." Tillbourne sighed. "But one can't stop progress. The diesels are easier on the rails, but the Garratts are thrifty. We have more diesels on order."

  "I won't ask you from what country."

  "Please don't. I mustn't tell you."

  Nick put his finger on another red mark. "Here's another new one, near Shamva, Decent tonnage? Nickel, I suppose?"

  "Right Several carloads a week now but it will increase."

  Nick followed the tracks on the map, apparently with casual curiosity. "Here's another. Looks substantial."

  "Ah, yes. The Taylor-Hill-Boreman yard. They're giving us several cars a day. Marvelous pegging they made, I understand. I hope it holds up."

  "That's wonderful. Several carloads a day?"

  "Oh yes. A syndicate hit it. Foreign connections and all that, rather hush-hush in these times but how hush-hush can you be when we marshal cars out of there ever}' afternoon? I wanted to give them a small shifter, but we don't have any to spare so they've ordered their own."

  "From the same country where you've ordered the diesels, I suppose." Nick laughed and held up a hand. "Don't tell me where!"

  His host joined in the chuckle. "I won't."

  "Do you suppose I should take some pictures of their new yards? Or would that be — uh, undiplomatic. It's not worth getting into a fuss about."

  "I wouldn't. There are so many other good scenes. They're extremely secretive chaps. I mean they operate in isolation and all that. Road guards. They even resent our train crews going in, but there's nothing they can do about it until they get their own shifter. There's been a bit of talk about their abusing the native help. Rumor, I imagine, no sensible operator mistreats his workers. Can't get production that way, and the labor board would have something to say about it."

  Nick departed with warm handshakes and good feeling. He decided to send Roger Tillbourne a copy of Alexander's Iron Horses: American Locomotives. The official deserved it. Several carloads a day out of Taylor-Hill-Boreman!

  In the rotunda of the extensive complex of buildings Nick paused to look at a photograph of Cecil Rhodes alongside an early Rhodesian train. His always alert eyes saw a man come along the passage he had just left and slow his pace when he saw Nick ... or for some other reason. He was eighty feet away. He looked vaguely familiar. Nick filed the fact. He decided not to go directly out into the street, but to stroll through a long arcade, spotless and cool and dim, the sun corning through the oval arches like ranks of narrow yellow spears.

  In spite of Tillbourne's enthusiasm, you could see that Rhodesian Railways were in the same situation as those in the rest of the world. Fewer passengers, bigger and longer freights, handled with fewer personnel and requiring fewer facilities. Half the offices in the arcade were closed, some of the dark doors still wearing their nostalgic signs: Salisbury Baggage Director. Sleeping Car Supplies. Assistant Ticket Master.

  Behind Nick, Stash Foster reached the rotunda and peeked past a pillar at the AXEman's retreating back. When Nick turned right, down another passage that led to the tracks and marshaling yards, Stash moved rapidly on his rubber-soled shoes and stopped just around a corner to watch Nick step out into a hard-surfaced courtyard. Stash was thirty feet from that broad back. He selected the precise spot, just under the shoulder and to the left of the spine, where his knife should go in — hard, deep, held horizontal so it could choose its slice between ribs.

  Nick felt s
trangely uneasy. It was unlikely that his keen ears had caught the suspicious slither of Stash's almost silent feet, or that the man s odor, left in the rotunda when he had entered the building behind Nick, had aroused some primitive cautionary gland in Nick's nostrils and warned it to alert his brain. It was a fact, however, which Stash resented and Nick did not know, that no horse or dog would approach Stash Foster or stand near him without rebelling, sounding, and wanting either to attack or flee.

  The courtyard had once been a busy spot, where engines and cars paused to get orders or for their crews to confer with officials or pick up supplies. Now it was neat and deserted. A diesel droned by, hauling a long drag of vans. Nick lifted a hand to the engine crew and watched them out of sight. The cars rumbled and clattered.

  Stash closed his fingers on the knife he carried slung from a sheath attached to his belt He could reach it by sucking in his breath, as he did now. It hung low, the leather hanger bending when he sat down. He liked to talk with people, thinking smugly, "If you only knew! I have a knife in my lap. It could be in your gut in a second."

  Stash's blade was double-edged, a stocky stiletto, a short version of Nick's own Hugo. Its five-inch blade was not of Hugo's superb quality, but Stash kept razor edges on both sides. He enjoyed stroking it with the small whetstone he carried in his watch pocket. Stab it in right — lever it from side to side — withdraw! And you could stick it in again before your victim recovered from shock.

  The sun flashed on steel as Stash held it low and firm, the way a saber man would execute point and cut, and sprang forward. He fixed his gaze on the precise point on Nick's back where the tip would enter.

  The vans rattled past Certainly — Nick heard nothing. Yet- They tell of the French fighter pilot, Castellux, who allegedly sensed attackers on his tail. Once three Fokkers came at him — one-two-three. Castellux evaded them, one-two-three.

  Perhaps it was the sun's flash, that sparkle from space to blade to a nearby window or bit of metal that reflected for an instant to catch Nick's eye and alarm his alert senses. He never knew — but he turned his head suddenly to check his backtrail and saw the baboon face hurtling at him less than eight feet away, saw the blade...