by Nick Carter
Nick fell to the right, pushing off with his left leg, curling his body. Stash paid the price for concentration and lack of flexibility. He tried to follow that spot on Nick's back but his own impetus carried him too far too fast He braked, turning, slowing, lunging the knifepoint downward.
The AXE manual on man-to-man combat suggests: When faced with a man holding his knife properly, first consider a lightning kick to the testicles or running.
There's a lot more to it, about finding weapons and so on, but right now Nick realized those first two defenses were out. He was down and too twisted to kick, and as for running...
The blade came hard and straight for his chest. He writhed back and felt a shiver of pain as the point tore in under his right nipple and made a dull clanging sound on the walk. Stash was crouched over him, carried forward by his own powerful spring. Nick locked his left hand on that deadly right wrist, his reflexes as instantaneous and precise as those of a fencing master parrying a pupil's attack. Stash bent his knees and tried to pull back, feeling sudden dismay at the crushing power of a grip that seemed to have a two-ton weight behind it and strength enough to break the bones in his arm.
He was no novice. He twisted his knife arm toward Nick's thumb, a breakaway maneuver impossible to counter, a tactic by which any active woman can free herself from the most powerful man. Nick felt his grip slip under the rotation of the arm; the blade prevented his reaching Wilhelmina. He braced and pushed with all his conditioned muscular power, hurling Stash four or five feet back just before the grip on the knife arm was broken.
Stash regained his balance, poised to thrust again, paused for the barest second as he saw an astonishing thing: Nick ripped open his left jacket sleeve and shirt sleeve in order to draw Hugo without hindrance. Stash saw a second gleaming blade flash into sight and steady, its point a yard from his own.
Stash lunged. The opposing blade dipped, parried his thrust with a miniature left turn and upward push en quarte. He felt superior muscles carry his knife and arm upward and he felt horribly naked and helpless as he fought to regain control, pull back his blade and hand, and cut again. He got his hand back near his chest as that now appallingly fast sliver of steel he faced rose and crossed his blade and came for his throat. He gasped, struck forward at the man who was coming off the ground, and knew dread as a left arm rose like a granite block against his right wrist He tried to turn back, slash sideways.
That horrible blade dipped to the right as Nick feinted and Stash stupidly moved his arm to parry. Nick felt the pressure against his blocking wrist and thrust easily and straight over Stash's arms.
Stash knew it was coming. He had known it since that first gleaming flicker toward his throat, but for an instant he had thought he had saved himself and would conquer. He felt terror and dread. This was no bound victim with tied hands waiting...
His brain was still shrieking alarmed commands to his outmaneuvered body as panic struck — in time with Nick's blade, which entered just beside his Adam's apple and went completely through his throat and spinal cord, the point projecting like a metal-tongued viper under the hairline. The day turned red and black with gold flashes. The last flaming colors Stash would ever see.
As he fell Nick withdrew Hugo and stepped away. They didn't always die at once.
Stash lay in a spreading, bloody pool. His squirms drew red patterns in half-circles. He banged his head on the walk. The throat cut reduced what would have been screams to unearthly whines and gratings.
Nick kicked Stash's knife away and searched the fallen man, keeping away from the blood and plucking at pockets like a seagull pecking a cadaver. He took a wallet and a card case. He wiped Hugo on the man's jacket, high on the shoulder where it might be mistaken for the man's own gore, evading a hand that groped at him in death throes.
Nick walked back into the building entrance and waited, watching. Stash's squirmings were lessening, like a wind-up toy running down. The last of the vans clattered by, and Nick was thankful there was no caboose or cabin car on the end of the drag. The courtyard was silent. He went through the arcade, found a little-used door on the street side, and walked away.
Chapter Seven
Nick walked back to Meikles. No use hailing a cab and giving the police another time fix. Barnes would decide he should be questioned about the death in the railway building, and a long stroll is a flexible time unit.
He bought a newspaper as he went through the lobby. In his room he stripped, put cold water on the two-inch slice across his chest, and inspected the card case and wallet he had taken from the man. They told him little except for Stash's name and an address in Bulawayo. Would Alan Wilson have sent him? When you protect millions you get rough, yet he couldn't believe back-stabbing was Wilson's style.
That left Judas — or "Mike Bor," or someone else at THB. Never discounting Gus Boyd and Ian Masters and even Pieter van Prez, Johnson, Howe, Maxwell... Nick sighed. He put the packet of banknotes from the wallet with his own money without counting them, cut up the cases, burned what he could in an ashtray, and flushed the rest down the toilet.
He searched the cloth of his coat, shirt, and undershirt carefully. The only blood was from his own knife scratch. He rinsed the undershirt and shirt in cold water and tore them into scraps after removing the collar labels. As he unwrapped a clean shirt he looked affectionately and regretfully at Hugo, strapped to his bare forearm. Then he called Masters' office and arranged for a car.
It wouldn't do to discard the coat; Barnes might legitimately ask about it. He found a tailor shop far from the hotel and asked to have it mended. He drove a few miles toward Selous, admiring the countryside, and turned back toward town. The expansive groves of fruit trees looked exactly like parts of California, with long irrigation lines and giant sprayers drawn by tractors. Once he saw a horse-drawn spray cart and stopped to watch the blacks operate it. He supposed their trade was doomed, like the cotton-pickers in Dixie. An odd tree caught his eye and he used his guidebook to identify it — a candelabra, or giant euphorbia.
Barnes was waiting in the hotel lobby. The questioning was thorough but led nowhere. Did he know a Stash Foster? How had he returned from Tillbourne's office to his hotel? What time had he arrived? Did he know anyone who belonged to the Zimbabwe political parties?
Nick felt amused because the only completely honest answer he gave was to the last question. "No, I don t think so. Now tell me — why the questions?"
"A man was stabbed to death at the railway offices today. At about the time you were there."
Nick put on his astonished look. "Not — Roger? Oh no..."
"No, no. The man I asked you if you knew. Foster."
"Care to describe him?"
Barnes did. Nick shrugged. Barnes departed. But Nick permitted himself no elation. There went a smart man.
He returned the car to Masters and flew in a DC-3, via Kariba, to Main Camp at the Wankie National Park. He was pleased to find at Main Camp a thoroughly modern resort The manager accepted him as one of the escorts for the Edman Tour that would arrive in the morning, and installed him in a comfortable, two-bedroom chalet — "No charge for your first night."
Nick was beginning to appreciate the escort business.
Although Nick had read about Wankie National Park he was amazed. He knew its five thousand square miles held seven thousand elephants, great herds of buffalo, as well as rhino, zebra, giraffe, leopard, antelope in infinite variety, and dozens of other species he had not bothered to memorize. Yet Main Camp was as comfortable as the products of civilization could make it, with an air strip where CAA DC-3s were met by the latest model cars and the innumerable microbuses, striped black and white like mechanical zebras.
As he strolled back toward the main lodge he saw Bruce Todd, Ian Masters' man — "a soccer star" — standing near the entrance.
He greeted Nick, "Hello, I heard you arrived. Enjoying it?"
"Magnificent. We re both early-"
"I'm a sort of advance scout Chec
king the rooms, cars, all that. Feel like a sundowner?"
"Good idea." They strolled to the cocktail lounge, two bronzed young men who drew women's eyes.
Over whiskies and sodas Nick's body relaxed, but his mind was active. It was logical for Masters to send an "advance man." It was also possible, even probable, that Salisbury athlete Todd had a connection with George Barnes and Rhodesian Security Forces. Certainly Barnes would think it worthwhile to put a tail on "Andrew Grant" for a while; he was a prime suspect in Foster's strange death.
He thought of those carloads shipped daily from the THB mine complex. The waybills would be meaningless. Perhaps chrome or nickel ore with gold hidden in any car they chose? That would be clever and practical. But carloads? They must be dripping with the stuff! He tried to remember the shipping weights of asbestos. He doubted that he had read about them, for he could not recall them.
Sanctions — hah! He held no definite opinion on the right or wrong of them or the political issues involved, but the old, bitter fact applied: Where there is enough involved, self-interest rules. It was probable that Wilson, Masters, Todd, and the others knew exactly what THB was doing, and approved. Perhaps even collected a fee. One thing was certain, in this situation he could only absolutely rely on himself. All others were suspect.
And the killers Judas was supposed to be dispatching, the efficient assassin force he could dispatch all over Africa? That fit in with the man. It meant more money in his pocket and it helped him get rid of a lot of unwanted enemies. Someday, his gun slingers would come even more handy. Someday... Yeah, with the new Nazis.
Then he thought of Booty and Johnson and van Prez. They would not fit the pattern. You could not quite imagine them moving-only-for-the-money. Nazism? That was really out. And Mrs. Ryerson? A woman like her could enjoy the good life in Charlottesville — riding to hounds, social affairs, admired, invited everywhere. Yet, like a few other in-place AXE agents he had met, she isolated herself here. When it came to it, what was his own motivation? IATA had offered him twenty thousand a year to supervise their security operation, yet he roamed the world for less. All you could tell yourself was that you wanted to put your ounce of weight on the right side of the scales. Fine — but who says which side is right? A man could...
"...the two waterholes nearby are Nyamandhlovu and Guvulala Pans," Todd was saying. Nick had been listening carelessly. "You can sit high up and watch the animals come in for their evening drinks. We'll go there tomorrow. The girls will like the steenbok. They look like Disney's Bambi."
"Point them out to Teddy Northway," Nick said, and was amused at the pink that rose up Todd's tanned neck. "Is there a spare car I can use?"
"Not actually. We have two sedans of our own and we use the microbuses with a guide for the guests. You can't drive around here after dusk, you know. And don't let the guests out of the cars. It can get a bit sticky with some of the livestock. The lions sometimes appear in prides of fifteen or so."
Nick concealed his disappointment They were less than a hundred miles from THB's property. The road from this side did not quite reach it, but he assumed there might be unmarked trails over which he could put a car or, if necessary, walk. He had a small compass and a mosquito net and a plastic poncho so small they fitted in a pocket His small map was five years old but it would do.
They went into the dining room and had eland steaks, which Nick found excellent. Later they danced with some very pretty girls, and Nick excused himself just before eleven. Whether or not he was able to explore THB from this point, he had lit enough fuses for one of the unknown explosive forces to let loose very soon. It was a good time to stay in condition.
* * *
He joined Bruce Todd for an early breakfast and they drove the fourteen miles to Dett Station. The long shiny train disgorged a horde of people, including five or six tour groups in addition to their own. Two of the groups had to wait for cars. Masters was wise to have his man on the spot. They had the two sedans, a microbus, and a Volvo station wagon.
The girls were bright and beaming, chatty about their adventures. Nick helped Gus with the baggage. "Smooth trip?" he asked the senior escort.
"They re happy. This is a special train." Gus grunted with a heavy bag. "Not that the regular ones aren't a helluva lot better than the Penn Central!"
After a hearty "early tea" they drove, in the same vehicles, into the rugged bundu. A Wankie guide drove the little striped bus, and at the manager's request, because he was short of men, Gus and Bruce drove sedans and Nick took the wheel of the Volvo wagon. They stopped at Kausche Pan, the Mtoa Dam, and several times on the narrow road to watch herds of game.
Nick admitted it was astonishing. The instant you left Main Camp you entered another world, harsh, primitive, threatening, beautiful. He had drawn Booty, Ruth Crossman, and Janet Olson for his car, and he enjoyed the company. The girls used hundreds of feet of movie film on ostrich, baboons, and ververt monkeys. They groaned sympathetically when they saw lions tearing at the carcass of a downed zebra.
Near Tshompani Dam a helicopter droned over them, looking out of place. It should have been a pterodactyl. Shortly afterward the little caravan came together, sharing cold beer that Bruce produced from a portable cooler, then, as tour groups will, they drifted apart. The microbus stopped to view a great herd of buffalo, the sedan's occupants were photographing wildebeest, and, at the girls* urging. Nick rolled the wagon down a long, curving loop of the road which might have been in the Arizona hills during a dry sprine.
Ahead, at the foot of the hill, he saw a truck drawn up at an intersection where roads, if he remembered the map, branched off to Wankie, Matetsi, and back to Main Camp via another route. The truck was marked in large letters Wankie Research Project. As they left the slope he saw a panel delivery wagon stopped two hundred feet along the northeastern road. It was lettered the same way. Odd — he hadn't noticed the park administration plastering their name on everything. They liked to leave an impression of naturalness. Odd.
He slowed. A stocky man stepped out from the truck and waved a red flag. Nick remembered the construction projects he had seen in Salisbury — they used warning flags, but he could not, at the moment, recall seeing a red one. Odd, again.
He sniffed, his nostrils flaring like those of the beasts around them at the scent of the unusual that can mean danger. He slowed, squinted, watched the flagman who reminded him of someone. Who? Foster the baboon! There was no precise facial resemblance, except for high cheekbones, but the simian way he moved, the arrogance, and yet a certain uprightness with the flag. Workers handle them casually, not like pennants at a Swiss banner meet.
Nick took his foot from the brake and hit the gas.
Booty, sitting in front beside him, yelped, "Hey — see the flag, Andy?"
There wasn't enough road to miss the man, the low bluff came down on one side and the truck blocked the narrow passage. Nick aimed for him and blew a single horn blast The man waved the flag madly, then jumped aside as the wagon hurtled past, over the spot where he had stood. In the back seat the girls gasped. Booty said, in a high pitch, "Hey-y-y. Andy!"
Nick stared at the truck's cab as he went by. The driver was a burly, surly-looking type. If you picked a norm for a Rhodesian, he wouldn't be it. Pale white skin, hostility glaring from the face. Nick caught a glimpse of the man beside him as he sat up in surprise when the Volvo speeded up instead of stopping. Chinese! And although the single, out-of-focus picture in AXE's files was a poor long shot, he could be Si Kalgan.
As they raced past the sedan delivery the rear door opened and a man started to scramble out, dragging something that could be a weapon. The Volvo roared past before he could identify the item but the hand that came out of the front held a large pistol. No doubting that.
Nick's stomach went cold. There was a quarter-mile of weaving road ahead before the first dip and safety. The girls! Would they shoot?
"Get down, girls. On the floor. Now!"
Bang! They were shooting
.
Bang! He praised the Volvo's carburetor, it sucked the juice and fed out power without a wobble. He thought one of those shots had hit the body but it might be his imagination or a road bump. He guessed that the man in the small truck had fired twice and then got out to steady his aim. Nick hoped fervently he was a poor marksman.
Bang!
There was a slight wider spot in the road and Nick used it to weave the car. They were really rolling now.
Bang! Fainter, but you couldn't outrun bullets. Bang!
Perhaps the bastard had used his last slug. Bang!
The Volvo whizzed over the dip like a boy racing into a lake for his first plunge of spring.
Rub-a-du-du-du. Nick gasped. The man in the back of the sedan delivery had been dragging a submachine gun. He must have fumbled it in his surprise. They were over the knoll.
The road ahead was a long, serpentine down-curve with a warning sign at the bottom. He accelerated half the way down, then hit the brake. They must be doing seventy-five but he did not change his eyes' focus to look at the meter. How fast would that delivery truck roll? If it was a good one or souped-up, they would be sitting ducks in the Volvo if it caught up. The big truck was no threat — yet.
The big truck certainly was no threat, but Nick could not know that. It was Judas' own design, with waist-high armor all round, a 460-horsepower engine, and heavy machine guns fore and aft with a full 180 degrees of fire through ports normally hidden by panels.
In its racks were submachine guns, grenades, and rifles with sniperscopes. But, like the tanks Hitler first sent into Russia, it was just too damn good for the job. It was hard to maneuver and on narrow roads couldn't average more than fifty miles an hour because the turns slowed it. The Volvo was out of sight before it moved.
The sedan delivery was another matter. It was souped-up and the driver, полу snarling at Krol beside him as they got rolling, was a hot man with horsepower. The windscreen, as the windshield was listed in local parts catalogs, had been cleverly split and hinged so that the right-hand half could be folded in for clear observation ahead — or use as a firing port Krol crouched down and opened it, holding his Machine Pistol 44 back over his shoulder temporarily, then bringing it up to the opening. He had fired a few rounds with a heavier Skoda, but switched to the 7.92 in the cramped quarters. Anyway, he prided himself on his skill with the burp gun.
