Catacombs

by John Farris

  The chauffeur reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and rubbed a still-moist bird dropping from the roof. The men in the other cars, apparently bodyguards, didn't budge. Morgan, treated to cool air from the interior, waited for the better part of three minutes with nothing to dwell on but the doctor's profile: the graceful neck; high, Nilotic cheekbones; and a straight-bridged nose which gave him an air of noble distinction.

  Kumenyere finished his conversation with a rich chuckle and hung up. He unwound from the car and took off his expensive sunglasses, hanging them by an earpiece from the breast pocket of his jacket.

  He stood tall and relaxed in front of the Americans, a slight, amiable smile on his face. He was one of those lithe and physically savvy men whose every move seems choreographed. He had a tendency to look aslant at everyone, an attitude of lazy hauteur that had its charms because his sable eyes seemed incapable of hard focus or harsh judgment; they looked instead perversely enchanted.

  Lyman presented Morgan; he and Kumenyere exchanged an elaborate African greeting, handshakes doubled by wristlocks. There was power in the doctor's grip; his hands were almost as long as cricket bats.

  "Jumbe is so pleased you could join him," Kumenyere concluded. He mumbled his English as if he were unsure of the language, or not fond of speaking it. He bent graciously to take Len's hand, composed a welcome in Swahili.

  "Mr. Secretary! Mr. Ambassador!"

  Morgan looked around. A tall young Englishman with a petite blond girl in hand was bearing down on them across an empty stretch of tarmac, the girl jogging to keep up with his long strides. He looked grim and anxious. The girl was frightened. Kumenyere glanced up at the approaching pair, frowned, looked over his shoulder at one of the cars filled with bodyguards. Immediately there were black men with impressive guns all over the place.

  The English boy stopped, intimidated, and looked imploringly at Morgan.

  "You're Mr. Atterbury, aren't you? I'm Tobias Chapman and this is Sunni Babcock."

  "My father is Blitz Babcock," the girl said in a high strained voice. "I know you've met him in Washington."

  "Oh, yes," Morgan said, and Chalmers Lyman nodded. At least the name was familiar. The family had money. Babcock was a horseman or yachtsman or something, and he'd held a minor post in the previous administration.

  Kumenyere spoke, angrily, in a low voice to one of the bodyguards.

  "No, just a moment," Morgan said firmly. "It's all right." He smiled at Sunni Babcock, who was very pretty and probably still in her teens, young enough to have a trace of acne around her nose. She and the boy leaned against each other, breathing hard. "Can I help you?"

  "It concerns my father," the boy said quickly. "Chips Chapman. He's been missing for quite a long time, and I've been trying to find him, you see. But it's very difficult, there's almost no official cooperation–"

  "I know what this is about," Kumenyere said to Morgan. He was no longer angry, and he gestured nonchalantly at his guards for a less conspicuous show of weapons. "But I regret that we haven't the time. Jumbe will be very annoyed if we're late. Let me have a word with them, Mr. Secretary."

  He approached Toby Chapman and Sunni Babcock and spoke to them in tones too low for Morgan to overhear. He was pleasant and diplomatic. Toby Chapman was rigid, the girl near tears. They both tried to catch Morgan's eye again, but Kumenyere put his arms around them and smoothly walked them away from the official party, toward the terminal building.

  "What's going on?" Morgan asked Lyman.

  The ambassador seemed embarrassed not to know. "Chapman, Chapman," he muttered. "I just can't recall the name offhand."

  "Those kids are pretty upset. Try to find out what the story is, and see if there's anything we can do."

  Kumenyere returned within five minutes, smiled apologetically, and gestured to indicate that the situation was under control. But he offered no explanations.

  Almost immediately they were on the road to Chanvai, flashing through those moments when the day is precisely divided into dark and light, earth and sky. They passed villages where the markets were closing down for the night. Domestic fowl, goats, pigs, and children fled from the scream of sirens. But the open road seemed miraculously empty of all other traffic, including motor scooters and bicycles, which might have slowed them down.

  Len, his face to the window in the backseat of the Mercedes, identified the nubby tall heads of giraffes communing in a circle of sky, upthrust as if to drink from the dwindling lake of light. In the front seat Kumenyere smiled at the boy's enthusiasm and straightened his impeccable shirt cuffs.

  "Jumbe tells me he hasn't been feeling well," Morgan said.

  Kumenyere allowed the possibility with a little nod.

  "He's still a sorrowing man. Heartsick. His own blood runs thin and cold because of the wanton slaughter of his sons. I do what I can."

  "But apparently Jumbe's in a mood for company."

  "It's his birthday," Kumenyere said, as if he were surprised that this hadn't been mentioned. But there was a glint of sly humor in his eyes.

  "I thought Jumbe wasn't sure what day he was born."

  "The anniversary of his coming into this world is of no significance. Rather we observe, in this season of renewal, an important passage to an advanced age grade–a cultural milestone in Jumbe's evolution, in this life and beyond."

  Len looked away from the window. "I read about rites of passage in Facing Mount Kenya."

  Kumenyere smiled approvingly. It was obvious that he liked Len, and was sensitive to the courage that had enabled him to ignore depressing handicaps.

  "Jomo Kenyatta wrote about the Kikuyu, with which many tribes, including my own, have a blood relationship. Among the people of the Umba, Jumbe's tribe, to learn the lessons of life is to be reborn each time. When one joins the ranks of the most respected elders, he must teach the hard and often punishing lessons of life to the less enlightened, so that after earthly death he may justify, before the tribunal of his ancestors, the continuing existence of his soul."

  Morgan said, "Jumbe long ago put the ways of the tribe behind him. And he was raised a Christian."

  "As a leader of government he is most sensibly opposed to tribal factionalism, an evil which in its worst form can result in another Biafra. As for Christianity, Jumbe will always acknowledge his small debt to the White Fathers. But his roots are deep in this earth, African earth, which the gangsters of the Transvaal defile by their continuing presence here."

  "His grief over his sons and over the war is understandable. But nothing good can come of escalating the war by attempting to beat his few plowshares into spears."

  "It would depend on the size of the spear, would it not?" Kumenyere said, with a slight rolling of the eyes and a glint of megalomania. Morgan wished he knew more about the intimate relationship of Jumbe and the doctor.

  "I came mainly for the fishing and not polemics; if there's going to be a celebration, then tonight I hope I'll be able to toast Jumbe's statesmanship as well as his wisdom. Of course I couldn't help noticing that other eminent guests have arrived."

  "Yes," Kumenyere said, too carelessly. "Marshal Nikolaiev concluded a round of talks with our Libyan friends and allies in time to be with us on this splendid occasion. Do you know him?"

  "Not personally," Morgan replied, containing his astonishment. What lure had Jumbe used to coax this aging Russian hawk to a perch on his wrist? Victor Kirillovich Nikolaiev was a much older man than Morgan, and the Soviet Minister of Defense. He was not given to lingering unnecessarily beyond the borders of his own country. "I didn't know Jumbe was acquainted with Marshal Nikolaiev. His ministry doesn't have anything to do with the Third World nations."

  The driver of the Mercedes braked hard and swerved to miss a striped gazelle bounding out of wilted grass beside the tarmac road. Kumenyere gave him a loud tongue-lashing, conveniently forgetting what he and Morgan had been talking about. He then began a conversation with Len about the wildlife of Tanzania. Like many of hi
s countrymen, he thought there were too many protected animals in a nation that could not raise enough food for its people. Len argued spiritedly for even more conservation.

  Morgan settled back to do some thinking. He felt sad, because Jumbe had compromised their friendship to get him here; apparently he no longer cared what Morgan thought. What was Jumbe after? Weapons; obviously, to implement his obsession. He wanted rockets, in a year when three quarters of a million of his people were on famine relief, and the world was in a deepening recession which had everyone anxious. Morgan assumed that Jumbe's traditional allies, the Chinese, who had already pumped nearly a billion dollars into East Africa, refused to dig any deeper.

  The only thing Morgan didn't understand was why someone of Victor Kirillovich Nikolaiev's status would spend even five minutes humoring Jumbe. It made him more than a little uneasy.

  They came to a crossroads, where Morgan observed soldiers and armored vehicles. Cars and trucks were backed up in a long line, parking lights like the low amber eyes of supplicants, waiting for them to pass. The caravan entered Arusha National Park and proceeded around the misty wetlands of Momela Lakes, a prime bird sanctuary now much reduced in size in a dry year. Morgan regretted that it was too dark for more than a glimpse of ponds–so shallow they were little more than floating gardens–which served as havens for hippos and moonlighting elephants. They drove slowly past a clifflike herd standing very near the road in a glade of papyrus, and even Kumenyere fell silent out of respect for their power. But the beasts seemed indifferent to the motorcade; their ears were flared like antennae to trap the brilliant chatter of the stars.

  The road became a narrow track into the foothills beneath Meru, a region of pale-green ghost forests.

  The windless air held the scents of wild orange and pepper trees, then pesticide–a tank truck operated by the Mosquito Control had just finished spraying.

  In a clearing between hills the lights of the Chanvai estate blazed. There was a stout gate and more soldiers, about half of them (Kumenyere said) Somali and Asian mercenaries. A big sixteen-passenger Sikorsky helicopter in Tanzania's colors sat on a landing pad.

  Well behind the main house there were a dozen modern bungalows, like the cottage colony of a luxury hotel, each secluded by plantings: bougainvillea, flame trees, and frangipani. All of the paths were well lighted. At the bungalow assigned to Morgan three Sikh houseboys were waiting. So was a curious mongoose, taking time off from viper patrol. The animal chittered ecstatically when Len spoke to it in Swahili. They heard music in the main house, exuberant calypso rhythms, and laughter. It was now too cool for shirt sleeves.

  While Morgan and Len were changing clothes, Ron Burgess glided up to the bungalow in an electric cart. He'd brought a handsomely bound program for the evening, and a guest list.

  "Any press on hand?" Morgan asked.

  "No, Jumbe's secretary was adamant about that. Here's a plan of the property Laki gave me. The Russians are billeted in this bungalow, the largest one, behind the north wing of the house. There's a lot of loud talk and some arguing going on."

  "They must not know any more than we do."

  "We have a radio link with the communications room at the embassy. The radio's in my quarters, and one of the embassy staffers is monitoring for me. Speaking of communications–" Ron laughed. "Laki told me that telephone in Kumenyere's Mercedes isn't hooked up to anything. He was just chatting to himself, putting on a show for us."

  "Are we going to get anything to eat?" Len said with a sigh.

  "Dinner's promptly at nine, East African-Indian cuisine. It'll be followed by various entertainments, including a trip to a hide in the park for a look at leopards feeding."

  "Leopards! Can I go, Dad?"

  "Sure. We'll all go."

  Ron shook his head. "Sorry, sir. Jumbe's scheduled a colloquium at eleven for the VIPs."

  "Attendance required, I assume. Well, it's his party."

  "Most of the men have their wives with them. Laki says they've been here a week. They appear to be having a terrific time. But Jumbe's made himself scarce. There's one peculiar thing: No one from the Tanzanian parliament is here. And Jumbe didn't invite representatives from other African governments. But these days he's not getting along with many of them."

  Ron went over the list with Morgan; he had already made copious notations in the margins.

  "Damon Paul. He's the Fifth Avenue jeweler, and one of the world's authorities on gemstones. Lukas Zollner. Swiss mathematician and Nobel prize winner. Maurizio Ambetti, Italian physicist and Nobel Prize winner. There are three other mathematicians, almost as eminent as Zollner, on the list. Dr. Saul Markey is a crystallographer. Alex Kachurdian is an epigrapher and etymologist–"

  "What?" Len said, laughing.

  "Epigraphy is the study of ancient inscriptions; I don't know what the other means, but it may have something to do with dead languages." Ron made a circle on the list, isolating a name. "I'm really curious about this man's presence. Henry Landreth, British theoretical physicist."

  "I seem to be in fast company," Morgan said. "Does he have a Nobel too?"

  "He should own one by now. But he's lucky he doesn't have a prison record instead."

  "How's that?"

  "I checked him out with the press officer at the British Embassy. Landreth was Britain's top nuclear theoretician after World War Two. He worked at Harwell on some top-secret research involving neutron beams. He was a protégé of Klaus Fuchs and Dr. Bruno Pontecorvo, both of whom were spies. They gave the Russians secrets that put them in the nuclear club years before they would have made it on their own. Fuchs went to prison; Pontecorvo defected to Moscow. Landreth was in his mid-thirties then, approaching the height of his powers. He was accused of helping Fuchs feed information to the NKVD officer who was running Fuchs. Landreth claimed he was unaware that he was being used as a go-between, or that he was handing over vital information to a foreign national. Fuchs backed his story and there wasn't enough evidence to convict. But Landreth had a muddled history of Communist sympathies during his post-grad career at London University in the thirties. The U.K. press tarred him with the Commie brush.

  "He was banned forever from working at sensitive installations, which effectively ended his career. He's living in Tanzania now, but he doesn't teach. He has some connection with the government, a minor post in the Department of Antiquities."

  "Okay," Morgan said. "Let's go mingle."

  The main house consisted of two one-story wings with a large kitchen in the rear and a screened verandah with the best view of the seven lakes. Most of the guests, wearing tropical resort clothes and light sweaters, were on the verandah. The Russians hadn't shown up yet. The furnishings ran to bamboo and floral prints, sisal mats on the concrete floors. There were vivid paintings by East African artists, some Makonde sculptures, but there was not much of Jumbe in evidence, except for a small carved wood bust.

  Dr. Kumenyere was acting as host in Jumbe's absence. He had two women with him, a tawny Eurasian bombshell named Nicola, who licked her plump lips as if she were masturbating, and a satin-finish Masai country girl who wore an exquisite shuka and heavy gold plugs in her enlarged earlobes. She was so ill at ease she seemed brittle; her remote eyes were on a level above everyone else's.

  Morgan was introduced. The few Americans there looked delighted, as if the party, pleasant enough before, had become a major event in their lives. The European scientists looked him over carefully, and not without suspicion. He was a warlord, overseer of the Pentagon billions, the arms machine they roundly condemned. The Italian Nobel laureate jumped on Morgan right away about some matter of U.S. foreign policy that had offended him.

  Morgan easily outmaneuvered Signor Ambetti and took a reading on the mood of the guests, something he had become very good at during his three years in Washington, where the ambience of the "better" parties accurately reflected what was happening in government circles: crisis, scandal, a major policy as yet unannounced, choice backstair
s gossip. Someone always knew a secret but was free only to drop hints; inevitably there was more suppressed excitement than in children the night before Christmas.

  And this was the tone of Jumbe's party. They were all waiting for the best Christmas ever. But if anyone talked about what he knew, even to another initiate, Santa Claus would pop back up the chimney in a twinkling.

  Morgan accepted a gin and tonic from a houseboy and tried to find out why certain guests were enjoying Jumbe's hospitality.

  Damon Paul was a dapper man with crisped blond hair and a high color from his week of exposure to the African sun. He was a guest, he said, of Tanzania's Gemstone Council. The country was a consistent but not high-volume producer of diamonds. It was all a matter of Kimberlite formations, or pipes, he explained. These fossil volcanoes were the principal source of natural diamonds. South Africa was particularly well endowed with large and economically important pipes. Was Jumbe interested in gemstones? Damon Paul's color deepened, as if from a sudden pleasurable surge of blood pressure. His eyes grew softly introspective. He smiled and shook his head. Jumbe, he said, knew a great deal about geology, but he had very little interest in personal ornamentation.

  Henry Landreth, physicist and traitor, occupied a basket chair with a young and lovely black girl in a flowered kanga. From time to time she stroked the back of his wrist with an insinuating finger. Landreth appeared to be in his mid-sixties. He drank pink gin, like an old colonialist. He had no commerce with his fellow scientists; no one dropped by his corner to talk shop. His was a deadpan face with eyes like drops of tar, too much hair growing wild in the wrong places: above his eyes, in the ears. He smoked a cigarette fiercely, eyes narrowing to slits, as if this pleasure had been forbidden and he was making the most of his defiance.

  He talked to Morgan with reluctance. He had not done any work in his field for many years. Retired. Yes, he had kept up with developments. But he was rather more interested in archaeology nowadays.