Catacombs

by John Farris

  When the bus disappeared down the road, Belov picked up the chauffeur by his belt and the back of his neck and lugged him to-the trunk. Kumenyere had installed a spare diesel tank, and there wasn't much room to pack the chauffeur inside. He reckoned that the rap on the head would be good for a couple of hours, and if he didn't slam the lid tight the chauffeur would have enough air to stay alive.

  He got in behind the wheel, backed around, and returned the way they had come.

  The Mercedes was easily identifiable as belonging to Kumenyere, and the coastal land was nearly flat, with groves of coconut and banana trees, a scablike salt marsh with clumps of wilting grasses like the fossils of wading birds. Then sand dunes, and above them a glimpse of the roofline of the villa; Belov turned off the track into a camp of some kind, slogans of the defunct TANU party fading on the whitewashed walls of concrete rondevals; most of the windows had been broken out.

  He hid the car, taking with him the chauffeur's small Skorpion automatic. Even with its low-velocity load it would be useful in a pinch, although it couldn't be fired accurately on full automatic without the rudimentary stock attachment. He tramped up the dunes to a vantage point overlooking the villa, spread himself flat in the unpleasantly spiky dune vegetation. But there was a cool sea wind, an occasional long drift of spray from the waves. The two Land-Rovers were still parked outside the villa's gate; the mercenaries squatted in the shade they afforded and played gambling games without much show of interest.

  Belov didn't have to wait long. Kumenyere came out of the villa at a little past three. He'd changed clothes again, this time looking as if he were journeying into bush country. He carried the laser rifle case which Belov had presented to him, and a tote bag. The mercenaries scrambled to attention when he appeared. Kumenyere exchanged a few words with one of them and climbed into a Land-Rover. Both vehicles then roared off toward the highway.

  It was futile to try to follow the doctor in his own car. From the looks of things he was going after Henry Landreth; the rifle suggested the possibility of a night ambush somewhere, although that didn't seem to make sense. If Kumenyere had protected him before, why should he now want to kill him? Unless Landreth had been a prisoner, under house arrest.

  Belov was unhappy with this turn of events, but there was nothing he could do yet. Only the girl could be of help to him. He wondered if he should risk returning to the villa in the Mercedes, claiming he'd left something valuable there. But the absence of the chauffeur would be suspicious. Trying to sneak in by broad daylight was foolhardy. He would, in time, get his hands on the girl. But patience was required. Annoyed by the biting heat of the sun on the back of his neck, and the forty kinds of flies with which he shared the dunes, he prepared to wait until nightfall if necessary, hoping there wouldn't be periodic patrols by the villa's guards which he would have to go to the trouble of ducking. But with the master temporarily away he doubted they would stir themselves.

  "No, no, you must come at once,". Lady Hecuba ha-Levi de Quattro-Smythe said on the telephone to Nyshuri. "Poor darling. I'm outraged! He had no right to do that; it's not as if you had any control over what that foolish Dr. Landreth has done. If Robeson Kumenyere has damaged your lovely face I shall kill the swine. He might as well have struck me. There is no difference in the way I feel about this brutal assault, and you know that I bear grudges forever. How badly does it hurt? I can barely understand you. Oh, dear. Do you think you can drive? Then jump into your little blue car and try to hurry–I'll be in agony until I see you, my sweet."

  Michael Belov returned to the abandoned TANU camp to check on the chauffeur.

  He was semiconscious in the trunk of the Mercedes, breathing in moans, sweating rivers. Belov hauled him out of there and walked him to one of the buildings. The chauffeur's knees buckled and his feet wandered and he cried like a baby. He had a goose egg on his temple where he'd been struck, perhaps too hard. Belov gave him a drink of water from a trickling standpipe, found rope. He tied the man and gagged him with half his shirt to stop his whining. Eventually, if his head cleared and he worked hard enough, he would be able to get his feet free and walk down the road to the villa. If not, he would die there.

  Belov walked outside just as the blue Toyota hatchback rattled by, taking him by surprise. He had a glimpse of Nyshuri's face, badly swollen on the left side. Probably the eye was swollen almost shut too, or she would have seen him peripherally as she passed the hut-like buildings, which stood close to the villa road. She was traveling fast, slewing from side to side on the rutted track, raising a sandstorm that glittered in the sun.

  Belov hesitated, looking back to see if she was being pursued. Then he ran for the Mercedes. It was a piece of luck; if he hadn't come down from the dunes to make a better disposition of the chauffeur, he would have had no hope of getting to the car in time to follow her.

  She was out of sight already, en route to the highway, but he easily caught up, with a notion of cutting her off.

  But at a bend of the track he encountered men in Chinese coolie hats and native kekois, a skirtlike garment, walking goats and zebu to the commune across the highway. By the time he got around them his chance was gone. Nyshuri turned north, taking the road to Bagamoyo. Traffic was light. She was a very fast and brainless driver, oblivious of the poor condition of the highway. He was content to stay well back, so she wouldn't recognize the car if she happened to notice it, and wait for the further opportunity he knew would develop.

  "If you will kindly leave Nyshuri to me," Hecuba said to Jan-Nic Pretorius, "in due course she will tell me everything she knows. All you need to do is conceal yourself, and listen. Perhaps this is a function you can fulfill without clumsiness. She may be able to tell us what has become of Henry Landreth. She wasn't clear about that. But let me make myself clear. I am fond of Nyshuri. Her childlike eroticism revitalizes me. I have no intention of delivering her into your incompetent hands."

  "She's coming with us," Jan-Nic said grimly. He had flushed a dirty red color from his shirt collar to the roots of his hair, a threat display Hecuba calmly stood up to, looking him in the eye and smiling faintly. "This way," Jan-Nic concluded, "I can be sure there's no risk of further betrayal."

  "You mean to convey that the inconceivably stupid business at the hospital was my fault. And to whom did I betray you?"

  "I only had a glimpse of one of them. He spoke English, with a decided American accent. A voice I've heard before, I know, it haunts me. But I can't recall–"

  "Perhaps he was a house guest."

  "Who also happened to be a professional assassin. I've only just learned how Bendert was killed. A very thin curved knife was thrust behind his eye and into the brain. The autopsy in Johannesburg revealed this. He must have been taken completely by surprise."

  "How fortunate you were alert enough to escape a similar fate. You must be very fast on your feet, like the racing dog you somewhat resemble."

  The implication of cowardice caused Jan-Nic to tremble; Hecuba saw that she was pressing too hard, aware of his limitations and mistakes and desperate to make up for them. They had put the wrong man in the field, she thought. She caught a whiff of something else that depressed and worried her. An odor of fear and death. His. Others'. Let them take the girl, then. She wanted no more of this tainted and deadly business.

  But Jan-Nic had already revised his strategy.

  "It's quiet here," he said, walking to the seaward side of the courtyard terrace. The courtyard was fully in shadow, the tables bare. He looked out at the spume of breakers behind the seawall. "Isolated. I couldn't help noticing you've let your servants go for the day. You're not entertaining tonight."

  "No."

  "Ach, this might be the best place after all, if the girl needs persuasion . . ."

  "Not in my house! Do your filthy butcher work somewhere else; I'm not paid to–"

  Jan-Nic looked around at her, pleased to have uncovered a weakness.

  Hecuba's pulse pounded but she said, more reasonabl
y, "You're making a mistake. Nyshuri is coming to me beaten, hurt. Whatever she knows, she won't respond to you, a mzungu. Let me try it my way."

  "But I don't trust you," Jan-Nic said with a cutting smile. "Who knows what passes between the two of you that an outsider would miss? As for pay, you'll take anyone's money. Perhaps Dr. Henry Landreth has found it prudent to bribe you already."

  "How ridiculous. I've never met the man."

  "Still I think it would be better if, when she arrives. the girl sees nothing of you at all. Willem!"

  A stocky man with a bland fair face, small eyes, and sun-whitened brows appeared from a corner of the courtyard where he'd been patiently waiting.

  "Take Lady Hecuba upstairs to her rooms. Stay with her. Remember that she is completely treacherous." To Hecuba he said, "Willem would be the first to admit that he has no imagination. He is sexually neuter. He follows instructions faithfully. He can't be distracted or diverted from his duty. But he can be annoyed. If you annoy him, you'll regret it."

  Hecuba looked curiously at Willem, who was easily twice her size, and smiled shrugging her bare shoulders in surrender.

  "Do you play gin, Willem?"

  "Ja." Willem looked at Jan-Nic, who nodded his approval.

  "Then the evening shouldn't be a total loss," Hecuba said. "Come along."

  Henry Landreth's head ached severely from the long jarring trip by Land-Rover to the base of Kilimanjaro. His driver, an Army sergeant named Humbert Kivinje, was one of those who drove blithely, at fearsome speeds, using his horn instead of his brake pedal to bail him out of the inevitable tight spots. All along the highways of the country one could see the rusting hulks of vehicles come to a smashing bad end, but they provided no object lesson for Sergeant Kivinje. On several occasions, faced with what he thought was disaster, Henry had demanded, and finally pleaded shamelessly, for a reduction in speed. Kivinje had merely grinned at him.

  "Sir, you have safe-conduct from Jumbe," he shouted, as if the letter which Henry carried placed them all on the side of the angels, including the people and animals who sauntered obliviously across high-velocity thoroughfares whenever it pleased them to do so.

  After that Henry sat with a good grip on the Rover, his eyes closed, until he heard a distant rumble of thunder and looked up to find that they had nearly arrived. Kilimanjaro was directly ahead. It was about five in the afternoon. He could see nothing of the upper reaches of the mountain. To the south and west the skies were clear, an ashen blue over the rainless land. But ominous storms, with flashes of lightning, rumbled over Kilimanjaro. The huge mountain, gradually heating up, spewing invisible gases into the atmosphere, was making its own weather. He felt sick again; but this time it was from the excitement of haying returned.

  The town of Moshi, between the plains and peaks of Kilimanjaro, had been taken over, at Jumbe's order, by the military: Families were being relocated from the shambas, small homesteads, and ujamaa cooperatives on the rich slopes of the lower mountain. The roads in the area were jammed with cars, trucks, and livestock.

  The Land-Rover was stopped at a checkpoint on the highway a few miles east of Moshi. An officer in sunglasses and faultless dress greens told them they could proceed no further. Sergeant Kivinje hopped out with his hand suggestively placed on the butt of his pearl-handled revolver and launched a tirade in Swahili, confident that Executive Order had precedence over rank. He jabbed a finger at his passenger in the Land-Rover, imperiously offered the document signed by Jumbe, and promised the officer he would be executed before sunrise if he detained them a moment longer.

  How they loved their petty exercises of power, Landreth thought, watching the scene expressionlessly. It was one of the reasons they would never amount to anything.

  The officer held the letter gingerly; it was pregnant with the seal of government. He peered at Henry Landreth and shrugged.

  "You are going up Kilimanjaro? It is foolish. Above eight thousand feet the tracks are no good. There have already been floods near Marangu. You may not come back alive."

  "I know the mountain and its moods very well," Henry said impatiently. "Do you wish to speak to Jumbe himself? He would be very unhappy taking his valuable time to speak to you."

  The officer sighed and ostentatiously stamped a document of his own; they were allowed to pass. Sergeant Kivinje returned to the Land-Rover chuckling, and handed Jumbe's letter back to Henry.

  "Where to now?"

  "Take the Yingi road to the Nyangoro Coffee Cooperative. The manager will still be there. I'll stay the night and outfit myself from their stores."

  The trip into Moshi was unavoidable but tortuous, the din terrific. A well-settled, prosperous area of nearly fifteen hundred square miles had been emptied by troops who were too few to do an adequate job, public servants cowed by the size of the ever-swelling mob. Nearly everyone was angry. Loudspeakers on public buildings blared confusing instructions to the refugees. Rumanian-built buses expelled quantities of oily smoke. The displaced persons who had relatives elsewhere were trying to cram themselves aboard the buses or into jitneys, locally known as matatus. Owners of private vehicles, even motor scooters, were charging exorbitant fees for transportation.

  With the thunder of the mountain in the background, rumors of a cataclysmic eruption imminent, the swirling gray clouds pressing down toward the town, lightning like cannon fire in the gloom, Henry Landreth was reminded of the Malay Peninsula before World War Two, of a panicked populace fleeing the Japanese. But all this was happening at his instigation, arising from his obsessive need to stand, alone, on the threshold of the Catacombs. Discoverer of the great achievements of the Lords of the Storm. Possessor. As close to the infinite and the godlike as a man can come. When the Land-Rover was rocked in the street, when anxious black men attempted to come aboard, Henry ordered Sergeant Kivinje to draw his pistol and shoot the next man who dared.

  Fortunately no homicides resulted from their ordeal. West of Moshi traffic quickened, though it remained heavy going to Arusha, where more accommodations were available in the abandoned towers of a noble but failed experiment, the East Africa Community. They soon reached the Yingi road, meeting another barrier. But their documentation was accepted without question by the soldiers stationed there, and they were waved through a crowd of evacuees waiting for transportation, carrying everything from babes in arms to zinc washtubs.

  Not far along the Yingi road, in the cultivated foothills, they were jarred by an earth tremor of short duration. It was the first real evidence of what might be seething deep within Kilimanjaro.

  Sergeant Kivinje pointed solemnly in the direction of the invisible summit of Kibo.

  "Not so good for you to be up there if the mountain explodes."

  "The mountain will not explode," Henry said calmly.

  Above their heads a helicopter flapped. He looked up and caught a glimpse of it circling above the treetops at six thousand feet, just before it vanished in a drizzling mist.

  "Why do you have so many snakes?" Willem said, looking around at the terrariums in Lady Hecuba's boudoir. Some of them were brightly lit, simulating desert sunshine; others were as shadowy as a jungle.

  "I'm fond of them," Lady Hecuba said. She placed a sealed deck of cards on the little baize-covered game table. "They make intriguing pets."

  "Dangerous, no?"

  "Some are. You recognize the infamous boomslang, of course."

  Willem grunted.

  "And the saw-scaled viper."

  Willem broke open the cards; he frowned and placed a finger in the crook of his elbow. "I saw a man die once. Bitten here. Thirty seconds he lived, no more."

  "An extremely venomous specimen, no doubt. Only one milligram of the venom of the krait is enough to kill the average man."

  She studied Willem for a few moments, wetting her frosted red lips, smiling. He was wearing a loose fitting shirt with belled sleeves; the shirt was unbuttoned to the shiny notch of his diaphragm, and tucked into his trousers. His chest was bare,
hairless, well-tanned.

  "Will you excuse me for a few moments? I have a rather sick Boaedon libeatus. He has nematodes, I'm afraid, and he's also having trouble molting. I'd hate to lose him–they are rather difficult to come by."

  Hecuba selected drops from a medicine cabinet and opened the cage of the African house snake, a three-foot specimen, its skin half peeled, its color a brownish black. She picked up the snake from its bed of rocks, holding it with one hand just behind the head.

  "He's not dangerous at all," she assured Willem.

  "But he hates to take his medicine. Would you lend a hand? Just hold him carefully about the middle and I'll do the rest."

  Willem gingerly accepted responsibility for half of the snake. Hecuba measured and squeezed two drops of viscous liquid into the open mouth.

  "Good. Now if you will gently take him behind the head, just as I am holding him, and keep his head up so the medicine goes down in good order, I'll ruck out his cage."

  With a little cordless vacuum cleaner Hecuba removed the rock-hard crystals of uric acid and bits of shed skin that had collected in the cage. Then she changed the drinking and bathing water.

  "You're doing very well," she said to the stolid but perspiring Willem. "Now just lay him back on the rocks, poor old darling, while I swiftly attend to another matter."

  As soon as she was certain that Willem was fully occupied with the business of getting the large and unyielding house snake back into his habitat, Hecuba slid open the door of another terrarium which, on casual inspection, looked empty. But she knew just what she wanted and where it would be concealed. She reached in and withdrew the coiled, beautifully- banded little thing, bracelet size and small enough to fit in the palm of her hand. At a glance its head was indistinguishable from its tail.