by Lee Falk
"Not him," said Onato. "He's got the hide of a rhinoceros."
"And the gall of a brass monkey," added Lanston.
They were wrong about "the mighty General Bababu." He was worried as he paced the thick rug of his palatial office, smoking cigarette after cigarette, breaking holder after holder, and downing brandy to still his jumpy nerves. It wasn't Dr. Kirk's announcement that bothered him. He knew that both Luaga and the crew were probably alive somewhere. There'd been no evidence that they were dead. He could simply call Dr. Kirk a liar and let it go at that. As for the local uprisings that followed the announcement, he didn't mind them either. It gave him an excuse to send out troops, to crack down hard, and to keep his execution squads busy. No, something else bothered him. Those marks.
First, there had been that skull mark on the field telephone. Then the marks on those three soldiers in the riverboat. Then, that gold medallion on the neck of the girl that bore the other symbol known as the "good mark," the sign of protection. And lastly, the violent stranger and those skull marks in his command tent, on the soldier, and on the broken table. They all meant one thing—the Phantom. Or did they? Were they some kind of giant hoax? Was someone using this ancient symbol to frighten him?
"Frighten me?" he roared aloud. "Frighten me, Bababu? Idiotic, stupid, ridiculous!" And he downed another slug of brandy.
Who was that stranger with the sunglasses, who seemed to carry death in each iron fist? Bababu's men had made inquiries. Nobody in Cari's entourage knew anything about him. Records showed there'd been no one like him with the medical team. He'd been seen briefly at the airport. He hadn't boarded the plane with them, and was not seen again. Some said he was accompanied by a large animal, something like a dog. Not a dog. "Something like a dog," was the report. Was this mysterious stranger the Phantom? Were all the jungle tales true? Bababu had known people who said they'd actually seen the Phantom, or said their fathers or grandfathers had seen him. Or farther back than that. But one was never sure about such reports. People were such liars.
But there were those skull marks everywhere. They seemed to float in the air, swim before his eyes. Skulls, skulls....
He shivered and looked around the huge room. Too many places to get in. Though his palace was surrounded by guards, though guards filled the corridors just outside these doors, there were still too many openings in this palace. Dozens of windows and doors, where somebody could slip in. He considered having all the doors and windows boarded over. But that would look odd. Besides, suppose somebody did get in? How would Bababu get out fast if everything was boarded over? Yes, there were guards just outside these doors. He pictured opening the double door of his office, of seeing the guard tumble in, eyes closed, a skull mark on hi^jaw. He shuddered at the thought, then walked slowly to the doors, and suddenly threw them open. The two guards turned and looked at him in surprise. He glared at them and slammed the door shut, then returned to his desk for another slug of brandy. He walked to the windows. A guard walked past outside in the garden. It was a big garden, thick with bushes and trees. Somebody could hide there and await his chance. He considered tearing out all the bushes and trees and leaving the entire lawn cleared to the high picket fence. But that would look odd. People might guess he was afraid. Besides, he told himself, I'm just imagining all this. Nothing can happen. I am General Bababu. I rule this country. I have the power of life and death. I am the law. He sat in his leather chair, consoling himself with this thought. There was a loud noise outside the door. Bababu jumped a foot out of his chair. He listened to the mumbling outside.
"What was that?" he roared.
The door opened slowly.
He tensed, his hand on the revolver he now had on the table before him. One of the guards looked in sheepishly.
"I dropped my rifle," he said.
Bababu stared at him wildly, then grasped the first thing at hand, a pen and pencil set in a marble stand, and hurled it. It just missed the wide-eyed guard and smashed against the door.
"Get out!" roared Bababu.
Now it was twilight. Soon darkness would come. All those trees and bushes outside, all the windows and doors. Endless gables, sloping roofs, flying buttresses, cellar windows, dozens of bedrooms, kitchens, storage rooms, endless closets, so many places to hide—to move in the darkness. He was too open here, too unprotected. He pressed a button on his desk. Mokata entered nervously and stared at Bababu.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" snarled Bababu.
"Like what, sir?" said Mokata.
Bababu's eyes were wild; there was a froth on his lips. He was the image of a terrified man.
"Call my car. I'm going to spend the night at camp. You will come too," he said.
Mokata's plans for the evening, involving several members of a stranded ballet company, vanished.
"Yes sir," he said.
"At once!" shouted Bababu.
In his camp, surrounded by fifty thousand soldiers, he would be protected. He would feel comfortable. His limousine, escorted front and rear by a phalanx of armed guards on motorcycles, roared out of the palace gates in the darkness. From a nearby rooftop, a crouching man watched the lights of the entourage as they swung onto the highway leading to the camp. Next to the man, an animal "something like a dog." The
Phantom and Devil. They moved quietly from rooftop to rooftop, leaping across the intervening alleyways, then dropped to the ground and moved quickly into the woods.
In the jungle, in the wooded areas and the plains, it is said that only the lion will he down in the open field and sleep without fear. Every other animal—even the massive elephant, rhino, hippo, and water buffalo—is always on the alert for danger. As for the rest, from rabbits to giraffes, they sleep with one eye open, sensitive to every sound or odor on the breeze. The slightest crackle or cough can send them galloping in all directions. It is said that when the predator is near, the prey has a sense of being hunted. Readiness for flight increases, perhaps a matter of adrenalin pumping into the bloodstream.
So it is possible that Bababu's fears were not completely imaginary, not based entirely on what he had always deemed a superstitious belief in the legendary Ghost Who Walks. Bababu was jungle-bred. He had spent his youth hunting and being hunted. He knew the feeling of the hunter. He knew the wariness of the hunted. That's what he was feeling now.
He was in his command tent now, cleared of all the mementos of that day with the medical team. There was a new table, a new phone. His big limousine was just outside the tent, as were four sturdy guards, carefully picked. He could hear them talking and laughing just beyond the canvas walls. Usually, Bababu's guards stood their duty in complete silence. This time, he had ordered them to drop the routine of silence and to talk. It was typical of Bababu to order them to talk, rather than to tell them they could talk. He wanted to hear them, to know they were there. Now he sat in his folding leather camp chair, a bottle of brandy and a glass before him.
"Mokata!" he roared.
Mokata peered in through the tent flap. A smaller tent attached to the entrance served as an anteroom.
"All right," said Bababu, and Mokata disappeared.
Bababu wanted to know he was there, and awake. Mokata was troubled and baffled by his chief. He'd never seen him so jumpy before. Except when he lost his temper, which was often but short-lived, he was as cold as ice.
But despite Mokata just beyond the flap, and the four sturdy guards, and his limousine outside, and fifty thousand soldiers all around him, Bababu still didn't feel completely safe. There was a slight prickling feeling under his skin, and an occasional twitch of an eyelid, a sudden start from an involuntary muscle—the nervousness of the hunted as the hunter comes near. He gulped another slug of brandy. Images of skulls floated in the air about him.
"Nonsense, nonsense," he told himself. "Damn damn damn." He thumbed through a girlie magazine, an import from Paris. Normally, the pretty young nudes brought an appreciative smile to his lips. Now he stared glumly at them and
wished he were in Paris. Why not? It was only a few hours away. Safe in Paris! But how could he leave? How could he trust his regime for a day once he was gone? He couldn't. He twitched, prickled and started, swore at himself, and took another slug of brandy, which had no effect. The hunter was near.
The character of an organization, whether it be an army, school, business, or team, usually is shaped by the leader. If the general, headmaster, chairman, or coach is efficient and serious, the organization will be similar. If the leader is dissolute, unsure or mediocre, the organization will tend to be likewise. Bababu's nervousness and fear were contagious. His army had never been a model of efficiency, but now discipline was loosening. From the officers down through the ranks, there was uncertainty. Desertions had increased; mess halls and tents were dirty and ill-kept; obedience to superiors was slackening; drunkenness was increasing. Bands from the camp were looting the countryside, and there was no one to stop them. This night, there were drunken fights scattered through the big camp. Those military police who remained on duty and sober were kept busy hauling drunken, battling soldiers into the pens. The night air was filled with drunken arguments, obscenities, laughter, and an occasional gunshot. By two or three in the morning, the disorder quieted as drunk and sober alike slumbered.
The camp was surrounded by a loose barbed-wire fence. There was no attempt at tight security, because there was no known enemy that dared attack the camp. No known enemy. Outside the camp were acres of crates, vehicles, and all the supplies and trash of a big encampment. An ideal place for an enemy to hide, if there was any bold enough to risk coming close to the military might of Bababu. There was one bold enough, and on this moonless night, he moved silently and swiftly among the piles and heaps until he reached the barbed wire. The Phantom.
There were a few guards at the big closed front gates. Here and there a sentry walked, half-asleep, his rifle trailing. The Phantom watched and listened alertly, awaiting his chance, then slipped under the sagging barbed wire. Clad in his dark skintight suit, he crouched low as he moved among the tents, hiding in the darkness as an occasional sentry strolled past. Most of the tents were dark. One was brightly lit. Near it was a big limousine, bedecked with pennants: Bababu's. The Phantom moved near and observed. There were four guards, two standing and talking softly, two seated on stools, nodding, apparently dozing. All had rifles. A smaller tent was attached to the entrance of the main tent. It was dark.
When his chance came, he moved behind the limousine. He made no sound, walking on "cat's feet." Then he tapped lightly on a fender. One of the guards turned at the sound. The other glanced without interest, then went to a bench and sat down. The first guard, probably to break the monotony of the watch, strolled to the limousine to see if there was anything there. A mouse, a beetle? Unsuspecting, he reached the back of the limousine. An iron fist lashed out of the darkness. The guard never saw what hit him and dropped like a stone. But he was caught before he reached the ground, and placed in a seated position against a rear tire. All this in darkness. The light from inside the canvas tent was not strong enough to make shadows outside. The guard who had gone to the bench heard a sound, the impact of the fist, and puzzled over its meaning, then called softly to his companion. No answer. The other two guards, on stools, snored loudly. The guard got up from the bench and strolled toward the limousine, still anticipating nothing. In the semi-darkness he saw the figure of his companion seated on the ground leaning against the tire. The guard grinned. Had his friend sneaked a drink behind his back?
"Hey, Tolly," he began softly, "give me some." He got "some," but not what he had expected. Again, the iron fist lashed out of the darkness, so sharp and hard that there was no outcry, only the impact followed by oblivion. Now the Phantom moved to the front of the tent where the other two guards were dozing. Neither was destined to wake up for many hours, as the iron fist struck twice. There was no sound of falling, as the Phantom lowered each man to the ground. He paused and listened. A slight snore came from inside the small dark tent. He peered in. A man was sleeping on a cot. Colonel Mokata. The Phantom moved beside him. Iron fingers tightened on the sleeper's throat. The only sound waTa slight gasp as Mokata passed from normal sleep into the deep unnatural sleep of the unconscious. The sound had been heard inside the lighted tent.
"Mokata," said the thick voice.
"Mokata, wake up," continued the voice, indistinct, thickened by alcohol.
The Phantom stepped through the flap.
Bababu was slouched at the table, his eyes glazed, brandy dribbling from his lips. He stared at the visitor, barely seeing him at first, not seeing what he'd expected. Then his eyes widened as they focused more clearly. A wide belt at the waist, with a large skull symbol on it. A masked man. Bababu staggered to his feet, filled with terror. It was an image out of a nightmare that swam before his blurred eyes and penetrated his brandy-soaked brain. He tried to shout, his voice choked. Again like a nightmare, all that came out was an incoherent, strangled sound, then a smashing impact and darkness as the iron fist reached his jaw. Bababu collapsed, falling toward the floor of his tent. The Phantom grasped him before he reached it, then listened carefully. A distant shout somewhere, drunken laughter, then quiet.
As the Phantom bent down to blow out a kerosene lamp, he noticed a stack of paper slips with Bababu's name printed on them. It was a pad of his personal order forms. He had started to write an order on the top sheet earlier in the day. The Phantom studied Bababu's handwriting quickly. The general had never learned longhand script, evidently, but wrote in large, childish block letters. He tore off the top paper with the order, and, using it as a model, quickly prepared another order, smiling grimly as he did so. Then he blew out the lamp and two others that were burning in the tent, and carried Bababu out. He paused at Mokata's cot, and listened. Only breathing from the colonel. No sound outside.
The two guards in front of the tent were sitting on the ground, slumped over their stools as he had left them. He carried the heavy Bababu to the limousine and put him in the back seat, then picked up the guards who were lying near the car and placed them with Bababu, one on each side. He carried a third guard and put him in front next to the driver's seat. He went back into the tent to search for rope. Finding none, he quickly tore a blanket into long strips. With the strips, he lashed Bababu and the two guards in the back seat so that they sat up in what appeared to be a normal fashion. He used extra strands to tie back their heads so they would not flop down on their chests. He lashed the guard in the front in the same way. He put their hats back on their heads, then returned to the tent and got Mokata's jacket and officer's hat and put them on. He searched for Bababu's ornate hat and found it. On his way out, he stopped at Mokata's cot, and pressed the order he had written on Bababu's stationery into the colonel's hand, folding his fingers over it. He returned to the car and placed the hat on Bababu's head. The men slumbered on, held firmly in what some have called "the Phantom sleep." He had moved swiftly, and all this preparation took only a few minutes. Satisfied that the men appeared reasonably normal in the darkness, he raised his coat collar to hide as much of his face as possible, then drove toward the main gate a quarter of a mile away.
The sleepy guards at the main gate jumped to attention as the bright lights blazed out of the darkness. The big front gates were closed.
"Open up!" a voice shouted hoarsely from the car. They rushed to obey, recognizing the general's limousine at once. There was none other like it in all Mawitaan. (Bababu had "requisitioned it" from the banker Manago.) The guards got the gates open fast and barely had time to jump out of the way as the limousine roared by them. They had only the quickest glimpse of the dark figure inside. Then the car was gone, racing down the highway, not toward town, but the other way, toward the outskirts. Must be important business at this hour of the night. They closed the gates, and soon settled back to their semi-doze.
The big car sped on through the darkness, leaving the camp far behind, past sleeping farmhouses, onto a
narrow dirt rogd into the jungle. Bushes scratched both sides of the car. The silent passengers bounced as the car hit bumps, fell back as their bonds held, then bounced again like store dummies. Small animals darted across the road, surprised by this unusual intrusion into their night world. Vivid insects fluttered through the bright path of light. Birds awoke in the trees, rustled, then settled down as darkness returned. Soon the bright lights illuminated a clearing. The car stopped. The Phantom stepped out and whistled, then took off the military jacket and hat. In a moment, Devil and Hero moved out of the bushes. The mountain wolf had the reins of the white stallion in his teeth. The Phantom patted them, then turned off the fights. They were surrounded by the jungle night.
He loosened the blanket strips, pulled Bababu out of the car, and draped him over Hero's strong back. The general and the guards remained as they had been— unseeing, unhearing, unfeeling, unconscious. He untied them and threw the strips over Hero's saddle, then closed the doors.
He permitted himself a big sigh, and Devil licked his hand. He had taken a big gamble, an enormous risk. It had worked. "Bring peace and legality," the cable from the Secretary-General had stated. It hadn't said how. That important gentleman might be surprised, even astounded, by his methods. But the Phantom had his own direct way of doing things. He mounted Hero carefully and they moved off into the jungle. Soon they were gone. The limousine remained in the dark clearing. The interrupted chorus of insects resumed. Small bright-eyed animals watched the silent car, to see what it would do. Flying insects buzzed around it, occasionally smacking against a window. No reaction from the inside. Soon, the night life of the jungle clearing took up where it had left off. With the dawn, the nocturnal creatures went to their rest, and the day shift took over. Bright little eyes peered at the big black car, at the occasionally twitching objects inside. Little creatures, creepers and flyers, sampled the tires and the paint and the banners, searching for something digestible. The sleepers slept on.
