Lee Falk - [Story of the Phantom 15]

by The Curse of the Two Headed Bull (v0. 9) (epub)

  Why had she come here? Chasing Loka and the image? Daring foolish girl, trying to help. He returned to the drawling room. The coffee set caught his eye, something on one of the cups. Red lipstick. He sniffed the cup, searching for her perfume. No trace of that, but something else, a faint lavender scent of a powerful drug he knew well. Someone, wearing lipstick, had been drugged to sleep. Diana? Where had they taken her? He realized he might be making all this up and that she could be on her way to her hotel at that very moment. And Loka and the image? Had he reached her with it? Too many questions. No answers. He galloped down the stairs to the lobby. The clerk and doorman were together at the counter. They backed up as he rushed at them.

  “Did any woman leave with the Sheik’s party?”

  “One,” said the clerk, trying to edge behind the doorman.

  “What did she look like?”

  “Couldn’t tell. In a wheelchair, her head covered with a veil,” said the paunchy doorman. “Are you Scotland Yard, sir?”

  “Wheelchair? Was a woman registered in the party?”

  “That old bird had many a lady visitor. None registered,” said the doorman with a toothless grin. “Mister, that lady you speak of, I paid her taxi fare.”

  “You what?”

  “When she came here . . . lost her purse, she said. I often make advances for the guests—expecting, naturally, a tip, sir,” he went on, winking broadly.

  “How much?”

  ‘‘Two quid,” said the doorman with a straight face.

  The Phantom handed him the money. “You didn’t see her go?”

  “Many’s the time the ladies leave by the back way,” he grinned. The clerk had remained frozen during all this.

  “Now we’ll see!” he announced suddenly. A police car was stopping at the curb. “They want to talk to you, sir.”

  The Phantom turned and raced through the lobby, into the lounge. A nice old woman, the ladies’ room attendant, was standing there.

  “Where’s the back door?” She pointed the way. He raced on, out the door, into the alley, over a fence, across a yard, another fence, and he was gone.

  On the way to the airport, he stopped the cab three times at as many phone booths, each time calling Diana’s hotel.

  No answer in her room. No message for him. He reached Heathrow Airport. At the information booth, the pert girl in uniform advised him, after having the name spelled three times, and looking through two flight books, that no departures were scheduled for Suda-Kalara that day.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  That puzzled him for a moment. Had she seen a group with a man who looked like a Gulf Sheik? Dozens every day, she said with a grin. The place was full of them. But the Sheik of Suda-Kalara was not an ordinary type, he was one of the world’s richest men. Would he use the scheduled airlines? Probably not, he quickly told himself. Either a charter, or his own plane. Where to find out about such flights? “Over there,” said the pert girl, pointing to an office door.

  Behind the door, a bald man with heavy eyebrows and a bushy mustache sat behind a desk reading a travel brochure extolling the beauties of the South Seas. Was there a nonscheduled plane flying to Suda-Kalara? The man examined a sheet. One item caught his eye. He studied it. Then he shook his head. “Such flights are confidential, for. security reasons,” he said, looking carefully at the big man wearing sunglasses. Men like the Sheik were protected at every step—by guards, by clerks, by bureaucrats. The Phantom was desperate. From the man’s reaction, there obviously was, had been, or would be such a flight.

  “I’ve no wish to assassinate the Sheik, or even borrow money from him. My girl is on that plane. I want to say good-bye,” he said as lightly as he could. The man grinned.

  “I’m not supposed to tell you and I’ll deny it if you say I told you. Try Gate Thirty-two.” He winked and went back to his travel folder.

  He rushed to Gate 32. It was closed, locked. Beyond was an open door, through it the field. On the field, a large plane warming up. He looked around. A gateman was a few yards away. No use talking to him. The iron gate was about ten feet high. He grasped the bars, then swung up and over it, dropping to the other side in a flash. The gateman called to him, then rushed to a wall phone.

  He ran through the door onto the field and headed for the big plane that was starting to roll. There were warning shouts behind him, the sound of running feet. He ran on, nearing the plane. High up in the small windows, several faces looked down at him. One, a bearded man wearing a turban with a shining jewel. A black man who had to be Lamanda’s brother Loka. A big black shaven head, another face framed by a burnoose hood, and a shapeless head, covered in black. The faces looked down at him as he ran alongside the plane, calling a name—Diana. Then the jet motors rewed up. A mighty blast hit him, knocking him off his feet. The plane rolled oh, picking up speed. Two airport policemen rushed toward him. He got up and stared after the plane. It had reached the runway and was taking off.

  “You’re not permitted out here, sir. If you’ve suffered any injury, you cannot hold us responsible,” said the officer.

  “No injuries. I was just saying good-bye.”

  “This area is for departing passengers only,” said the other officer sternly.

  “Sorry, my mistake.”

  As he neared the door back into the building, he noticed something he had not seen on the way out—a wheelchair.

  In the big plane, the Sheik and his aide looked curiously at the man running on the field, shouting up at them. Who might that be? Taras looked back at Loka, seated behind, him with a big guard. “Did you know him?” Loka shook his head. In the next seat behind Loka, the figure in the black veils slumped against the window. The big guard with her moved her so that she lay back in the seat. Loka clutched the large leather case on his lap.

  “Rest that on the floor,” said Taras. “We have a long voyage ahead.”

  “I’ll hold it,” said Loka, clutching it tightly. It was all ha had to hold on to. His mind was a blank, stunned by what; was happening to him. The huge man who sat silently next to him had black skin like his own. That was all they had in, common. Not one word of the same language. He could have, been from a different age, a different planet. Slave. Slave? It couldn’t be real. It can’t be real. I’ll wake up. It’ll be a bad dream. I’ll laugh when I tell Sala. But an icy clutching pain, in his gut told him this was no dream. It was real.

  CHAPTER 15

  Suda-Kalara was a tiny landlocked kingdom deep in the great desert, and deeper into the Middle Ages. With no seaport, no shoreline or other access to the sea, it had remained completely cut off from the outside world for centuries. With only a scattering of oases, a few dreary dried-mud villages and miles of sand, it had had nothing to attract the conquerors from the days of the ancient Persians on. It was equally of no interest to Western travelers or the later hordes of tourists. It remained known only to its own disease-ridden inhabitants, a few roving Bedouin bands and the caravans.

  Camel caravans still trekked across the sandy wastes. The swaying, ill-tempered “ships of the desert” carricd goods for barter, still following the tradition of Biblical times. For Suda-Kalara, they also carried a commodity that was becoming rare in the twentieth century—slaves. Though outlawed by United Nations covenants and the laws of almost every nation on earth, the ancient evil persisted in a few remote areas—among them, Suda-Kalara.

  Sometime after World War II, a revolutionary discovery was made there. The tiny kingdom rested on a sea of oil. And the Sheik, whose family had acquired all the real estate over the centuries, now owned all the oil. Personally. No one could accurately estimate his newfound wealth. With it, he bought all the luxurious products of the West—motorcars, planes, air conditioning, inside plumbing, and powerful weapons for his tiny army. The weapons were the only products, purchased for use by anyone but himself. He had no intention of squandering his billions foolishly on such extravagances as hospitals, schools, housing, roads
or all the rest of the things that some of his more enlightened fellow rulers were building or buying.

  The Sheik Mustapha Ali Suda-Kalara was a traditionalist. Except for his new personal conveniences, he wanted his country unchanged. With the expensive new weapons, his borders were closed tighter than ever. Visitors Were not welcome, in fact rarely permitted. Only the technicians involved with his oil fields were welcomed. But they were carefully segregated in guarded compounds, and no families were permitted, only the workers. Though they complained, their wages were so lavish that they accepted the restrictions, and couldn’t wait until they had saved enough to get out.

  One of the hallowed traditions the Sheik respected was slavery. Though he had power of life and death over slaves, as well as over his “free” subjects, he did not mistreat his slaves. They were never permitted outside the vast palace estates. Since they were better clothed and fed than the free citizens, and received better medical attention and food than those outside, it was advisable to keep the slaves from public view. The free citizens might get some ideas.

  The slaves tended his estates. The prettier young females staffed his large harems. There were women of many colors, many nations. In his television programs too, the Sheik liked variety. Since there was no television station within a thousand miles, he built his own. The only television sets in the country were in his ten palaces, in the military barracks, and the compounds of the foreign technicians. The programs consisted of films from all countries, shown twenty-four hours a day. No commercials. A television addict’s dream.

  This was the place Diana and Loka were rapidly approaching in the Sheik’s luxurious private plane. It was a large jet, the sort used for transoceanic travel. But it did not have the conventional seats and aisles. Instead, it was furnished like the drawing room of one of the Sheik’s palaces— a few deep sofas, large cushions, thick rugs, rich hangings, only a few uncovered windows.

  As Diana slept, a servant removed the black veil that covered her face. The Sheik and his aide Taras discussed her. Both held the medieval opinion of women that was common to males in their part of the world: Women were only good for pleasure cSr bearing children. The Sheik had known a few European women, and though he’d never known an American, he recognized that Diana had background and breeding. At first, it seemed a mistake that they had brought her. But time had been short, and since he’d decided to take the image, he could not leave her behind. There was the fact of Helmsley’s death—a nuisance. And the stolen art object. The Sheik valued the respect of his fellow rulers. It would not do to be involved in such shoddy matters.

  What to do with this sleeping girl? She was bound to be missed, by someone. Seven Savile Place might remember her visit, though they hadn’t seen her leave with them. The Sheik shrugged at all this. He had no sense of lawbreaking. He was the law in his land. There was only the fear of offending his peers in neighboring countries as well as in the United Nations which he had recently joined. Obviously, the girl’s presence must be kept a secret. The Sheik observed her with the eyes of an expert. Even drugged and asleep, she was pretty. Well made. In proper attire, she would even be beautiful. The solution was simple. She would disappear into his vast harem. At first, as was customary, she would remain close to him. Later, she would go to the officers’ barracks.

  When Diana awoke, it took her time to realize what had happened. When she did, her first reaction was anger, fury. But there was no comfort in the cold faces around her. Only the anxious eyes of Loka watched with fear and sadness. They did not tell her why she had been brought along, or where she was going. They told her nothing. She would learn all in due time. The Sheik had retired to his private chamber on the plane and was not present when she awoke. Taras advised her to sit quietly, or she would be tied up.

  Her anger soon changed to despair. The Phantom? What could he be thinking? If only she had called her hotel and left a message for him as she wanted to! That would have given her some hope. But now, how could he ever find her? How could he know that she had actually been abducted, and was being flown to some unknown destination—most likely the Sheik’s country. While she had waited that short time in the lounge of 7 Savile Place, her hand had actually been on the phone. She had been about to phone her hotel and leave the message for him. But the phone had rung at that very second, the desk clerk telling her to go upstairs—“at once.” She clenched her fists. If only she had waited a moment, made that call. If . . . If. . . . She sank back into the deep seat. The huge black guard near her was like a statue. What now? What now?

  At the desert airport, a cordon of soldiers surrounded the big plane. Diana was once more covered with the heavy black veil. She and Loka, clutching the box, were whisked into a big limousine with curtained windows, along with the two giant guards. The Sheik and Taras rode in a specially built Rolls Royce—the entire top was transparent, bulletproof plastic, giving him a clear, safe view of his beloved subjects, and vice versa.

  They reached the Sheik’s main palace, a vast complex of gardens, fountains, pavillions and buildings that rivalled the Taj Mahal in beauty and the French palace at Versailles for size. Beautiful and enormous. Its furnishings and art treasures staggered the imagination. The wealth of the world was pouring into this tiny, remote kingdom, and much of it was in this palace.

  Diana, still veiled, was' walked and carried (when she started to resist) into the heavily guarded women’s quarters. There, a quartet of fat women stripped off her clothes, giggling and chattering all the while. At first, Diana tried to fight them off. It was useless. They were as strong as men. When she realized they were trying to get her into a huge bathtub, she relaxed. The warm perfumed water covered with blossoms looked delicious. She was dying for a bath. These women were the working staff of the harem. Not the sex objects. A few of those beauties in scanty gauzy attire watched at a distance. The word “Amerikane” was whispered among them and raced through the quarters. More girls of all sizes and ages joined the spectators. There were women of many races and nations here, some from Western Europe. This one was a rarity, a genuine Amerikane!

  Then, bathed, dried, powdered and perfumed, she was clad in a wispy garment like the others (like a strip-teaser near the end of her act, thought Diana). A jeweled necklace, then jangling bracelets on her arms and ankles. She was led to a big cushion and seated there, while one of the fat women brushed her hair. Then she was left alone. After a few moments, some of the other harem girls approached her shyly and spoke to her in several languages, none of which she understood. She looked at the smiling, pretty, dull-eyed faces. I can’t believe this, she told herself. I’m in a real harem! Now what?

  Loka was brought into a large chamber, the throne room. Taras instructed him to place the image on a marble table. Soon many people, both men and women, assembled. They were the entire palace staff. Armed guards stood at the doors. They saluted smartly as the Sheik entered, clad in sparkling white from head to toe—turban, silk jacket and baggy pants, leather boots with curling tips. He stood before his azure and gold throne and told them about the image that no one save Loka on pain of death was ever to touch. They understood. They bowed. They left. A bench was placed near the image. Taras told Loka he was to sit there every day, all day, except when eating or sleeping. He was in charge of the image, polishing it, watching it. The armed soldiers, at their normal posts at the doorways, would also guard it.

  Loka sank down on the bench. By now, he understood his role and his fate. All day always. He was a slave, the lowest of the low. He would live and die here, a slave. There could be no escape from this heavily guarded place. None, except death. He was right about that. There was no escape from the entire small country. There was no place to go. He thought of Sala, fierce, loyal, beautiful Sala, as devoted as though she were his slave. How stupid he had been to leave her with that ship’s captain! Duke had insisted she be left behind. No women. He thought of his shack where he and Sala had spent so many happy hours. He thought of his village—the huts, the ha
ppiness. He thought of his brother . . . high up in his own palace. What a fool I was, he cried to himself, the eternal plaint of the prodigal. He stared at the sacred image, gleaming so brightly under the hundreds of chandelier bulbs. This is what had brought his people good luck? He was Llongo. Where was his luck? What had it done for him? Brought him to this shameful state. No Llongo in all history had ever been a slave. In the days of the slave trade, they’d fought to the death rather than be put in chains. But here he was, nephew of the High Chief, brother of the most important man in the nation, a slave to the image he had stolen from his own people. Some luck!

  Deep in his misery, Loka could not know that his luck was on the way at last, riding high above the clouds, moving faster than the wind.

  CHAPTER 16

  Before leaving Heathrow Airport, the Phantom learned that he could make a connection to Suda-Kalara the following day by changing planes in Rome. He returned to Diana’s hotel and waited for several hours. There was a slim chance she had slipped out of 7 Savile Place and was still in London. Her clothes were still neatly arranged in her suitcase, her toilet articles on the bureau. He looked at them with a heavy heart. If she was still in London, was she alive? He made a few phone calls to hospitals, police stations, and finally, to the morgue. No information about her. That done* he knew what he must do. Go to Suda-Kalara. Either she was there, or the information about her was there. And Loka and the sacred image were also there. He checked Diana out of the hotel, taking her suitcase.

  He sent two long cables, one to Bangalla, one to New York. Then he went to the kennels to get Devil. The big gray wolf was so overjoyed to see him that he almost knocked down the attendant who led him out of his cage. Outside the airport, he had a porter take Devil to the freight section. The police might still be watching for a man with a dog like Devil. He had checked the freight section of the plane to Rome. The pressure and temperature were the same: as the passenger section. Devil would be comfortable there.