He said, “Say, Mr Hartog, is this Commander Shaw?” Shaw said, “That’s me.”
“Well, a message has just come in on Commander Geisler’s line. It was from Colonel Mgelo—”
Hartog put in, “Chief of Police in Jinda.”
“—and he wants to see Commander Shaw right away. He’s sending a military plane into Manalati airfield to pick him up.”
Shaw remarked wryly, “They told me in Jinda the airfield was unserviceable.”
“Sure, that’s right—for civil aircraft with passengers,” the rating said. “Colonel Mgelo knows it’s risky but he says a military pilot can make it okay—you hope—and it’s the only way to get you back there real fast, sir.” He added, “He says it’s very important and the plane’ll be at Manalati within about an hour, okay?”
Shaw said, “Yes, thank you.” As the man left the office Hartog lifted an eyebrow. He said, “Seems I’m dead right. Could be they’ve got word about Edo.”
“Perhaps. Could I just use your phone, Hartog?”
“Course. Who d’you want to ring?”
Shaw said, “It might be a good idea just to check back with this Colonel Mgelo that the message really did come from him . . . you never can tell.”
There was a funny glitter in Hartog’s eye as he lifted his receiver and said thoughtfully, “Perhaps you’re right.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The call to Jinda did in fact confirm that Mgelo had rung and wanted to see Shaw—he had, he said, a lead to the girl, Gillian Ross. Shaw’s heart leapt at that, and he promised to get away the moment the plane touched down at Manalati.
Waiting a little later in Stephen Geisler’s room for the helicopter to be made ready again to fly him into Manalati, Shaw asked, “What’s your opinion of Hartog, Commander?”
The American didn’t seem surprised at the question; but he replied by asking, “Do I have to answer that?”
“No, but I would like your views very much.” Shaw smiled, crinkling his nose. “I’m here to help you, and the more I know about the whole set-up, the better I can do my job. You’ll appreciate that, I’m sure.”
“Why, yes.” Geisler shifted about nervily in his chair. “I don’t altogether hit it oil with him, he may have told you that. I don’t want to sound biased. I do try to be fair.”
“Of course. I realize it can be a ticklish business, this two-nation control. But you’ve no doubts about him in the line of security?”
Geisler was decisive on that point. “Oh, heck, no. He’s absolutely okay in that direction. Overkeen, I’d say.” He hesitated, rubbing thoughtfully at his forehead and frowning. “It’s just his personality, I guess. So goddam hasty and kind of overbearing. And impatient for results. Gets God Almighty het-up, you know what I mean? That’s what made him do this damfool stunt—” Geisler checked himself. “Did he tell you?”
“About joining the Cult—yes, he did. It was a risky thing to do and I’m not surprised you didn’t like it. All the same— it could pay off in the end.”
Geisler said, “Well, yes, maybe. But I’ll say I didn’t like it! As a serving officer on normal command duties—would you?”
Shaw grinned. “No, I wouldn’t.”
“See, the way I look at it, it’s not our job to get mixed up in that kind of thing. Could lead to all sorts of trouble, I guess. Could even mess things up for the people whose job it is, like you. I told him that.” He sighed. “Course, it’s partly the way we all get here at the base. Kind of gets a man down. That’s what’s happened to Julian. It’s that sort of atmosphere, if you get me. I’ve a feeling sometimes he’s going off his head, that he’ll crack up if he goes on like this.”
“You mean he needs some leave?” Shaw remembered what Anne Hartog had said about that. “Needs a break?”
“That’s about it. Being together here so many hours a day and sometimes half the night too, just lately while we’ve been putting the station on to an operational basis, and then with so little social life, well, we’ve got on each other’s nerves. That’s all, really.”
“Nothing more to it than that?”
Geisler said slowly, “I guess not, no. I’ve got to be fair. I reckon he could find plenty of fault with me, come to that.” He looked hard at Shaw suddenly. “You getting at anything particular, Commander?”
Shaw hesitated. Then he said, “I’ll be honest and tell you I don’t know what to think. There’s one or two things that I don’t believe quite add up, but then again, they could. Hartog struck me as some one who’s his own worst enemy in a way. I mean, it’s almost as though he wants people to be suspicious about him. As you said, it could even be that he is getting a little bit unbalanced. That’s rather how he struck me, too. But we don’t want anything to go wrong, just now particularly. I’ll be having a word with this Colonel Mgelo in Jinda about—about one thing and another, but in the meantime I’d like you to do something for me.”
“And that is?”
Shaw said quietly, “Keep an eye on Hartog while I’m away. Try not to leave him alone till I get back—I shan’t be gone long, I hope. I’m not quite easy in my mind, but I don’t want to act just yet and perhaps mess up a lead. You see, if Hartog’s genuine, and he very likely is, then he may really be on the verge of finding something out from the Edo boys, something that’ll tie this job right up. On the other hand, if he’s—well, not so genuine as he says he is, he could still lead us to something he doesn’t intend. I can’t risk dropping any leads down the drain. What he told me did have the ring of truth about it, as a matter of fact, but I’d like him watched—very unobtrusively, so he doesn’t know what’s going on. Can you fix that?”
“Why, sure I can if you want.”
Shaw relaxed. “Good—and thanks. It’s not a pleasant thing to do, I know, and I’m sorry to have to ask you, but it could be very important. And there’s something else. I’d like an eye kept on all the African labour. I don’t like the atmosphere among any of the blacks. It’s something I’ll be discussing with Mgelo. What I have in mind is that it might be wise to get rid of all African labour, but Mgelo might take a different view of that. He might think it would only exacerbate the situation, precipitate something. How would you feel about it?”
The American grinned. “Heck, sore as hell! It’d make things even more goddam uncomfortable till we could get white replacements sent out. Anyhow, I don’t think it’s at all necessary. We’ve never had any trouble with ’em.”
“Maybe not, but—if anything did start, say if they ran amok here inside the station, things might get pretty tricky, surely?”
“I don’t anticipate anything like that—I told you it’s all okay inside. They’re a decent enough bunch, and we’ve got ’em very well in hand.”
“Well, of course, it’s up to you, Commander.” Shaw looked at him narrowly. He asked, “Talking of the Africans, you’re quite convinced that Hartog’s genuine in what he says are his feelings for the blacks—that he loathes their guts?”
“I’m absolutely definite on that. You can’t live with a man for close on two years and not know if he’s acting. But he has got enough sense to keep his feelings to himself—especially, of course, since he joined the goddam Cult!” Shaw nodded. He looked round as a rating came in, saluted smartly, and reported the helicopter ready. As he got up he said, “So long as you’ll keep that eye open, it’s all we can do for now anyway. I’ll try to be back by this evening if I can. . . ."
At Manalati Shaw sat and waited uncomfortably in a bare, tin-roofed hut, listening to the monotonous drumming of the rain, a sound which filled the place like distant rumbling thunder, continuous and oppressive, a sound of foreboding. If a man had to listen to this kind of thing for six rainy months at a stretch, with only short intermissions, that alone would be enough to send him round the bend, he thought.
He was glad when he heard the sound of an aircraft circling to touch down on the sodden field. Soon now he would be in Jinda, and he could perhaps get some action start
ed if the man who called himself Edo really had turned up. Within a few minutes he had run through the soaking rain and climbed into the small cabin behind the pilot, who was a white. Then they were off, plunging through the mist of rain, climbing, climbing until they reached above the thick cloud layer and sped under a hot blue sky for Jinda.
Shaw had much on his mind during that run in; Hartog’s story—true or false? That Lee Enfield bullet... the way he’d come out with the story about Edo having turned up... his open admission that he was a member of the Cult... his habit of drink, which something must be driving him to—a guilty conscience of sorts? Shaw didn’t know; the man was an enigma, a contradiction. Somehow there wasn’t quite the right feeling to all this. Certainly Hartog didn’t strike Shaw as being a traitor; there was a latent honesty in the man somewhere. And yet—if he could be assumed to have fooled the Cult into accepting him on his own merits, could he not equally well be assumed to have fooled Geisler and now Shaw? Again, couldn’t it have seemed to Hartog to be a good idea, a disarming idea, to go straight to the man whom he knew to be investigating, and tell him about Edo’s coming— in other words, tell him something which he would be bound to hear for himself sooner or later in any case—if it was true at all? And couldn’t the same thing be said of his admission that he had joined the Cult?
Where was the answer?
When the aircraft came over Jinda the clouds had gone, leaving a welcome if only temporary lull in the rains.
A policeman, an African constable in a smart, well-starched khaki uniform and blue peaked cap, and with a folded cloak over his arm, was waiting for Shaw in the main dispersal hall of Jinda Airport. When he saw the tall, angular form swinging along, the only passenger off the specially cleared military plane, he stepped forward and saluted.
“Bwana, you are Commander Shaw?”
“That’s right. You’ve come from Colonel Mgelo, have you?”
“Yes, Bwana. There is a car outside. Please follow.”
The man turned about smartly and marched away, Shaw behind him. He went up to a police car which was parked at the entrance, and he swung the door open, standing aside and saluting. And then, as Shaw ducked to get in, he saw the small round hole, the gun held very steady in a big black fist, and the tilt of a brown hat over crinkly greying hair and a heavy, cruel face.
Instinctively he reached for his own gun and backed away. He backed into the muzzle of another gun, held by the African policeman. A voice murmured in his ear, “Keep your hands at your sides, white man.”
From the car’s interior Sam Wiley said softly, “At last, Commander Shaw. I am only sorry Mr Canasset is not here to welcome you as well—but he is already where your people can’t touch him. Now please get in quickly and without a fuss.” He reached out, took Shaw’s gun, and pushed it down beside him. He said, “You will not recognize me—”
“Oh, yes, I do!” Shaw spoke between his teeth. “That powder of yours. . . it wore off, you know, a little sooner than you thought it would, I dare say, Wiley! Anyway—how did you get into Nogolia?”
Wiley laughed. “Money talks fast enough.”
Shaw stared at the man, his face stiff. “If I refuse to get into the car you won’t dare to use that gun. There’s rather too many people about, I fancy.”
“With the Jinda police force behind the Cult?” Wiley lifted his eyebrows mockingly, looked sadly at Shaw for a moment, shaking his head. “We would merely be dealing with a man resisting arrest. No, I don’t think you would get away with that. And, you see, if it so happened that you did, then the girl would have to die, and I’m afraid she would die somewhat messily. So if you wouldn’t mind getting in . . .?”
Shaw felt the policeman’s arms wind round him like steel bands, and his arms were wrenched up behind his back. He was thrown forward into the car, landing in a heap at Wiley’s feet, and then he felt the cold steel of the big African’s gun in his neck. People looked on but made no move to interfere with the police as the constable slammed the door and ran round to the front and jumped in. At once the car pulled away fast. It looked so innocent, with its police driver and the constable sitting statue-like beside him in the front seat, its blaring siren clearing away the ordinary traffic along the road into Jinda.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I suppose you think you’re pretty smart.”
Shaw spoke savagely, feeling Wiley’s gun-muzzle pressed close into his side now as he sat beside the African on the thick cushions.
Wiley chuckled throatily. “Wouldn’t you agree? You could scarcely afford to disregard a summons from the Chief of Police of a host country, especially after you’d checked that the call really did come from him—could you? As to these men,” he added, waving a thick arm at the uniformed men in the front, “they, too, are the genuine article.” He looked gloatingly at the agent. “You realize what all this means, of course?”
“You tell me. I like facts better than guesses at times like this.”
“Very well. It means this: You’ve failed, and our movement is ready. As to you. . . I could not make the assumption that you would not find out, or guess, what we had in mind to do, and that is why I had to get my hands on you again, before you could throw any more spanners in the works, Commander Shaw. And now you’re going to have the fun of being in at the kill. However, you will hear more of this later.”
They came into the shanty town on Jinda’s outskirts, their speed dropping to a mere crawl as they moved with difficulty through roads choked with shouting Africans, Africans in whom the blood-lust was well and truly up now. Shaw’s mouth was set into a hard line. The situation was obviously going to blow right up at any minute, had developed catastrophically in the short time since he’d passed through the capital. . . heavens, he thought unbelievingly, that was only yesterday!
Soon the car was forced to a halt, surrounded by a pressing, screaming mob, a mob that had seen the white man sitting in the back. The din was growing alarmingly, the smell of heated African bodies was seeping in through the windows, and a moment later a big stone was flung at the glass and fragments showered into the interior, cutting Shaw’s cheek. Still keeping his gun pressed tightly into Shaw’s side, Wiley leaned across, shouting and gesticulating. Somehow he made the mob understand. And as they understood, they seemed to go mad, leaping up and down in what seemed to be a frenzy of joy. They pressed away, the news spread; Wiley’s car was being given a clear passage, and all around at the roadsides men and women were prostrating themselves.
Shaw looked out of the window in amazement, and then, when he heard the swelling roar of acclaim, the sheer hysteria of the welcome, he, too, understood.
Hartog had been so right.
Edo had come—and he was sitting right next to him.
The shouts, the cries went on unceasingly, swelling, mounting . . . "Edo, Edo, Edo. . . .”
The mob was going mad.
Wiley leaned towards the window again, lifted a hand to his disciples, waving, bowing, smiling; a lordly figure. He called out, and they stilled their voices gradually. Then Shaw noticed the way Wiley jerked his hand ahead, drawing the mob’s attention to something on the road, and he looked and saw the other car.
That car had two white men in it, and as the police car came up closer, Shaw watched, impotently and in horror, as the doors were wrenched open and the predatory hands reached in, the mob baying out on a high note of animal hate. A moment later a flame leapt into the air and within seconds the whole car was a fiery mass. The shouting beat into Shaw’s ears, and then he saw the two men being literally flung through the air from hand to hand above the heads of the Africans howling for their blood, their faces dead white and their eyes staring, blood pouring from gashes in their bodies. Then they dropped down into the middle of the seething mass which closed in like vultures, tearing and ripping, kicking and lashing and gouging, baying like beasts. For one brief, never-to-be-forgotten moment a pain-contorted face reared up above the black heads, screaming horribly. There was a convul
sive heaving twitch and the body arced backwards like a bow, gave one more long scream, and then it was over.
Shaw was trembling and drenched with sweat. This, he knew, was just the start. If he couldn’t get away, if he couldn’t rid Africa of Wiley and the wicked teachings of his filthy Cult, then a page of history would be turned, bloodily, finally, and for ever.
And there didn’t seem to be one hope in all the world of getting away now.
Wiley gave a brief order to the police driver and the car swung off into a side street where the way was relatively clear. Some minutes later, after many twists and turns, they drew up outside a building on the fringe of the European sector and Shaw was ordered out. The police car drove away with the English-speaking constable, and Shaw was sent reeling towards a doorway. Behind him Wiley kept the gun lined up, though it was scarcely necessary to do so; Shaw knew well enough that if he tried a break-away just now Wiley had only to let him go and the mob, still howling in the near distance, would quickly do the rest. Just before he was pushed inside he caught a glimpse of a truckload of African soldiers speeding down for the riot area, and then he was jabbed forward into a dirty passage. And at the end he saw the terrified, wide-eyed face of a girl staring at him. . . .
The girl was white and she was Gillian Ross. Behind her, he saw a squat, powerful African, his dark fingers gripping the girl’s shoulders.
Shaw started forward, and at once Wiley grabbed his arms. He struggled violently, risking the gun behind him; but another black pushed past and came for him, and he was sent staggering into a room opening off the passage to the right. As he lurched into the middle of this room he heard the girl’s despairing cry, a cry which was bitten off in a gasp of pain.
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