Assignment Black Gold (8 page)

“First, you have no choice. If you do not agree, if you
attempt to leave Lubinda secretly, or it you betray me, you will spend the rest
of your life in this prison. I promise you that. You will not live long under
these conditions. but each hour will seem like a year. Also, you see, I know
you. I have your dossier here, and I know what you can do. You will go to the
Saka and persuade him, for me, to rise from the dead and help save us.”

“Would he listen to me, a stranger?”

"You will speak for me, my words will be in your
mouth.
 
will listen.” Lepaka paused. “He
is not in sympathy with Lopes, his son. Be not concerned about that. But if he
refuses you and me, you will not leave Lubinda.”

“Alive, you mean?”

“In any fashion.”

“The Saka is an old man.”

“He will listen.”

The wind came in through the small window and again died in
agony, Durell thought about the prison, and did not like his thoughts. He knew
that Komo Lepaka meant every word he said. Whether or not me words held the
whole truth. he could not know.

He said, “And Brady Cotton?”

“You may pursue your search for him.”

“I ‘want to go to the Lady," Durell said.

The colonel's heavy eyelids thinned. “You think Brady

is there? No, no. He is off in the jungles—"

“I'd like to look.”

Lepaka said, “It is not in my jurisdiction. You must ask
Hobe Tallman. He will refuse you. Duty a maintenance crew is on the rig now.
All work has been stopped."

“I can get there,” Durell said.

“How?"

“Maybe Mrs. Cotton will help.”

“Ah. Kitty. A lovely young woman. Very helpful to our
people. She teaches English to our children here, did you know that?"

“How much time will you give me?” Durell insisted.

Lepaka thought about it. “You may have all of tomorrow. By
evening, you must he on your way to the Kahara Desert. I will let you know
where to look for the Saka. You will be gone three days, at the most. You may
be sure that you will be observed every moment. Any attempt to reach the border
will prove unfortunate for you —and perhaps for Mrs. Cotton. too.”

“You’re not as subtle as I thought.” Durell said.

“When the
fdata
snake strikes, his fangs are bared.”

Chapter 8.

There was a brief freshness in the morning air when Durell
stepped through the prison gates. He walked through the empty streets and lanes
of the town and noted that lights were burning in the Presidential Palace. In
the Chinese quarter, he smelled breakfast rice cooking and heard the wail of a
child, the grunt of a pig in a backyard. He was not followed. He checked
several times, and spotted no one.

He did not go back to the Lopodama Hotel. He walked quietly
to the Pequah, entered that maze of tiny shops and tenements, and came to Brady
Cotton’s establishment. All the windows were dark. There was a cord attached to
a bell above the shaded shop door, and he tugged it gently. then again,
listening to the dim tinkling inside. The lane was dark and shadowed, but no
one loitered nearby. He heard a
hooting
from the
whistle of one of the freighters moored in the river mouth. A rooster began to
crow. To the west, the Atlantic brooded in sullen darkness under fading stars.

On the third ring, he heard movement beyond the door. Kitty
Cotton appeared, wearing an ultra-short nightie that did nothing to make her
look less desirable. Her eyes were sleepy.

“Cajun? Come in.” She undid the chain and the lock and
stepped aside for him to enter. “Where’ve you been?”

“Down at the docks. In jail.“

“Jail? Oh, Lord.”

“Colonel Lepaka knows all about me. He’s known about Brady’s
cover tor some time, it seems."

“Damn it. I told Brady he wasn't being too smart about
things. Come in, Sam. I’ll make some coffee. Isn’t that jail a hellhole?"

“I didn‘t see too much of it. Lepaka says I have a
choice—spend the rest of my life there, or help him with a private job he wants
done. He‘s given me this day to find Brady."

“Nuts. Where can you look?”

“On the Lady, I thought.”

“You can‘t get out there. Nobody can.”

“Matty might help me.”

“Matt takes orders from Hobe Tallman, and Hobe says no one,
but no one, goes out to the rig. He’s worried about sabotage, I guess.”

“Would you come with me?” Durell asked.

Her eyes were suddenly less sleepy. “Why me?”

“Brady’s your husband, isn’t he?”

“Not much of one,” she said.

He followed her up the stairs. The short nightie was a
marvelous temptation. He kept his hands to himself.

“Let me put the coffee on and get dressed,” she said.

“How do you expect to get out to the Lady?”

“Doesn't Brady own a boat?”

She turned and looked at him. “Oh. I see what you mean.
Matter of fact, I reckon he does. I’m not particularly fond of boats anymore.
Are you?”

“I sail a little.”

“This is a power boat. I don’t think Brady's ever taken it
out to sea that far. It’s almost twenty miles to the rig, you know.”

“What’s its speed?”

“Oh, fifteen knots, maybe. Make it two hours to get
out there—as long as the ocean is reasonably calm.”

“Fine,” he said. “Get dressed."

She was quick and efficient in everything she did. He noted
that she did not ask specifically what Lepaka had demanded of him. She
vanished into the bedroom while he sipped the hot chicory-flavored
coffee, and when she came out, she was wearing dark dungarees and a blue polo
shirt that let him see the contours of her fine breasts. She had tied her
hair into long braids and pinned them on top of her proud head. He thought
again that Brady Cotton had been a fool to lose her. Her back and shoulders
were very straight.

“Have you got a gun?” she asked.

“Do you think we’ll need one?”

‘“I’m not sure. It’s because of what the children that I
teach have been saying.”

“And what’s that?”

She shrugged. “The rig is haunted. A sea devil lives out
there. That sort of thing. Native superstition.”

“Do you think a sea devil is out there?”

She looked at him seriously. “I honestly don’t know. I just
thought a gun might be handy.”

“Not against ghostly spirits.”

“All right. I’m just a bit jumpy, I reckon. With Brady
missing, and the sabotage and accidents, and you showing up, and all. You
bother me, do you know that?”

“How do I bother you?” Durell asked.

She kept her gaze level. “It’s just that you seem to be all
the things I wish Brady might be. In some ways, I don’t like you. You scare me
a little. Don’t forget, I was brought up on Cape Ann, and I’m part Portuguese fisherman,
too. Lots of superstitions there, you see. About the ocean. I’ve never been out
to the Lady, you know.”

“Let’s go,” he said. “It’s getting light.”

She still hesitated. “Still, I wish Brady was more like you.
I’m taking a knife.”

“All right." He watched her choose a long,
wicked-looking blade with steel about ten inches long and a blackened wooden
handle. She had a leather sheath for it that clipped onto the wide studded belt
of her denims. Then she touched her hair in an utterly feminine gesture and
smiled, and the smile made her look defenseless, somewhat frightened, like a
small girl.

The boat was moored opposite the oil docks and the switching
yard where the explosions had occurred earlier. It was a thirty-two-foot wooden
craft of the Boston whaler type, with a wide beam and a diesel engine and an
extra fuel tank. There was a small canopy over a comfortable cockpit. It was
tied to the concrete pier under a dim light from a nearby security lamp. The
name on the stern was Kitty. The girl moved lightly, familiar with boats from
her childhood days at Gloucester. She checked the lines and the fuel, nodded
when Durell asked if there was enough for a round trip to the rig, and balanced
herself easily against the slight push of the tide coming into the estuary. Off
to the east the sky began to pale with the new dawn. Westward, over the African
coastal waters of the Atlantic, the ocean was still utterly dark except for a
few navigation lights winking against the blackness.

Durell heard the footsteps running from the oil company’s
rail yard as he was about to go down the rickety wooden ladder to the whaler.
He paused. touched the gun in his belt. The smell of smoke still hovered in the
air from the earlier explosions.

“Cajun!”

It was Matt Forchette. His chunky figure appeared in
the nearby pool of light. He wore boots and a checked cotton shirt and he held
a Colt’s .45 in his hand. His square face was turgid with anger.

“What in hell are you doing?”

“Going for a boat ride, Matty,” Din-ell spoke calmly.

“Why the gun?”

“Why not? You know what‘s happening around here.”

“But we’re not on company property.”

Matty did not lower the big automatic. He looked down at
Kitty Cotton and said, “Hi, sweetheart. I thought this feller was in jail.”

“Where did you hear that?” Durell asked.

“You told me yourself that Colonel Lepaka wanted to see you.
I just figured—” The stocky man looked confused for a moment. He started to
lower his gun, then brought it up again. “Listen, Sam, I know you—you’ve got to
be up to something. Just where are you going? To the rig?”

“Yes. Looking for Brady Cotton,” Durell said.

“You think he’s out on the Lady?”

“He might be. He seems to be nowhere else.”

Matt made a snorting sound. “The chopper went out there two
hours ago. Haven’t heard a word since. No radio contact at all. The supply
tender needs repairs, since the explosions, so that’s no good either. I’m goin’
with you.”

Durell looked at Kitty, who nodded. “What do you mean, you
haven’t heard anything from the Lady?”

“Contact went out before the chopper got there. Sure, we’re
supposed to have radio telecommunications on twenty-four-hour service.
Normally, the platform takes a crew of fifty-four men, but Hobe pulled
most of them off

when he decided we were goin’ into a dry hole—which I think
is a lot of crap—and he left only six men for maintenance. Tommy Crandon, Joe Ball,
Eddie Grogan—I got the list back in the office."

“You think something has happened out there?”

“I damn well mean to find out.”

Durell said, “You don’t need that gun to convince me. Get
aboard.”

Kitty handled the wheel. She stood with her legs braced against
the rolling swell of the estuary and the incoming tide. Matty the Fork settled
down on the stern near the inboard engine hatch and glumly put away his gun. In
la moment, the dark shore receded, its empty storage tanks along the dock a
mute testimony to unfulfilled hopes. A few lights twinkled in the town,
but the sky to the east was now filled with radiance as the hot dawn
began. The whaleboat proved sturdy and powerful against the thrust of the tide
in the mouth of the river.

Matt stared moodily into the blackness ahead.

“What kind of trouble are you in, Sam? Seems to me you held
out on me a bit, earlier.”

“Lepaka is giving me a little pressure.”

“What’s he want?”

“It’s jail or a little job for him.”

“You don’t want the local crib. It’s real bad. He can make
any charge stick, you know.” Matty looked grim.

“What does he want you to do?”

“I have to find the Saka.”

Kitty turned and stared at Durell. Matt grunted and said,
“That’s easy. His body is in the tomb by the river.”

“Lepaka says he‘s alive, somewhere in the Kahara."

“Jesus. That beats everything yet.”

“Do you believe it, Matt?”

“Listen, anything can happen in Lubinda. I wouldn’t say yes
or no. But you’ll get your head chopped off and your guts cut out, and anything
else bad that you can think of, goin’ into the Kahara.”

“Is Madragata really the Saka’s son?"

“So they say. It gives the Apgaks a lot of political clout
with the tribes.”

"And Komo Lepaka?”

“He’s the Saka’s adopted son. Is that what Komo told you?”
Matt shook his head. “Jesus, the Saka. He must be a million years old by now.
Why would Komo want him back? It’ll open a whole new can of worms. Are you
going to do it?”

“Komo says I have no choice.”

“He’s probably right.”

At the wheel, Kitty said, “I don’t see any lights.”

Matt stood up, bracing himself against the pitch and plunge
of the small boat. “Maybe we’re not close enough yet.”

“Do the local fishermen come this far out?” Durell
asked.

“Not often. Sometimes. They don’t like to get out of sight
of land."

The day was bright now. They could see the horizon ahead and
the last stars had paled away. Durell felt the heat of the morning sun on the
back of his neck, and he put on sunglasses against the glare of light on the
oily, heaving water. Kitty checked the compass bearing and Matt stood up straighter,
scowling at the sea. A low line of cumulus clouds hovered just above the
horizon.

‘“There she is,” Matt said suddenly. His voice was thick
with relief. “Over there. Lubinda Lady I.”

Durell saw the drilling tower at the same moment. They were
still six or seven miles away, and a morning haze clung to the surface of the
Atlantic, making the platform seem to flout in the air, as if detached
from the sea bottom that supported it. A pair of binoculars swung from the
binnacle, and Durell reached around for them to study the rig. There were no
other vessels in sight in the early morning light except a distant freighter,
far on the horizon. He swept the sea in a full circle. Two triangular red fishing
sails were behind them, bearing south along the hazy green coast.

“Let me look,” Matt said.

“In a moment.”

With every minute, the rig became clearer in the lenses. The
mast, towering 140 feet above the deck and half as much again above the surface
of the greenish sea, seemed intact. The stiff-legged Clyde derrick appeared to
be canted a bit on its rotary table. The great tubular platform piers were
streaked with rust. He swung the glasses amidships, where a tangle of lines and
cables looped down from the
jackhouse
into the
surging swells. To the
 
left wore the
metal-sheathed houses for the crew, and then the helicopter deck, beyond the
machinery house. The heliport was cantilevered out over the sea from behind the
crew’s quarters. He looked again, and then handed the binoculars to Matt
Forchette.