Rhodesia (6 page)

He made his last turn, saw with satisfaction that he would flare-out exactly on the third yellow crossbar of the runway and settle like a feather. He hoped the Chinese fellow. Si Kalgan, was watching. It would be nice to get to know him better, such a handsome devil with a real brain. If he didn't look Chinese you'd consider him a German — so quiet, alert, and methodical Of course his race didn't matter — if there was one thing Herman really prided himself on, it was an open mind. That was where Hitler, for all his fine points, had gone wrong. Herman had figured it out for himself and was proud of his insight.

A crewman directed him up to the line, waving a yellow paddle. Herman stopped on the spot and saw with pleasure that Si Kalgan and the crippled old man were waiting under the awning of the field operations office. He thought of him as the crippled old man because he usually traveled in the electric cart in which he was sitting now, but there wasn't so much wrong with his body and certainly nothing slow about his mind or tongue. He had an artificial hand and he wore a large eyepatch, but even when he walked — with a limp — he moved as crisply as he talked. He was called Mike Bor but Herman was sure his name had once been something else, perhaps in Germany, but it was best not to think about that.

Herman came to attention in front of the two men and extended the envelope to the cart. "Good evening, Mr. Kalgan — Mr. Bor. Mr. Wilson sent this to you."

Si smiled at Herman. "A beautiful landing, a satisfaction to watch. Report to Mr. Kramkin. I believe he wants you to return in the morning with some staff."

Herman decided against saluting, but came to attention, bowed, and went into the office. Bor tapped the photos thoughtfully against an aluminum armrest. "Andrew Grant," he said softly. "A man of many names."

"He is the one you and Heinrich — met before?"

"Yes." Bor handed him the pictures. "Don't ever forget that face — until we eliminate it Call Wilson and warn him. Order him explicitly to take no action. We will handle this. There must be no error. Come — we must talk with Heinrich."

Seated in a lavishly furnished room with a wall that slid back to join it to a spacious patio, Bor and Heinrich spoke in low tones while Kalgan telephoned. "There is no doubt. You agree?" Bor asked.

Heinrich, a gray-haired man of at least fifty-five who seemed to sit at attention even in a deep, foam-cushioned chair, nodded. "It is the AXEman. I think at last he has come to the wrong place. We have the information early, so we plan, then strike." He brought his hands together with a small slap. "Surprise is with us."

"We will make no mistakes," Bor said, speaking with the measured tones of a chief of staff outlining strategy. "We assume he will accompany the tourist party to Wankie. He must do that to maintain what he assumes is his cover. That is our perfect place to hit, as the Italians say. Deep in the bush. We will have the armored truck. A helicopter in reserve. Use Herman, he is dedicated, and Krol for a gunner, he is an excellent shot — for a Pole. Outposts on the roads. Draw up a complete tactical plan and a map, Heinrich. Some people would say we are using a mallet to swat a beetle, but they don't know this beetle the way we do, eh?"

"He is a beetle with a wasp's sting and a skin like a chameleon. Not to be underestimated." Mullers face showed the ugly anger of bitter memories.

"We want more information if we can get it, but our prime objective is the elimination of Andrew Grant once and for all. Call it Operation Kill Beetle. Yes — a good name, it will keep our main purpose before us.

"Kill Beetle," Muller repeated, savoring the words. "I like that"

"Now," the man called Bor went on, ticking off points on the metal projections of his artificial hand, "why is he in Rhodesia? Political evaluation? Is he looking for us again? Are they interested in the increasing flow of gold which we are so pleased to provide? Could it be they've heard of our well-organized gun boys, guaranteed to succeed? Or is it perhaps none of these things? I suggest you brief Foster and send him to Salisbury with Herman in the morning. Have him talk with Wilson. Give him explicit orders — find out. He is to gather intelligence only, not alarm our quarry."

"He follows orders," Heinrich Muller said approvingly. "Your tactical plan is excellent, as always."

"Thank you." The good eye glittered at Muller, but even in appreciation of a compliment it had the cold, merciless appearance of a cobra viewing a target, plus a speculative narrowing, like a reptile with egomania.

Nick discovered something he had not known — how smart travel agents, tour operators, and travel contractors keep their important customers happy. After cocktails at the hotel Ian Masters and four of his personable merry men drove the party to the South Africa Club, a lovely tropical-style building amid lush grounds lit by colored lights and refreshed by sparkling fountains.

Inside the club the girls, resplendent in their colorful gowns, were introduced to a dozen men. All were young and most were handsome, two wore uniforms, and for solidity there were two older citizens, one with a distinguished grouping of decorations on his dinner jacket.

A long table was reserved for the party in an ell of the main dining room, adjacent to the dance floor, and with its own service bar. After the introductions and pleasant chat, they discovered place cards which cleverly seated each girl between two men. Nick and Gus found themselves side by side at the far end of the table.

The senior escort murmured, "Ian is a good operator. This makes a hit with the women. They see enough of you and me."

"Look where he put Booty. Next to old Sir Humphrey Condon. Ian knows she's VIP. I didn't tell him."

"Maybe Manny sent along her old man's credit rating in the confidential advices."

"With that body she can do all right without a push. She looks class, maybe he guessed." Gus chuckled. "Don't fret You'll have plenty of time with her."

"I haven't been making time lately. But Ruth is good company. Anyway, I've got some worries about Booty..."

"What! Not this soon. Its only been three days — you couldn't have..."

"Not what you're thinking. She's cool. Something's wrong. If we're going into the gold business I suggest we keep an eye on her."

"Booty! Could she be dangerous... spying..."

"You know how these kids like adventure. The CIA has fallen into a lot of messes using kindergarten snoops. Usually they do it for the money, but a gal like Booty might go for the glamour. Little Miss Jane Bond."

Gus took a deep swallow of his wine. "Wow — now that you mention it, this fits in with what happened while I was dressing. She called and said she wouldn't go with the group tomorrow morning. The afternoon is free time for shopping anyway. She has hired a car and is going off on her own. I tried to pin her down and she sounded secretive. Said she wanted to visit something in the Motoroshanga district. I tried to talk her out of it, but hell — if they've got the funds they can do anything they please. She got the car from Selfridge's Self-Drive Cars."

"She could have gotten one easily from Masters, couldn't she?"

"Yes." Gus trailed off the word with sibilant
s
sounds, his eyes narrow and thoughtful "You may be right about her. I thought she just wanted to be independent, the way some of them do. Showing you they can operate all right on their own..."

"Can you reach Selfridge's and find out about the car and time of delivery?"

"They have a night number. Give me a moment." He was back in five minutes, his expression slightly grim. "A Singer Vogue. At the hotel at eight. It looks like you're right. She had arranged credit and a permit by cable. Why didn't she ever mention that to us?"

"Part of the intrigue, old man. When you have a chance, ask Masters to have a self-drive at the hotel for me at seven. Make sure it's as fast as that Singer."

Later in the evening, between the roast and the sweets, Gus told Nick, "Okay. A BMW-1800 for you at seven. Ian promises it'll be in perfect shape."

Just after eleven Nick said polite good nights and left the club. He wouldn't be missed. Everyone seemed to be having better than a good time. The food had been excellent, the wines plentiful, and the music sweet Ruth Crossman was with a dashing lad who looked as if fun, fellowship, and virility were his prime qualities.

Nick returned to Meikles, soaked his battered body again in hot and cold tubs, and checked his gear. He always felt better when every item was in place, oiled, cleaned, saddle-soaped, or polished according to its needs. Your mind seemed to function faster when you had no small doubts or worries.

He removed the packets of bills from a khaki money belt and replaced them with four blocks of explosive plastique shaped and wrapped like bars of Cadbury chocolate. With them he put eight fuses that normally traveled among his pipe cleaners, identified only by tiny blobs of solder on one end of the wire. He turned on a small transmitter beeper, which had a signal good for eight or ten miles under fair conditions, and noted the directional response to his transistor radio, the size of a pocketbook. Edge toward the transmitter, strong signaL Flat toward the beeper, weakest signal.

He turned in and was grateful that no one disturbed him until the desk called him at six. His travel alarm went off with a
burr-r-r-r
just as he hung up.

At seven he met one of the muscular young men who had been at the party the night before, John Patton. Patton handed him a set of keys and pointed to a blue BMW gleaming in the fresh morning air. "Full of gas and checked out, Mr. Grant. Mr. Masters said you particularly wanted it in perfect shape."

"Thanks, John. That was a nice party last night. Did you have a good rime?"

"Grand. Wonderful group you brought Have a nice trip."

Patton walked briskly away. Nick grinned slightly. Patton had not betrayed by the flicker of an eyelid what he meant by
wonderful,
but he had been snuggling Janet Olson, and Nick had seen him drink a goodly amount Stout fellow.

Nick reparked the BMW out of sight, checked himself out on the controls, explored the trunk space, and inspected the motor. He checked the underframe as best he could, then used his receiver to see if the car was bugged. There were no betraying emissions. He worked his way all around the car, scanning all the frequencies his special set could receive, before deciding the car was clean. He went up to Gus's room and found the senior escort hurrying his shaving, his eyes foggy and bloodshot in the glare of the bathroom lights. "Big evening," Gus said. 'You were smart to cut out. Whooh! I got in at five."

"You ought to live the clean life. I turned in early."

Gus inspected Nick's face. "That eye shows black even under the paint. You look almost as bad as I do."

"Sour grapes. You'll feel better after some breakfast I'll need a bit of help. Escort Booty out to her car when it comes, then get her back into the hotel on some excuse. How about having them put up a box lunch and then take her back inside to get it Don't tell her what it is — shell make some excuse not to get it or she probably has one ordered already."

Most of the girls were late for breakfast. Nick haunted the lobby, watched the street, and saw a cream-colored Singer Vogue park in one of the angled spaces at exactly eight o'clock. A young man in a white jacket entered the hotel and the PA system paged Miss DeLong. Through a window Nick watched Booty and Gus meet the delivery man near the desk and go out to the Singer. They talked. The lad in the white jacket left Booty and Gus went back into the hotel. Nick slipped out the door near the arcade.

He walked swiftly behind the parked cars and pretended to drop something at the rear of a Rover parked beside the Singer. He went down out of sight When he came up, the beeper-emitter was fastened under the Singer's rear frame.

From the corner he watched Booty and Gus come out of the hotel carrying a small box and Booty's large handbag. They paused under the portico. Nick watched until Booty got into the Singer and started the engine, then he hurried back to the BMW. When he eased up to the turn the Singer was halfway down the block. Gus spotted him and waved, a small motion with an upward flick of his hand. "Good luck," it seemed to semaphore.

Booty drove north. The day was gorgeous, the bright sun baking a landscape that looked like Southern California in a dry spell — not the desert areas, but the near-mountain country, with thick vegetation and strange rock formations. Nick followed, staying far back, confirming contact by the
ba-beep
of the radio receiver braced against the back of the seat at his side.

The more he saw of the country the more he liked it — climate, landscape, and people. The blacks looked calm and often prosperous, driving all sorts of cars and trucks. He reminded himself that he was seeing a developed, commercial section of the country and ought to withhold opinion.

He saw an elephant grazing near an irrigation pump, and by the astonished looks of the bystanders he concluded they were as surprised as he was. The animal probably had been driven into civilization by the drought.

The hallmark of England was everywhere and it fitted very well, as if a sun-splashed countryside and hardy tropical vegetation was just as good a background as the mild-damp cloudy landscape of the British Isles. The baobab trees caught his attention. They cast weird arms toward space, looking like the banyan or fig trees of Florida. He passed one that must have measured thirty feet across, and came to an intersection. The signs included
Ayrshire, Eldorado, Picaninyamba, Sinoia.
Nick stopped, picked up his radio and rotated it The strongest signal came from dead ahead. He went straight and tested the
ba-heep
again. Right out in front and loud and clear.

He rounded a turn, saw Booty's Singer stopped at a roadside gate; he stamped the BMW's brakes and hid it handily in a turnout evidently used by trucks. He jumped out of the car and peered past the neatly clipped bushes that screened a cluster of rubbish cans. There was no traffic on the road. The Singer's horn bleated four times. After a considerable wait a black man, wearing khaki shorts, shirt, and a peaked cap, trotted up the side road and unlocked the gate. The Singer drove in and the man fastened the gate, got in the car, and drove it down the grade and out of sight Nick waited a moment, then drove the BMW to the gate.