Rhodesia Page 4

  The old bareknuckle boys would go fifty rounds, fight for four hours, because you learn first to take care of yourself. It becomes automatic. And if you can survive for a few minutes, your opponent is shaken up and you're both swinging a shade wild. It becomes a case of two battering rams bearing each other down. The unofficial record is held by unknowns, an English and an American sailor who fought in a Chinese cafe in St. Johns, Newfoundland, for seven hours. No time out. A draw.

  Nick recalled this briefly during the next twenty minutes as he and Wilson fought from one end of the office to the other. They slugged toe-to-toe. They parted and traded long shots. They clinched and wrestled and pulled and hauled. Each man passed up a dozen opportunities to use a piece of furniture as a weapon. Once Wilson hit Nick with a low blow on his thigh bone and said instantly, although puffing the words, "Sorry — slipped."

  They smashed beyond repair the window table, four light chairs, one priceless buffet, two end tables, a dictating machine, desk computer, and the small bar. Wilson's desk was swept clean, rammed back against the worktable behind it. Both men had their jackets ripped off. Wilson was bleeding from a cut over his left eye, gouts of blood that dribbled down his cheek and spattered the debris.

  Nick worked on that eye, ripped open the wound with skidding and scraping hits that did extra damage by their own inaccuracy. His right hand was blood red. His heart pained and there was a nasty buzzing in his ears from the knocks he had taken to the skull. He saw Wilson's head waggle from side to side but those great fists kept coming — slowly it seemed, but they arrived. He beat one down and threw a punch along it. To the eye again. A score.

  They both slipped in Wilson's blood and clung to each other, eyeball to eyeball, gasping so hard they almost gave each other mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Wilson kept blinking to clear his eyes of blood. Nick gathered strength desperately into his aching, leaden arms. They gripped each other's biceps, looked at each other again. Nick felt Wilson summon his remaining strength with the same weary hopefulness that prodded his own numb muscles.

  Their eyes seemed to say, What the hell are we doing here?

  Nick said between breaths, "That's... a... bad... cut."

  Wilson nodded, seemed to think about it for the first time. His wind whistled in and out. He puffed, "Yeah... guess... better... fix... it."

  "If... you... don't... have... bad... scar."

  "Yeah... nasty... call... draw?"

  "Or... Round... One."

  The powerful grips o Nick's arms relaxed. He eased his own, lurched back, and got to his feet first. He thought he would never reach the desk, made it, and sat on it with his head hanging. Wilson collapsed back against the wall.

  Gus and Maurice glanced briefly at each other, like two shy schoolboys. The office was silent for over a minute except for the agonized inhaling and exhaling of the battered men.

  Nick run his tongue over his teeth. They were all there. The inside of his mouth was badly cut his lips would soon puff. They would probably both have black eyes.

  Wilson got to his feet and stood unsteadily surveying the chaos. "Maurice — show Mr. Grant the bath."

  Nick was led outside and a few steps down the hall. He drew a basin of cold water and plunged his throbbing face into it There was a tap on the door and Gus came in, carrying Wilhelmina and Hugo — the thin knife that had been shaken from its sheath on Nick's arm. "You all right?"

  "Sure."

  "Gee. Andy, I didn't know. He's changed."

  "I don't think so. Things have changed. He's got a prime outlet for all his gold — that's if he's got a lot as we think — so he doesn't need us anymore."

  Nick drew more water, dunked his head again, dried himself on thick white towels. Gus held out the weapons. "I didn't know you — carried these."

  Nick stuck Wilhelmina in his belt under his shirt, replaced Hugo. "Looks like I might need 'em. This is rugged country."

  "But... customs..."

  "We did all right so far. How's Wilson?"

  "Maurice took him to another bathroom."

  "Let's get out of here."

  "Okay." But Gus hung back. "Andy — I oughta tell you. Wilson has some gold. I bought some from him before."

  "So you have an outlet?"

  "It was only a quarter-bar. I sold it in Beirut."

  "But they don't pay much there."

  "He sold it to me for thirty dollars an ounce."

  "Oh." Nick's aching head whirled. Then Wilson did have so much gold he was willing to unload it at a bargain, but now he either had lost his source or had developed a satisfactory way of getting it to the markets.

  They went out and along the corridor toward the reception lounge and entrance. As they passed an open door marked Ladies, Wilson called, "Ho, Grant."

  Nick stopped and looked in cautiously. "Yeah? How's the eye?"

  "Okay." Blood still seeped from under a bandage. "You feel all right?"

  "No. I feel as if I fell under a bulldozer."

  Wilson came to the door and chuckled through swollen lips. "Man, I could have used you in the Congo. How come the Luger?"

  "They tell me Africa is dangerous."

  "It can be."

  Nick watched the man closely. Here was a lot of ego and self-doubt and an extra portion of the loneliness that powerful men build around themselves when they fail to lower their heads and listen to smaller people. They build their islands, apart from the main, and wonder at their isolation.

  Nick chose his words carefully. "No hard feelings. I was just trying to make a dollar. I shouldn't have come. You don't know me and I don't blame you for being careful. Gus said it would be all right." He hated to hang a dunce cap on Boyd, but right now every impression counted.

  "You really have a line?"

  "Calcutta."

  "Sahib Sanha?"

  "His friends — Goahan and Freed." Nick named two of the leading gold operators on the Indian black market.

  "I see. Take a tip. Forget it for a while. Things are changing"

  "Yeah. Prices are going up all the time. Maybe I can connect with Taylor-Hill-Boreman Mining. I hear they're loaded. Can you give me a connection or introduction?"

  Wilson's good eye widened. "Grant — listen to me. You're no Interpol snoop. They don't carry Lugers and they can't fight I think I have your number. Forget gold. At least in Rhodesia. And stay away from THB."

  "Why? You want all their output for yourself?"

  Wilson laughed, flinched as his torn cheeks rubbed on his teeth. He was thinking, Nick knew, that this reply confirmed his estimate of "Andy Grant" Wilson had lived all his life in a world of distinct black or white, for us or against us. He was selfish, considered it normal and honorable, and condemned no one else for it.

  The big man's laugh filled the doorway. "I suppose you've heard about the Golden Tusks and you can just feel 'em. Or can't you just see 'em? Coming across the bundu. So big it takes six blacks to carry each one? By God, you think about it awhile and you can almost taste 'em, can't you?"

  "I never heard about Golden Tusks," Nick replied, "but you draw a nice picture. Where can I find them?"

  "You can't. It's a fairy tale. Gold is sweated for — and what there is, is spoken for. Right now, anyway " Wilson's features were puffing up, his lips swelling. He still managed a grin, though, and Nick realized it was the first time he had seen him smile.

  "Do I look like you do?" Nick asked.

  "I guess so. They'll know you bumped into something. Too bad you're in that panty-waist business, Grant. If you come back this way looking for something to do, come see me."

  "For Round Two? I don't think I'd be up to it."

  Wilson liked the implied compliment. "No — out where we use tools. Tools that go bu-du-du-du-du brr-r-r-r-." He made excellent imitations of a heavy and a light machine gun. "We've used 'em a little and we're gonna have to use them a lot more. You'd be on the first team."

  "For cash? I'm no romantic."

  "Of course — although in my
case — " He stopped, studying Nick. "Well — you're a white man. You'll understand after you've seen a bit more of the country."

  "I wonder if I will?" Nick replied. "Thanks for everything."

  * * *

  Rolling toward Salisbury through the overbright landscape, Gus was apologetic. "I loused it up, Andy. I should have come out alone or checked by phone. Last time he was cooperative and full of promises for the future. Man — that was some scrap. Were you a pro?"

  The compliment was partly butter, Nick knew, but the lad meant well. "No harm done, Gus. If his present channels clog up he'll be back to us quick enough, but it doesn't look likely. He's plenty happy the way things are. No, I wasn't pro. Boxed a little in college."

  "A little! He would have killed me."

  "You wouldn't have tangled with him. Wilson is a big kid with principles. He fights fair. Only kills people when the principle is right as he sees it"

  "I... I don't understand..."

  "He was a Merc, wasn't he? You know how those boys behave when they get natives under their muzzles."

  Gus flexed his hands on the wheel and said thoughtfully, "I've heard. You don't somehow think of a guy like Alan mowing em down."

  "You'd better. It's an old, old pattern. Visit Mother on Saturday, church on Sunday, and bombs away on Monday. When you try to square that with yourself, you get tight knots. Inside your head. The connections and relays in there start to smoke and burn out Dangerous. Now what about those Golden Tusks? You ever hear about them?"

  Gus shrugged. "Last time I was through here there was a story around about a shipment of Golden Tusks that went out via rail and Beira to beat the sanctions. There was an article in The Rhodesia Herald speculating on whether they were cast that way and painted white, or found in some old Zimbabwe ruins and sneaked out. That's the old Solomon and Sheba myth."

  "You think the story was true?"

  "Nope. When I was in India I talked it over with guys who oughta know. They said plenty of gold was coming out of Rhodesia but it was all in nice four-hundred-ounce bars."

  When they reached Meikles Hotel Nick slipped in through the side entrance and went up to his room. He used cold and hot soaks, a gentle alcohol rub, and took a nap. His ribs hurt, but he found no sharp pain to indicate a break. At six o'clock he dressed carefully and when Gus called for him he used the eye paint that the other had thoughtfully bought. It helped some, but the full-length mirror told him he looked like a very well-dressed pirate after a severe battle. He shrugged, flicked off the light, and followed Gus to the cocktail lounge.

  After his callers had left, Alan Wilson used Maurice' office while half a dozen of his staff worked at rejuvenating his own. He studied three photographs of Nick, shot with a hidden camera.

  "Not bad. They show his face from different angles. By Jove, he's a scrapper. We could use him someday." He put the prints in an envelope. "Have Herman fly these over to Mike Bor."

  Maurice took the envelope, went through the complex of offices and warehouses to a dispatch desk in the rear of the plant, and relayed Wilson's order. As he sauntered back toward the front offices, his lean brown face bore a satisfied expression. Wilson was learning to follow orders; to take photographs at once of anyone interested in buying gold and send them out to Bor. Mike Bor was the chairman of Taylor-Hill-Boreman, and he had had a little temporary trouble bringing Alan Wilson to heel. Maurice was part of the control web. He received a thousand dollars a month to watch Wilson and he intended to continue to deserve it.

  * * *

  At about the moment Nick was masking his darkening eye with cosmetics, Herman Duzen began a very careful approach to the airport of the Taylor-Hill-Boreman Mining Company. The giant installation was classified as an off-limits military research area with forty square miles of protected airspace above it. Before he took off from Salisbury, flying VFR in the sun-seared clear weather, Herman had telephoned the Rhodesian Air Force control and Rhodesian Air Police. As he neared the restricted zone he radioed his position and bearing and received another clearance from the controller at the plant.

  Herman did his duty with absolute precision. He was paid more than most airline pilots and vaguely felt that his sympathies lay with Rhodesia and THB. All the world was against them, you might say, just as the world had once been against Germany. It was strange that when you worked hard and did your duty people seemed to dislike you for no reason at all. It was evident that THB had discovered giant gold reefs. Good! Good for them, good for Rhodesia, good for Herman.

  He began his first landing leg, flying over the squalid native huts packed like brown marbles in boxes within their guard walls. A long, serpent-like column of human-wound along a road from one of the mines toward the native compound, guarded by men on horses and in jeeps.

  Herman made his first ninety-degree turn, on the mark, on air-speed, on rpms, on rate-of-descent, course accurate to a degree. Perhaps Kramkin, the chief pilot, was watching, perhaps not That wasn't the point, you did your job perfectly out of loyalty to yourself and — to what? Herman often puzzled over that Once it had been his father, stern and fair. Then the air force — he was still in the Republic's reserve — then the Bemex Oil Exploration Company; he had been really heartbroken when the young firm failed. He blamed the British and Americans for that You couldn't buck their money and connections.

  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 accompan
y 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.