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*Ihe eyes of both of them were studying me, hers in
cold appraisal, his in rapt concentration.
"See this?" I allowed my head to gesture toward the
wall's blemished surface. "I want both of you to stare
at it. No matter what I do, or where I go, I want both of
you to study nothing else but this crack. Am being
sufficiently clear?"
Berenko, once more, repeated the instructions in
German.
While he was doing so, I slid my back down the wall
and inched my way, well below sill level, to the other
side of the two windows. Then I climbed back up to a
standing position in the corner behind the two, and
covered them.
More specifically, I was covering my own ass. If
Berenko had help, and if that help was occupying one
of those neighboring windows, they now knew I was
here, and not in a friendly mood. Being unable to nail
me through the windows, they would no doubt be
hell-bent for the door.
But not without guidance.
Someone would have to remain at that window to
give them their bearings. And, at the moment, the guy
at that window would be studying the eyes of my two
companions, trying to pin down my location.
Whenever the gorillas at the door were ready, they
would come in blasting.
My hope was that they would be directed toward the
crack that Berenko and his girl were staring at.
I waited for the sounds of action.
Two minutes must have passed before Berenko
broke the silence. He spoke in clear. accented English.
"Sorry to disappoint you, my good friend, but I and
the lady are .
alone. "
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I remained silent merely awaiting the inevitable.
nere was no way I was going to give them a voice to
fix in on.
Two more minutes passed.
Again Berenko spoke. ' '"lhere are no reinforce-
ments, my friend. Your caution, not to mention your
skills, are both admirable. But we do seem to be wast-
ing precious moments in a ridiculous limbo, when our
time would be better spent in sorting out this little
misunderstanding. Do you not agree? "
There was an irritating half-smile on his face as he
awaited my reply. What was even more irritating was
the growing possibility that he was telling the truth.
would love to believe you," I finally muttered,
sotto voce, "but somehow I just can 't accept the idea of
Yuri Berenko wandering around in the rain without an
umbrella or two."
In spite of the expressed emphasis of my earlier
demand that all eyes remain on the wall, the princess
broke her gaze and shot Berneko a dark stare. I cor-
rected the situation quickly.
'*Drop your eyes from that wall one more time,
darling, and you'll be wearing two new beads in your
hair, both of them solid lead!"
In total defiance, she turned and stared at me. My
finger instinctively tightened on the trigger, but the
panicked urgency in Berenko's voice halted the final
squeeze.
' 'You fool! She doesn't speak English! "
I had already gleaned as much, but Berenko didn't
have to know that. By feigning ignorance of the lan-
guage, I could achieve two things. The first had just
been accomplished: complicate the flow of communi-
cation, and keep Berenko on edge and off guard. *Ihe
second advantage would reveal itself as time went on.
If the two of them decided to tell secrets, they would do
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63
so in German. would then be able to eavesdrop.
"Tell her to watch the wall, Berenko!"
He glared at me for a moment, and then heaved a
giant sigh, the kind of sigh a father gives his son when
the boy has misspent his allowance.
s STell her yourself, Mr. Carter. You know the Ian-
guage as well as I!"
So he knew me! For some odd reason I was flattered.
Oh, well, so much for subtlety. Round one to Berenko.
I turned to the girl and began expounding in Teutonic
elegance, "Either watch the wall, fraulein„ or I'll be
forced to turn your lovely face into bratwurst! "
She obeyed, but not before removing my innards
with her eyes. And those eyes were two bullets, right
out of the freezer.
I looked at Berenko. At the first sound of German
from me, the smug little half-smile had returned to his
lips. I had to do something about that; I had to get him
rattled. Berenko had been in the business far too long
for me to assume he would cough up any real informa-
tion. The only way he was going to tell me anything
was by letting his emotions register, and in order for
that to happen, I would have to loosen his grip on them.
I gambled first on the possibility that he wasn 't using
his own name in his dealings with the girl. I spoke in
German, so she would understand exactly what was
going on.
"Now, tell me. »,mat is it that brings the great Yuri
Berenko to Africa?"
For a moment the smile collapsed, but then it re-
turned in force.
"Ahhhh, he sighed, his own German ringing out.
thought as much. A simple error, my friend. You
mistake me for somebody else. The name is Schmidt,
Einar Schmidt. "
I laughed. ' 'Ja, und ich bin Whistler's Mother!"
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His jaw tightened and his eyes shot to the girl to
measure her responses. She sat immobile. her eyes
glued to the wall. I didn't check, but I knew that
wherever her gaze was falling, there was now a thick
coating of frost.
Finally he spoke, but this time in English. "You're a
very rude man, Mr. Carter!"
' 'so slap my wrists. "
The smile was gone. ' 'Someday I will, Mr. Carter.
That I promise you."
The girl moved. I brought my gun over to cover her,
but false alarm. She crossed her arms and began toying
with the beads in her hair, her boredom evident to both
of us.
I returned my eyes to Berenko, dissecting every
movement and glimmer of response -in his face.
' 'Talk to me, Herr Schmidt." My voice was not
without sarcasm. "I get lonely when I'm ignored. '
Hate registered in his eyes. "I'm afraid there is little
to discuss," he said. "Perhaps a responsive reading
would amuse you.' There must be a Bible in the hotel
somewhere. ' '
"Well, if you won't talk to me, perhaps the girl will.
I'm sure she'd just love to know the credentials of her
bedmate. "
I could swear that for just one second, his eyes grew
harder than the glasses that covered them.
"Just what is it you wish to know, Mr. Carter?"
' 'first of all, who's the raven?" I asked.
"An interesting question," he spat. ' 'One I might
have been able to answer, had we not been so abruptly
interrupted. "
I let it slide.
"And what brings you to Africa?"
" ne climate, Mr. Carter. I'm looking for a nice
condominium to retire to. "
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65
Before I could respond, a small rumble of voices
exploded in the hall. I tensed, studying Berenko. He
was as surprised as I. Apparently, one of the customers
had had his fill, and was leaving. High-pitched voices
told me the two young girls had finished dispensing
their "heavenly delights". The sounds drifted down
the stairs, and I eased up on Wilhelmina.
We were getting nowhere, fast.
' 'I think maybe we should take a ride, Berenko. This
place is a little too crowded for my tastes. And we have
so much to chat over. "
"I doubt that. " he replied coldly.
S' We'll see. Ihe car is about one block from here.
You 'II drive. The raven and I will watch from the back
seat. It shouldn 't present any difficulties for you. After
all, it's one of your cars"'
His eyes widened.
' 'Oh, that's right," I added, "l forgot to tell you.
Your buddies won 't be home for supper tonight. Four
of them, at any rate. fifth will, but he'll have one
hell ofa headache. The other four will make interesting
rugs for the fireplace. "
His eyes leaped up to my face. If I didn't know
better, I could swear he didn •t know what the hell I was
talking about.
' 'And by the way," I continued, my own expression
smug and gloating, "you really should convince your
children not to play with matches. A quick dive
through their pockets led me straight to you. "
His Icok baffled me. Anger I could live with; hate, I
expected. But all I got was blankness; stark, unknow-
ing, questioning. confusiom
And then I received something else.
My eyes had been so intent on Berenko that I almost
failed to catch her movement. It was brief and econom-
ica\, nothing one would leap to catch.
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But movement it was, nonetheless.
With a quick jerk of her hand, she tore one of the
beads from her hair and threw it at me. I moved instinc-
tively, allowing the wooden ball to hit me on the right
forearm and fall away.
But it never fell.
Attached to the end of it was a tiny needle, that now
penetrated my arm, numbing the surrounding nerves in
the process. In surprise, my trigger finger tensed, wak-
ing Wilhelmina into action. *Ihe shot went wild and
slammed into the wall.
At that instant, both of them moved. She dove for-
ward onto the floor, while Berenko slid off the bed and
rolled toward the door. I shook my right arm as hard as I
could, and the bead fell out. I returned my hand to the
trigger, ready to obliterate the first one that moved.
Berenko had torn open the door, and the black girl
was now making her dash for it. Given my choice of
targets, I leveled my aim on the man who was destined
to become the head of one of the deadliest organizations
in the world.
My finger tensed on the trigger, intent on releasing
him from his earthly burdens.
No response.
My mind was screaming "Pull!" but the finger
refused to obey. The earlier sensation in my arm, cool
and numbing, was now growing into a full brushfire of
agonizing pain. No message, no matter how intensely
sent, was capable of getting from brain to finger with-
out burning to a crisp.
And the fire was spreading, moving up my arm,
hungry for the chance to reach my skull and bake it. lhe
alarms went off like skyrockets.
Poison. Goddamnit, poison!
The sound of my gun had alerted the entire floor to
trouble. A tornado of activity whipped itself up in the
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68
hall. I was helpless to stop Berenko as he joined the
anonymous masses, his own voice loudest in his ques-
tioning panic. "What was that? Where did it come
from? My god, my wife will find out. I've got to get out
Of here!
I had to move fast.
My left arm was still with me, responding to every
command in faithful obedience. I dropped Wilhelmina,
and, with my left hand, I jammed up the sleeve of my
coat, ripping open my shirt sleeve at the same time. I
then tore at the casing that held my stiletto, successfully
releasing it, and slashed Hugo over the point the dart
had entered.
There was nothing sophisticated about the incision,
but then, scars I could live with. If I lived.
Hugo 's blade ripped open my arm, and I lowered my
lips to the cut, sucking at the poison for all I was worth.
For what seemed an eternity, I did my damnedest to
stop the progress of pain up my arm. Fanatically I
dedicated myself to the task of living, and finally an
impasse was reached.
The pain seemed to halt, somewhere about mid-
shoulder.
As I consumedthe last few platelets of my own blood
and spit them onto the floor, other thoughts triggered
through my fogging brain.
I could still hear Berenko stirring up action in the
hallway. It would only be a matter of minutes until his
attempts at creating panic had succeeded , and he would
return to either gloat over or bury what remained of
Nick Carter.
This definitely offended my sense of dignity. Escape
was called for, and without delay. I picked up Wilhel-
mina and dropped her into her holster. I staggered to the
window, gracelessly I'm sure, but then aesthetics were
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'Ihe window shot up and I stared at the one-story
drop that faced me. There was no choice. I pushed my
body out onto the sill and twisted myself around. Using
my left arm to the best of its capacity, I dropped to the
ground and rolled.
I landed clumsily, but intact.
Berenko 's face appeared at the window, just in time
to watch me depart through the open court toward my
car. There was victory on that face, an expression that
filled my mind with rage.
Your time will come, you Commie sonofabitch, I
hissed to myself, but I knew I was in no condition at the
present moment to do anything about it. Survival came
first.
My pace was anything but steady as I struggled to
reach the Citroen, but finally I hauled myself behind the
wheel and pointed the nose toward the apartment where
I had left Robin.
I arrived at my destination slightly more numb. and
with only a few near-miss accidents to jeapordize the
effort. I found the bell labeled 'Mousif, ' and rang it for
all it was worth. Robin answered the door, accepting
my crumbling body in the process.
She walked me to the stairs, machine-gunning ques-
tions as she went. I ignored them, stumbling up the
steps, mutely seeking my way toward safety and com-
fort.
Silence was broken only when I had collapsed onto
the soft cushion of the apartment's one bed.
"Your friend, " I mumbled. "Is she
where's
your friend?"
There was a glimmer of humor in Robin 's eyes as she
answered. told her was traveling with you. She
gave me a brief lecture on the basic uselessness of men,
and huffed her way out the door. The place is ours until
tomorrow. "Ihen she wants us gone. "
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"Smart girl. " I nodded, and then a fresh jolt of pain
seared through my arm and turned the roonfa funny
shade of gray. The breath whistled through my teeth as
I tried to grit the pain back.
"My God, what the hell has happened to you? " she
cried.
"Nothing, my dear. Nothing at all. A mere trifle. A
simple game of mumblety-peg that went astray, I
fear," I hissed in my best W.C. Fields.
She was obviously not a W.C. Fields fan; but then,
I'm not sure I was definitive in my portrayal.
' 'Take off your coat and shirt," she ordered.
She jumped away from me and ran into what I
assumed was the water closet. I obeyed her commands,
stripping to the waist as she returned with several strips
of gauze, some tape, and a rather strange looking green
bottle.
Grasping my arm, she twisted it and held it out over
the bare wood floor as she poured the contents of the
bottle into my wound. 'Ihe sensation was not too far
removed from the original agony.
"Jesus, " I screamed. "What the hell are you doing
"Killing the infection. "
"With what? Saltwater?"
She stared at the bottle for a minute.
"It's liquor, I
think. It's the only thing I could find with alcohol in
it."
I groaned as the pain eased up. "Well, that's smash-
ing, my dear. At least I won't have to worry about
infection running through my system. . . it may stag-
ger. but it won 't run. "
She flickered a grin and dropped to her knees by the
bed, working with all the rapt concentration of Florence
Nightingale. It wasn 't until she was dressing the wound
that she again spoke.
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"l talked to my people. "
"An alternative plan hæs been devised. Like you,
they feel commercial travel might be too risky. "
I winced slightly as the Orst winding of tape pinched
at the wound.
"Sorry , " she said. "They're going to contact one of
their people here. That penon will rent us a car. It will
be dropped near here, the keys left under the front mat
for us to pick up. "
An uneasy feeling began churning in my stomach.
"We're to take the car and drive to Oran," she
continued. "It's about 300 kilometers. There we will
locate a Mr. Jouret. He runs a small aviation outfit—
hops to Spain and all that. He will fly us to Rabat,
Morocco. ' '
s 'Is he one of your people too?"
She looked at me briefly but didn't answer.
feeling in my gut began spreading.
"Once in Rabat, we're to go to the main airport, My
people will have a private Lear at our disposal, which
will get us to Capetown. Further instructions will await
us there."
She was just finishing up her labors, and I tested out
the dressing while I thought through her information.
Once again, something smelled. Lear jets in Rabat,
bush pilots in Oran, agents in Algiers. the hell was
I working for? There are entire nations whose intelli-
gence operations aren 't that sophisticated. There were
just too many unknowns, and my nerves were begin-
ning to fray.
She started to rise up, and I halted her by grabbing
her shoulders.
'Robin, who are your people? Who are you working
for?
SOCIETY OF NINE
She stiffened. "You're asking questions again.
were told not to do that. " She tried to move away,
held her.
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71
She stiffened. "You're asking questions again. You
were told not to do that. " She tried to move away, but I
held her.
' 'Look," I snapped, my temper rising, "I'm not
asking for details. Just give me some answers. If you
don't, I'm afraid I may just have to bugger-off home,
and let your people clean their own commode. "
Her stare was uncertain but defiant. 'lhen, Mr.
McDaniel, why don't you just bugger-off! "
I was good for about one more second of rationality.
"Robin, it's not just idle curiosity. I need to know. I'm
in a high-risk profession; I kill for a living. "
Her body went ice cold. She began squirming to
release my grip on her, but I wasn 't about to be put offl
'So far I 've managed to stay alive by keeping myself
one step ahead of the opposition. Anything can happen
between here and Capetown. We could get separated,
or quite frankly, you could get killed. If that happens,
I'll have to have some idea of where to go, or who to
contact. The more I know, the better I can operate. In
this business, what you don't know can kill you!"
Her body was full of tension, but her voice was like a
computer printout. "You 'II be given information when
it is necessary, and you'll be told only what is—"
I exploded. "I've had enough of that pap! I've al-
most been killed twice today, and now I want to know
why, and for whom! Am I making myself clear?"
My hands were digging into her shoulders, bringing
a wince of pain to her face. Her squiming grew desper-
ate, but her manner remained resolute. It was necessary
to add further persuasion.
•mere were two huge bruises, one on each arm, from
where the Russian had thrown her against the wall. I
grabbed for them, clamping down with all my might.
Her body went stiff, her throat erupting in a scream
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as the pain jolted through her body. I released my grip
ever so slightly.
"Talk to me! I growled.
Her head shook back and forth in refusal. I squeezed
again, harder. Her mouth shot open and tears spilled
from the corners of her widened eyes.
"A group!" she cried. "I work for a group! "
' 'What group? Where?"
"South Africa. *Ihe Society. They just refer to them-
selves as The Society."
We were making progress. I eased up slightly on my
hold, but not enough to let her think that pain was very
far away.
need a little more than that. "
She paused a moment, then shook her head slightly,
driving off her tears as she gasped to regain her breath.
"You're a bloody bastard, you know that?"
"That's what my Mum tells me. Now, keep talk-
"I'm working for a group called the Society of
Nine."
' 'Interesting name. Where'd it come from?"
She shrugged. "l don't know really. Nine members,
I suppose. I only have contact with one of them. "
SSAnd who might that person be?"
' 'Ihat, Mr. McDaniel, you don't need to know. "
I grabbed her again. Her body once more stiffened,
but her resolve did not.
"Tear my bloody arms off, if you must, but it's an
old friend, and I'll be damned if I'm going to tell you
his name!"
I eased up. It seemed pointless to push her too far.
"All right, my love. Maybe that's one I don 't need. But
tell me just a wee bit more about this Society of Nine. ' '
Her body relaxed agaim "It's a small group, mostly
government officials, who are working independently
SOCIETY OF NINE
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73
of their offices to do all they can to see effective black
rule in South Africa. "
"Why independently?" I asked.
"You 've obviously never been to South Africa, Mr.
McDaniel. lhe white population is not exactly what
you would term 'hot' for black rule."
"I don't need a political science lecture .
. and
please, call me Liam."
For a second she looked as though she might stick out
her tongue. "Anyway," she continued, "if they were
too open about their desires, they 'd probably get their
heads liberated from their bodies. Most assuredly, they
would lose their positions in government. *Ihey feel it is
wiser to keep their public faces to the right, but their
private actions toward the left. It just so happens that
they are also willing to speed the process up a bit in a
behind-the-scenes way, 9'
' 'Even ifit means walking a bit ofa legal tightrope? "
She nodded. ' 'They're dedicated men, Mr. Mc .
Liam. Very dedicated. I only hope that, someday, they
can get the open credit they deserve. "
*Ihe pride in her eyes and voice was almost touching.
"And what's my contribution to this back-chamber
revolution?"
She eyed me with distaste. "Your job will be to
perform the services you seem to be so good at. "
I lowered my head in a mock bow. "Shall I start
squeezing again?"
A flicker of fear passed over her face. "No!
Please?" I nodded, and she took a deep breath. S S ftere
are some kind of special negotiations going on with the
United States. don 't know what they're all about, just
that they're happening. "
I gave her my best threatening glare, and flexed my
hands.
"fiat's all I know! I swear! ney only tell me little
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bits of things, just like they'll only tell you bits. Only
what they feel I need to know to get the job done,
nothing more. "
It made sense. She was an amateur—an instinctive
one, and one who was getting tougher by the hour—but
an amateur nonetheless. I was sure she was leveling
with me.
'SWhat kind of negotiations?" I asked.
"l 'm not sure, really. Apparently, America has got-
ten itself involved in the black rule question, and it's
beginning to look like an agreement is possible. I don 't
know the details, but apparently it involves some rather
shaky commitments. "
So far she was right on the money. I decided to prod
her along from my own knowledge of things. "And
with America in the picture, you can wager ten bob to
five that Moscow will be poking their noses about, too.
Am I right?"
She nodded.
'SThen that would explain it,"
I sighed.
'Explain what?"
you and I have been spreading our day play-
ing 'Round the Maypole' with the Russians. "
Her mouth slacked open. and her eyes bugged in
astonishment. "Russians?" she gasped.
For a moment, it was my turn to stare. She honestly
didn•t know who it was we had been toying with.
"Russians, "
I nodded. "Just who did you think
those chaps in the alley were? The Algerian Better
Business Bureau?"
Where there was astonishment before, there now
appeared an icy hatred that chilled me to the bone. Her
voice was little better than a growl. ' 'Those Slavic sons
of bitches. "
"Here, here, is that any way to talk about your White
brethren?" I quipped.
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75
"No brothers of mine, " she spat.
"l hope you take
the bastard and blow the brains right out of his Commie
ass!
Bingo! We were getting somewhere. It was time to
stop playing the Marquis De Sade, and switch over to
Grandpa Walton, I let go of her arms, bringing my
hands up to cup her face.
"I take it I'm to remove one of your Marxist citizens
out from under whosever fingernail he is residing?"
She nodded. "l don't know who it is yet, but The
Society does. It's someone on the negotiating team.
Whatever the deal is that is being arranged with the
United States government, this bastard is sharing it all
with the Soviet Union. "
Double Bingo! So, someone had located Hawk's
leak for him, and I was being brought in to play the
plug.
Her voice brought me back. S' What, love?"
Her eyes were searching mine like a suppliant
searching out her God. "Liam, just for me. Please. Kill
the bastard twice!"
I laughed, pecking her lightly on the cheek. "Im-
practical, my little muffin. But I promise you, I can
make that first one a foretaste of hell. "
A smile crossed her lips and her eyes moistened.
Then the emotion passed, leaving something far less
definable in its place. I would have to call it perusal,
because her eyes refused to leave me.
She was the first to break the silence.
w 'Why did you kiss me? Back in the alley, I mean?"
There was a shyness in her manner that touched me.
For the first time, I noticed she had changed into a
sweater and slacks, both slightly too big for her. It only
served to make her look that much more vulnerable.
My hands moved off her cheeks, and began toying
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with her long hair. "Two reasons, really. You were in a
state of near panic, and I had to shock you. What with
all you 'd been through, slapping seemed like a bad
idea, so kissing just sort of jumped up and screamed at
She twisted her head a touch, flowing with the feel of
my hand in her hair. I continued, my voice growing
gentler. "The second reason was kind of selfish. "
Her brow wHnkled quizzically. "What do you
"l just sort of wanted to thank you. What you did in
that alley was nothing short of sensational. The slap-
ping was courageous, and saving my life
well
there are a good many in this world who 'd have
knighted you if you hadn 't. "
Her eyes dropped in embarrassment from the praise.
"Besides," I added, "it was impossible not to. You
have the cutest breasts this side of the Mediterranean. ' '
A giggle burst from her throat and her face glowed
red beneath her dark, rich skin.
Again our eyes held, and again one emotion soon
transplanted another. This one was less enigmatic,
punctuated only by the slight parting of her full, rich
lips.
I'm not the kind of man that needs to be begged.
I returned my hands to her face and brought her up to
me, tenderly pressing my own lips onto hers. They
were tentative at first, but willing.
I probed gently with my tongue, caressing her teeth
and mouth, savoring the sweet warmth I found there.
To me, every woman has her own taste. Robin was like
a young wine: sweet and bold, whose mere presence in
your mouth was enough to intoxicate you.
She slowly began responding, her own tongue re-
turning my affections. I cupped her face tighter, pulling
her into me and accepting the sweet warmth of her
SOCIETY OF NINE
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77
offering. An eternity must have passed before I finally
broke the contact.
"Look, Robin, I'm sorry I had to—"
I never got to finish. Her lips returned, forcefully this
time. Her tongue came alive, with a will of its own.
Aggressively, she searched my mouth as her breathing
began to come in shorter gasps.
At the same time, her hands began to play along my
exposed upper torso. Her fingers worked up and down
my ribs, her pace growing in intensity, matching the
ever-climbing pitch of our joined mouths.
A threshold was quickly reached, a moment when
events must either stop, or crash ahead to their certain
finality. fiere was another pause as both of us consid--
ered the direction we were taking.
The decision was really hers, and both of us sensed
it. It was quick in coming. All the pressures of the day 's
events seemed to hit her at once. Her body gave a
violent shudder, and her lungs collapsed into one giant
explosion of air. Her decision was made.
If only for a little whiles she needed to escape, to
erase from her mind the overwhelming realities she had
suddenly encountered. She lunged at me, her tongue
digging into my mouth, and her hands, no longer gen-
tle, tearing at my body.
She was a cat, clawing her prey, intent on one more
day's worth of survival.
My own desire for release proved no less demanding
than her own. My hands went behind her, pulling her
into me, crushing her in my embrace. Her lips slid off
mine and settled near my ear. her hot breath gasping as
she spoke.
"Oh, yes, Liam. Please. Please!"
Her lips returned to mine as my hands climbed under
her sweater and worked their way toward the soft
mounds of her breasts. Her body jerked in pleasure and
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a burst of air popped from her lungs as I cupped their
resilient softness.
Her breasts were firm and full, their nipples taut with
excitement. I moved from one to the other, measuring
their perfection, twisting at each nipple as her moaning
became a symphony of acceptance.
I could feel the pounding of my own passions as my
senses began to dull. 'Ihe pressure in my groin was
mounting, almost painful beneath the restriction of my
clothing. movement of my hand across her breasts
became an insistent kneading as the rippling shudders
of her pleasure pushed me farther into oblivion.
She suddenly broke away from me, her words pour-
ing out between fighting gasps of air. "l need to feel
you. Please, let me feei you. "
With that she jumped up and tore at her own
clothing. I did the same, my own passions surging as
each aspect of her perfect body emerged from its cloth
covering.
With my own clothing shed, I stretched myself out
on the bed and awaited her. In seconds she joined me,
pressing herself onto me. I rolled her to my right, and
began traveling her body with my mouth.
With each stop of my lips, her hands would dig into
my hair, pressing me into her, her moans a joyous
accompaniment to the pleasure I was giving her. My
roving lips Came to rest where my hands had begun, on
the full perfection of her breasts. I sucked hungrily at
her nipples, alternating between tongue and teeth, tor-
turing both of us into a pitch of erotic frenzy,
At the same time, my left hand slid down her belly,
working its way through the down patch of her mound
and probing gently at the soft lips of her sex.
She was moist and open, totally ready for whatever I
had to give her.
"Yes . . .yes!" she panted.
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I rolled on top of her, oblivious to any sensation,
even the nagging pain in my arm, as I held myself
above her. Her hand clutched at me, guiding me into
her, her hips greedily rising to accept me.
We both shivered in delight as I entered her, slowly,
steadily, not stopping until the hard knob of her pelvic
bone pressed against mine.
Rhythmically, I began moving my hips, slowly at
first, savoring the deep warmth of her body as it ca-
ressed me. Her hands pulled at my lower back, taking
me in each thrust, and demanding the fullest extent of
my penetration.
I lowered myself down, spreading myself over her,
Her nipples felt as though they were burning into my
chest. I moved myself with calculated precision, press-
ing my hips and rocking my body at the same
time.
I stepped up my pace, measuring her needs by the
deteriorating gasps of her breathing and the demanding
pressure of her nails as they raked my back. My hips
began churning, driving her into the bed, racing against
the mounting insanity of my own release.
Control was becoming very difficult. "Ihe hungry
demands of her body were pulling me in like a
whirlpool. Her hips were pounding fiercely, stroking
me, enveloping me in a moist sheath of sexual agony.
Her own desires for climax were no less insistent
than my own, as the first waves of orgasm were sweep-
ing over her. Her body gave, first one, then another
racking jerk. Her hands ceased all movement, her nails
digging into my back as the initial surge of her release
carried her in a soaring upward spiral.
"Ihen her hips pressed against me, her sex tearing at
my organ like a greedy animal as we came together in a
feverish climax.
And then peace. A warm, satisfying , gasping peace,
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as both Robin and collapsed.
For at least a minute, the sounds of our breathing
were the only realities in the room. And then she
stirred, her arms and legs stretching out, soft purrs
emanating from her throat.
With the return of sanity, I became aware of the
weight of my body on my injured arm. I rolled to the
stde, sliding out of her, and moving my hand over
quickly to stroke her body. She smiled, her flesh un-
dulating in delight as I caressed her.
My hand roamed her luscious form, only stopping
when I suddenly discovered something I had over-
looked in the midst of our passion. She had a tatoo,
located directly over her right hip bone.
I moved myself down slightly , studying it, tracing its
outline with my finger. It was an incredible rendering,
in brilliant orange and black, ofa leopard; in side view,
and in midleap. It was only about an inch or two in
length. but the detailing was incredibly exact.
"Don 't tell me," I chuckled. "You used to belong to
a cycle gang, right?"
"What?" She propped herself onto her elbows.
"Oh, that. No, just a drunken moment of caprice, I'm
afraid. My youth remaining to haunt me! "
"Care to explain?" I asked, resuming my stroking,
"Well, when one is young, one must find something
with which to torture one's parents. . . to express that
independence that all adolescents crave. In South Af-
rica, white children usually express their rebellion by
adopting the attitudes or symbols of the black counter-
culture. "Ihat was my contribution to my father's gray-
ing head. "
"What does it mean?"
'It's a popular tribal symbol. Leopards were a pow-
erful predatory force in tribal Africa. It was the black
African's symbol of power, virility, loyalty, and all
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that. Most of the black-rule groups used it heir own
symbol. "
"Well, whatta ya know," I smirked. ' 'Crn in bed
with an African hippie! " I kissed her tatco as punctua-
tion to my jest.
She ran her hand over my head. "Not really. I just
did it to stir up Mummy and Daddy. The closest I have
ever been to being really political, or ever will be. I
should think, is what I do now for a living. "
I tried to be coy. "And that is?"
For a moment she refused to bite. But then she
giggled. "Do you ever stop asking questions?"
I crawled back up beside her. "Never," I smiled.
She grinned back. "I'm a staff member for one of
South Africa's biggest black representatives. I handle
travel arrangements, bookings, correspondence, what-
ever gets called for. I'm paid by the government, but I
really consider him my boss. "
"Who?"
"Joseph Nikumba. "
I didn 't mean to, but I must have shown my reaction
to the name. Once more, the coincidences seemed to be
piling up.
"Do you know him?" she asked.
' 'A bit. Not much, really."
She snuggled up against me, her eyes getting slightly
dreamy and faraway. "He really is a marvel. If anyone
can put South Africa right, he can. He's a social an-
thropologist, and he's got some brilliant ideas about
how to pull the black tribes together. He's studied
them, you see. Even spent his summers as a student
living among them. He even married a genuine African
tribal princess . . some tribe in Botswanna, I think.
She suddenly popped up. "Would you like to see
what he looks like?"
I had already seen, and studied the man from AXE's
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files. But Robin was feeling chatty and communica-
tive, and I saw no reason to thwart her. I was hoping she
would begin to make it a habit.
"Please," I said, my manner impish. "Allow me to
gaze upon this black saint of yours. "
"Oh, pooh! " she chuckled, slapping at the front of
my hair. She jumped up and ran to her purse. I laid
myself back, enjoying the sight of her naked body as
she fished out a picture and returned it to me.
She bounced onto the bed, thrusting the photo in my
face. "Isn't he beautiful? Doesn't he look kind, and
intelligent?"
I looked at the face. It was indeed kind and intelli-
gent. A round black face, leaning toward pudgy, with
close-cropped, kinky hair flecked with gray. The suit
was tailored and impeccable, the glasses thick-rimmed
and duly professorial.
I was struggling for an answer to her question, a
teasingly irTeverant answer, when something caught
my eye.
I shot bolt upright in the bed.
"What is it?" she asked uncertainly.
I couldn 't answer. There, in a corner of the picture,
was a face I was all too familiar with. A face I hadn •t
really ever expected to see again, and never in this kind
of context.
"Who's that?" I demanded, my finger stabbing at
the photo.
Robin studied the object of my query. "Oh, that's
Bosima, the woman I was telling you about. The Bots-
wana tribeswoman, you know, the Princess. "
"Nikumba•s wife?"
"Yes. Why? What's wrong?"
Questions were wasted. My mind was too numbed to
deal with answers. I could only stare at the picture.
What stared back was two images. "Ihe one was the
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face in the photo; placid, regal, haughty. "Ihe other was
the living image of the woman as I had just seen her,
arrogant, defiant, and cold.
Nikumba's wife and Berenko's date were one in the
same.
CHAPTER SIX







CHAPTER SIX
*Ihe trip from Algiers to Capetown went without a
hitch. *Ihe drive to Oran almost had a vacation quality
to it. Having broken the ice with Robin, she was now
freer in discussing herself and her relation to events in
South Africa at least as far as she knew them. The entiie
ride possessed an easy comer-aderie, highlighted by
occasional stops to view the wide, blue sweep of the
Mediterranean.
The flight to Rabat was less dramatic, but for my
purposes, more productive. Robin spent most of the
flight asleep, finally surrendering to the pressures of
her first day in the covert actions business. I, on the
other hand, alternated my attentions between keeping
her comfortably nestled on my shoulder, and sorting
out the events I had just been through.
We had found our leak.
I had entertained at least a fleeting hope that perhaps
Nikumba's wife was getting only surface information,
and took advartage of Robin's mood to question her
on it. *Ihe worst was confirmed. man loved his
African Princess with a passion, and trusted her im-
plicitly. s 'The daughters of Eve strike again. "
With the Russians to guide her, she could work
Nikumba, and his love for her, fully and effectively.
She would just keep feeding him the apples until the
whole Garden of Eden withered around his ears.
Telling Nikumba would be useless. No man believes
his wife can betray him. *Ihe leak would just have to be
plugged another way.
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My way.
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Once Rabat had been reached, I left Robin to handle
our connection with the Lear jet, and snuck in a phone
call to Hawk. I iold him of The Society, their desire to
have me eliminate the leak he had been searching for,
and my discovery of just who that leak was.
It fit the pieces of his puzzle exactly. His own search
had narrowed down to a very few people, all within
breathing distance of Nikumba. He agreed with my
estimation that accusations would be wasted on
Nikumba. Action was called for.
He questioned me further on The Society of Nine
itself, but I was unable to offer him anything more than
the scraps I had gleaned from Robin. He promised to
dig up what he could for me, and we ended our call with
the agreement that I would contact him as soon as Ihe
Society had filled me in on exactly what my duties
were,
Once in Capetown, we were met by one of Robin's
people, who drove us to one of the town 's more remote
areas. The drive itself took us through the entire spec-
trum of South African society. We passed through
built-up areas of high-rise office, a monolithic testa-
ment to the White man 's culture. Beyond this were the
sweeping residential areas, with the only blacks visible
carrying brooms or sporting uniforms.
lhe closer we got to our destination, the more
squalor and deterioration we saw. Even Robin grew
somber as we slid past dilapidated homes, once the
residences of the white elite but now memories of an
earlier splendor.
It made a sad contrast to the gardens and lush groves
of the residential whites. In areas like this, no matter
where in the world they might be, are planted only the
seeds of hate and frustration; and the only crop that
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grows are the rows upon rows of rifles. and knives, and
bodies, that are the daily fare of the oppressed.
Our own destination proved to be just such a place. It
was a poor area on one of the several hills around
Capetown, a village of tin huts, thrown together out Of
corregated roofing and chewing gum and stuck on the
hillside with nothing more than prayers to keep it in
place.
Our driver departed, leaving the car and walking
away with that kind of familiarity that only comes when
one is at home. Robin and I explored our safe house, a
single room shack, with mattress on the floor, and little
else to break the monotony of poverty that surrounded
us.
Water would be retrieved at a communal pump,
shared by others in the complex, and when it came time
to relieve oneself of that same water, a convenient spot
would be chosen among the numerous palms that dot-
ted the hillside.
"Rustic, but quaint," I growled, not trying to hide
my sarcasm. It was the first comment that had passed
between us since the gardens and groves had turned into
slums.
Unfortunately, Robin did not laugh. "This is what
we hope to eliminate, Liam. do hope we're not incon-
veniencing you too much. "
Although we had gotten rather close in the last welve
hours, business had a way of making her testy. I felt the
urge to blunt that, just a bit.
"Inconvenienced? Not really. I mean, it's not the
Belfast Hilton, but then I really wasn't expecting
much. "
point wasn't lost on her. "Sorry," she whis-
pered.
Having scored my points, it was time to lighten the
mood.
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"All the place needs, really, is a christening. Don't
you agree?" As I spoke, I pointed to the room 's single
mattress.
In spite of the ride, and all it meant to her, a smile
broke out on Robin's face. "I thought you 'd never
ask!
A house is not a home, and a hovel is not a prison
when you know it's fora day ortwo. .
. and when you
have someone like Robin to help break up the boredom
of the scenery.
In no time we were both naked, her lovely body
lighting up the surroundings like a mirror-ball at a
disco.
It was Qristrnas in July.
We moved together on the mattress, careful in our
exploration of one another. There is something about
making love in surroundings like this; there is nothing
to distract you, nothing to divert your attention but the
absolute perfection of body and talent with which you
are being bestowed.
Unlike our last encounter, there was no desperation,
no psychological demand for escape and refuge. There
was only appreciation: me for Robin 's sublime physical
presence, and her, for the hard, muscled, controlled
accuracy that keptmealive. . both in and out of bed.
The pace was much slower. much more considered
in its forays and explorations. She had accepted me by
now, viewing the scars that decorated me not as threats,
but objects of my personality, to be kissed, stroked,
studied, and tasted.
I returned her efforts, examining her with all the
interest and fascination of a scholar perusing an original
Shakespeare folio. But, where a scholar will search and
dissect with his eyes and mind, I delved into this mys-
tery of flesh with my tongue, my hands, and my de-
sires.
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By the time we joined, our passions had reached
incredible heights of longing. I entered her once more,
slowly, carefully, letting the tempo build as my hips
established their rhythm.
Her own response, heightened by the firm urgings of
my manipulations, grew in intensity. Her body re-
sponded to mine, accepting me completely and rivaling
my attempts to hold the inevitable to its last possible
moment. Together we moved, an ebb and flow of
motion, toward a powerful peak.
And then the internal storm exploded, carrying us
both on an incredible tidal wave of bliss. She began
bucking with all the fury of a trapped animal, desperate
and hungry for the freedom of release.
And I accommodated.
manipulated her mercilessly, thrusting hips and
fingers in matched tempo to her demands. And then my
own control left me, seduced by the delighted contrac-
tions of her sex. I burst within her, spilling the last
remnants of my own sanity into the blazing cauldron of
our union.
The mutual expression of our passion resounded
through the tiny room, filling it with moans of a more
human, and satisfying, atmosphere.
And then, silence, warm, satisfied silence.
We collapsed gratefully onto the mattress that was to
be our home for the next day or two. For a short while
we lay there, gently furthering our explorations of each
other's bodies.
But soon, duty called.
We dressed quickly. with Robin assuming more of
that tone that indicated the work side of our relationship
was now paramount. She took a map of Capetown out
of her purse and spread it over the slat-wood floor,
pointing out the various key landmarks and byways I
would need to know to find my way around.
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With one car at our disposal, I would have to play
chauffeur. She needed to contact her people for final
instructions, and I would need to retrieve my hardware
from its current home in storage, It was decided that I
would drop her at her location, collect my bundle of
goodies, and kill an hour or two before picking her
up.
Our path retraced the shacks-to-shambles-to-sweep-
ing-lawns pattern we had traveled before, ending at one
of the towering buildings that had first greeted us,
I dropped Robin off, and followed her instructions to
the home of Denholm Shipping and Storage.
I parked the car a block away and moved in on foot,
just to be sure the place wasn't being watched. Since
our first day in Algiers, we had been successful in
losing our Russian escQrt service, and I wanted to keep
it that way.
So far, all they knew was what I looked like, It was
unlikely they knew my McDaniel cover, and less likely
that they could have traced anything down if they did.
The only possibility would be if they had uncovered
something on the Shipping procedures through Robin.
It was worth a little caution to keep our names off the
Russian Social Register.
My efforts proved unnecessary. 'Ihe place was as
clean as Grandmother's kitchen.
Claiming my bundle was even cleaner. It took all of
five short minutes, and I was back at the car, loading
my hardware into the trunk. I drove back to the area of
Robin's building and parked myself in one of the
nearby restaurants. It was agreed that she would meet
me there when she was done with her compatriots.
I settled comfortably into both a window booth and a
double Scotch and water. I watched the steady parade
of peons and potentates, the dynamic and humble that
seem to occupy the inner circle of every city in the
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world. I could just as easily have been looking at New
York or Geneva as Capetown.
I was about halfway through my drink, my eyes still
sweeping the street, when I saw her. The liquor caught
in my throat, and exploded back into the glass. I
slammed it down, my arm sweeping hastily across my
face to remove the dousing I had given myself.
It was Nikumba's wife.
At first I couldn 't believe it. She was dressed differ-
ently, a tailored gray suit instead of the native dashiki,
but she had that same haughty, defiant carriage, and
that same cold stare as she searched the street for a cab.
I leaped from the booth, slamming down some bills,
and raced for the nearby car. She found her vehicle at
the same time I did, and I gunned out into traffic,
pulling in behind her cab and keeping her safely within
tailing distance.
I wasn't exactly sure what I hoped to gain from
shadowing her. She could be going anywhere: the hair-
dressers or the bridge club, Or she could be paying a
visit to Berenko. So far, lady luck had been riding on
my side of the street, and I thought I might as well take
another shot at courting her favors.
niere was no doubt in my mind that Bosima
Nikumba was the target I had been hired for, and if I
could get her now—quietly and quickly—I could return
to the titillating world of Nick Carter, gadabout and
general playboy, just that much faster.
We reached the no-man 's land of sprawling homes,
and I held my breath.
Lady luck was still with me.
The cab kept going, the homes thinning out and
giving way to the more dilapidated luxury of the slums.
No one in a gray tailored suit is going to go marching
into this part of town for a quick rubber of bridge. She
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had to be out on business, and my guess was that
business had much to do with Yuri Berenko.
•nie cab pulled to a halt. It was a dismal area, a street
of run-down row houses. She popped out of the cab and
made her way into the third door from the endof the
street. I passed them up, noting the address, and parked
the car a block away.
On foot, I circled the block, finding a point from
which I could check out the scenery. The passersby
moved in a normal flow, coming and going, with no
faces repeating themselves. "me only permanent fix-
tures were two huddled blacks, both dead to the world,
and if the several empty bottles scattered around them
were any indication, they would remain that way for
quite some time.
No heat, and definitely no Russians. I was the only
white on the street; a fact that was getting just a little
more attention than I cared to greet.
I moved quickly to the doorway, and entered. I found
myself in a narrow hall leading back to a single door.
The walls were marked with slogans and symbols, most
unfamiliar to me. The only words I could identify were
the occasional scribbled names of one or another of the
black guerrilla movement leaders.
I moved carefully along the wall, Wilhelmina pop-
ping into my hands, keeping one eye on the door and
one eye on the entry from the street. Once the door was
reached, I steeled myself for what might confront me,
and burst through.
She was alone, sitting at a well-worn table and gaz-
ing listlessly out the window. I was obviously the first
to anive.
She recognized me immediately, and made a quick
move toward what I assumed would be a back exit. I cut
her off, grabbing her frail arm and twisting her,
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spreadeagle, onto the table. I frisked her quickly, find-
ing nothing. She was without beads this time, but the
memory of how I had overlooked them pushed me
towards extreme caution.
"Up! " I barked, using my best German.
She rose slowly. Once up, twisted her around,
checking her out for jewelry of any kind. All she
possessed was one stick pin on the lapel of her suit, and
I removed it, tossing it into a far corner for safekeep-
ing.
None too gently, I pushed her back into her chair,
taking up a position across from her. I plopped myself
onto the table, one foot firmly on the floor in case action
was deemed necessary.
"Well, now, I quipped, "funny bumping into you
again. And where's your playmate?"
Her silence was deafening. I had almost forgotten
how completely chilling those eyes of hers really were.
' 'What's the matter, Mrs. Nikumba? Lion got your
tongue?
Her answer was in crisp, institutional German.
"Shove it up your asst"
"My, my,my! Such talk! Is it any wonder they won't
give you the vote?"
It worked. If she had a sore spot, it would be politics.
I had to keep her hyped.
"Soon, Anglo!" She was all venom. "We'll get it
very soon indeed, and your head on a platter right along
"Really? Well, you'd better break out the big black
cauldrons, love, because I'm tougher than you can
handle .
. especially when the water gets boiling.
Now, where's Berenko, and what's the connection
between the two of you?"
For just an instant her eyes darted off to my right. It
was right out of the movies, Now, if the script went to
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form, I was to turn around while she did something
heroic, like stop the buzz saw that was closing in on
little Nell 's tethered torso.
I leveled my gaze intently on her, but owing some-
thing to caution, I tuned my ears and instincts behind
me. 'lhere was nary a sound nor sensation to disturb my
concentration.
"Nice try," I smiled. "A little trite, perhaps. I
would have expected something a little more clever
from you."
"Pig!" she bellowed. capitalist pig!
We'll kill you all! Africa is for the Blacks. Out with
imperialist domination! The glorious era of Black
Marxist supremeacy is about to begim
And on, and on, and on. I was hardly prepared for the
barrage I had opened up. She sounded like the editor of
the Tass news service, and it was all I could do to keep
from falling asleep as cliché after Communist cliché
tumbled from her mouth. I was getting nowhere fast.
She, on the other hand, was moving precisely in
tempo with her own goals. It was far too late by the time
I really began to understand the meaning behind her
words.
Sleep was just what she was trying to achieve, and
she had me. It wasn 't until her propagandizing stopped,
dead in mid-sentence, and the sudden explosion of new
sounds spilled from her mouth, that it really hit me as to
what she was doing.
She burst forth in a new language, one I had never
heard before; a collection of vocal stops and clicks that
sounded more at home in the throats of birds or insects
than the woman I was facing.
And the words weren 't meant for me.
I moved without thought. leaped and turned, plac-
ing Wilhelmina in the relative position of any attacking
chest I would encounter.
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nat was my first mistake.
Where I had expected to find chest, I was greeted by
stomach. Wilhelmina barked, stopping the stomach's
owner with typical efficiency, but the damage had been
done. Even the sound of the bursting door to my right
did little to shake me into action.
One is not meant to meet one's first Watusi native
under conditions of stress. There's something about
greeting eight feet of powerful manhood that just has to
give one pause.
And that little pause was all the time his two eight
foot buddies, hurling their way through the door,
needed to pin me to the table. Wilhelmina was quickly
liberated as I mentally reviewed the folly of all I had
done for the last few minutes.
One can rely too much on instincts. No matter how
sharp those instincts can become through years of use,
one day they're bound to confront a new experience.
Seldom had those intincts been forced to deal with
the native, straight from the bush, skilled in the arts of
the jungle, natives so subtle in their approaches that
they can kiss the ears of a rabbit before the animal even
senses their presence.
I awaited judgment.
Wilhelmina was gone, and the nimble fingers of one
of the giant Watusi 's had little trouble in locating Hugo.
No amount of tensing kept the knife from departing my
arm. My only hope was that there was some kind of
Watusi taboo on testicles.
There must have been, because Pierre remained to-
tally intact. I sat up on the table.
For a moment or two, the girl continued in her
strange tongue, instructing her Goliaths as to how to
tend their human rabbit. And then she turned on me,
speaking once more in German.
"You shall remain in good company, my white
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friend. And, for the moment, you shall remain alive. I
will contact Herr Berenko and see what his wishes are
where you are concerned: In the meantime, you might
do well to contemplate your own foolish life, and the
certainty of your death. "
She turned and gestured toward the two eight-foot
frames that guarded me. "It will be they who give you
your ride into afterlife. They are savages, yes? Perhaps
we will get out the pot, just as you suggested. I suspect
you will not prove as tough as you would like to think. s'
With an evil grin to punctuate her pleasure at the
thought, she departed, leaving me to the care of my
native brothers.
I studied the two specimens, and it suddenly struck
me how entirely careless I had been. lhese were the
two drunks who had huddled outside the apartment. In
my search for Russians it had not crossed my mind to
look for local talent.
My stupidity firmly established, it was now time to
go to work on brilliance. An exit was called for.
Both men were huge, but neither had shown any
great skills as trained fighters. It was more the shock of
seeing them, than any finesse on their part, that had
done me in. were bush brawlers. Very tall bush
brawlers, true, but surely vulnerable.
"Ihey did have Wilhelmina and Hugo. In fact, Hugo
was currently the center of attention. "Ihe one holding
my knife had discovered its spring action, and was rapt
in his study of the marvelous toy. The attention of both
was almost childlike in their study of twentieth century
blade work.
Innocence: another mark in the credit column.
Added to that was the fact that I knew I had Pierre, and
they didn 't.
The credits were adding up.
Carefully, I worked my hands into my pockets, my
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right hand paying particular attention to the removable
seam in the pocket's lining. As subtlely as I could, I
removed the tiny gas bomb from its home in the family
jewels, and cupped it carefully in my sweating palm.
My motion was suddenly arrested when the giant
bearing Hugo leaped at me, his mouth sputtering in its
unique language, his one hand pointing out his fallen
comrade, and his other springing Hugo in and out in
front of my face. His message needed no translation.
I waited it out. Soon he became satisfied with his
own native eloquence, and returned to his buddy. I
allowed myself a calming sigh, and began thinking
through a course of action.
I contemplated just tossing the sphere, and marked
the distance to the door. I had no fear of Piene taking
me out, but Ijust couldn 't gauge the reflexes of the man
with the gun. Hugo may have baffled them, but
Wilhelmina was sitting in the Watusi's hand like a
familiar pipe. I couldn 't risk his knowing how to use it,
at least not yet.
And then it hit me.
If Hugo had so amazed and occupied them, how
would they react to Pierre's round, seamless, plastic
perfection? If one of them could become enraptured
wth Pierre's shell-like simplicity, perhaps they would
ignite it themselves. That could give me the edge I
needed,
There was a note of irony in it, too. It had been the
skills of their native life that had done me in. Perhaps
the marvel of my twentieth century world would nail
them. It was the only chance I had.
With a gentle shove, I rolled Pierre onto the floor.
*Ihe two giants froze as they watched the tiny ball drift
to a halt.
Ihe one holding Hugo was the first to react. Héburst
into laughter and rushed over to grab Pierre. He studied
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it, turning it over in his fingers, and applying every
pressure to solve the riddle it presented. 'Ihen the smile
was gone from his face and he glowered in frustrated
confusion as he turned to me.
My pulse nearly stopped as he raced over to me and
shoved the lethal pellet into my face. He was not gentle
in his handling of the object. He was gibbering in tones
loaded with question marks.
Now it was my turn. I had to gamble.
Moving my hands up slowly, so as not to make
anyone nervous, I took Pierre and beckoned the giant to
step away from me. Slowly I began tossing Pierre from
one hand to the other, waiting for the native to catch on.
He did.
A smile burst across his face and his hands began
waving at me to throw him the object. "Ihis was my
moment. I opted for throwing in the direction of the
gun-man, hoping to burst Pierre on the wall next to
him, and make my move for the door at the same time.
I threw the ball, hard and fast.
A miscalculation.
It's difficult to gauge the armspan of an eight-foot
opponent, and once more I had underestimated the
cat-like reflexes of the primitive man. neir lives, all
too frequently, depend on movements of suddenness
and accuracy.
His native skills were honed on just such games as
this.
*Ihe giant caught the ball, bubbling over in laughter,
as he held his prize up for all to see, Another round of
chattering filled the room as he danced in victory.
And then he did a very surprising thing. He turned
without warning and fired the ball to his friend with the
gun.
This man •s reflexes were no less admirable than his
own, Before I knew it, the two of them were engaged in
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a childhood game as old as man himselt I prayed
silently that neither would attempt to test my skills, and
did what I could to ready myself for my dash to the
door.
For several throws, the two seemed stalemated. And
then the giant with Hugo paused, studying his oppo-
nent. The game of ball may be millenias old, but human
nature is even older. Cheating must have begun when
the first single cell decided that, by joining with other
cells, he could tilt the odds and dine with impunity.
And this eight-foot universe of cells was bound to
carry on the tradition. He noted his partner's left hand,
duly occupied with Wilhelmina, and therefore useless
in the contest. With the speed of realization, he threw
Pierre as hard and as far to the other man's left as he
could.
fie other man tried his best, throwing his right arm
around , but to no avail. Pierre passed him and burst into
fragments against the wall.
I could not have asked for more.
The bomb erupted into vaporous activity, the gun-
man's face not two inches from it. On top of that, his
valiant attempt at catching had left him with his back to
me. I took full advantage of it. I charged for the door,
tearing it open, and hurled myself out into the hall.
I turned quickly to see if I was being pursued.
The gun-toter was already slumping to the floor, his
buddy frozen in confusion. The man just stood, his
bewilderment rooting him in his tracks, and allowing
Pierre's deadly vapors to enfold him.
Within seconds, he was joining his fellow tribesman
in eternal slumber.
I moved out of the hall and into fresh air. The street
was clear of opposition, and I had only to allow a
minute or two to let the room clear, and I could retrieve
my weaponry.
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ne minutes refused to hurry, but timing was still on
my side. Finally the room was safe, and I liberated my
equipment from the clutched hands of the natives. I
moved again toward the door, intent on exit, when
something caught my eye.
lhe third native, the one I had shot, was lying on the
floor, his shirt torn open from Wilhelmina's blast. He
was covered in blood, but from beneath the flow of his
injury. I caught a glimpse of shocking orange.
I moved to the man and tore open his shirt. On his
belly, just below the bottom rib, was a tattoo, very
distinctive, and very well executed. In curiosity, I
checked the other two men, and they too wore the
symbol in orange and black.
It was a leopard, in side view, and mid-leap, the
same tattoo I had discovered on Robin's belly.
Robin's words drifted through my brain. The
leopard is a common symbol, used by many of the
freedom groups.
Well, maybe so, but these tattoos were identical in
design and execution . .
. as if they wre drawn by the
same hand, It was just one more coincidence in a
mission that was beginning to drown in coincidences.
My guts were gnawing at me again.
But it would have to wait. I would find out more
later, when I saw Robin. The trick now was to get to
Robin before help arrived. I grabbed Hugo and
Wilhelmina, and made for the car.
No one interfered, and I struggled my way through
the unfamiliar streets, aiming myself for the large clus-
ter of high-rises that marked the sky. When I finally
found the restaurant I had so hastily deserted, Robin
was waiting.
I approached her, intent on apology, when her face
shut me off. She iooked like a walking apparition of
death. Her face was white, no mean feat for a girl with
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her complexion, and her hands were trembling, curling
around a drink of what looked like straight bourbon.
Three fingers deep, and not even an ice cube to temper
its effect.
I slid quickly into the chair opposite her and leaned
forward until my face was only inches from hers.
"Start talking. "
She took a deep swallow from her glass, gasped a
moment, and finally spoke. Her voice quivered even
more than her hands. "Your target .
they've told
me who you are to kill. s'
Suddenly I understood. As close as she was to
Nikumba, she was probably just as close with Bosima.
"Look, Robin," I said, trying to make my tone as
soothing as I could, "I know the target, and I know how
rough it must be for you. But it's got to be done. You
know that, don 't you?"
It was agonizing for her, but the head ncdded yes.
"Good. Now I need to know just how, and when,
I'm to take her."
An expression of confusion broke through the
gloom.
"Her? Her . .
. who?"
"Bosim," I answered. "Nikumba's wife. "
She looked at me as though she only wished it were
Bosima. My own confusion suddenly grew.
"Wait a minute, Robin. Ihe target is Nikumba's
wife, right?"
Her head shook slowly. "No."
"Then who the hell is it?"
For a moment she didn 't answer. Instead she pushed
her glass across the table, right in front of me. When
she did speak, her voice was even and quiet, like a
preacher giving last rites.
"Your target, Liam, is Joseph Nikumba himself. "
CHAPTER SEVEN






CHAPTER SEVEN
The next three days passed like a nightmare, From
the moment Robin had spoken Nikumba's name, des-
ignating him as the target, logic and sanity seemed to
take a vacation.
I immediately called Hawk and lowered the boom on
him. As I suspected he might, he blew through the roof.
I half expected him to climb the phone cables and ring
my neck. "Proof!" he had screamed. "Don 't make a
goddamn move without solid proof!' '
It was agreed that I would push Robin to the corner if
I had to, but I was not to even contemplate moving
without solid goods on Nikumba. Hawk said he would
throw an emergency team into the field and come up
with everything he could on his endi
And push I did.
I'm not always proud of the things I have to do to win
the game, but winning is what I •m paid for. I used every
detail I had come to learn about Robin to get what I
wanted.
I used her affection for me, her affection for Ni-
kumba; frightened her with suggestions that she could
be being manipulated to eliminate an innocent
Nikumba; screamed Moscow, whined my own fear of
the target; and finally, even came within a hair's
breadth of dumping my cover, and spilling the whole
caper.
But finally, she did give. She agreed to let me meet
with her friend in *Ihe Society, and let him confirm the
horror.
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"Ihat had been day one.
Day two had passed in an even more surreal land-
scape, a landscape of photos and tapes, of eyewitness
accounts from agents, of reconnaissance reports. All
those things that slowly drive the nails into any traitor's
coffin.
And in almost every instance, there stood Berenko.
No doubt about it, Nikumba stunk. In black and white,
and living color. Bosima was no more the leak than I.
She was a courier only, a courier for her husband,
Joseph Nikumba.
I was saved the unpleasant task of relating this to
Hawk. He contacted me first. His own team had
learned the truth.
It's funny how difficult it is, sometimes, to uncover
information. You learn you 've got a mole, and the field
has many candidates. Some you don't want to be
guilty, some are too important and you pray for their
innocence. suddenly things narrow down to one
or two, and then the seemingly random pattern of lives ,
or the apparent innocence of desires and comments,
start to come together into a completely different pic-
ture.
Nikumba was definitely the man with his finger on
the shutter, and the picture looked grim.
Ihe moment Hawk spoke to me, I knew in my guts
just which way the cards would be falling.
' 'Nikumba 's code name has been updated, " he said,
his voice showing more fatigue than I had ever known.
"He is now to be referred to as Judas!"
Hawk went on to explain the ramifications of what
this new turn of events would mean. Most of it I had
already figured out, but Hawk was in no mood to have
his thought patterns interrupted or enlightened. It was
as though, by discussing it, he could make it go away.
The upshot of the whole deal was this:
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Nikumba was the main key to South-African Black
government. He owned the blacks themselves, and by
virture of pulling America into the picture, he now
owned the whites. The announcement of his take over,
as an interim-ruler until national elections could
legitimize his rule, was only one week away.
Had we not discovered his duplicity, events would
have gone thusly. He would have assumed leadership,
the American interests, already setting up, would have
slipped into high gear, and America would begin the
delicate process of tying Namibia into the South Afri-
can macramé.
Welcome to the land of milk and honey.
But, with Nikumba clearly in the Russian camp, a
new scenario emerges.
He gains power, and the world rejoices. The United
Nations lifts its embargo, and South Africa dives into
the world economy, just as intended. American corpo-
rate interests set up their facilities and everyone pops
champagne, pats each other's back, looking forward to
unlimited profit and prosperity.
And then, the crunch.
Suddenly Nikumba switches gears and raises the
banner of Namibian independence. He throws his en-
tire administration behind the S.W.A.P.O. cause. And
what do the Russians do? They back out gracefully.
"Yes," they say, "we have backed Namibian inde-
pendence because the U.N. says they are independent,
and we do our best to support the decisions of this most
noble forum of universal thought. But now, South
Africa has seen the error of its ways, and has thrown off
the yoke of imperalist domination that has been pervert-
ing it. "
But, 10 and behold, guess what happens next?
Suddenly Namibia ties itself to the Nikumba comet,
. a reality I
voting him as their true representative . .
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was sure the Russians were promoting at that very
moment.
Then what?
Nikumba gracefully accepts this Namibian mandate
(well ahead of the one we intended), he accepts the
responsibility of rule (well outside the framework we
had envisioned) , and begins lavishing all those benefits
(that we have provided him with) upon the under-
privileged members of Namibian society.
Our industrial complexes are seized, the Russians
are invited in—only in an advisory capacity, of
course—and life begins to take on a new "enlight-
ened ' ' kind of socialism; specifically geared to keep the
whites at home, but the Reds in the driver's seat.
Voila! Instant Russian control of diamonds and gold
. while America licks its wounds and tries to create
any, and I mean any, excuse for objecting to events.
But this time there is one big hitch. We can 't open
our mouths without revealing what it was that we were
going to pull off.
Ergo, silence.
It was a fiasco; a montage of misassumptions and
delusion, guaranteed to cut our balls and force us to
dine on them at the same time.
I tried to offer just a hint of hope. "Maybe we can
still negotiate. Maybe Nikumba isjust playing one of us
against the other. "
"Use your head, N-3, Think!" Hawk growled.
' 'Any man with the gift for uniting peoples that
Nikumba has could very well yield to the temptations of
power. And there is no power quite as supreme as that
wielded by the ruler of a Marxist government! "
Hawk was right. "lhere would be no negotiating. The
ultimate solution was all that remained.
I was to make damn sure I got clear of the site after
the job was done. Hawk would contact Harcourt and
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convince him to have one of his agents in the South
African government handle the investigation.
It would then be conveniently "discovered" that
Liam McDaniel was the killer, and he was an English
racist. Harcourt would then wait an appropriate amount
of time, stage a cornering of McDaniel in England, and
produce the already dead McDaniel to wrap the inci-
dent up into one neat package.
Case closed. Justice done.
Hawk even had me covered should I get caught in the
act. Harcourt 's man would be the one handling me, and
Harcourt would merely slip McDaniel 's body into the
country. An escape attempt would then be staged, and
the real McDaniel—killed in his escape attempt, of
course—would be substituted for me, and I would slip
quietly out the back door.
The latter was definitely the riskier option, what with
Berenko knowing full well who I wasl But there would
still be little he could say without blowing his own
cover.
"lhe real problem comes if you're naited in the
attempt, Hawk said, an ironic chuckle in his voice.
"Then, I'm afraid, you will just have to be your own
"Thanks for the encouragement. "
"It'll give you incentive. Good luck, N-3! "
The first task was to work out the details of the caper
with Robin. By now she had grown to accept the reality
of Nikumba 's treachery. Her love for the man turned,
quickly to hate. It was almost with relish that she laid
out his full itinerary for the next week, looking for the
opportunity that would put him under.
But still there would be moments, usually when I
was pouring intently over the maps and location
photos, when she would slip into a deep silence.
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"Hey," I whispered. ' 'You 're supposed to be help-
ing me. "
' 'What?" Her head jolted slightly as her attention
was returned to the room. "I'm sorry, Liam. I was
dreaming. Sony. "
"lhinking of him?"
She paused a moment before answering. "No, not
really. I was thinking of innocence . . . mine, that is,
not his. I was thinking ofa time, far too long ago, when
causes—black or white—meant nothing to me. "
It must have been long ago indeed, because it was a
very young girl that was romping around behind those
eyes. s 'Was this in Johannesburg?" I asked.
"No. Actually I was raised in Zaire. It was the
Congo then, and my father was very active in govern-
ment, and very committed to the black cause. He would
discuss it with me, but I was far too young for causes. I
was too busy being a little girl to care. "
Ihat little girl was still visible, even now. A deep
sigh shook her shoulders before she continued.
"My father's efforts helped to win the Congo its
independence in 1960, and that's when it stopped being
home for him. He was the kind of man who needed
causes; without them, he was lost. So he obtained a
position in Johannesburg"lnd took up the banners once
more in South Africa. "
"And that's when you joined in his efforts?"
She smiled. "More or less. He was for black rule,
but through peaceful channels. As I told you before, I
was an adolescent at that point, and fully involved in
the dedicated process of aging him to the best of my
ability. That was the period of the tattoo, when I em-
braced only those philosophies that included vio-
lence. "
"How long did that last?"
Suddenly her face darkened. ' 'Until he was killed. "
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I felt slightly awkward witnessing the memory.
"Sorry," I muttered.
She shook her head, the deep-felt emotion evident on
her face. "It was the rebels. ney had set up a bomb-
ing, in a white restaurant. My father just happened to be
sitting there when it went off. He died instantly, they
tell me. There*s something to be said for that, I sup-
pose. "
lhere was another pause, and another sigh.
' 'So, suddenly, rebel causes lost their appeal for me.
My greatest regret was that my father died thinking that
I condoned the very instrument of his death. I 'm not
sure I 'II ever shake that feeling, So, whether from guilt
or a genuine attack of common sense, I 'II never know,
but I jumped into his shoes, doing my best to further the
black cause through legitimate channels . .
within
the system, if you will."
' 'And you tied yourself to Nikumba. "
"Yes, I did, " she nodded slowly. "He became a sort
of embodiment of my father, a substitute. I grew to
worship him .
and now .
. now .
She had hit her limit. For the first time since the
horrible truth came out, she cried. It was slow at first, a
few dribbling tears, but all too quickly her body threw
itself in, shattering her frame with racking sobs of
agony. Her hand came out to me like a drowning soul.
I broke from the table, holding her, stroking her,
trying to still the turmoil within her.
"It was his!" she sobbed. ' 'It was his fucking sym-
tattoo!"
I suddenly remembered the three hulking giants I had
encountered in Bosima's rendezvous.
"And now, " she cried, "if I could, I would cut the
damn thing off my body with a knife! 's
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She collapsed in another wave of pain, and I held her
tightly as she fought to regain control. It was several
minutes before the well of tears ran dry and the heaving
shoulders set themselves straight again. When she fi-
nally looked up at me, her eyes were clear and her jaw
was set in determination.
"We have work to do, Liam. Let's get to it."
The plan that evolved was simple.
Nikumba was scheduled to speak the next day to a
huge gathering of blacks in Windhoek, Namibia. The
speech was to be delivered in a park, and Robin dis-
played a detailed knowledge of the area. Directly
across from where Nikumba would address his audi-
ence was a three-story building. From the rcx»f of the
building, I would have a direct shot on my target.
The next problem was how to get up there, and Robin
provided a solution.
The building was well within the ranée of my rifle,
but far enough away from the dais that the number of
guards cruising the area would be minimal. At exactly
five minutes prior to Nikumba's taking the stand,
Robin would come to the front of the building and
create whatever excuse necessary to lure away any
guards present, using her position as a Nikumba staffer
to do so.
I was then to take advantage of the guard 's absence to
enter the building and make my way up the three flights
of stairs to the roof. rme rifle was to be strapped to my
body, beneath my clothing, with its various attach-
ments tucked neatly into pockets. Once on the roof, I
was to assemble the weapon, and take Nikumba the
second his speech began.
I added the precaution ofa "fall back", in case there
should arise some unforeseen occurrance. I told Robin
that she was to follow her part of the plan faithfully. She
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109
was to wear a red scarf for the event, and when the time
came to distract the guard, I would watch her from
some point of concealment. If all was as planned, I
would know it by her continued possession of the scarf.
But if something went wrong, she was to drop the scarf
into her purse and appear to the guard without it. Its
absence would tell me that I was to abort the mission
until new plans could be devised.
The next question became that of escape. Robin
again offered the solution. The Society would provide
me with a guard's uniform. Once the mission was
executed, I was the dump the weaponry into one of the
air shafts that opened onto the building's roof. J was
then to pull my pistol and roam the building, just as any
guard would, supposedly looking for the source of the
gunfire.
In the confusion, it was very unlikely that any of the
real guards would start checking I.D. 's, so I was
merely to work my way back out of the building, where
I would be met by Robin, and the two of us would find
our way out of the area and back to Cape Town, where I
would be paid, thanked, and sent on my merry way.
The plan sounded solid. Unknown to Robin, I would
improvise just a bit, leaving the hardware for Har-
court 's address to find, and thereby wrapping the whole
project with the bogus appearance of the real McDaniel
in England.
Other than that, it would be business as planned,
with me departing Robin in Cape Town and thumbing
my way back to the States on one of our CIA flights.
And so it went. 'Ihe third day was spent in traveling
to Windhoek. 'Ihe Society provided us with another
safe house, little better than the one we had been given
in Cape Town. The difference this time was I didn't
have Robin to break the boredom.
She was tucked in with the rest of the Nikumba
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