# Society Of Nine33

Лев Переводчик Шкловский

SOCIETY OF NINE

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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

SOCIETY OF NINE

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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. "

SOCIETY OF NINE

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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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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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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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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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"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

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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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SOCIETY OF NINE

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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87

"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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89

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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91

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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93

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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96

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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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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