Assignment- Tyrant's Bride

by Will B Aarons

A vehicle had swerved from Malyamu Avenue, trying to cut into the one-way street behind Durell, but was blocked by the two cars he had narrowly missed. Now he turned onto a narrow, rising street, rumbled over trolley tracks, rounded another corner.

  "You lost them,” Jerry said. "Good piece of work.”

  "They must have followed your taxi to the park.”

  "They could have had you under surveillance.” Jerry’s fun-crinkled eyes were defensive.

  "It isn’t worth arguing about now.” Durell’s tone was gloomy. "I doubt we’ve seen the last of them.”

  They rode in silence as Durell jockeyed the Volvo back into the vicinity of the Ruwenzori Hotel, where he was to meet Deirdre.

  Then Jerry said: "I’d feel better if you told me when you plan to move the princess. How long do I have to drag out this magazine assignment?”

  "You agreed to ask no questions, remember?”

  "That was in New York, before I saw what it was like here.”

  "You’re just a go-between for me and Deirdre Padgett; that’s all you need to know.”

  "When do you superpatriots start trusting us average citizens?” Jerry’s voice held an edge of hostility. "When you’ve earned it,” Durell said.

  "The Ruwenzori’s coming up,” Jerry said.

  "You go in with me. Act as if you and I had just met and you were introducing me to Deirdre.” He parked by the curb, set the emergency brake, dropped the keys into a pocket.

  "She’ll be in the bar,” Jerry said.

  Kenshu lay on the foothills of Africa’s mountain spine. The night chill came through Durell’s blue suit. The newly risen moon showed through the lake’s thin mist, red and angry against a black sky.

  The Ruwenzori was old-fashioned, with straw furnishings and worn carpets, overgrown potted plants and slowly twisting ceiling fans. It dated from the time of Kenshu’s first railway passenger station, a little over seventy years ago. It was the sort of place Durell preferred, but faceless intermediaries had reserved his room at the antiseptic and expensive International, across a lily pond and Independence Boulevard from Ausi’s palace. The International, with its vinyl-upholstered walls and starburst chandeliers, was a place of diplomatic conferences and state convocations. It was where Ausi held all his wedding receptions.

  Durell, half a step ahead of Jerry and slightly taller, strode through the ornate lobby and into the Pullmanshaped bar. A woman sang a throaty lament in Portuguese, backed up by a Zairian trio. The light was low, the tobacco smoke dense. Hotel guests must have sensed the violence in the streets and elected to spend the evening in: the bar was crowded and noisy.

  Deirdre sat at a small table near a corner. She wore a berry-red suit with a cutaway jacket. A move of her head made copper tints slide through her long, raven hair. Durell felt a small, sharp burst of desire—but that was not all.

  There was alarm, as well. And a sudden caution.

  The back of his hand stopped Jerry, as he checked himself at the end of the bar. He regarded with troubled eyes a down-at-the-heels stranger who stood over Deirdre and jabbered at her in accented English. He couldn’t hear what was being said, only a word here and there. An angry welt showed on the left side of the man’s black forehead, and his lip was split and puffed. His clothing was soiled and torn.

  "You ever see him?” Durell asked.

  "Nope. What do you think is going on?” Jerry asked.

  "I don’t know. Let’s get closer.”

  "Why don’t we just go send him packing?”

  "Wait a bit.”

  Durell led the way down the bar to a point closer to Deirdre’s table. The crush of bodies was hot and uncomfortable as they leaned in and ordered drinks. Everyone was well dressed, except the man at Deirdre’s side, and that was reason enough not to approach too hastily. He’d learned to be alert for the significance of a broken pattern, any piece that did not fit.

  He caught a glimmer of recognition in Deirdre’s worried gray eyes, then she looked away. The music stopped; no one seemed to pay any attention, either way, but he could hear somewhat better.

  The stranger was talking with Deirdre about overthrowing Field Marshal Ausi, trying to enlist her. His gestures were feverish; his voice loud—he clearly was under stress, and Durell thought he understood why, given his physical condition. He’d been arrested by Ausi’s secret police, the Second Bureau, for "anti-state activities,” as they usually put it. They’d cowed him with threats and a good beating, then put him to entrapping others. It was an old story.

  But why Deirdre, of all people? She was here practically as a guest of the dictator.

  The Second Bureau did nothing simply at random, without reason: it could be testing him. It was not supposed to know who he was—although someone had just tailed him and Jerry—or that he was acquainted with Deirdre. What it was supposed to know didn’t matter. He wished to know what it knew.

  "He’s frightening Deirdre,” Jerry said.

  "Watch his eyes,” Durell replied.

  "What do you mean?”

  "He keeps looking at somebody up the bar—those two, under the antelope head.”

  The two men Durell indicated wore silk school ties and thick gold cufflinks. The shorter one, who was not small, scowled; the taller, who was very tall, exhibited a silky smirk. Both had the low-browed, dispensable look of President for Life Ausi’s professional people-stompers.

  Durell considered his position. If contact were deemed impractical here tonight, there would be another time and place. Trouble was, too much time had slipped away already. He blew between taut lips. There was no help for it; he mustn’t endanger the mission.

  "I think I’d better leave,” he said.

  Jerry’s sky-blue eyes widened in disbelief. "You can’t do that,” he exclaimed.

  "That’s what you think.”

  "After all the trouble setting this up? What about Deirdre?”

  "She can manage; she knows procedure.”

  They both stiffened, as the pair of Second Bureau men broke away from the bar and threaded their way through the crowded gloom toward her.

  Jerry’s face was incredulous. "They’re going to pick her up.”

  Before Durell could stop him, he barged across the room, grabbed the man in shirtsleeves and hurled him away from the table. Anger seethed in Durell as Jerry said something to Deirdre out of the side of his mouth, then met the rush of the shorter Second Bureau man. The taller one swung wildly, his right arm winding around both necks, and Deirdre skipped around the melee and came to Durell. The bar was full of fearful eyes; they knew the ways of the Second Bureau.

  Deirdre told Durell: "He said for me and you to get out of here while we have the chance.”

  Anger hammered under Durell’s ribs. "He’s grandstanding. He’ll ruin everything. Come on.” He hustled Deirdre through the crowd.

  Grunts, thuds and the crash of tumbling chairs came from behind. Durell was sweating. The cops or more SB boys were bound to show up momentarily. Brighter light came from the lobby over the dark heads between him and the bar entrance. He quickened his pace, pushing and shoving. He wanted to wring Jerry’s neck.

  Then: "Sam!”

  Deirdre slowed him with a tug. "He’s in trouble.”

  "Damn right. Let’s get out of here.”

  7

  "You’re going to leave Jerry like this?” Deirdre complained to Durell’s back. "It’s not very sporting, old dear.”

  He pulled her along grimly. "He asked for this.”

  "Sam, he got loose. He’s coming!”

  Durell’s short, emphatic curse was like the snap of a bear’s jaws. He looked back into the crowd. The two SB characters crashed through the lounge on Jerry’s heels, all of them headed right for him and Deirdre. It was too late to run; he’d be spotted for sure. He turned against Deirdre, pushed her to the bar and reached behind her, grasping a half-filled beer bottle. Jerry pounded past, breath gusting. He made no show of recognition, and Durell guessed he was half-blinded by panic.
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br />   A second later Durell spun and clotheslined the first SB man, whipping a forearm into his throat with such force that it made a loud, chopping noise. His feet flew into the air, and he slammed down on his back.

  The second agent hardly had a chance to see what had happened before he went down in a shower of glass and booze, the beer bottle exploding at the back of his head.

  Now the Portuguese singer screamed.

  Durell yanked Deirdre unceremoniously through the doorway into the sleepy ambiance of the lobby’s potted palms and straw gewgaws, bowling over a red-clad bellhop summoned by the scream. There was no sign of Jerry, only a trio of elderly Kenyans in flowing native robes, who read the papers and sipped peppery palm-tree toddies.

  Fortunately, nobody was behind the desk for the moment.

  A Mobundu Airlines clock there said it was ten-sixteen.

  Coming out of the stuffy bar, the air seemed chillier, and the rising moon had paled in the African blackness. A siren’s ululating whine came from the distance. "See Jerry?” Durell asked, as they hurried down the sidewalk.

  "Huh-uh,” Deirdre said.

  "I have a car. The Volvo.”

  "Maybe he’s waiting there.”

  "No. Get in.” He held a door for her, then went to the driver’s side, cranked the engine, gunned it savagely.

  "Don’t be angry, darling,” she soothed. They left the hotel behind and headed across town, toward the university.

  "Jerry didn’t have to do that.”

  "He was only trying to help me. Honestly, he surprised me.” Her gray eyes were serious. "I might have expected it from you.”

  "You know the rules as well as I, Dee.”

  She turned her patrician face to her window and spoke away from him, a little sadly. "I know them: you work as a team when the going’s good; let things fall to pieces, it’s every man for himself.”

  "It’s called cutting your losses. Don’t look so glum: you got what you wanted, over my objections. You’re here.”

  "Because I love you, Sam. Sometimes I wonder why.” She moved close and took his right arm and draped it over her shoulders.

  Her perfume touched his nostrils lightly, stirring pleasant memories. At one time they had almost married, but had realized it would not work out. He had to keep himself free of the emotional burden of wife and family; besides, he admitted, he was married to his work. She had grown to understand and not compete, so they lived each hour fully when together, and when alone tried to think of other things. She had done an occasional chore for General McFee—he knew he could count on her, where Durell was involved. A fashion writer by profession, she’d been the perfect choice for this assignment. Durell was always opposed to anything that might bring her harm, but she saw it as a chance to be close to him as well as to turn the tables: he would be reminded of what she went through, worrying over him.

  "It was rash and uncalled-for,” Durell fretted. He glanced at the rearview mirror. There still was a sound of sirens in the air. "Now where the hell has he gone? If the police pick him up, he’ll spill everything he knows.”

  Deirdre’s tone was innocent. "Then why were you about to leave him with them?”

  "Because it would have been worse if I’d been arrested.”

  "Well, he won’t spill anything,” Deirdre said. "He’s President Ausi’s fair-haired boy, the photographer who’s going to make Teresa famous. Those secret police evidently didn’t know the score.”

  “So that's where he got the courage to butt in. Thinks he’d leading a charmed life.” They rounded a curve atop one of the hills on which the capital city was built. The fire of a copper smelter glowed orange down by Lake Lumumba. "If he’s so cozy with Ausi, it makes me wonder. . .”

  "Must you always be so suspicious?” Deirdre asked. "You know, the world does have some nice people in it.”

  "I just don’t like the feeling I have about him,” Durell said. They drove on, now coasting down a sloping boulevard. The moon’s brilliance cast shadows on the sidewalks; silhouettes of banana fronds hung tattered and limp in the thin fog. From a clearing under some distant tree sounded the beat of a ngoma, the drum dance that expressed joy or sorrow.

  "Sam. . .?”

  "Yo.”

  "Sam, why do you think the secret police were badgering me with that man?”

  "You have any theories?”

  She touched a tooth with the tip of her fingernail, thinking. "No foreigner is safe from harassment,” she said. "Ausi’s people are xenophobic.”

  "If you’re satisfied with that,” Durell said.

  Her tone was wistful. "I wish I were.”

  Durell kept his eyes on the road. "I think the SB knew somehow that something was happening; maybe not just what—any more than Jerry did—”

  "Darling, you must get it out of your head that Jerry’s had some sinister part in this. He’s sweet. Really.” She looked at him as if to judge whether he believed her. "After all, he tried to help me.”

  "Let’s put it on ice,” he said. "I think you’ll be all right, since you still have your fashion article to finish. I just hope the Second Bureau isn’t looking for me.” He swung the wheel and the Volvo bucked over a culvert, entering a walled parking lot. It was nestled between a three-story stone structure that had been British administrative offices and the cathedral compound where resided the archbishop of Mobundu-Ruwidi.

  He parked, and said: "We have an appointment with an archbishop.”

  The cool air vibrated to the whispers and sighs of a city at night, as they left the car. From outlying hills came the choked roar of a leopard on the prowl. The moon was cold and brilliant. Deirdre followed Durell silently to the iron-studded doors of the parish house, where his knock was answered by a wizened housekeeper.

  "Jambo,” Durell greeted her.

  She stared.

  Tafadhali, tell his excellency Sam Durell is here,” he said, still in Swahili. The door closed. He glanced at Deirdre. Her face was pale and troubled in the moon’s brilliance. He took her hand, smiled briefly. Mvule trees soared darkly, fringing the compound.

  The old woman returned and wordlessly showed them through a paneled hallway smelling of lemon oil. They came out in a dusky, book-lined study, where a fire that crackled in a small fireplace gave the only light. Durell scanned walls and ceiling for clues to Ausi’s secret listening devices.

  Archbishop Kavuma entered and took Durell’s hand. He had a short, muscular body and resolute black eyes that shone with intelligence.

  "Can we speak freely?” Durell asked.

  "In this room, yes. Friends of mine keep it secure. They know about such things.” Kavuma sighed. "Unfortunately, they can do nothing about the lack of electricity—President Ausi has seen fit to deprive us of service. A token of his displeasure.” He turned to Deirdre. "And who is this, Mr. Durell?”

  "Deirdre Padgett, your excellency.”

  She offered a graceful hand, and the archbishop’s face brightened. He wore a clerical collar and black vested suit that bagged at the knees.

  Durell said: "I felt she should meet you, as you are our principal contact, and if anything should happen to me. . ."

  "I understand.” He nodded his black head.

  "My agency wishes me to thank you again for meeting me in Cairo. You took a serious risk, but your communication with General Ogwang was invaluable.”

  "I have little to fear, my friend. My days are numbered, so I may as well act bravely. Sherry?” Durell and Deirdre declined, but the middle-aged priest poured one for himself from a cut-glass decanter. "It is arranged, then?” he said.

  "Yes,” Durell replied.

  "With the kabakaliya?” He used the Ndolo word for "king’s daughter.”

  "We’re working on it.”

  The archbishop became thoughtful. "Good. There isn’t much time, from my point of view: President Ausi is scheming for a way to rid himself of me. I embarrass him, you see. I speak out, and he cannot tolerate that.” Deirdre sounded shocked. "He wouldn�
��t dare harm you,” she said. "The outcry would be overwhelming.”

  "Perhaps, my dear, but this is a sick country. Its people are afraid.” He finished his sherry and placed the glass carefully on a doily. "Come with me,” he said. "I want to show you something.”

  He lighted a candle in the fireplace, handed it to Durell, lighted one for himself and led them through a heavy door, down a short flight of steps to the right into what appeared to Durell to be a church office, with typewriters and filing cabinets. A second door let them into the transept that formed the arm on the cross of the cathedral’s floor plan. Rainbow-hued moonbeams slanted from enormous stained-glass windows. From high in the dark rafters and crossbeams came the squeaks of bats. Durell was aware of a sense of awe at the simple immensity of this great structure, as he followed the archbishop to an apse with a raised dais that held the bishop’s throne.

  "If you would help me, please?” Archbishop Kavuma said, putting his weight against the side of the dais. Durell pushed, and there was a grinding, echoing noise, and the dais slid aside. Below, the feeble orange glow of the candles tailed off to black shadows, where stone steps descended into a square, murky cavity. A swampy odor tainted Durell’s nostrils, and his eyes queried the churchman.

  The archbishop smiled and turned to Deirdre. "Would you dare to go down there, my dear?”

  "I—I don’t know,” she said in an uncertain voice. Her gray eyes showed the brassy candle flames; the red lights in her black hair flickered with the fires.

  "It might save your life,” the archbishop said. "You mustn’t fear it; it’s perfectly safe.”

  Durell spoke, holding his candle higher: "Where does it go?”

  "The river. At the turn of the century, when the Ndolo ruled the Mobundu-Ruwidi freely, a small mission was established on this spot. It was not a thing to be done lightly, for the Ndolo were fierce: to intrude into their domain was a dangerous thing, indeed.” He nodded toward the pit. "So, the missionaries took the trouble to prepare an escape route. The limestone under Kenshu’s hills contains many caverns. One of them runs beneath us here. A short connecting tunnel was all the missionaries needed.” He smiled at Durell, then Deirdre. "Boats were always kept ready for flight, hidden under vegetation of the riverbank.”