He regarded the lead guard, coveting the man’s Belgian-made FAL assault rifle, but he knew he would be dead before he could reach him.
Time was running out.
He’d have to try.
He tensed, ready to go, and hoped prisoners behind him would shield him long enough—provided the rear guard didn’t decide to mow them all down with automatic fire. Then a door was opened, and he had to hold back, as they entered a narrow staircase. He swore softly. Now there was no room, and every second diminished the likelihood of escape. Low lighting came from a single bulb at the bottom of the stairs: there was a door down there with a small grilled window. It was painted yellow, for some unknown reason, and blood smears stood out darkly on its brass knob. He cast about desperately for a way out of this nightmare, but he could not reach a guard now if he tried, and the Africans seemed content to sleepwalk to their deaths.
The lead guard peered through the door, nodded, was admitted.
Durell felt sweat roll down his ribs.
Deirdre turned. "It’s hopeless, isn’t it, Sam?”
"We’re past where you bother counting the odds, if that’s what you mean,” he said.
"Silence!” the rear guard snapped.
Jerry ignored the command. "What’s in that room?” he demanded.
Other prisoners wanted to know, too. There were mutterings, and the guard’s cruel face turned worried. He made his words cut like blades. "That’s the execution room. You will die there.”
In the momentary pause that followed, Deirdre’s hand squeezed the blood from Durell’s fingers; then the door opened, and the lead guard returned with a third soldier, and the two of them pushed the first two prisoners through the door. The brief moment when it had seemed, incredibly, that there might be mutiny was past. There was not a flicker of rebellion left in the prisoners’ eyes. Not even anger.
Just resignation.
Sharp words came through the door. An argument, apparently. Durell shifted his position so that he could see through into what looked to be an ordinary concrete cellar. A dim saffron radiance illuminated faces and forms of soldiers standing against a wall. The two prisoners were in the center of the room, one of them kneeling. The one who was standing had been given a hammer, and he was pleading with the soldiers not to make him knock the other’s brains out. Voices rose; the argument was over.
The man with the hammer raised it high, and the other abruptly screamed, and someone shouted: "Now!”
The whizzing hammer struck with such force that it splattered blood and fluid and brain tissue into the air.
Durell tasted something dark.
Deirdre’s voice was tremulous, and he realized she had seen. "My God,” she breathed. Her face was anguished, her hand at her throat. "This really is the end, then.”
Durell found nothing to say: she was too bright to deceive.
He watched as an officer took the bloody hammer from the surviving prisoner, ordered him to kneel, then came to the door and ordered another prisoner inside. Now he saw that the floor was slimy with blood, and the smell of a slaughterhouse touched his nostrils. He told Deirdre to get behind him, but she resisted.
"I could never do that—to you,” she said, and tears spilled out of her eyes.
He stroked her hair, aware of the pain of impotent fury. "You won’t have to,” he whispered. "When it is my turn, I’ll throw the hammer—”
"But—”
"If I can hit a guard, I may get his weapon.”
"Darling! You won’t have a chance!”
His senses soaked her in for the last time. For that instant he put the barbaric death in the wings out of his mind, remembering times together, aware only of the perfumed roundings of her graceful body, the silken touch of her fiery raven hair, her tears on his neck.
"Kiss me,” she said. "Don’t stop.” She made a wincing sound, as their lips met.
"You down there: break it up!” It was the guard up the stairs.
Deirdre moved away a step, her eyes glistening. She still held both his hands. He did not know what to say; he just stood there, hoping for a miracle.
Then he heard Jerry’s voice, and looked back, and was both puzzled and surprised by the expression on his sweaty face. "You were right about me, Sam,” he whispered. "Maybe I said something I shouldn’t have, not on purpose, but it got back to Ausi. I don’t know. I suppose I wanted people to think I was a big man, and this is where it got me. But I didn’t mean any harm.”
"There’s nothing can be done about it now,” Durell replied.
"I’m not asking you to forgive me.”
"Good.”
Durell heard the latch rattle; it was his turn. Deirdre whimpered through her fingers: "No. . .”
Jerry said: "You’re gonna think I’m grandstanding again!”
The next thing Durell knew, the big redhead turned and went for the rear guard, both arms flung out, fingers raking the air as he groped wildly for the gun barrel. There were four prisoners between him and the soldier, and the cramped passageway benefited him initially, bewildering and hindering the guard. In that fleeting second, Durell acted, barreled up the stairs after Jerry like a bull through a thicket, as he realized he had one last chance.
Then the soldier’s FAL thundered, its concussion cracking against Durell’s eardrums in the narrow space, and he felt the drumbeat of slugs whiffing and pounding and heard shrieks and screams: the lean passage was filled like a flickering nook of hell, with twisting shadows and forms—Deirdre’s among them!—that whirled and fell. . . .
16
Durell dived under the shield Jerry’s body made as it tumbled backward; then he surged up from below, bullets smashing all around, and grabbed the hot end of the soldier’s rifle. He scrambled sidewise, shoved and twisted it free of surprised hands, then slammed the butt into the man’s jaw. The soldier still fought with terrified strength. They rolled over the corpse-strewn stairs; Durell came up on top and clubbed him again, smashing his nose, then crushing his temple.
He had to get down the stairs to Deirdre. He could barely pick out her still form amid the bloody tangle of sprawled prisoners. He was filled with grief and rage. Then came an alarmed shout, and he saw the first guard staring up. Durell fired from the hip, spun him out of sight, tried to descend to Deirdre; but it was too late.
He heard confused commands, and guns fired from inside the door, raking the staircase, forcing him to run for his life. He sprinted up the stairs, into the hallway, and almost ran over a lieutenant and two enlisted men responding to the disturbance. They threw up their hands faster than he could pull the trigger. He backed them grimly into the room full of prisoners, saw to it that their weapons and ammunition were distributed—keeping the officer’s 9mm Browning for himself—and came back out with prisoners both armed and unarmed.
People headed in both directions, back in the hallway. He hoped some of them made it.
For himself, he crossed into a small room on the back side of the building. Now guns spat and cracked outdoors, as surprised and disorganized soldiers provided some opposition, and the prisoners continued to flee.
In here were desks and filing cabinets, no personnel.
Durell hurried to a window, threw it open, leaned out cautiously. In front of him was a chain-link fence topped with strands of barbed wire, then scrubby vegetation and a street. Kenshu spread away to the south. He heard a stutter of heavy-machine-gun fire, probably from an armored vehicle mount, and hoped some of the prisoners had commandeered it.
The fence was some ten feet away. He lowered himself out the window, darted to it, scrambled over.
He heard more shots, then the put! of slugs ripping through palm leaves to his right.
But no one followed. They must have had enough on their hands. Minutes later, Durell was headed for the cathedral in a stolen car.
He arrived there at twelve past three, after pushing the car into the river from an abandoned pier. The walk of three blocks had been uneventful.
&nb
sp; He slipped into the rectory without knocking. He thought there might be parishioners in the chapel and questioned how he would get to the bishop’s throne without being seen. If someone was in there, perhaps he could hide in the living quarters until they had left.
The paneling was gloomy. Lemon-oil wood polish tanged the air.
From somewhere deep in the house a phone rang, rang again, as he crept along the dark wall. He touched the Browning under his belt. No one answered the phone; it rang itself out. The place was deserted.
The thought of Deirdre was like a bleeding wound; it flashed across his mind, and he saw her falling in a tangle of blood-slippery bodies to lie still. He put the vision out of his thoughts as he went with care through the house. Maybe he was the only one left of all those who had plotted in Ausi’s capital: Deirdre, Jerry, Willie, the archbishop, gone. Perhaps even Teresa. And President for Life Field Marshal Azo Ausi diabolically triumphant. It was incredible, Durell thought—but hadn’t he called it a fool’s errand?
He passed through the still air of the study, where a fragrance of the previous night’s fire came from the cold fireplace.
He thought he heard something, but he couldn’t be sure. He paused on the deep, worn carpet. It might have been a footfall, the thump of a truck on the street outside, the flutter of a pigeon in the attic. He had no way of knowing. Sweat ringed his eyes as he slowly released his breath and moved on, into the office through which the archbishop had taken him the night before. Nothing had changed; nothing seemed to have been moved. The entire compound had the air of a place that had been shuttered, boarded up, closed down on a moment’s notice.
The phone rang again, making him jump. It was in this room.
He snatched the heavy Browning from under his waistband and stepped back against a wall and watched the entrances. He did not touch the phone. It rang interminably, testing his nerves, as he waited, helpless to put an end to it without giving himself away.
No one came.
The place was deserted, the whole, huge complex a haven for ghosts.
Deirdre flashed back across his mind, and he fought the image away, but she came back again, hauntingly.
He had never believed he would lose her. . . .
He shook his head, raised his eyes to the ceiling, moved on, toward the door to the transept of the cathedral.
"M-Mr. Durell?”
His face jerked to the right; he blinked and saw into a small executive lair that branched off the main administrative area. A sofa was in there. Something that looked like a bundle of soiled clothing lay on it. He could not believe it was a man. But it was.
The archbishop of Mobundu-Ruwidi, Thomas Kavuma.
Durell moved quickly to the older man’s side, knelt, felt his pulse. "Steady, sir. You’ll be all right,” he soothed.
"No, my friend. I’m dying, and you know it. But you survive, thank God.”
His pulse fluttered weakly; his voice was a thin tissue of sound. He had been beaten; his face was a puttylike gob of shapeless flesh. He managed to see out of one eye. His black clerical suite was in shreds.
Durell said: "Teresa told me there was a rumor you had been killed under a tank. How did you get back here?”
"Kabakaliya Teresa? She’s free?”
"No.” Durell’s eyes were regretful. "But I spoke with her.”
The archbishop’s breathing was rapid and tormented as he rested momentarily. He smiled weakly. "They tried to kick me to death. Thought they had. Friends— found me—later.”
"I’m sorry, sir.”
The archbishop attempted to swallow, choked, coughed, and Durell saw bright blood trickle from his mouth and nostrils. His open eye roamed feverishly over the room. "I wanted to die here,” he said.
Durell made no reply.
"It has been my life: the church.”
Durell waited.
The archbishop lifted a hand feebly and poked at Durell’s chest. "You will—take Teresa back—to her people,” he insisted.
Durell shook his head. "Not this time, sir. We’ve been wiped out, the whole team.”
"You must!”
"Be calm. Maybe we will come back again.”
"That will be too late—for the Ndolo, Mr. Durell.” He sank back into his blood-soaked pillow, and his breath rasped harshly against the papered walls. His slitted eye held a stony glitter, and perspiration stood out on the bruised flesh of his face. His voice sunk to a bare whisper, each struggling syllable born in a froth of red spittle, as he said:
"You must complete mission—now. . . .”
Durell moved into the great shadows of the vaulted transept. Archbishop Kavuma was dead, and there was no hope of carrying out his last wish.
Teresa was stuck here.
The Ndolo were left to the tender mercy of Azo Ausi. He swallowed bitterly, surveying the enormous cathedral, still holding the Browning in his grip. There was not a sound, just row upon row of empty pews and blazing stained-glass windows. He moved silently, noting the bronze-clad doors at the far end, remembering the slamming rifle butts the night before, when he and Deirdre Padgett. . .
Dee. . . .
A suffocating grief welled up darkly, as if to snuff out his spirit, but he rode the wave, not letting it overwhelm him, and turned his attention to the raised dais upon which sat the bishop’s throne.
The best he could do now was save himself—get through the tunnel and into the boat that waited under the riverbank. Downstream waited Kenneth Dager and General Albert Ogwang: he’d have to give them the sorry news, then run for it across the border.
He glanced over his shoulder, once, quickly, and pushed the dais aside. A footstep crunched in the darkness below; his nerves turned to sputtering fuses—
Before he could react, someone yelled.
A gun roared.
17
Durell saw a muzzle flash, felt a whiff, reached out his gun—
"No, Cajun!”
"Willie?” Durell peered disbelievingly into the darkness.
"I’m sorry, Cajun. It was Teresa; she didn’t know your face.”
"Let me in.” Durell skipped down the steps, pulled the throne back overhead.
"You made it,” Wells said, grinning widely.
"And you.” He took Wells’ hand, then nodded at the tall woman beside him: "Kabakaliya Teresa.”
She casually pushed a short-barreled Walther Polizei Pistole back under her belt. He regarded her by the dim radiance filtering down through the filigreed dais. Her almond eyes baited him, and there was a mocking smile on her sensual lips. Her expression hinted at paradoxes and mysteries and tragedies that begged solving and soothing, and he could see how she had woven a spell over Ogwang and Ausi, and perhaps Wells, too. And yet, something about her kept its distance.
She wore rugged twill trousers and shirt that she must have had stashed somewhere, and Durell’s immediate joy began to sour: it hadn’t been a lucky accident that put her in the right place to escape—she must have plotted the whole thing.
She said: "I came here and waited for you, as you said.”
"Why didn’t the archbishop tell me?”
"How would he know? Is he here?”
"He’s dead.”
"I don’t understand.”
"Never mind; you must have come in another way.” Wells said: "What happened after we stuck it to Ausi, Cajun? We nailed Teresa’s bodyguards in the confusion and got away in her Rolls.”
An acid anger flushed through Durell’s system. "I told you not to try to hit on Ausi, Willie.”
"Hey, it sprung Teresa, didn’t it?”
"It killed lots of people, too. The armored car turned on the market crowd. It—”
Teresa held out her palm. "Don’t. I don’t want to hear it, Mr. Durell.”
"Don’t you? Jerry Chase is dead. If it hadn’t been for him, I’d be dead. And Deirdre Padgett—” His voice caught.
Wells spoke quietly. "She bought it?” He saw the look in Durell’s eyes, and added: "I’m sorry,
Cajun. Real sorry. Listen, you know this business—”
Durell cut him off. "What do you think happened to Ausi?”
Teresa answered. "Mkondo said he killed him.”
"The old man made it here?”
"He was fortunate. He is down by the river now. He must go with us, since the army connected his house with the attempt on Field Marshal Ausi’s life.”
"Attempt is right.”
"What?”
"Ausi isn’t dead,” Durell snapped. "He’s hardly scratched. Only maybe a bit more vicious and deadly, thanks to the two of you.”
Wells sounded angry now. "Don’t blame us for—”
"I do blame you.”
Teresa said: "We had to do something.”
"And do it fast,” Wells added.
"And you knew I would veto it, so you gave me no choice but to accept an accomplished fact.”
"Cajun—nothing was more important than freeing Teresa.”
"You disobeyed me, damn you to hell!” Durell’s fury boiled over, and he swung, connecting with a right to the chin. He knew he was being unreasonable from a strategic point of view, but he just couldn’t stand back that far: he had to get this out of his system. Wells bounced off the wall, but he was tough and quick and recovered with a slashing blow that might have broken Durell’s neck, had it not been deflected. They locked together, grunting and straining for advantage in the semidarkness. Wells’ anger showed in bared teeth. The black man knew every trick in the book, but Durell was ready with the counters and had superior size and strength, besides. Slowly he bore Wells down, until the man’s hold on him gave way, then snapped his face around with a left and rocked him with a right. Wells’ spine sagged, and his knees buckled, and Durell propped him against the wall and aimed another roundhouse right at his drooping jaw—but a gun barrel in his ribs reminded him of Teresa’s little PPK automatic.
"That is enough; he has learned his lesson,” she said.
Assignment- Tyrant's Bride Page 10