Durell twisted around, allowing Wells to slump down, and saw that her eyes were wide and hard and brooked no argument. He turned loose of Wells, and the man shook his head and touched his jaw tenderly.
"Ow,” Wells moaned. Then, half-smiling, "Remind me not to get you pissed off.”
"You all right?” The poison was out of his system now.
"In a minute.”
Teresa said: "Please admit, there’s hope for the Ndolo now, where there was hardly a shred before, Mr. Durell.”
His voice was grim. "That may be. But from here on in, I make the plans, and I expect you to follow orders, just like Mr. Wells.”
She stiffened. "You seem to forget our relative status, sir.”
"I suggest you do the same,” Durell replied, "if you hope to reach Kipora in one piece. You won’t find me as pliable as Mr. Wells.”
"She is a princess, Cajun,” Wells said.
"Get off your butt, Willie. Let’s go.”
18
Teresa stirred in the bottom of the boat. "Where are we? Are we there?” she asked, her voice sleepy.
"Looks like it,” Wells told her.
Durell said: "Let’s get to the bank and find General Ogwang.”
A landmark bridge made a spidery crescent high above, where the Lomba highway spanned the dull gleam of the river. It was late, after midnight, and thunderheads moving down the slopes of the Ruwenzori obscured the moon in the west, so Durell could breathe a bit easier. Lightning flickered and winked soundlessly in the distant clouds. They beached the boat in quiet waters behind a fallen khaya tree. The foliage was riddled with paths here, made by fishermen coming down from the road. Things croaked and chirruped, hopped and slithered. The air was sultry, not cool as in Kenshu: they had descended several thousand feet in the uneventful day and a half since fleeing the capital. They had eaten emergency rations thoughtfully stowed in the skiff, plus fruit purchased twice in sleepy riverside settlements. They had not paused to cook, and had slept by turns in the boat, as it fell with the current.
"Be alert for border patrols,” Durell said. "Ruwidi isn’t far, and Ausi has been trying to stem the flow of refugees across the border.” He had a vague sense of unease and was hoping nothing had gone wrong. "The village is less than a kilometer south,” he said.
He came out of the brush at the edge of the highway. Mosquitoes pricked at his skin. He could make out the village as an irregular shadow some hundreds of yards away. It was the northernmost organized presence of the Ndolo in Mobundu. General Ogwang was to have depended on its inhabitants to hide him and Kenneth Dager until Durell’s arrival. Durell called Teresa to his side. Mkondo came with her, his oriental face curious.
"General Ogwang is supposed to be at the house of the postmaster, Mr. Moses Kafero,” Durell said. "Are you familiar with the village?”
She shook her lovely head and said: "I may have been here; I don’t remember it.” She spoke to Mkondo. Durell failed to recognize the language, which was not Ndolo or Swahili. Mkondo trotted away, toward the village.
"What did you tell him?” Durell asked.
"To inspect the village,” she said.
"He does anything you say, doesn’t he?”
"Anything.” Her eyes were impenetrable shadows in the faint starshine.
Durell breathed deeply. It was nice to be out of the boat. "It’s a good idea to send him first,” he said. "If a border patrol is about, he can evade it better than we can as a group.”
She took Wells’ hand, and Durell saw the gleam of a sweet smile. He did not care for the drift: love was dangerous enough without involving someone else’s wife—a general’s wife at that; and there was the whole mission, staked on Teresa and Ogwang cooperating.
"Willie.” Durell broke the spell. "Follow up Mkondo. Keep an eye on him.” He motioned with a sharp tilt of his head, and Wells moved out uncomplainingly.
"That was not necessary, Mr. Durell,” Teresa said.
"Was I so transparent?”
"It is none of your business.” Her voice came stiffly.
"You will be joining your husband shortly.”
"I will need Mr. Wells,” she said stubbornly.
"What does that mean?”
She ignored the question. He chose not to press it, surveying the darkness as they waited. The bridge was to his left. Across the road was more bush, then fields delineated by files of feather-duster palm growth. The air was damp and still and warm, and the river scent came up through tangled foliage, a not unpleasant fragrance of mud and water and bruised plants.
He counted two minutes, three, five. . . .
Then he recognized the bulky figure of Wells, with his Bata boots and stuffed cargo pockets of his khakis. He stepped onto the highway, and Wells said: "Mkondo is watching the Kafero house. It wasn’t hard to find, with signs of the Mobunda Postal Union plastered on its front.”
"Let’s go, then.” He glanced back and stopped: Teresa had not moved. He did not know if she were afraid of Ogwang, or what. "Come on,” he said.
The settlement seemed asleep, its houses stretched out for perhaps two hundred yards along either side of the road. Mostly they were thatched-roof huts, called bandas, but corrugated roofs shone here and there. Long-leafed banana trees, gardens and rank grasses broke up the severe outlines of the buildings, and there were livestock pens in the rear. Rats rummaged in the darker shadows. An eagle owl hooted.
Mkondo appeared, beckoned them onto the porch of a clapboard building. He still wore only the patched walking shorts he’d had on when Durell first met him. His brown back glowed when lightning flashed in the distant storm clouds.
"Here," he said.
"Very’well,” Durell said. "Wait. Willie?”
"Yo.” His service revolver made a black outline in his grip.
Durell knocked, waited, knocked again. Darkness was thick under the porch, so he was not too worried that unwanted eyes would see him. He felt a curdling in his stomach: something was wrong. He told Mkondo to go around back and check. "Look for animals,” he said.
"Animals?”
"Goats, chickens.”
"Ah.” Durell wished he could see the old man’s face. "Why, Sam Durell?”
"Everybody keeps animals. If they’re gone, most likely the people are, too.”
Wells said: "Gone?”
Teresa said: "Just what I would expect of Albert— he’s a coward.”
Durell made no reply. He waited in the sultry night, the crosshatched grip of the Browning in his hand. Mkondo’s report was typically brief when he returned. "Gone, Sam Durell.”
"No animals there?”
"No animals.”
Teresa’s voice rose. "What does it mean?” she asked. Durell said: "Let’s find out what’s inside.”
“I’m with you,” Wells said, coming up close.
Durell palmed the doorknob, twisted it carefully, his gun in the other hand. He felt Wells inches behind him. Flash lightning turned thunderheads to momentary pale blossoms, far away. Suddenly, he swung the door open, burst through, slid to the left and heard Wells do the same on the right: both waited in a crouch, guns thrust out.
Silence.
Emptiness.
"Willie? Mr. Durell?” It was Teresa, calling from the porch. The men waited a long moment, neither moving. "Willie? Where are you?” She sounded alarmed.
Durell swore softly. He spoke across the gloom to Wells. "I don’t believe this. Check the other rooms.”
"What about Teresa?” Wells protested.
"I’ll see to her.”
"Yo.”
Durell was disgusted, in no mood to pamper the woman. If Ogwang had let them down. . .
He put it out of his mind, strode back out the door and, as courteously as possible, asked what was wrong. "Mkondo—he heard something.”
"Where is he?”
She pointed off the porch. "He went around the side of the house.”
Durell leaned over, peered around, spoke over his shoulder. "What w
as the sound like?”
"Something in the bushes. Maybe an animal.”
He heard the strain in her voice. The village was deserted, burdened with mystery, portents of unknown evil in the African night.
She asked: "Can’t you go after him?”
"It would be a waste of time in this terrain; besides, it would split us up more. Can’t risk it.”
"You would if he were white,” she snapped.
Durell’s palm made a flat, harsh report against her cheek, and she staggered back, her breath pinching air. He grabbed her shoulders and spoke into her shocked face. "Don’t ever. . .!” Then he caught himself. He was on edge as much as anyone. He should not have hit her, but he was not about to apologize. She stared at him, showing whites of her enormous eyes, and wiped tears with the back of a hand. He saw they were tears of pain; emotionally he had not touched her: she was as tough as rhino horn. He was braced, but, amazingly, she said nothing. He heard Wells coming and turned her loose.
"What’s going on?” Wells asked.
"What did you find?” Durell said.
"The place has been ransacked, or the people who lived there packed in an awful hurry.” He took Teresa’s hand.
They heard something in the webby brush, and then old Mkondo came through, and they saw that he was holding a boy, maybe fourteen years old. Mkondo smiled up, and said: "Here,” offering the boy to them with a push.
Durell spoke in Swahili. "We won’t hurt you. Why were you hiding here? Where are all the people?”
"You are not with the army?” the boy asked. The little light of the stars showed him to be dirty, his shorts and white knit shirt muddy. He wore no shoes.
"I told you: you are safe with us,” Durell said. "We are friends of the general who was to have stayed in this house.”
"He did. That is my father’s house.” The boy spoke eagerly. "The army came yesterday. Some of the people took what they could and ran into the bush, but many others were taken away by the soldiers. They were shot. Down by the river. And thrown in.”
Durell exchanged troubled glances with Wells and Teresa. "Why did the army do this?” he asked.
"They said because our tribe is the Ndolo—they said the Ndolo are idiots and devils.”
Of course, Durell thought.
He turned to Wells and Teresa, who stood close together. "It’s begun,” he said. "Genocide.”
The boy said that General Ogwang had moved to the Smythe coffee plantation, a couple of kilometers away, and told them how to get there. He said he did not know what had happened to his parents.
Teresa said: "At least the soldiers have been here already. If they are still alive, they should be safe.”
"Nisamehe," the boy said, excusing his rebuttal, "there are many soldiers about. They are patrolling to catch our people if they try to cross the border into Ruwidi.”
"Sounds like Ausi,” Durell said.
"The bloodthirsty brute,” Teresa said.
"Let’s go find General Ogwang,” Durell said, and went down into the street.
"What about the kid?” Wells asked.
"He can tag along, if he can keep up,” Durell said.
"I have a better idea. Suppose we let him watch over the boat for us until we leave. He looks hungry; there’s plenty of rations in it.”
Durell considered it and decided it seemed little enough to do. "All right,” he said. "Take him down and catch up with us. Come on, Kabakaliya Teresa; Mkondo.” He hooked a thumb in the air and started down the highway. So far not a vehicle had passed by, which was not surprising in this relatively primitive region. The road to the plantation bent off to the left after about a kilometer. It was rutted and puddled, not easy walking in the dark. Dense growth lined either side, and the air was musty, and lianas dipped and looped from treetops that were black and eerie against the approaching lightning clouds. Then the trees thinned, and there were dark coffee shrubs in regular, low rows, and the road began the ascent of a steep hill.
About the time Wells caught up with them, Durell saw house lights ahead. "That must be the plantation house,” he said.
"Keeping late hours,” Wells said.
Teresa spoke from behind them. "I can’t—I won’t go there.”
They turned and stared at her. A breeze stirred the trees and brought a scent of jasmine from coffee blossoms. A leopard coughed, distantly. Wells spoke first. "You afraid of Ogwang?” he asked.
Durell intervened. "It doesn’t matter; she must go on.”
"Just, now, hold on, Cajun.” Wells turned back to the slender woman. "You mustn’t be afraid of Ogwang,” he said.
Durell said: "He needs you as much as you need him.”
Wells’ voice hardened. "He gets out of line, I’ll take care of him for you.”
"Nobody’s going to take care of anybody,” Durell said. Teresa’s voice was low and rancorous. "I don’t fear him. I despise him.”
"Just remember,” Durell said, "that your people are counting on you to save them.”
"As I am the last of my line, perhaps. But they don’t even know Albert Ogwang is coming. He is the doing of the CIA. Your doing, Mr. Durell—”
"Yes, trying to save some lives—”
"And the American position in Africa. I am not blind.”
"Our goals happen to coincide, then.”
"They wouldn’t accept him if he came without me.”
"He’s the best military mind the Ndolo have.”
"Used to be, you mean.”
"He’s still all you have.” Durell slowed his words and spoke with angry authority. "And you are going through with this. It’s your duty; too much has been sacrificed; I’ll take you there by force, if I have to.” His eyes went to Wells and then Mkondo, who flanked Teresa. They did not say anything.
"Let’s waste no more time,” he said. "I’ll check out the house. Wait for me to come back.” It was a good excuse: he wanted to be alone.
The air was lighter, drier up here, away from the river, which made a rushing sound down in the valley. He came to a hedge and waded through it onto a lawn where tame white ducks roosted beside a large pond. He went cautiously up an immaculately trimmed slope of thick grass, every sense alert.
He was almost to the house when he stopped cold. Lightning flashed and he saw it again: a corpse, sprawled by the door.
19
Durell checked himself and viewed the fallen man from a distance, tension mounting. His first concern was that it was General Albert Ogwang, but then he saw it couldn’t be: it was a white man. His second worry was that Ausi’s soldiers had killed him, that they might still be about, and he watched and listened with care for several seconds.
He thought he heard a mutter of voices.
Reflected interior lighting came dimly through a solarium where French doors stood ajar, as if the victim had been shot down running away.
Durell went over and stooped beside the body, now clearly that of a middle-aged European sprawled on his stomach, dressed in a lightweight brown business suit and tie. His back was stippled with bullet holes. Durell guessed him to be the Mr. Smythe who owned the plantation, but could not be sure, because there was no wallet on him.
The voices came again, and he jerked his face up.
His gun was weighty and cool in his hand as he moved shadowlike through the French doors. There was a sappy odor of house plants in the solarium. Insects cranked and croaked as he went across a tile floor into the room beyond. It was not occupied.
He stole across rush mats, past comfortable overstuffed chairs and sofa spread with a zebra skin. A table lamp, glowed in a far corner, near an unlocked gun rack. An Italian-made Breda semiautomatic shotgun lay on the floor, amid spilled 12-gauge cartridges. Smythe must have been caught trying to load it and run for it. Durell thrust his pistol under his belt and loaded the Breda and crammed a jacket pocket with the rest of the shells.
He went out of the room, past a stairway, drawn by the voices, until he came to the kitchen. Relief flooded ov
er him. Then he felt a sick anger.
General Ogwang and Kenneth Dager were in there, along with three well-armed men in camouflage fatigues, their muddy boots propped on a table, along with a dozen liquor bottles and a pile of family silverware, jewelry, wristwatches, currency. Dager was cat-hammed and skinny-chested in bulky cuffed shorts and unbuttoned shirt, like a plant gone to stalk. A medallion of some sort gleamed on a silver chain that hung from his ropy neck. The high bridge of his nose separated close-set blue eyes that were self-confident and intelligent. He had a hard and querulous mouth that was nearly lipless and turned a cadaverous pale under stress, Durell remembered. The big, paunchy Ogwang looked half drunk and enjoying it. Neither man seemed particularly pleased with the sight of Durell in his filthy suit.
Dager pushed a dangle of damp blond hair out of his eye and said, "It took you long enough.”
"I found a dead man out there. What happened?” Durell asked.
"War,” Ogwang said.
Durell’s dark gaze inspected the items on the table. "You seem to have chosen the wrong enemy,” he said.
"He protested our presence,” Ogwang said, and took a drink from a bottle. He switched to Swahili, evidently preferring that the three men standing behind him know what was going on. "Where is my wife?” he asked.
Durell ignored the question. "Your presence or your thievery?” he challenged.
Dager said, "He tried to escape. The area is crawling with troops. This hasn’t been any walk in a flower garden, you know.” He spoke Swahili perfectly. "And what is this about a wife? Nobody told me about her.”
"You didn’t need to know.”
Dager’s long face went cross. "So that was what kept you in Kenshu,” he said.
General Ogwang tossed a cigarette up from a pack, took it out with his lips and lighted it. His hooded eyes brooded on Durell. Behind him, leaning against the counter, his three men waited. "I asked you where she is,” he said.
"I have her.” Durell shifted the shotgun comfortably in the crook of his arm. The thunderheads were much closer now, seen through the kitchen window, and the air felt charged with electricity. "You were to leave your men in Zanzibar,” he said.
Assignment- Tyrant's Bride Page 11