Ausi’s bloody eyes burned feverishly. He squinted, bared his teeth, poked Durell’s chest, and said, "You must kill Albert Ogwang.”
Durell just stared at him for a moment. "No,” he said.
"No?”
"Absolutely not!”
"You are accomplished in these things.”
"I am not an assassin.”
"You have shown certain—aptitudes.”
"If you mean in Kenshu, I told you before: I didn’t have anything to do with that. Neither did Miss Padgett. What did you do to her? I want to see her.”
"She was beaten. It was nothing.”
Durell held himself back, swallowing bile. He was aware that if he made a misstep he might not get out of here alive. He gave a thought to Deirdre, out on the hill. He did not know how he would save her. "I thought she was dead,” he told Ausi, speaking quietly.
"A bullet grazed her skull. She was lucky.” Ausi leaned back, watching Durell. "I had her flown in by helicopter today, after we captured Mkondo. I knew you would wish to see her.”
Durell’s throat was tight. "Turn her loose,” he said. "You will kill Ogwang?”
"No.”
"Do it,” Ausi urged. "Both of you will be given safe conduct out of the country.”
"You must really fear Ogwang.”
Ausi glared at him. "You have until sunup tomorrow. Then I will give your woman to my men.” He grinned wickedly.
"If you do that. . ." Durell’s fists clenched.
"What?”
He felt his own helplessness; he could not reply. "Think about it,” Ausi said. "Until dawn, then.”
An aide escorted Durell back toward the walls. Night had fallen. Cooking fires winked in the shallow depression that hid the battalion. There was a fragrance of hot rations overlying the cool stench of the swamp. On the other side of the city an artillery battery pumped shells into the streets. It was too bad the Ndolo had no artillery, he thought. But they were fierce infantrymen, with the sort of mad bravery that struck panic in their foes. If only they were properly organized and led, and they came storming through those gates... But Ausi was sure to overwhelm the city shortly, unless they got their act together, he thought urgently.
He was crossing the hillock where Deirdre had been exposed. He looked about in the darkness and barely picked out the dim lines of her sagging body, forty or fifty yards away in the gloom. "Dee!”
A gun pushed him on.
He walked on blindly, as despair welled up in him.
He had to kill Ogwang—he didn’t trust Ausi, but what other choice was there?
But if he did, thousands might die for it.
Deirdre had been resurrected from the dead; he would not see her die twice.
He moved as if through a fog. Firelight illuminated the streets and rode black smoke clouds toward the moon. Everyone was hiding now, spending the night in cellars with the rats—except for the rats that were out, bold and malign, gnawing in the rubble.
General Ogwang, a bandit without redeeming value, except to the Ndolo. His dissolute life was worthless, compared to Deirdre. Yet Durell had given his oath, and that oath bound him to serve the interests of the United States of America—which meant he should protect the general’s life as if it were his own.
Dawn tomorrow, he thought, and made a face. He read his watch: he had been wandering over an hour. Approximately ten hours remained until sunup. The street shook and smoke and brilliant flame gushed half a block away. He went down stone steps into an alley with Moorish balconies. The fragrance of jacaranda wove the air. He heard drums, remembered that the tribal elders were meeting.
Kabakaliya Teresa had told him they would convene tonight. Teresa was to present General Ogwang as her nominee for their warlord. Durell made his way south through twisting alleys walled in by mud and stone and houses. The only light came from the ruddy sky.
Shadows sloped off roofs covering the living and the dead alike in taut shrouds.
The drums rattled and throbbed and filled the streets with their noise.
Durell stumbled over fallen brick, righted himself, went on—drawn to where he would find General Ogwang.
Rounding a corner, he saw torches, heard excited voices of the crowd that waited outside a thatched building where the elders were meeting. He touched the gun under his belt, the panga knife that was hidden under his jacket. Burning tar stank in the air. He wondered if he would kill Ogwang. There seemed no hope of stealing through the lines to save her another way.
His mouth was dry as the anxiety and pressure wound up.
The drums stopped, except for one high-pitched rattle that spoke through the night, spreading its sound across the wounded and bleeding city. The crowd in the street grew still and silent. He was close and could see into the whitewashed building now. The elders were in there, seated on the packed earthen floor. Teresa sat in a red-and-gold chair at the front. She wore a bright kanga and heirloom chains of gold, and her wide eyes seemed innocent and fearless as she waited. Mkondo hovered behind her, faithful as ever. And sitting beside her on a low velvet stool was Willie Wells.
Durell did not know what it meant.
He inspected all the faces again, a nightmarish sense of madness touching him. Ogwang was not there. Nor was Indrani. Dager stood alone in a corner, watching with impatient eyes.
The beat of the soprano dram continued. It was a small drum beside a very large one, which was the sacred drum of the Ndolo monarchy, called Kitmya. Kitmya was never played, only the little one, in its honor. On Kitmya’s drumhead were heaped doughnutshaped objects bound in bark and hair that contained the genitals of slain enemy chiefs.
The beating ended; the crowd in the street seemed to relax, and so did the elders inside. One of the latter, in a brown business suit, rose and began an impassioned speech. That was when Durell saw Indrani approach the building, elbowing her way through the torchbearers outside. He hung back in the shadows, giving in to some sort of instinctive impulse not to be seen by her. Seconds later, he was surprised to see Dager hustle her back outside, demanding in Swahili to know the whereabouts of General Ogwang.
"Turn me loose,” she said.
"Doesn’t the fool realize how important this meeting is?”
"You are hurting my arm!” She tried to twist away, but he was too strong. He pushed her into a dark alley.
Durell moved closer, through the shadows.
"Where is he?” Dager raged. "I’ll break it.”
"Oh! Please. . . .!”
There came a scuffling sound, and then Dager’s voice, abruptly thick with lust. "You’re a packed little cat, aren’t you? If I can’t get one thing from you, maybe I’ll take another.”
Durell slid closer, rolling a lip under, hesitant to interfere. A can crashed, and he heard the sharp breathing of a struggle. She was fighting, but she did not scream or call for help. Durell felt anger and disgust for Dager, but still he held back. Then she broke down, and he gave a sigh of relief.
"Don’t—I’ll tell you,” she cried.
"I don’t know if I want to know. Maybe I’ll just take what I’ve got, right here.” His voice was bullying.
"He’s at the Hotel Afrika.”
"You lie.”
"No, I swear to you. He’s drunk.”
"Drunk? That could be.” A pause said he was thinking about it. "That’s the first thing he would do, drink himself under the table.”
"He did. He ha6!” She sounded desperately frightened.
"What room? Quick, girl.”
"Ndio. Fourteen.”
Durell stepped back out of sight as Dager ran from the alley, boots slamming the cobbles, cat-hammed thighs pumping. Then Indrani came out, wiped her eyes, straightened her clothing and went unobtrusively into the meeting, where she found a place against a wall amid the pressing crowd.
He followed. She had been sent by Ogwang to report the meeting to him. She would not have come here on her own. If he hung around she would lead him to the general—and it wo
uld not be to find him dead drunk at the Hotel Afrika.
But Durell still had not faced up to the choice he must make of whether to kill General Ogwang. The speakers forced that.
One after another they denied the general their support. It surprised him, because no one had mentioned the possibility that the Ndolo would reject him outright. He realized with a sudden stroke of alarm that they were foolishly turning away from their only hope.
He and Dager, honored as Teresa’s deliverers, had been obliged to participate in the morning procession, so he was known to the elders, who held him in esteem. He little doubted that he would get a polite hearing as he stepped forward and received Teresa’s nod to speak.
"You say General Ogwang is impure of heart, not fit to lead your young men into battle; you say he is a bandit and a coward who abandoned the Ndolo to their enemies. That may all be true. But you must follow him again.”
There were cries of disbelief and shouts of refusal.
"The white mzungu does not know!” someone yelled.
Durell’s voice cut through and quieted them. "I may be a foreigner, but I know this: Azo Ausi waits like a stalking leopard outside your city. He has a modern army and many weapons, and you cannot defeat him by courage alone. You must organize your efforts and enter combat with the appropriate tactics, or you will be slaughtered, and your dead will cover the field like a mat, upon which you may walk without touching the earth. Nor can you hide behind your walls and do nothing. When Ausi gets up his courage, when he thinks his big guns have stolen your spirit, he will send his men over your walls, and there will not be enough courage in the whole world to stop them—unless, again, you have prepared fighting units, each supporting the other, and all working from a single plan. And who can arrange such organization? Who can do such planning? Only General Albert Ogwang has the training and experience. The lives of your wives and children—the lives of all the Ndolo—depend on him.”
No one said anything. They all stared at him, and he swung his dark gaze from the eyes of one to those of the next, trying to weigh the impact of his words. The silence seemed to show acceptance of his argument, and he supposed with a sick sensation that he had resolved his dilemma: Deirdre would die now. Tonight, one way or another, he would infiltrate the army’s perimeter and attempt to rescue her by himself, but he knew this was hopeless.
He had to spare Ogwang, or thousands upon countless thousands with whom he had no quarrel would be massacred. The butcher would be free to prey on others, and the Russians, convinced of his invincibility, would tighten their embrace across the heart of the rich continent.
A muttering commentary had arisen among the elders as Durell waited. An old man, scarred and tattooed with tribal emblems, stood and said: "The foreigner makes sense, but I do not like it. Who asked him to speak, anyway? Is he British, that he would impose his views on us? Maybe we should chase him with sticks.” There was some laughter; taunts were flung at Durell, but he stood his ground silently.
Then another elder said: "Wait. Let us be respectful of this man who brought us Kabakaliya Teresa. He is welcome in my house. He does make sense. Are we too proud to reconsider? Let us talk about it some more.” Teresa’s hand slashed the air, stilling the arguments that broke out on all sides. Her voice was stem. "The time for discussion has passed,” she said.
27
Teresa’s eyes softened as they gazed on Durell, and she said: "Bwana Durell has been brave and served me well. For this I thank him. His words of counsel are well considered; we do not take them lightly. However, he is mistaken in his conclusions.” Another murmur went around the room, and she again motioned for silence. She spoke directly to Durell: "You are mistaken, because there is someone else to lead us.”
Durell felt a thrill of relief. Then he refused to believe it. He did not try to hide the skepticism in his voice. "And who would that be, Kabakaliya Teresa?” he asked.
She turned down her magnificent brown eyes and smiled at Willie Wells, who still sat on the stool beside her. There was pride and love in her voice as she said, "Bwana Wells has agreed to be our military adviser. He is amply qualified. It has been discussed with my closest advisers, and they approve. What does the assembly say?”
The crowd roared its approval.
Durell was thunderstruck. Wells’ grin gleamed in the torchlight, and he beckoned Durell closer.
"I can do it, Cajun; I have the background,” Wells said.
"What about K Section?”
"They’ll have to come for me, if they want me.”
Durell took his hand and smiled. "I think we can wait. Maybe we can get you on an extended-duty status.”
"No hard feelings? You may have to wait a long time. I mean, hell, man, I didn’t know it, but this is home. These are my people. I’ve been looking for this all my life.”
"Nevertheless, you’re doing your country a service.” Durell added mysteriously, "And you are doing me a service.”
"You?”
"I have to go and find someone.” Durell had to raise his voice to be heard. The elders were on their feet, crowding happily around Wells, babbling congratulations. "Good luck,” he said, and pushed away through the crowd. A sense of urgency stung him—Indrani had slipped out, doubtless headed for the general, to tell him the news. He entered the street nagged by the question of why Ogwang had not come here himself. Perhaps he had been forewarned and could not take the humiliation, but that did not seem likely. The least he could have done was come and offer his case. The fact that he had not teased Durell’s curiosity.
But, of course, Durell’s main purpose now was clear: if the Ndolo would not use General Ogwang, then he was justified in killing him to save Deirdre Padgett. Or was he?
Never in his long career had he abused his responsibilities as a man licensed to kill. He had taken lives only to further the aims of his country. He had not killed for selfish or personal motives, and he felt a bitter taste that he must even consider doing so now.
Beyond the torchlit meeting house only dogs and rats inhabited the streets. The breeze had shifted and brought smoke from a burning quarter, and the smoke made a yellow overcast that covered the moon and stars. Indrani was a small, flitting shape half a block ahead. The roll of her hips betrayed her gender, even at this distance, as she followed a cramped stone lane down toward the light-streaked river. Artillery still barked in the distance, and, as they skirted the old mud wall, there came the chilling whisss... whiss-sok! of stray bullets. On the riverfront small fires blew tatters in the breeze. The bridge crossed the river near here, its old-fashioned frills etched into the darkness by the dim fireglow. The army still had not scored enough hits on it to drop a span.
Indrani darted across a divided boulevard, and he lost sight of her in the median shrubbery. He rushed after her, pushed through cabbage palms and bougainvillea, and saw her shadowy form dart across a park that sloped toward the warehouse district. She hurried on down, and he followed, careful to stay in the shadows. The trail led between two run-down old warehouses, beyond which was the river.
There was a gang of men down here, working at something.
Durell drew his 9mm Browning, thumbed off the safety, crept silently closer and saw General Albert Ogwang standing on the loading dock, directing the crew, who labored to fill two trucks. Some of the men carried precious raw ivory, others sacks and crates. Durell wondered what was in the containers, then one of the sacks split, its cloth evidently brittle with age, and the unmistakable glitter of gold spilled out.
Ogwang was busily loading a fortune in gold and ivory.
A high-explosive shell burst near the bridge, and the men ducked, scattered, debris raining down, then came back to their task. Durell showed himself.
General Ogwang saw him immediately, and a look of extreme displeasure crossed his face. "What do you want? Why the gun?” he demanded.
"It seems you should answer the questions,” Durell replied.
Indrani looked frightened. "Sam, go away. He ha
s hired these men. They will do as he says.”
"Do as she says,” Ogwang said. He puffed quickly on a cigarette. He looked exactly as he had when Durell first saw him at the plantation on Zanzibar: canny, furtive, treacherous.
Durell ignored it and moved forward a couple of steps, stiffly, like a growling wolf. The men watched him. They had stopped their work. He pointed to the spilled gold, a mixture of coins and small bars. "Whose is this?” he asked.
"Mine.”
"Where did you get it?”
"It is mine!”
Durell studied the man’s face, and Ogwang returned his stare contemptuously. His cigarette dangled from his downtumed lips, and his potbelly strained under his sweat-stained camouflage shirt. He was dissolute, over the hill, corrupt, Durell told himself. But the gun in Durell’s hand seemed to weigh a ton.
Ogwang kept his eyes on Durell and told Indrani, "Get into the truck; the one that’s loaded.”
She started to do as she was told, then hesitated, turning to Durell. "Sam, should I?”
Ogwang exploded. "Why are you asking him?” he bellowed. "I love you. He doesn’t.”
"I know,” she said, and then: "Sam?”
"He has no future any more. You’re a big girl, now,” Durell said.
"Don’t listen to him,” Ogwang said.
"Sam is right; it is time I found my own way; I am grown up, Albert.”
"Then go to the devil; I’ll leave without you,” Ogwang snarled. He tossed away his cigarette and took a step.
"You are not going anywhere,” Durell said, still holding his Browning down by his thigh.
Ogwang studied him angrily, then said, "You think I am stealing, don’t you?”
"You’ve done it before.”
"Of necessity.” He exhaled sharply. "I told you, this is mine.” Another shell crashed by the approaches to the bridge, and the stone pavement bucked under Durell’s feet. The shrill screech of a hurt dog cut the night. Ogwang continued, "You see, when I served under the kabaka, before Ausi’s coup, this district, the sacred hinterland of the Ndolo, was under my command. There was a revolution in Ruwidi, across the river, at the time. I supported it out of—well, shall we say sur
Assignment- Tyrant's Bride Page 17