by Helen Wells
Cherry’s head was abuzz with more questions about Africa. But, glancing around, she noticed that Bob had been overcome by the curious euphoria of jet flight and had quietly dozed off. So, she saw, had most of the other passengers. She kept looking down at the layer of clouds below.
Then, quite suddenly, the clouds cleared, and below was a broad expanse of water, the surface changing from a deep azure to dark purple in the last of the evening sun. She knew it was the Mediterranean Sea. And beyond the Mediterranean lay Africa! And somewhere in Africa was Ngogo!
It was getting dark when the now black water of the sea gave way to a broad expanse of desert. The plane began making its descent, and Cherry could make out a barren landscape of sand, broken here and there by clusters of palm trees that she recognized as oases.
Bob was awake now, and he leaned over from his aisle seat to peer out her window. “This is Egypt,” he told her. “We’ll be setting down in Cairo pretty soon.”
As he spoke, Cherry looked down and gasped. Under the jet’s wings was the triangular bulk of the Great Pyramid, flanked by the two lesser ones that stood on either side.
“Oh,” she blurted out, “it’s just like in the movies!”
Bob beamed. “Your first look at Africa! Didn’t I tell you it was something to see?”
Cherry could only stare wordlessly down at the ancient spectacle. Then a sign at the front end of the cabin flashed on:
FASTEN SEAT BELTS
Now the plane went into a banking turn, and the blackened concrete of an airstrip rushed up to meet them. With only the slightest screech of tires, the airplane and the earth met again.
“We’ll have a two-or three-hour layover here,” Bob said. “This jet goes on to Nairobi and South Africa, but it has to wait for planes from feeder lines that come in from Algeria and Arabia. Air transportation in Africa has progressed a long way, but it still isn’t what we’ve come to take for granted back home in the States.”
Cherry was fascinated by the crowds they found in the terminal. Cairo, she thought, was like the crossroads of a completely new world. There were swarthy-faced men with white suits and red fezzes perched on their heads; Arabs dressed in tall turbans and long robes that swept the floor as they walked by; a smattering of khaki-clad men who appeared to be government officials; and of course the ever present quota of tourists who were taking in the strange surroundings with wide eyes.
“Since we have some time to kill,” Bob suggested, “why don’t we take a tour around town and then wind up at a native restaurant for dinner?”
“Lead on,” Cherry said. “I’m beginning to like this part of the world.”
The antique taxi that Bob flagged outside the terminal took them through the modern part of Cairo—down palm-lined avenues that were edged with tall office buildings; past the towering minarets of Moslem mosques; and across the old stone bridges that spanned the Nile. Cherry gasped with delight at the almost endless procession of native feluccas that passed up and down the river, their square lateen sails set to catch every whiff of the evening breeze.
Then, at Bob’s direction, the taxi crossed a bridge and turned into a narrow, winding cobbled street that ran along the riverbank. Even though darkness had fallen, the street was crowded, and the open bazaars seemed to be doing a thriving business. At last they pulled up before a narrow, arched doorway, with Arabic characters painted in red curlicue letters over its top.
Inside the small, crowded room, heavy with the aroma of incense and tobacco smoke, a grinning waiter showed them to a corner table.
“I thought,” Bob said, “that you might like to have a go at African food. Shall we try the couscous?”
Cherry had been delighted with the whole evening. “I’ll try anything,” she told him, smiling happily. “But don’t I remember from somewhere that you have to eat couscous with your fingers?”
“For a young American lady of fashion, who obviously isn’t accustomed to eating with her fingers,” Bob said, “I am certain the management will make an exception and bring us knives and forks.”
The couscous—an aromatic stew of lamb, vegetables, and tiny dumplings—was delicious. Cherry and Bob lingered over it, and the steaming cups of fragrant mint tea that followed, for more than an hour. Quite naturally, their talk drifted to their coming assignment in Kenya, to the Abercrombie Foundation, the hospital they would have to build in the wilderness, and the problems of transportation and supply.
As they talked, happy and relaxed, Cherry noticed a small, sallow-faced man, sitting at the adjoining table, who seemed to be listening surreptitiously to every word that passed between them. Each time she cast a side glance at him, he was gazing intently into his teacup, but his balding head was cocked slightly as though he had one ear tuned in on them like a radio antenna.
The man’s appearance, and his obvious attitude of eavesdropping, gave Cherry an eerie feeling, especially in this little room with its tables crowded so closely together and most of the customers looking like characters out of a cloak-and-dagger movie.
Suddenly she had a sensation that eyes were staring into her back. She turned abruptly in her chair, and caught the little man in the act of looking directly at her and Bob. At first he quickly lowered his eyes, then he raised them again and gave her a thin smile and a little bow of his head. She turned back to Bob, who had apparently been unaware of this little byplay and was sipping his tea and talking on about Ngogo.
Then the man was standing at their table, his startling white teeth shining through a wide grin.
“Permit me to introduce myself,” he said, with a slight trace of an accent that Cherry could not quite place, “I am Spiro Krynos, a trader. The room is so small, and—ah—I could not help overhearing parts of your conversation. May I—ah—would you mind if I joined you and perhaps bought you a pastry?”
Under these odd circumstances there didn’t seem to be much that Bob could say except: “Glad to have you. Pull up a chair.”
Krynos quickly reached over and got a chair from his table. Bob introduced Cherry and himself, then added, “But I’m afraid that Miss Ames and I wouldn’t care for any pastry.”
“In that case, I don’t either,” the little man said.
Cherry thought to herself, “I’ve never seen anyone so aggressive. I wonder what he really wants.”
“I don’t mean to be—what do you Americans call it?—nosy?” he said, still grinning his big grin. “But when I accidentally heard you talking about the outbreak of sickness in the Kenya bush south of Nairobi, and the clinic you are going to build, I naturally became interested. I know that country well, and of course I have long been concerned about the plight of those poor, underprivileged people.”
“You say you’re a trader, Mr. Krynos?” Bob asked.
“Yes. I deal in sisal and pyrethrum. And I do a lot of business with the Kikuyu farmers in Nairobi.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I hesitate to appear mercenary—but, ah, illness among the native farmers would badly hurt my business.” Then he hastily added, “You understand, of course, that my first concern is for the people themselves.”
“Sure, sure,” Bob said. “We understand.”
Cherry saw that Bob, too, was getting a little annoyed. But her inborn curiosity made her want to hear more about what Krynos had on his mind. He certainly didn’t look like a man who would go out of his way to strike up an acquaintance in a crowded Cairo café.
“Sisal,” she said. “I know about that. Rope is made out of its fiber. But what is this py-pyre-?”
“Pyrethrum,” Bob volunteered. “It’s a pretty flower that African farmers grow as a crop. Its seed is processed into an insecticide.”
“Well”—Cherry laughed—“maybe we are going to need a lot of it when we go to work on the flies and bugs in Ngogo.”
“So Ngogo is where your clinic is going to be?” said Mr. Krynos. “I’ve been there many times. It’s a rather obscure little village, about fifty miles south of Nairobi. The natives raise lots of
pyrethrum. I’m sorry to hear that its people are in trouble.”
“We’re going to do all we can to get rid of the trouble,” Bob said. “I don’t suppose there’s a doctor nearer than Nairobi.”
“I’m afraid not,” Mr. Krynos said, shaking his head. “Oh, now and then a government doctor drives down from the city. But there are so many people—and so few qualified doctors. A pity. But those conditions are all too common in the newly developing countries.” He pulled out a silk handkerchief and delicately swabbed his damp forehead. “Again excuse my inquisitiveness, and my involuntary eavesdropping. But it isn’t often that I have a chance to talk with intelligent young Americans. Didn’t you say that your work was being sponsored by a private American organization?”
“Yes,” Bob replied. “The Abercrombie Foundation.” Then, warming up to the subject nearest to his heart, he explained all about the Foundation’s work, the clinic they were going to build, and what they hoped to accomplish.
For nearly all of the next hour Cherry listened as the two men talked. She noticed particularly that the little man kept asking pointed questions about the details of their setup. And Bob, eager to talk about the project, answered them all and supplied some additional information of his own.
The waiter brought more mint tea, and the men went on talking, Cherry contributing a word here and there, but for the most part keeping silent and listening.
One puzzling thought kept running through her head. Why should an itinerant trader suddenly be so interested in a health program he has never heard of before?
Suddenly Bob looked at his watch. “I’m afraid,” he said, “that Miss Ames and I had better be getting back to the airport. This has been most interesting and pleasant, but if you will excuse us, we must return to the airport now.”
Mr. Krynos snapped his fingers. “And I,” he said, “have forgotten an important telephone call that I should have made an hour ago.”
He motioned to the waiter, and, despite Bob’s protest, insisted on paying their check. “At least I owe you that much”—he beamed—“for the pleasantest evening I have had in months.”
Plucking a wallet from his inside jacket pocket, he extracted a bill of large denomination and grandly waved the waiter away with instructions to keep the change. Whereupon, he arose and bowed to Cherry.
“It has been a great pleasure,” he said. And once more his white teeth glistened in a wide grin, “Au revoir! And may we meet again!”
And with that he turned on his heels and vanished into the crowded room.
“He turned out to be a nice guy,” Bob said. “Interested in everything.”
“Maybe,” Cherry replied. “But he was trying his best to quiz us. I wonder why he would want to do that.”
Bob laughed at the puzzled expression on her face. “Oh, now, come off it, Cherry. You’ve seen too many Grade-B spy thrillers. He’s just interested in the people down in Kenya. After all, as he said, he makes his living trading with them. And besides, he probably doesn’t often get a chance to spend an evening with a pretty American girl. Now we’d better ‘git’ if we don’t want that plane to leave without us.”
Cherry reached for her bag, and as she did so, she saw a folded piece of white paper on the floor underneath the table.
“What’s this?” she said, picking it up.
Bob took it from her and smoothed it out. It was a telegram sent from Nairobi and addressed to Mr. Spiro Krynos.
“It must have fallen out of his wallet when he reached for his money,” Bob suggested.
He read the wire, then gave it to Cherry.
“I guess it has to do with a business deal,” he said. “So since he’s read it, it can’t be too important if he’s lost it.”
Cherry’s brows wrinkled as she read the telegram:
MZABITE FAILED TO DELIVER. ORDER STOPPED.
SMITH
Mzabite! That was an odd name!
“Let’s go,” Bob said. “We may have a problem getting a taxi in this part of town. I’ll leave this wire with the cashier in case Krynos needs it and comes back here looking for it.”
CHAPTER III
Nairobi
WHEN CHERRY AND BOB REACHED THE CAIRO AIRPORT, they discovered that their flight had been unexpectedly delayed for another two hours. Cherry was exhausted when they finally got aboard and found their seats again. She had hardly settled down and leaned back against the headrest before she fell into a sound sleep.
The brilliant rays of the early-morning sun, slanting in through the plane’s window, gently nudged her awake. Looking out, she saw that the jet was apparently losing altitude for a landing. Below them was a range of low, bush-covered hills. Away off in the distance, she could make out the deep-purple ridges of a higher mountain chain. Then the hills began to level off into a broad, grass-covered plain, with small groves of curiously flat-topped trees scattered here and there at random. As she watched, a large herd of gazelles bounded off across the grass in long, leaping strides.
“Oh, look, Bob!” Cherry said, coming fully awake now. “Aren’t they the cutest things you ever saw?”
“Thomson’s gazelles,” Bob told her. “The commonest antelope in the bush. No matter how much they’re hunted, they seem to thrive and multiply. They are the standard meat dish of most safaris.”
No sooner had the plane passed over the gazelle herd, than half a dozen giraffes appeared, loping along in their awkward stiff-legged canter.
Cherry was too excited to talk. She just pointed at them.
“We are coming in over Nairobi National Park,” Bob said. “Maybe this afternoon, after we have gotten organized, I’ll drive you out and you can see all the animals close up.”
The people at Eastleigh Airport in Nairobi were even more varied and interesting than those Cherry had seen in Cairo. It was easy to tell the difference between those who were leaving and those who were just arriving. The former, their faces burned bright red or deep tan from the merciless East African sun, were wearing faded safari clothes—a mark of distinction, Cherry thought. The new arrivals were pale of face, and looking about them curiously, as Cherry was doing now. Luggage was piled all over the waiting room, and native porters in white shorts and white jackets moved about carrying great loads of baggage.
As Bob and Cherry stood patiently in line to have their cases examined by the customs officials, a tall, middle-aged, swarthy man wearing a faded and wrinkled bush jacket and a battered felt hat passed by and eyed Bob curiously. Then he came over and stuck out his hand.
“Aren’t you young Bob Barton?” the man asked in a clipped British accent. “Didn’t I take you and your father on safari three or four years ago?”
Bob shook the big hand and smiled. “Hi, Jack! I’m surprised you remembered me.”
“I never forget a client.” The big man grinned. “You and your wife here for another hunt?”
Bob introduced Cherry and explained their business. “This is Long Jack Robertson,” he told her. “The best hunter in the business.”
“Thanks for those kind words,” Long Jack said. “So you’re a doctor now! And going down to Ngogo! I heard there was some kind of sickness there, but I haven’t been down that way for quite a while.” He scratched the graying stubble on his square chin. “The safari business,” he said, “isn’t what it used to be. Game’s scarce, and people don’t seem to want to rough it any more like you and your daddy did. About all I ever shoot nowadays is a Tommie or two for the pot.”
“What are you doing out here at the airport, Jack?” Bob asked. “Meeting a client?”
“No, I’m just seeing a party off. But I’ve got another one coming in a day or so.”
Just then the customs man motioned to Bob and Cherry that they were next.
“We’ll stay at the New Stanley overnight,” Bob said. “Drop around this evening, and maybe we’ll buy you a dinner.”
“Good deal,” Long Jack replied.
It was still midmorning when Cherry and Bob checked i
n at the New Stanley. Then they met on the hotel veranda for a cup of tea.
When they had finished, Bob said, “I just tried to call Mr. Gikingu—he’s the Abercrombie Foundation’s representative here in Kenya. But his office says he’s out of town. So let’s go get ourselves outfitted, unless you’re tired and want to take a nap.”
Cherry looked out on the busy street. The sidewalks were crowded with people hurrying along in the blazing sunlight. Arabs, Turks, Europeans—and a few rugged-looking, mahogany-tanned men, whose bush jackets were clean, but faded and bleached from many washings. These latter, she thought, must be professional guides and hunters like Long Jack Robertson.
“I’m much too excited about being in Africa to want a nap,” Cherry declared. “Let’s go get outfitted.”
Their first stop was a small clothing shop on a side street. Inside, it was almost dark compared to the glaring sun of the outdoors.
“I told you,” Bob said, “that you’d have no use for nurses’ nice white uniforms. So here is where we get suited up.”
A small, dark-skinned man came over and bowed slightly. “May I help you, sir and madam?”
At Bob’s suggestion, Cherry ordered three pairs of khaki slacks, three khaki skirts, and three khaki bush jackets, a dozen pairs of light cotton socks, and two pairs of ankle-high boots. Then Bob ordered comparable outfits for himself. When Bob paid the bill with a traveler’s check, the proprietor of the shop bowed again.
“Send those things over to the New Stanley,” Bob told him. And they went out again into the bright sunlight.
“The nice thing about being a rich man’s son,” Bob said as they walked down the street, “is that you don’t have to wait for expense vouchers to clear through the red tape in Washington. So I am going to buy us a car. We’ll ride now, and Abercrombie will pay later.”
At the next corner was an automobile agency with a shiny, new olive-drab Land Rover in the showroom window. They went in.