Assignment- Silver Scorpion

by Edward S. Aarons

  "Since when?"

  "It happened a couple of months ago. The Ragihi, Irene, invited her sister from Liverpool to visit then. Maybe the general was envious of his blood-brother's white wife. Anyway, Mathilda never went home. She waltzed her way into Watsube's iron heart."

  "Mathilda?"

  "The local European group refers to her as Mickey. A real katula viper. If anything, worse than Irene." Georgette Finch grinned. She had strong white teeth. "But it didn't work. Maybe Watsube is too dedicated to his work. He lost her."

  "Where? How?" Durell asked.

  "In the Getoba District. Watsube's wife is cooped up in there. Got it? With all the other damned rebellious souls. And he doesn't let anyone in or out, while he tosses those mortar shells in every hour on the hour. It's the cat's meow, right?" She paused. "I want to see my own dossier, Sam."

  "It says that you're the disappointment of your daddy's life. Your banker-Senator father calls you a freakout, a copout, immature, and irresponsible."

  "Wow." Her eyes glistened. "He thinks that much of me, does he?"

  "And Tom Adams says I'm not to trust you."

  "Oh, but you have to," the girl said. "You see, I'm going into the Getoba District with you. I'm the only one who knows where the money is."

  He let her read the last memo without comment. It was a brief review of Bogandan history, late and new, borrowed from a State Department background file. It detailed the area's development since its exploration by one Manoel Lisboa da Silva in the late seventeenth century. That discovery gave rise to a Portuguese claim that had to yield to the British, who recorded a prior exploration by one Captain M. P. Farragut, who trekked from Lake Uranda down the Natanga River to die of fever in the swamps around the present site of Boganda's capital. Captain Farragut's demise was hastened by a few choice torture episodes by Telek tribesmen who had already been introduced to Islam by Arab slave-raiders from Zanzibar.

  "The present difficulties," the memo read, "arise from rivalry for government plums between Natangans and Teleks. The Natanga people, recently Christianized and still largely pagan, are somewhat at a cultural disadvantage vis d vis the Telek peoples, who have embraced Moslem culture since the sixteenth century. By force of numbers, however, the Natangans dominate the area of former Boganda. In some instances, regrettably, they have practiced cruel and unwarranted restrictive measures against the more ambitious Moslem Teleks, who kiss the hand that once enslaved them, as the Natangans put it. The entire northeast quadrant of the capital city of Boganda has been turned into a ghetto for Telek tribesmen who were turned out of their colonial clerical offices by the arrival of ?Unity?.

  "There is reason to believe that the Teleks, long oppressed since `Unity?, have turned to foreign adventurers for assistance and to Communist aid in subverting and overthrowing the government of President Inurate Motuku. Arms from Red China and Moscow, shipped via Cairo, have been reported in the outlying capital districts, such as Getoba."

  There was a small postscript added by a K Section philologist familiar with both the Natangan and Telek dialects of the country.

  Boganda: noun, Natangan

  (1) unity

  (2) marriage

  Boganda: verb, transitive

  (1) towed

  (2) to perform the act of joining in marriage

  (3) to copulate

  Georgette Finch watched Durell as he carefully burned the last of the notes and powdered the black ash in a ceramic tray. Without smiling she said, "Jeepers, I never really knew the true name of this effing country."

  Chapter 6

  THE CHAUFFEUR, who insisted on calling Durell by the old pre-Unity term of mtamba, explained that they were not going to the Presidential palace. "The Raga will not stay there while the executions go on."

  "He could stop them, couldn't he?" Durell asked.

  "We are all of us under military law these days, mtamba."

  They went southeast along the empty, dusty boulevard. A motorcycle escort picked them up but did not use sirens. The streets under the elaborate plantings of palms and oleanders were dark and gloomy, hiding black tragedy under a gloss of Western technology. The boulevard was only good for half a mile, going away from the closed airport and paralleling the river. Then they turned right, toward the water, and passed through a tall coconut grove grim with more shadows, and finally came through a rusting iron-grill fence and gateway onto new lawns that swept down to the river's edge. Durell still couldn't see the other side of the river. It looked like a dark brown, evilly flowing lake under the reddish African moon. Because of a bend in the shore, the fires in Getoba, less than three miles away, made raw, liquid streaks of scarlet on the current.

  The place was a European-style bungalow with a thatched roof, once used by the British colonial governor in another age, another world. The grounds were still immaculately groomed, with rose bushes and jasmine and night-blooming cereus scenting the darkness. Two familiar figures came out of the shadows just beyond the gate and halted the elderly chauffeur.

  "The mtamba sees the Raga," said the chauffeur.

  "It is understood." The two men were FPK. Captain Yutigaffa and his sergeant, Kantijji. They did not smile. Yutigaffa said, "We must check everyone, of course."

  Durell said solicitously, "How do you feel, Captain?"

  "Our misunderstanding left me with a toothache. Sergeant Kantijji has several bruises. But we do not harbor a grudge. We will help you all we can. We have discussed this and advise you to walk with great care, with pointed toes, as we say."

  "Thank you."

  There were four steps up to a wooden veranda with tall square columns supporting a high roof. On the veranda were Bombay chairs, some teak carvings that lurked like sentinels against the walls, and a heavy door of ornate planking. The chauffeur said something to, a uniformed man, and Captain Yutigaffa added a word in Natanga dialect, and they were allowed in.

  They met the Ragihi.

  She was waiting, pacing like a tigress ready to pounce. The room in which she met them was small, a receptionist's office done in faded Regency furniture that clashed with a few native things of good design. There were curlers in the Ragihi's hair, and her lipstick was too red, her hair, too yellow, her cheeks too powder-pale. Her huge blue eyes were like saucers. Fury did not enhance her tinsel looks. She was a tart, and she was the queen and the first wife and prime mother of Boganda.

  "Took you bloody long enough to get here!" she snapped. "What d'you think we've got, Yank, a whole stupid year?" Her voice was as shrill as her looks. She wore a Bogandan costume, all flapping sleeves and floor length hem and zebra stripes. On most women it made them look regal. On Irene Maitland it made her look like an angry whore cheated out of her two-pound fee in a waterfront joy house. Her curlers were pink plastic, the kind that flashed and flickered with each twist of her head. Her neck was extraordinarily long, and as-she walked, she flapped her arms in the wide, wing like sleeves of her robe. Yet it seemed to Durell that under her harsh makeup and the nasal Liverpool accent, she was quite young and frightened. The huge blue eyes did it, he decided. You looked into them, and you drowned in the terror and confusion behind them.

  "Take it easy, Mrs. Motuku," he said quietly. "Wed came as soon as we could."

  "I didn't ask for Miss Finch. I asked for you. You're Durell, right? You're a CIA spook, right? Your job is to help me," she said brittlely.

  "I thought my appointment was with His Excellency, President Motuku."

  "The Raga isn't feeling well right now."

  Durell said, "Do you speak for him then?"

  "He has no secrets from me. Listen, these are poor, times for everybody in this place. The Raga asked for your s help, because I insisted on it. I could've made a request to London, see; to the MI 6 people; we kicked them out last year, when they were caught fooling with the Teleks. But they'd have come back." She grinned wickedly, like a child who had successfully snatched a pie off the kitchen windowsill. "I've learned how to handle those phonies, th
ose diplomats, and the trash that hangs around them. Maybe you're trash too, but-"

  Durell interrupted. "Well, why didn't you call in British intelligence?"

  "I don't like 'em," she said. She was suddenly sullen. "I know what they're always thinking. They treat me like well, you know. They're bloody snobs! But I'm the queen bee here, chum, and they bloody damned well learn to face it or get out. That's what I told them. And don't think the Raga won't back me up. He eats outa me hand, he does. The sweetest, gentlest man I ever did know. Blimey, if people really understood what it was like between him, and me-" She paused again and stopped pacing butt flapped one arm in her robe, pointing at Durell. "You've got to help me."

  "Is it about the missing treasury?"

  "I don't know anything about any bloody treasury or bloody missing money!" she shrilled. "My ass, that's all you people think about. It's none of my business, you hear? And the Raga doesn't know anything about it either. He leaves all that to his ministers. He left it all to General Watsube-my brother-in-law." She shouted the name like a curse. "He's the one who knows about the money. It's Mickey I'm worried about."

  "Mickey?"

  "Mathilda. My sister, damn you! Haven't you done your homework?"

  "Yes, ma'am," Durell said.

  She looked at him, her expressive blue eyes suddenly pacified; but she was suspicious. "You think I'm just a tramp, an opportunist, don't you?"

  "No, ma'am. You are the Ragihi. But I came to see His Excellency, the President."

  "You've come to get your orders from me, about my sister, Mickey. Or should I ask the Chinks and the Russians to help? They'd tie glad to, you know."

  Durell turned away. "Come along, Finch."

  Georgette said, "What? But-"

  "Let her go to the Chinese or the Russians. I'd be just as pleased to skip the Getoba job. Besides, I'm sick of this crude blackmail. Every little cheesecake country likes to play it big, threatening the US with appeals to the Reds if we don't come through with everything they ask for, on their terms. Well, to hell with it now. Let them go to Moscow and good luck to them."

  He started out of the bungalow. Irene Maitland Motuku stared at him with her mouth open. Plainly she hadn't been addressed like this since her marriage and arrival in Boganda as the queen. Then she said, "Hey, wait! Come this way. I'll take you to the Raga now."

  Durell paused, shrugged and went back. Finch tagged along at his heels; she moved well for a tall girl. Abraham Yutigaffa and Sergeant Kantijji had vanished. The bungalow was larger than he expected, with a wide center hall way of polished plank flooring and high ceilings with old wooden fans. On one wall were plaques, one of which depicted Britain's St. George, another the personal crest of Manoel Lisboa da Silva, the "discoverer" of Boganda. Durell was surprised that the plaques were still allowed to hang here in the former colonial administrator's home. The Ragihi flapped her batlike sleeves and went ahead, feet slapping the polished floor planks, and then stood aside with an imperious gesture at a double doorway, an act taken straight from Liverpool's music halls. Even her speech changed, as if the words had been carefully tutored and rehearsed.

  "His Excellency will be down in ten minutes. Be comfortable." Her sudden, careful accent hid her earlier outburst. "I simply wish you to understand, Mr. Durell, that you have been lent to us, so to speak, to aid Boganda in certain and specific problems. You have been placed under our jurisdiction, sir. If you choose not to aid us, you may leave without prejudice."

  Durell smiled. "Do you have a drink?"

  "Of course. I've forgotten me-my manners. Over there, please. Help yourself."

  There was a well-stocked bar under a portrait darkened by time and Africa's climate. It seemed to be another of the earlier administrators. Durell made himself a bourbon and water. Georgette refused anything, shaking her head. She seemed fascinated by the little blond queen with the big eyes and the hair curlers.

  "Mrs. Motuku," she said finally. "You mentioned your sister-ah, Mickey? Would that be-ah-General Watsube's wife?"

  "True enough, for sure." Irene grinned wickedly again and reminded Durell of some elfin spirit, with her big eyes. "Mickey decided to take a page out of me own book, seeing the soft landing I made with His Excellency. But with Mickey it was different. Or maybe Watsube is different. Me, I never liked him. But you can't say anything against the General to the Raga. The Raga won't listen to any criticism of his brother, even though Watsube is a Moslem Telek. The General can do no wrong. But the cruel, murdering bastard is chopping up Getoba, and his own wife, my sister, is caught in there, trying to get out-and he won't let her out!"

  "Does General Watsube really know-" Durell began.

  "Of course he knows! He just figures it's an easy way to get rid of her."

  "But he married your sister-"

  "Size married him, if you know what I mean. Like they were both copying the Raga and me. And then Mickey she was always a tough little bitch, pardon the expression, Mickey started poking her pinkies into the pies here, trying to run things, ordering people about, making her own personal setups, like. I guess the General just got sick of her and figured her lily-white body-a bit shop-worn, just between us!-wasn't worth her taking over and embarrassing him. So there she is in Getoba, and he won't let her out, he won't let anybody in or out, and I want to save her."

  Finch said flatly, "Why?"

  The Ragihi blinked, touched her hair curlers, and stared at Georgette with blue eyes that looked momentarily blind. "What a bloody question that is! She's me sister, that's why!"

  "But you don't like her very much, do you?"

  "What difference does that make? You're going to go in there and get her out, see? And I don't have to tell you why, you're just to go in there and do it, right?"

  "Right," Durell said.

  His Excellency, President Inurate Motuku, looked ill. All his years of fighting for the independence of his people, the years of violence and blood, of silent exile, showed in his bowed shoulders, his gray head, the downward droop and swoop of his strong, savage mouth. His black eyes were the mirrors of his exhaustion. He sat on a straight-backed wooden chair in a kind of bed-sitting room at the opposite end of the presidential cottage, with windows that would have given a striking view of the wide, lake like river if they hadn't been firmly closed with Bahamian wooden shutters. The room smelled of his illness. The big bed was rumpled, and there was a Sheraton dresser under a huge mirror opposite the bed, laden with Irene Maitland's cosmetics and a glittering, flashing array of cut-glass dispensers.

  Motuku wore a masculine version of Irene's bat-wing cloak, but he wore it with dignity and refinement, lending a nobility to the garment by his mere presence. Durell thought of the stolen three hundred million in aid funds and found it hard to connect the man with the money.

  Motuku spoke in precise English, his voice rich and resonant, accustomed to command. But the weariness was there too, in the timbre of his words, in the way he paused to pick and choose his phrases.

  "We are a civilized people, my dear Durell. True, we are an evolving nation, not quite viable enough to keep up with the white industrial West in technical affairs, but-"he raised a slim brown hand, "-but we do our best. We are most concerned about our image among the world's family of nations. It seems important, since we are in need of aid and friendship from any source generous enough to make such help available."

  "Your image, Excellency, would be better served if you called off General Watsube's slaughter in Getoba."

  "Ah, yes."

  "Can you order him to stop- it?"

  "Our nation suffers what you might call growing pains. We are in a state of flux."

  "You can't control Watsube?"

  "Alas, for the moment, passions are inflamed, and the populace is on the edge of hysteria. A strong hand is needed."

  "Do you approve of Watsube's tactics?"

  Something stirred in the tired, muddy eyes. "Do not put stones between my teeth, as my people say. The Teleks and certain foreign mer
cenaries who gathered in Getoba attempted the violent overthrow of my government. I am fortunate in having a loyal brother like Watsube. The Teleks are his own people, do you know that? But he places the nation above early loyalties. Everything I lived and worked for was threatened for four days last week, until the subversion and the rebellion, the terrorism and the murders, were contained. Over one thousand people were slaughtered, my dear sir-people loyal to me, their Raga, and to my dreams and plans for Boganda. Am I to show mercy and weakness? Am I to forgive the foreign intrusion of weapons and assassins?"

  "Can you prove the Teleks are led by others?"

  "Ali. You Americans. Eager always to have everything in black and white. You would like public proof of Russian, Egyptian, or Chinese interference in our internal affairs? It is not to be had. Not yet."