Assignment- Silver Scorpion

by Edward S. Aarons

  Irene said, astonishingly, "Daddy, the American only wants to know about the damned money. He says he won't go into Getoba just to help Mickey."

  "My dear, I spoke to the General. He will make no exceptions. No one will be shown favor. It is his oath, but it is difficult for you to understand."

  "But Mickey is my sister and his wife!"

  "No." The voice was stronger, with a hint of thinly suppressed anger in it like the smoldering rumble of a latent volcano. "Your sister is an evil woman, my dear, with a lust for power and a callous attitude toward the victims of her schemes. My brother Watsube was right to divorce her by tribal custom. My brother Watsube is always right."

  Irene said, "He's not your brother! Why do you keep calling him that when he's wrecking the whole country-"

  "He does what is needed, whatever his pain."

  "He's only after the money for himself, that's all!" Irene shouted.

  Inurate Motuku stood up slowly. Durell had not realized how tall the man was. He must have topped seven feet, and his emaciation only emphasized his extraordinary height. His dark eyes suddenly blazed.

  "You will leave us, Irene."

  "But I-Daddy-"

  "And do not use that stupid term to me again."

  "Yes, but about Mickey-" The woman broke off, finally recognizing the change in her black husband. She looked at Durell like a child suddenly lost in the middle of an incomprehensible adult game. Then she turned and walked out.

  For a moment there was silence. Then the Raga sighed.

  "A sweet child, a memento of the madness of my middle age, my dear Durell. She walks a thorny path, blinded by her sense of importance to me. She does not know that she is the ornament of an impulse that has long since cooled to ashes."

  "Is her sister Mickey important?" Durell asked.

  "You will rescue her, if you can. But you will not cross General Watsube in any way. He will not permit you, if he knows, to go into Getoba. In this one thing we differ. And therefore your-ah-project is most dangerous. In this one matter I keep a secret from my blood brother Watsube. I am guilty of this betrayal. And if he learns of your mission, he will kill you. And I shall never have known your name."

  Durell said, "Do you want the money back?"

  "Yes, for the good name of Boganda." The Raga sighed again. His enormous, thin height was a shadow that swayed briefly in and out of other shadows in the room. "I am at fault, of course, caught up in too many things to do, to build, to teach. And I have no one among the Bogandans, Natanga or Telek, who is educated enough to cope with this decade in this century of African life. I had to leave certain matters to others. The money is there, Mr. Durell. I know it was not taken from the country or from this city. It is in Getoba. The rebellion came at a time, perhaps, inappropriate to the thieves; or perhaps the theft was designed to finance the new self-proposed rulers of Boganda." The thin shoulders hunched briefly. "It is your country's money, Mr. Dwell. I would like to turn that paper and metal into factories and schools and telephones and roads. But I fear it may be lost. You must not let it happen."

  "Maybe Watsube is after it. Maybe that's why he's so adamant about smashing the rebels in Getoba."

  "He does his duty, sir, as you will do yours." The tall black man sat down suddenly into his straight-backed chair, as if something inside him had suddenly given way, as if the accustomed steel springs of will that held his tall body together had abruptly snapped. A grayness spread under his brown skin. "Whatever has befallen my brother Watsube will happen to me too. It has been predicted many years ago. Do not think of me as a superstitious savage, sir. I have given your mission much thought. It is the first time since childhood that I keep a secret from Watsube. But you will go into Getoba for me and locate those funds and, I hope, discover who attempted to steal it from my people. It is the theft of schools and roads and a better life, you see. The thief, whoever he may be, must be apprehended. His punishment will be swift; it will be merciless."

  Durell stared at the sick man. A film of perspiration shone on Inurate Motuku's forehead. Durell said, "Why choose me? Why not a Russian, a Chinese? Why not your own secret police, why not the FKP?"

  "Because I can trust you, Mr. Durell." The Raga sounded utterly exhausted. "And I can trust no one else. Will you go into Getoba for me?"

  "Yes," Durell said.

  Chapter 7

  THE SKY flickered with a violent red from the hourly barrage of mortar shells on Getoba. From the veranda of the presidential bungalow, Durell could see the explosions light up the surface of the river, making long ribbons of pink and yellow on the current. He looked for the chauffeur beside the limousine. The elderly man was gone. He felt Georgette move beside him to start down the veranda steps, while the crash and bang of the distant guns made the black leaves tremble overhead. The grounds around the bungalow were in darkness. He caught the girl's wrist and was surprised for a moment by the delicacy of her bones.

  "Wait."

  "What is it?"

  "I don't know yet."

  The limousine had been moved out toward the gates while they were inside the presidential bungalow. He couldn't make out anyone near it. He suddenly remembered himself as a boy in the Louisiana bayous, stalking game along the shadows of the chenieres. He had had an instinct even then of a change in his surroundings, a subtle difference, a hunter's knowledge of another's presence Something had changed here too; but he couldn't quite tell what it was.

  "Mtamba?" It was a very faint whisper from the shrubbery near the veranda steps. Durell took out his gun and stepped down onto the path. Georgette moved silently with him. He couldn't see the old man. He heard a crackling sound, as thin as the breaking of a sparrow's wing, and then there came an explosive shout, "Durell, look out! Rural"

  He thought it was Captain Yutigaffa's voice. He jumped sidewise, pulling Georgette with him, and heard the thud of feet and the sudden roar of a starting engine. Headlights came on directly in his face, blinding him. He did not raise the gun in his hand. Across the twin shafts of light he saw Yutigaffa jump up from the bushes and run toward the gate. A man in uniform came after him, swinging an automatic rifle at the back of Yutigaffa's head. Kantijji shouted somewhere, and the sound ended in a gurgle. Yutigaffa went down. It was done as quietly as possible, but men in pain persist in screaming and howling. There were more soldiers, grim men in elite red berets, and through the gateway came a personnel carrier.

  "Jiminy, is it a coup?" Georgette whispered.

  "Keep quiet. Don't run."

  "I feel like a bug on a pin, in this light."

  "That's their general idea."

  "Are they after the Raga?"

  "No. They want us. These are the General's men."

  There was a struggle near the gate. Arms and weapons rose and fell, and there came muffled groans and thumpings. Sergeant Kantijji came crawling along the lawn without sight or senses, his face bloody, his eyes blind. One of the troopers kicked him in the ribs and knocked him sidewise. Kantijji lay on his side, twitching like a wounded animal. There was still a struggle going on around Abraham Yutigaffa's big frame. He refused to go down under an avalanche of blows. The truck motor was revved impatiently. Two officers, wearing sidearms and white cartridge belts, looking very natty in their khaki and red berets, came trotting up from the melee toward the veranda.

  "Mr. Durell? Miss Finch? This way, please."

  The girl began, "Listen, does His Excellency know-"

  "The Raga need not be disturbed. You are requested for a simple interview, that is all. No need for alarm." The officer's teeth flashed very white in the gloom. Behind him the thump and thud of blows landing on Yutigaffa went on. Sergeant Kantijji looked dead, lying with his knees drawn up under his chin on the shadowed lawn. The officer said, "General Watsube requests the pleasure of a few moments of your time. He is a busy man, as you must understand. We ask your cooperation. Do not delay."

  Durell looked at the two beaten FKP men. "Let them go. They meant no harm."
/>   "We have no use for spies of that sort. Are they your special friends?" asked the officer.

  "No. But they're good men."

  "Good for what, sir? They are dirt. They are katula vipers. They would spy on their own mothers and have them shot, if they were told to do so. But if you wish them to be freed-"

  The officer shouted something across the lawn. The struggle at the gateway ended. Captain Yutigaffa stood erect, pulling air into his huge chest, with a great effort. Blood streamed down his face, disfiguring him. Blood filled his open mouth. There was nothing in his insane and defiant stare that meant anything to Durell.

  "Are we under arrest?" Finch asked. Her voice was pitched too high, too loud.

  "Not at all. But we are under a military curfew, under martial law," the officer said. "Come this way, please."

  The Natanga Hotel was surrounded by Watsube's red beret elite troopers. The lobby was filled with excited, awed civilians, even at this early-morning hour; the guests were being soothed by a black public relations officer. The elevators were available to guests only up to the tenth floor. Beyond that, military guards took over. Apparently, General Iraki Mendopu Kurfagga Watsube had established his siege headquarters in the hotel tower suites. It had been done swiftly and efficiently. Scattered over the hotel grounds were machinegun crews in small bivouacs, smoking, sleeping, cooking over small fires amid the elegant shrubbery. Durell and the girl were hurried into an elevator and ushered out at the top level, past a security, guard posted behind a desk, and into what the American builders of the hotel had fondly named the Presidential Suite. Perhaps it was symbolic, Durell thought, that whereas President Motuku had never occupied these rooms, General Watsube had now moved in.

  The General amplified his dossier in startling ways. Where the Raga was very tall and emaciated, Watsube was short and stout despite the aid of an obvious corset under his uniform; he was much blacker than the President, with the round face and bulging frog eyes of the Telek people. Two opposites could not have been more unlikely to call themselves brothers, as these two were fond of doing. There might have been some Chinese in Watsube-not in color, but in the high slant of cheekbones and eyes. The man's round head was shaved and waxed until it gleamed under the lamp in the sitting room of the suite. Through the windows behind him, the fires in distant Getoba were clearly visible, and some of the smoke, acrid and thin, even worked its way through the air-conditioning.

  "I do not have much time to spend over you both," Watsube said. His uniform was simple, rumpled, sweat stained. His English was colloquial American, a Philadelphia accent. "Obviously, you can understand that I'm a busy man. So you will answer briefly and truthfully. Sit down, Miss Finch. Did you know that I once met your father?"

  "When he was still in the banking business?" the girl asked.

  "Did he ever leave it, my dear, even when he was elected as one of your senators?" Watsube's smile was quick and mechanical. He was a man with a lot on his mind. "Senator Finch is charming but dedicated eternally to the dollar. I do not think you are much like him."

  "Thank you," Georgette said. "Did you arrest us to discuss how I relate to my family back home?"

  "My dear Miss Finch, you are not under arrest. You." Watsube turned his bulging eyes toward Durell. "Please tell me what the Raga wanted of you. The Raga and I have been united for forty years. We are brothers. Does he now have secrets from me? I, who kill my own people, the Teleks, to preserve his dream of nationhood?"

  "Is the killing necessary?" Durell asked.

  "They will not surrender. It is just as well. Once an enemy, always an enemy. There is no reconciliation with traitors. What did the Raga want of you?"

  Durell said, "It was really the Ragihi's request."

  "So?"

  "She is worried about her sister-your wife."

  "And?"

  "She wondered if I could help somehow."

  "How exactly?"

  "She had some romantic idea of my rescuing your wife, The Raga was annoyed. His Excellency said that your personal affairs are your own, General."

  "But he did not commission you for this chivalrous gesture of rescuing Mathilda-who likes to be called Mickey?" General Watsube's black eyes were like stones. His thick mouth drooped downward under his thin moustache. "Am I supposed to believe such a ridiculous story? How, can I believe it, when you were accompanied by those two dogs, those FKP men?"

  Durell said, "I thought they worked for you, General. Are they still alive?"

  Watsube waved a negligent hand. He stood up, short and corpulent, his moon face turned briefly to the wide windows to examine the fires burning at the opposite end of the city. "Captain Yutigaffa plays his role very well. I am not concerned with the FKP. You worry me more than you should, sir. And you too, young lady." He looked curiously at Georgette's tall figure. Somehow, the girl managed to look graceful as she sat down and crossed her long legs. "As for my wife, Mr. Durell, I am sorely misunderstood. It is not a question of my allowing her out of the Getoba. The fact is, she can not come out. She is being held as a hostage. She is being used to demand escape for rebels and murderers. Does that change the picture for you?"

  "I had the impression that she had appealed to you to be allowed out of the Getoba while the fighting went on."

  "Quite wrong. She is a prisoner there, kept to intimidate me, to make me yield to certain demands. Trucks, amnesty, free and unmolested passage to the border. Which I cannot and will not permit. Does that clarify matters, sir?"

  "Couldn't Mathilda Maitland-your wife-be rescued?"

  "Getoba will fall within three days. It is so planned. If my wife is still alive, she will be allowed to leave the country. If her captors kill her out of malice, then she will be but one more sacrifice for the unity of my country." Watsube breathed heavily for a moment. Durell sensed a violent anger in the man. Then a telephone rang on a table across the room. An aide picked it up, said something in Telek, and nodded to the General. Watsube picked up an extension on his desk, listened, nodding his bald, shaven skull. Once he looked up directly at Georgette's height, but his eyes were blank, and he might have been staring at the wall. He put down the telephone, and his nostrils flared.

  "We will speak later, Mr. Durell. Until then you must consider yourself under house arrest here in the hotel. The two of you must remain in your room, Mr. Durell. In the morning you will be deported from Boganda. A BPA plane will leave at ten A.M. for Mozambique. You will both be on it. Until then there will be no displays of American chivalry, understood?"

  Durell nodded. "May I ask one question?"

  "I am busy-"

  "If you don't run the FKP and I don't think now that you do, from the way your people handled Yutigaffa and if the Raga doesn't run the secret police either, then who does?"

  There was silence, while the General pushed papers around on his desk without purpose. His head was lowered, and Durell could not see the man's eyes.

  Then Watsube said, "The Silver Scorpion rules the FKP."

  "I thought that was all a myth-"

  "You have had your question. You will proceed at once to your quarters. Or would you prefer the military compound where our Getoba prisoners are kept?"

  "We'll take the hotel room," Finch said promptly.

  Chapter 8

  THE RED-BERETED lieutenant showed his white teeth in another grin and closed the door to Durell's room, stepping back into the hushed corridor outside as he did so. Two armed troopers stood guard there. Durell paused and listened to the lock click. The hotel had been built with reasonable sound-proofing. He looked at Finch. The tall girl seemed at a loss. "Where did you park your Rover?" he asked quietly.

  "At my cottage. Why?"

  "Let's get it."

  "Get it? How? We're locked in-"

  "Just listen and do as I tell you."

  "Where are we going?"

  "Out. Immediately. Before they're organized on their guard duty and decide that they should send a man in here to sit with us."


  "But how-"

  "Just don't look as if you're rushed, Finch.?

  ?Yes, siree," she said. "Are you still going to get into the Getoba??

  ?Yes. Now. Later might be too late.?

  ?Sam, you're a real zingaroo.?

  ?Shut up," he said. There was a connecting door to the next guest room, from which Durell had heard no sounds since checking in, it was unoccupied, he hoped. From his luggage he took a set of picklocks and went to work on the door, and in a moment it clicked open. The next room was in darkness.

  He touched Finch's hand and led her inside. He had been right. It was empty. Like most modern hotels, each room had a connecting door to the next, to make up into suites if necessary. He went ahead through the gloom, through a bath and another sitting-room to the next connecting door. It gave him no more trouble with his steel pick than the first. He paused in the quiet gloom.