"Oh. The combination. Well, it's a Kreuger-Schmidt safe, you see, made in Essen, Germany-"
"How do you know that?"
"I looked at it. I keep an account there and a box. I thought I should. I have forty-two American dollars there." She looked thoughtful. "I put it in just to be able to see the bank and the vault. I know about banks and vaults, remember? Daddy was a banker before he became a US Senator."
"I know. Go on."
"So when I learned it was a Kreuger-Schmidt, I phoned overseas to Marty Forsdyke, and he said-"
"Who is Marty Forsdyke?"
"He works for Daddy in the bank business. He once asked me to marry him, but I came to Africa instead. Anyway, just for me, he checked with the Kreuger Schmidt people in Essen, West Germany and had them look at their records, and we learned that the safe in the bank here was sold to the Boganda government on November 13, 1970, and was given the identification number of 5584."
"I see," Durell said. "Not bad."
"What do you see?"
"And your devoted friend Marty used your father's name and influence as a banker and a Senator and got the combination of Kreuger-Schmidt bank vault 5584, which, of course, they keep on permanent file in their records."
Georgette said, "You're a real whiz-bang, Sam."
"I'm glad you think so. And you remember the combination Marty gave you, yes?"
"I do. I know it. And I'm not telling you, or you wouldn't have any more use for me, and you'd wrap me up in cotton wool and stash me somewhere until everything is safe and tidy around here again. Am I correct?"
"Right as rain," Durell said.
"So we'll see when we get there, okay?"
"Okay."
Several shells had hit the building that housed the bank during the past week of siege and bombardment. From the central plaza built by the first Portuguese settlers who struggled through a thousand miles of jungle, infested rivers, and discouraging mountains, Durell considered the four-man patrol that paced languidly in the heat, back and forth, in front of the ruined and crumbled stone structure.
It was one of the few stone buildings left in the Getoba, aside from the fort, and it had obviously been devoted atone time to the Portuguese Catholic missions set up by zealous friars in the middle of Natanga's fever-infested bush. It had lost its use as a church over a century ago, when the Teleks, having adopted Islam, surrounded the area with their homes and shops and slave markets. Its big carved doors were built of mahogany planks and studded asked me to marry him, but I came to Africa instead. Anyway, just for me, he checked with the Kreuger/Schmidt people in Essen, West Germany and had them look at their records, and we learned that the safe in the bank here was sold to the Boganda government on November 13, 1970, and was given the identification number of 5584."
"I see," Durell said. "Not bad."
"What do you see?"
"And your devoted friend Marty used your father's name and influence as a banker and a Senator and got the combination of Kreuger/Schmidt bank vault 5584, which, of course, they keep on permanent file in their records."
Georgette said, "You're a real whiz-bang, Sam."
"I'm glad you think so. And you remember the combination Marty gave you, yes?"
"I do. I know it. And I'm not telling you, or you wouldn't have any more use for me, and you'd wrap me up in cotton wool and stash me somewhere until everything is safe and tidy around here again. Am I correct?"
"Right as rain," Durell said.
"So we'll see when we get there, okay?"
"Okay."
Several shells had hit the building that housed the bank during the past week of siege and bombardment. From the central plaza built by the first Portuguese settlers who struggled through a thousand miles of jungle, infested rivers, and discouraging mountains, Durell considered the four-man patrol that paced languidly in the heat, back and forth, in front of the ruined and crumbled stone structure. It was one of the few stone buildings left in the Getoba, aside from the fort, and it had obviously been devoted at one time to the Portuguese Catholic missions set up by zealous friars in the middle of Natanga's fever infested bush. It had lost its use as a church over a century ago, when the Teleks, having adopted Islam, surrounded the area with their homes and shops and slave markets. Its big carved doors were built of mahogany planks and studded enough passersby in the square, going about their errands in the besieged town, to make their presence unnoticed for the moment. Two of the guards stopped to smoke cigarettes, one lighting the other's from a butt. The other two yawned and sat down in the dust against the old church wall and broke open small packets of rations and began to eat their noon meal. From somewhere came the shrill ululation of a muezzin in one of the several mosques, whose minarets still stood defiantly against the sun-bleached African sky.
The former parsonage stood on a site at one of the corners of the old Portuguese plaza. There was a silversmith's place across from it and an alley leading back into the maze of streets beyond. Durell touched Pearl Lu's arm and pointed, and she nodded. With two of her men leading the way and several more behind them, they walked slowly through the pattern of alleys and lanes until they had circled about and come out on the opposite corner of the plaza. The soldiers who had seated themselves against the wall of the bank were now asleep, their cloth fatigue caps pulled low over their weary eyes. The other two were playing cards and still sharing cigarettes.
There were iron bars over the former parsonage windows too, but Pearl Lu indicated that the back door could be opened. The place was now used as an annex to the bank, for storing old and out-of-date papers.
"We'll cross the plaza now," the Chinese girl said. "Do it casually. Do not run, or they will notice you. We still have fifteen minutes until the next bombardment. When the mortars begin, we must not be seen on the streets, or we will be picked up. I think they must be looking for you, Sam."
"Why do you say that?"
"There are more patrols out than usual. You did not make a friend of Miss Irene, the Ragihi?"
"Hardly."
"I am surprised-with all your charms," Pearl Lu said. She smiled with satisfaction as Georgette bit her lip. "Well, we must go. Slowly now. No hurry, please."
Her two forward men crossed easily. Then Pearl Lu herself strolled over with Durell. He saw one of the card players move a bit and stare at him and put a hand on his automatic rifle, but it was only to shove the weapon out of the sun and into the thin shade cast by the tower of the former cathedral-turned-bank. Georgette walked over next, moving a bit too quickly; but no one noticed. Then Pearl Lu's other Chinese men came over, by twos and threes.
They paused in the stifling shade of the alley.
"We can use the back door," Pearl Lu said.
"Have you a key?" Georgette snapped. "It happens to be locked."
"I'm sure Sam can open it."
"Not without noise," Finch said coldly. "But it so happens that I can open it. I have a key. I saw to it last week. The Portuguese who still work here- Well, one of them wanted me to meet him here after closing time, on a date."
Pearl Lu said acidly, "And did you, dear? It's private enough, down among the crypts, I suppose."
"To hell with you," Finch said.
She took a key from a string between her breasts and opened the heavy wooden door in the back of the former parsonage. The lock squeaked a little, and then they were all safely inside, crowded into a small tiled vestibule that smelled of musty old age.
There was no sound. The heavy doors and narrow, barred windows, which were sealed tightly against the shelling, effectively cut them off from the outside world. There were filing cabinets, a few steel desks, all the paraphernalia of a business storage area. Another door took Durell into a corridor and a flight of steps with a heavy, carved wooden balustrade going down.
Finch said, "There aren't many cellars in Boganda, but as Pearl Lu seems to know, the old church had one, for crypts and thing. The bank used the lower area for the vault."
"Yo
u did a good preparatory job," Durell said.
"Don't patronize me," Georgette snapped.
Durell went down the stone steps into abruptly cool darkness. The flashlight he had taken from Pearl Lu's house was useful. There was an arched tunnel and, at the end of it, a heavily paneled door studded with nails in the same pattern as the street entrance. He tried the big iron handle. It was locked. He pushed quietly against it. It did not yield. He looked at the big keyhole and knew his modern picklocks would be useless against this massive mechanism. To blow the door open would only alarm the Telek patrols.
He pinched his nostrils in frustration.
"Let me," Georgette said sweetly. "I have the key, which I just happened to think of getting after you were sent for. And-surprised?-I brought it along." She reached without ceremony into the waistband of her slacks, fumbled a moment, and winced as she tore surgical tape from her flat stomach. She came up with the key still attached to the tape. It was a massive piece of iron of North African design, clumsy looking but efficient. It took only a moment for the girl to open the door. The lock was well oiled, and the bolt moved aside with only a faint click. Durell hoped there were no guards inside the former church. He pushed the door open slowly. A smell of dust and mildew and unusually cool air came at him as he stepped through the entrance. Finch was right. He stood in the old Portuguese crypt of the church, vague and dark and dusty, built of stone that must have been hauled hundreds of miles from the nearest quarry down river. There were medieval-style arches, deep niches, a flagged stone floor; there was dust in the corners. But the flag stones looked as if they had seen recent travel.
"Oh, lordie," Finch breathed.
Halfway up the stone steps leading to the main floor of the bank-what had been the nave and apse of the old church-Durell's flashlight picked out the sprawled figure j of a man. The man lay head down, his arms and legs every which way. His shirt had once been a natty blue, but it was now a clotted mass of dark red blood. His shoes were neatly shined.
"Don't anyone move," Durell whispered.
He went quickly and quietly up the stone steps to the body. The man had been riddled with automatic rifle fire; his back was torn away, and his skull was blown apart. He had been a short man, brown-skinned, but not a Natangan. His clothes were Western. What was left of the face and the single, staring, bulging blue eye made no sense at all to Durell.
"Does anyone know him?" Durell asked quietly. He looked at Finch and Pearl Lu. Both girls nodded solemnly in the light of his torch. "Can you identify him?"
Finch said, "He was Ferdinando Gomez. The bank manager. He was the one who tried to make a date with me and gave me the key."
"Pearl?"
"She's right. He was a good customer of mine."
Finch made a wry face. Durell considered the dead man for another moment. The bank manager had not been dead very long; he had probably been shot in the morning, while he himself had been with Pearl Lu. Probably the same suggestion crossed Finch's mind, he thought wryly, watching her lips tighten briefly. He turned and went up the stairs. There was little need for caution now. There was no one on the main floor of the church. All the pews had been removed years ago, and the floor had been made over with tellers' cages, benches, and all the furniture and paraphernalia sacred to any bank anywhere in the world. He turned left, toward the rear, which would have been behind the original altar. The stained-glass window had long ago been removed; it was replaced by iron bars.
Insects buzzed and hummed somewhere high in the lofty, arched ceiling. He held his gun ready as he went through the wooden gateway to the rear, where he caught the gleam of stainless steel shining in the shadows.
The safe was open. The heavy door stood ajar.
Finch halted beside him and heaved a deep sigh. "Okay. So they got the combination from poor Ferdinando Gomez Okay? All right? We're a bit late."
"Relax."
"And it was all done this morning while you were so-so busy."
"No matter. It happened because we forced it to happen," Durell said, "just by coming into the Getoba. And especially because we took Irene with us."
"All that money," Pearl Lu whispered. She looked small and mournful, her piquant Chinese face sober and very disappointed. "I was just hoping to see it all, that's the thing. And it's all gone. Three hundred million, you said?"
"That's right," Durell agreed.
"So they shot poor Ferdinando, as Finch says, after y they squeezed the combination out of him. And then they, cleaned it all out. All that money."
"The question is, who took it?" Durell asked.
Somebody chuckled behind them.
A man said pleasantly, "Why, I did, of course. Mickey, Irene, and me. Who else?"
Chapter 17
HE was very tall and very thin, with a British colonel's pips on his khaki shoulder straps; he wore a row of miniature medals and ribbons decorating his shirt over his left pocket. He carried an Israeli Uzi, a wicked little automatic rifle that rarely jammed and always meant business. He carried a US Colt .45 in a low-slung cartridge belt, and his brown boots were neatly polished, his khaki slacks immaculately pressed. His smile showed gleaming white teeth. His hair was grizzled, cropped short, above a surprisingly; youthful face that was darkened by many tropical suns but still looked engaging-for a thief. There was a charm in the man, Durell thought, and a kind of feral danger, as if he would do anything on the spur of the moment that happened to suit his convenience, without thought of harm and injury to anyone in his way.
"I am Adam Chance," said the man quietly. "My rank is colonel, of course, actually." He had the sort of upper-class, quality New York accent that was dying out these days. "I'm in command of the Getoba, in command of all the Teleks and everyone within these walls-and therefore, Mr. Durell, you are under my command too. Please drop your gun."
Durell did not drop it. He held it out, and Colonel Chance gestured to someone behind him, and Durell saw it was the same black American, Major Wells, who had hunted for him last night in the ruins of the jute mill. Wells' face was expressionless as he took the snub-barreled .38 from Durell's fingers. Durell said, "It's a very good weapon. I'd hate to damage it by dropping it on the stone floor."
"As you wish," Colonel Chance said. His lean, bony face smiled handsomely. "Those Chinese boys tell 'em all to drop whatever they've got up their sleeves. Pearl Lu, you'd better do it."
The Chinese girl spoke to her men in Cantonese, and an assortment of knives and small-arms clattered to the stone flagging. Colonel Chance said, "Pearl Lu, I am surprised. I've left you and your people alone, because you said you were a neutral, not a damned Commie chink."
"I'm an American," the small girl snapped. "I happen to be an ethnic Chinese, as well. Not a gook, not a native, not a chink. Certainly not a Communist. I'm a capitalist in every sense of the word, a believer in free enterprise, as you well know. Understood?"
"You seem touchy."
"And why shouldn't I be?" the girl snapped.
"All right, all right. Willie?"
"Yes, six," said the black major.
"Is this the man you spotted last night, the one who brought Irene in?"
"I'm not sure."
Colonel Adam Chance turned his head slightly. "Irene, what do you say?"
The Ragihi of Boganda came forward out of the shadows of the old church, affecting a curious blend of Bogandan imperial quality with a sly and frightened Liverpool urchin feeling out of place here.
"It's him, all right. It's the Cajun, like they call 'em. Its bloody-right him, Adam."
"Good. So there are no more problems," Colonel Chance said.
Durell said quietly, "But there are plenty of them. There's the problem of the missing money, a lot of missing money. Several hundreds of millions of American taxpayers' money."
"Really?" Chance chuckled. "I haven't counted it all, yet. And it isn't really missing, old man. I have it. Willie and I and Irene and Mickey-we all have it, safe and sound at the fort, pending whatever h
appens here in the Getoba."
A new voice intervened, a woman's voice, as thin and cold as the first skim of ice on a New England pond. She didn't have quite the gutter accent that Irene, her sister, had, and there was a taut intelligence in Mickey Maitland that Irene, with her hair curlers and affectations, would never achieve. Standing side by side, they looked enough alike to verify the fact that they were sisters. Female pirates, Durell thought. Predators on the international scene. A great many things became clear to him in those few moments.
Mickey spoke coldly. "Adam, this man they call the Cajun is simply a spy, an agent for the CIA's K Section. Love, don't take any chances with him. Irene told me about him last night. She used the telephone to the fort the one that still works, oddly enough, and which my esteemed military husband-or ex-husband, I'm not sure of the local tribal laws-General Watsube, at any rate, doesn't know about it. Irene thinks we should kill this man at once."
Assignment- Silver Scorpion Page 13