Catacombs

by John Farris

  "Stay put," Matthew Jade said, as Zola began slowly to rise.

  Zola stiffened and looked around with extreme caution. She could just make him out, standing barefoot twenty feet behind her, in the center of the hall.

  "Where you come from? Nobody else in here, I made sure."

  "We pried off a window grate out back."

  "So. Where the rest of you? Machine guns, shoot me down like a mongrel dog. Huh?"

  "The more troops, the more noise. I came in alone."

  "Shoot me yourself then, Mr. Big."

  "What the hell, I forgot to bring a gun."

  "Lyin' fool. How do you think to stop me then?"

  "I'll stop you, Mama."

  Zola showed a savage grin.

  "No you ain't. I got Miss Raun Hardie, right in there, closer to my razor than you is to me. You do any sudden moves, reckon I slice you both, thin off the bone."

  "Who is that, Zola?" Raun cried anxiously. "Who're you talking to?"

  "Just a man," Zola said contemptuously. "Sneak in here behind my back. Got him a cowboy hat, looks like." Zola resumed her rise, still watching Jade, who stood relaxed with his hands at his sides. "All right, hat man."

  "You'll never make it."

  "Zola! No!" Raun Hardie screamed.

  "Allah-la-la-lal." Zola cried ecstatically, and she flung herself at the doorway, razor held high.

  A split second before she moved, Jade's left arm described a full circle; he pitched in an eccentric but powerful three-quarter sidearm motion a double-edged throwing knife of his own design. It traveled the twenty feet between Zola and himself at nearly ninety miles an hour and chunked solidly into her right ear just as she appeared before Raun.

  The impact knocked Zola off balance and against the jamb. Raun pulled the trigger of the small revolver, and the hammer fell on an empty chamber.

  She continued to point the revolver high, sighting, earnestly snapping the trigger again and again, as Zola took a staggered step into the room and collapsed, skewered, her head tilting forward decisively at the last moment as if from the weight of the cold steel embedded behind her eyes.

  Chapter 10

  49 COURTEMANCHE STREET

  Johannesburg, South Africa

  May 8

  On a cold smoggy fall evening Lourens Todt observed, from a second-story window of his home in Hillbrow, the prompt arrival of the young man he had come to think of as his son.

  While Jan-Nic Pretorius was giving his hat and coat to one of the servants, Todt came halfway down the mahogany staircase to greet him. As usual only an austere handshake passed between them; but Todt unexpectedly allowed himself the indulgence of a quick cheek pat of approval with his left hand. Jan-Nic could not have been more astonished if the tough, dour old man had kissed him.

  "Extraordinary planning, Nico," Todt murmured.

  "Thank you, sir."

  "If Ndzotyana had slipped away from us again, I hesitate to think of the effect this escape would have had on these militant Bantu, so soon after the Ikwezi disturbances."

  "The PNF is pretty well demoralized today."

  "I'll go further than that; we've smashed them. There's only Solomon Mkhize to consider now, and he can't be effective in exile."

  They walked up the stairs together, Todt holding tightly to the railing, his eyes betraying no sign of the pain he felt in his arthritic, all-but-immobile left knee.

  He was too proud to install an elevator within the mansion, or to walk with the aid of a cane. On his worst days he now stayed home, and conducted the affairs of the Department of National Security from two small, windowless, maximum-security offices reconstructed from unused bedrooms at the rear of the second floor.

  They settled down with tea served by one of the special officers on duty. Todt, a full elder of the Dutch Reformed Church, neither drank nor smoked, nor allowed anyone else to do so in his home.

  Jan-Nic was red around the eyes and his hands trembled slightly, but otherwise he did not betray the fact that he'd done without sleep for nearly seventy hours. He'd had his suit pressed and was still operating on his abundant nervous energy, further exhilarated by the triumph of his career.

  At the age of thirty-seven Jan-Nic Pretorius was already acknowledged to be the man who would succeed his father-in-law; even his enemies, who called him the Golden Greyhound and found him too social, too aggressively self-serving, conceded that he would someday have a cabinet post. Jan-Nic had conceived and was in charge of the OB branch of the Department, named in tribute to the original Ossewa Brandwag, a rabidly anti-British, pro-Nazi group which his father and Lourens Todt had helped establish before World War Two. The covert OB branch, composed entirely of Broederbond zealots within the department, was the instrument of apartheid most feared, because of its apparent omniscience and total ruthlessness, by South Africa's blacks. For three years OB branch had concentrated on eliminating the insurrectionists of the Patriotic National Front; with the capture of Robert Ndzotyana, the PNF's best organizer and most articulate spokesman, Jan-Nic had fully justified Todt's confidence in him.

  "What's the latest word?" Jan-Nic asked. "Will Ndzotyana recover?"

  "He was severely burned over fifty percent of his body. But he's a strong young man, who can tell?"

  "While he lingers, he's dangerous. A living martyr is more of an incitement than a dead one. I should have shot him when he came out of the shafts."

  "We aren't savages or sadists, Nico, no matter what the rest of the world wishes to believe."

  They drank their tea in silence for a few moments. Robert Ndzotyana, the lone survivor when his meeting place in an abandoned shaft in the Witwatersrand gold-mining district was invaded by OB agents equipped with flamethrowers, had been taken to the nearby Baragwanath General Hospital, a two thousand-bed facility for blacks in Soweto. Neither man mentioned that the hospital had no intensive-care unit for burn victims, thereby lowering Ndzotyana's chances for survival to the minimum.

  "Well, Nico, I realize you haven't been inside your own home for nearly a week, and I shan't keep you long. Unfortunately, fragments of the letter which Ndzotyana was carrying on his person have caused some anxiety. I've been in touch with the prime minister, who believes an investigation should be conducted, and at once."

  Jan-Nic shook off the fatigue that was stealthily tugging at his eyelids in the overheated office.

  "How much of the letter was readable?"

  "Nearly two full paragraphs. And all of the signature."

  "You're convinced it's authentic? Jumbe Kinyati wrote it?"

  "Ja. We have numerous samples of his handwriting for comparison. The laboratory did an excellent job of reconstructing the charred portions. If Ndzotyana hadn't folded the letter into rather a small packet and pushed it deep into his trousers, I doubt that any of it would have survived."

  Jan-Nic nodded, recalling the smoking, screaming, nearly naked man who had tumbled, weaponless, from a flame-seared passage of the honeycomb mine.

  He wondered again why he hadn't automatically pulled the trigger of his own weapon. But he knew the answer. He hadn't wanted to be there in the first place. He lacked a certain essential coldness, a willingness to come to grips with the realities which his meticulous planning produced. He was simply not a killer. Physical violence dismayed him. He had channeled his youthful athletic ability into solitary sports and forced himself to excel to overcome the pain of a poor self-image. He had always been a skilled emulator, first of his dashing father, then of the pragmatic, stolidly courageous Todt, whose exceptionally plain daughter he had married in a demonstration of devotion to the old man. He was strongly sexual, unresponsive to Anna-Marie, and terrified of extramarital involvements; one slip could ruin him, in this arch-conservative society where he strove to make of himself a monument no man could pass by without tipping his hat.

  Todt summoned the officer on duty, who brought a Xerox copy of the letter now fragilely preserved between sheets of glass in a laboratory vault.

 
; The letter was addressed to My Dear Friend and Suffering Compatriot Solomon (Solomon Mkhize, the other leader of the PNF, who was currently in hiding in Angola) . Jan-Nic read slowly, pausing often to try to fill in the puzzling gaps caused by fire. In essence the letter was an exhortation, almost Biblical in the grandiosity of its language, pledging the full faith and might of the government of Tanzania (Jan-Nic smiled at that) in helping the beleaguered PNF to fulfill its goals. Jumbe declared:

  We will be st of our na

  to acq nucle weap

  Trust in the pow deliver cel

  A mult of warhe

  each with the explo for to

  equ ten Hiroshim Pretoria

  shall peris in the brightn

  our noon! The time is alm upon

  us, the reck our impat

  gods a matter of d

  Jan-Nic put the photocopied letter aside, and for a time didn't meet his father-in-law's demanding gaze. He helped himself to more tea.

  "Well, sir . . . it seems like aimless chest-thumping to me. The impotent ravings of a man we know to be ill."

  "Presumably not mentally ill."

  "Our intelligence has not been able to establish that. Of course it isn't my department. My own suspicions . . ." Jan-Nic shrugged.

  "Nonetheless we will take this . . . disagreeable piece of correspondence as a serious threat to our well-being."

  Jan-Nic blew across his cup to cool the tea. His nerves tingled.

  "May I ask why?"

  "It's an undeniable fact that a little over a week ago the defense ministers of both the United States and Soviet Russia made simultaneous unpublicized visits to Chanvai. After a conference lasting for several hours both men abruptly left Tanzania. The Russians, true to form, will tell us nothing about the travels of Victor K. Nikolaiev; they deny he was ever south of Tripoli. The American government to date has not provided a satisfactory explanation for the sudden departure from his itinerary by Morgan Atterbury. He is, of course, a long-time supporter of and apologist for Kinyati. That letter to Solomon Mkhize, hand delivered we can assume, is dated April 30, the day after Jumbe's secret meeting with the world's superpowers. Whose lack of interest in our continuing survival is not a matter for conjecture."

  Jan-Nic decided that he was more tired than he had thought; his father-in-law's concern just didn't make an impression.

  "I think," Todt continued, "something was said at the Chanvai conference that has encouraged Jumbe Kinyati to believe he will soon have in his possession nuclear weapons capable of being launched from his own country and destroying ours. Highly mobile, medium-range ballistic missiles, to be specific."

  "But–what kind of fools would give missiles to Jumbe? Can the buggers all have gone totally daft? Ach, I can't take any of this seriously! It's like a nightmare film comedy–superpowers skulking about, meetings in the bush in the middle of the night, all the parts played by Peter Sellers. Jumbe's country is of no strategic importance. He has nothing rare or valuable to trade. That coon and all of his kind aren't worth a crate of rusted sabers!"

  "Unbelievable as it seems, Nico, that may not be true. I know you're badly in need of leave, you've counted on having some time with Anna-Marie and the children. But the prime minister wants immediate action, and I want my best man on the job. It's a deadly serious game that's being played, make no mistake. If we can move quickly we'll snatch the ball away from the Americans and the Russians. And put an end to Jumbe's schemes."

  "What is it, though? What does Jumbe have that can be measured against the death of our country?"

  "Diamonds, Nico. Perfect red diamonds each nearly as large as a pigeon's egg, from a storehouse more ancient than recorded time. There are symbols etched on these bloodstones, symbols that somehow are a key to the holocaust we must prevent."

  Todt paused, anticipating Jan-Nic's next question.

  "I'm sorry, my son, I do wish I could tell you I've seen one of the diamonds." His thin lips, usually as expressive as scar tissue, parted in a rare smile. "But I know where we may get our hands on one . . . and the man who can take us to the rest of this treasure."

  Chapter 11

  VON KREUTZEN'S

  SHOOTING PALACE

  Bekele Big Springs, Tanzania

  May 8

  "Oliver," Erika said, pretending to relish the stew he'd prepared for her, "I'm better today. You know I'm much better."

  Oliver Ijumaa nodded his dusty head. He sat cross-legged on the floor of the room with the great bronze bed-ship in it, and grinned with pride. His pet mongoose was perched on his knee, eating a candy bar that Erika had found in a flight bag salvaged from the wrecked airplane. A sunset rain of hardshell beetles fell on the quilted plastic packing material that Oliver had tacked over the window frames. A paraffin lantern lit the room.

  Oliver had brought, in addition to the pilot's flight bag, a seat cushion from the plane for Erika to sit on, and a small steel barrel full of Tuborg beer. Erika gave Oliver most of Weed's personal effects, including a stainless-steel razor, keeping for herself clean socks, shorts, and a tattered but wearable bush shirt; a mirror she hadn't had the heart to look into; a comb she dragged through her unwashed hair with difficulty; a tube of cortisone hemorrhoid ointment already providing relief from bedsores; and a package of Rough Rider ribbed condoms, from which she fashioned two serviceable botas.

  She was a little concerned about giving Oliver beer, not knowing what the consequences would be if he got drunk. But she was nearly dehydrated, dying of thirst and afraid of the water that was available. And she felt it would be wrong, a blow to his manhood, if she drank in front of Oliver without inviting him to help himself. As it turned out he was fascinated with the improvised bota but absorbed very little beer: Instead, he had an uproarious good time spraying his face and shirt and mongoose while trying to direct a stream of the warm beer into his mouth.

  Erika drank more than was good for her, partially quenching her great thirst. She became intoxicated, which gave her a false sense of well-being.

  "What I must do then," she said through her chewing ( it was some kind of brawny meat, none too fresh and heavily seasoned), "is to strike out tomorrow as soon as the sun rises. We're in a park of some kind, aren't we? A game reserve. By the way, how far is the plane from here?"

  "Heaven knows, mum. Walking and walking, I. Long time walking."

  "How did you ever find me, Oliver? Did you hear the plane crash?"

  He shook his head. "No. Smelling it."

  "You smelled the plane? Well, there may have been some fire, I don't remember–can't remember anything, after the poachers." She put down the dented pewter plate of stew. "But if the plane is so far away, how could you possibly–"

  Oliver laid a long finger against the side of his nose. "Smelling it," he insisted. "Very good smeller, I." He had another squirt of beer, which ran down his chin. The mongoose, his own nose quivering with delight, --put his paws on Oliver's chest and licked the drops away.

  "And you carried me back? Oliver, how long have you been here at the lodge?"

  He shied away from the question, and shrugged. "Few days," he said. Erika knew he was lying, but she didn't press him. What mattered was that he had saved her life, and now would help her save a great many others.

  "So there's no one around at all? You have no family or friends in the vicinity? You're very much on your own, then. But there must be some sort of settlement, Oliver, or at least a ranger post–with a radio–"

  He was aroused, alarmed, by this line of thought. He looked uneasily at the plate beside her, a lid of cooling grease on top. He made eating motions with his hands.

  "'More. Then resting, few days. Or the fever come again."

  "That's ridiculous; you've cured me, I'm well, Oliver, I mean it." Erika was surprised by tears, the fragility of her emotions. "Haven't I proved–"

  He sprang up, the mongoose clinging to a forearm by all four paws, and did one of his pantomimes, striding toward the door with vigor, then weaken
ing, collapsing to his knees, panting for breath.

  "Well, just let me show you what I can accomplish. I'm really my old self again."

  Erika got off the airplane seat stiffly, finding it an effort not to tremble. In the red light of dusk her face was a mummer's mask of concentration, slotted eyes glowing deep in her head. The intemperate swigging of beer had resulted in an alcoholic haze; distances were distorted. Now that she intended to leave the room, the door looked very far away. She walked toward Oliver as if she were trying to keep her balance in a swirling, knee-deep tide at the seashore.

  Oliver got up slowly and stood aside, frowning at her. The mongoose ran down his leg and out the door, chittering madly. By the time Erika reached the doorway she had broken out in blisters of perspiration.

  She hesitated, then bit down on her lip and walked out of the bedchamber in which she had passed the numberless days of her convalescence. One shoulder grazed the jamb in passing. She took a deep breath and sighed with relief. Then she looked around.

  In the fading light she was able to measure the vastness, the baronial scale of the hunting lodge. Obviously someone of great wealth–a captain of industry, a titled sportsman–had constructed it during the heyday of colonial domination of East Africa. Overhead, bats flew in and out of the ruined dome, which had been constructed of wood and stained glass. There was a curving mural above the front doors of the lodge, the bright colors of safari scenes dimmed by time. In one panel Erika thought she recognized the stalwart Kaiser Bill, in full uniform, bringing a bull elephant to its knees with a well-placed shot while nearly naked natives danced with glee around him. Before World War One the Germans had controlled most of what was then called German East Africa through force of arms and sheer terror.

  Oliver's mongoose nipped down the fat rail of a balustrade to the rotunda floor. Erika followed him. The mahogany staircase had marble inlays. A lantern, placed by Oliver, glowed on a pedestal by the entrance. There were pieces of classical statuary around the rotunda, implausibly robust Teutonic gods and goddesses. Someone, many years ago, had used them for target practice, chipping off ears, fingers, folds of drapery.