Catacombs

by John Farris

"Matt has his own way of preparing for things," Lem said evasively.

  "He called Matt 'Múte.' What does it mean?"

  "Swift runner."

  "And who is Taláwasohu?"

  "That was Nell's Indian name. Matt gave it to her. Means 'Star before the light of morning."

  "That's beautiful," Raun said wistfully. "It's hard to believe he's ever led a normal life."

  "He has here."

  "And he was married."

  "Well, that happened after he left The Company. Then he figured he could take on the responsibility. He was crazy about Nell. And I mean, she pitched in around here in spite of her background."

  "What was that?"

  "Family had money. Never worked up a sweat with their hands. Nell was a professional singer, concert type, had a good career going. Came out here and in no time she learned veterinary medicine. She was as good as if she had a degree. One of those with an instinct for it. She could spot a sick horse in the remuda before any of the hands knew something was wrong."

  "She died in an avalanche? That's horrible."

  "Matt's still taking it hard."

  "Yet he gave me her clothes to wear."

  "He grew up practical about things like that." Lem took out a pocketknife and sheared off a spot of ragged leather on one of his bootheels. "Well, I'm going on into town, haven't drunk the last three beers on my six-beer diet. You want to go along?"

  "I'm having a very hard time keeping my chin off my chest. Bed for me."

  "Night then."

  "Lem, why does Matt want you to go along with us?"

  Lem balanced a gold toothpick on the end of a forefinger, then put it in a corner of his mouth.

  "Needs somebody he can depend on; knows his mind without him having to say a word. That's useful in a tight spot."

  "And of course he doesn't trust me. Have you done any parachute jumping, Lem?"

  'Nope," Lem admitted, with a doleful tilt of his rock-star-blond head.

  "I don't think you like the idea any better than I do."

  "I go where Matt wants me to go."

  "Why?"

  "John Tovókinpi says we used to be brothers in another life, and I sort of have to look after him this time around. Don't know if I believe that, but what I do know is that I have a lot of love for him."

  With a casual wave of his hand, Lem swung down off the porch and left Raun to reflect upon another aspect of Matthew Jade: his ability to inspire the devotion of those few people who were close to him.

  Down by the home pasture, a quarter of a mile from the ranch house, Jade met with one of his hands, a towheaded twenty-six-year-old native of Pagosa Springs named Andy von Boecklin. Jade raised seed stock on his range, not market beef, and the home pasture was filling up with the heavies, pregnant cows who would remain in relative seclusion until they dropped their calves through the remainder of the spring and into summer.

  Andy got down from Shoo-Bob, his venerable cutting horse, and took off his gloves.

  "There's a couple of cases of hydrocele on the south range. Not too bad yet." From a distance, on the rapidly chilling night air, came the sounds of voices raised in hymn.

  "Tell Lem. See anything of interest today?"

  "Just those pilgrims camped on Red Cloud Mesa. Most of them white, but I saw a couple of black faces too. I don't see how they can go around dressed in burlap that way–I'd itch myself to death. And that food they're always cooking, I wouldn't want to put any of it in my mouth. What do they call themselves again?"

  "Vassals of the Immaculate Light. They're okay. What else?"

  "Trout fisherman. All by himself down along the Picket Wire in a camper truck. Ford. Arkansas plates."

  "What's he like?"

  "On the heavy side. Going bald. Kind of a droopy mustache. A real greenhorn."

  'Why? What kind of fishing equipment does he have with him?"

  "Lots of hefty-looking plugs. Gang hooks. More like he's after tuna than trout. Retired. Says he spends all of his time nowadays fishing. Didn't see any good fly rods. I told him, you won't catch none of our mountain trout with those Arkansas spincasters of yours. Hatchery trout, that's about all they got down that way, hell, they'll grab anything you throw in the water. Garbage. But he didn't believe me."

  "Uh-huh. Better get up to the house and help yourself to ribs and some of that two-alarm chili before it's all gone."

  "Now you're talkin'," Andy said.

  Raun went to her room but found herself in the predicament of being too tired to sleep soundly. The best she could manage was a restless doze.

  At a quarter after one in the morning she was awakened by the sound of drumming from Matthew Jade's bedroom, an accompanying Indian chant. She sat on the side of her bed listening for several minutes, until curiosity got the best of her. Then she slipped on a flannel robe–it was cold outside and chilly in the house–and went down the hall to his bedroom.

  The door was open a few inches. The drumming and the toneless chant continued. The room seemed to be filled with blue smoke. She looked in and saw John Tovókinpi stripped to the waist and seated cross-legged on a ceremonial robe, a bowl of water on one side of him, a bowl that held a long, elaborately carved, smoking pipe on the other side. Various religious articles or fetishes had been arranged in a semicircle around him. He had the small drum between his knees. The head, of taut animal skin, was filthy; the drum looked very old.

  All the furniture in the bedroom had been pushed against one wall. Matthew Jade lay on his back near the opposite wall. At first she didn't recognize him. He was stretched out rigidly, hands at his sides. He wore a Hopi kirtle made of fox skin and pelt and a white buckskin robe. An open eye was painted on his forehead, a white hand on his chest. The smoke escaping from the room was acrid and stung her eyes; she suppressed a cough.

  It seemed to Raun, as she stared at the prostrate Jade, that he wasn't exactly resting on the floor. He seemed rather to be levitated two or three inches above it. The smoke was so heavy there she found it difficult to ascertain just what she was seeing. She was a little dizzy, as if the smoke were a mild hallucinogen. But suddenly her heart palpitated; she was frightened. The painted eye on Jade's forehead seemed to be observing her.

  Raun backed away from the door and went quickly to her own room. She was a long time lying in the dark, uneasy, trying to keep the drumming from affecting her pulse rate. Hairs were prickling on her arms.

  You know that old expression, "been there and back"? Matt's the only man I ever met it truly applied to.

  The Russian agent whose American name was Bill Sawyer spent a second miserable night on the woodsy knoll that overlooked the home pasture of the War-shield ranch. The May afternoon had been warm enough, with a nice easterly breeze riffling through the glowing aspen, but shortly before dusk the temperature in the valley, hard by the Sangre de Cristos at seven thousand feet, began dropping, and by moonrise it was down to thirty-seven degrees. Around midnight the moon was obscured and the east wind brought a fine steady rain. His shearling coat leaked and his ungloved hands froze. Sawyer, a city kid from Leningrad, was no outdoorsman. To make matters worse, he'd picked up a bladder infection and was constantly unzipping his pants and waiting interminably to produce a few drops of urine.

  When he started sneezing he abandoned his post (at the ranch they'd long since bedded down for the night) and climbed into the camper, which had been hurriedly requisitioned for his assignment. The camper was well stocked with food and fishing gear, but he couldn't get the propane-fired heater to work.

  There were only two blankets aboard, an inexcusable oversight, both of them thin enough to read newsprint through.

  He changed his socks, opened a can of corned beef, and ate while, just for something to do, he listened to the playback of several scrambled telephone conversations that had been transmitted over Jade's secure line. The rain quit and he went outside to try to pee again. He observed some mule deer down by the shallow river and heard what he thought was a mountain
lion's screech, which got on his nerves. Then he turned in for a couple of hours' sleep.

  Reinforcements arrived about four A.M. Sawyer put the coffee on and went outside to greet the newcomers.

  "Hi. Bill Sawyer."

  Even though it was the middle of a wilderness at an ungodly hour the other two men shook his hand, just as Americans meeting casually would do. Their impersonations were, had to be, impeccable.

  "Steve Roper."

  "I'm Ted Clemons."

  Sawyer marveled that these men, among the elite of Cobra Dance, undoubtedly had been in Moscow just seventy-two hours ago. They drove a camper similar to his: a few dents, a little honest prairie dirt. They were bigger, younger, more fit than he was, but nothing about them would attract more than passing notice. Roper wore a red-and-black checkerboard coat and a slightly tacky rancher's straw. Clemons wore steel-trimmed glasses, a California Angels baseball cap, and a camouflage jacket with NRA patches on it.

  "How's the fishin'?" Roper asked, with an unmistakable Kansas twang.

  "Not bad." Sawyer's teeth chattered. "Come on in, fellas, have some coffee,"

  The three men crowded into his camper. Clemons began to tinker with the balky heater and soon had it working.

  "So what've we got?" Roper asked after sipping some of his coffee.

  "Besides Jade there's three ranch hands, an Oriental couple and a girl."

  "Girl friend?"

  "I don't think so. He spent the day trying to get her into shape. Long hikes, calisthenics. She looked to be hating every minute of. it. Then about eight o'clock two more men drove up in a Subaru Brat. They brought a lot of gear. Hard to tell from this distance, but I'd say they had at least half a dozen parachute packs with them."

  "That's interesting," Clemons said.

  "Maybe they're skydivers."

  "The big question is, who's the girl?" Roper said, not expecting an answer.

  "Anyone checking up on you?" Clemons asked Saw-yet.

  "A cowboy rode by today. Looking for strays, 1 suppose. We shot the breeze. He was wearing a button pinned to his shirt with THE BIG PISTOLERO written on it. All hick and a yard wide."

  "Maybe."

  "Then I guess I ought to mention the Jesus freaks."

  "How's that again?" Roper said.

  "That's what they call them over there. They're a religious commune camped a couple of miles west of here. Men, women, kids, they look like leftovers from a cheap Bible flick. Harmless zealots. I went down to chat with them but the smells and the homilies drove me away."

  "Don't blame you."

  "Where'd you fellas drive in from?"

  "Denver," Roper said. He looked at his Timex wristwatch. "Better get some shuteye while we can. Get up early, go fishin'. That's what we're here for. To get a few fish on the line."

  "Excuse me, will you?" Sawyer said. "Nature calls, goddammit."

  Chapter 16

  THE KIVUKONI FIVE

  STAR HOTEL

  Dar es Salaam, Tanzania

  May 15

  Michael Belov, Cobra Dance's man in Tanzania, had lunch on the awning-shaded terrace of the Kivukoni with Sunni Babcock and an irate Toby Chapman.

  Sunni had spent most of the previous day tracking him down through the good offices of the Swedish embassy and had promised, when she finally had him on the phone, "a really earthshaking story." Belov, amused by her breathless earnestness, readily recalled meeting Sunni at a party or reception, recalled being charmed by her good looks and ingenuously accurate impressions of Dar es Salaam. He accepted her invitation to lunch because, at worst, it would be a painless two hours. And he wasn't doing much but hanging around this down-at-heels place waiting for Akim Koshar's network of informants to provide him with a lead that would point the way to the FIREKILL diamonds. Waiting edgily, he was too aware of the steady drain of time and the risky choice he might be forced to make if Koshar failed him. He would then have to kidnap Robeson Kumenyere, and squeeze the location of the Catacombs out of him.

  "There's this man named Henry Landreth," Toby began.

  Belov, a highly disciplined agent trained to be prepared for the unexpected during all of his waking moments, nevertheless nearly dropped the razor-point pen he'd taken from his pocket to dutifully record details of the "earthshaking" story he'd been promised. And if the earth didn't literally move at that instant, because of the way his heart palpitated he did feel as if he'd been standing a little too close to a bombshell.

  Nevertheless he had himself quickly under control and smiled casually at the tall English boy, who was having difficulty deciding what to say next.

  "What about him?" Belov prompted.

  The story then came out in a pent-up jumble, with Sunni trying to help by throwing in her two cents' worth; Belov had to keep interrupting to get Toby to slow down and straighten out his chronology, supply missing pieces of the background. Fortunately their drinks arrived after only a twenty-minute wait. Toby drank half a konyagi and lime in a hurry; this calmed him somewhat. He finished crisply his recital of the events of the day before: Landreth's surprise at being recognized, his clumsy attempts to deny his identity, the presence of the black girl named Nyshuri.

  "This is serious," Belov said, when Toby finally ran out of gas and sat staring at his clenched hands on the table. "Very serious. I want to get to the bottom of it immediately."

  "Thank God!" Sunni said. "You don't know how hard it's been trying to get someone to listen–"

  "I've talked to newspaper johnnies before," Toby said with a challenging look at Belov, "but in the end they've all been intimidated by the Tanzanian government."

  "I assure you that I can't be intimidated, Toby. I'll move heaven and earth to document the truth, and see that it's released to all the news services without delay."

  "Bless you," Sunni said fervently. Her eyes filled with tears. "We've been out of our m-minds."

  Belov held her hand for a few seconds. "Now, now. Leave this to me. Toby, did you say something about photographs–?"

  Toby nodded. "I took two or three shots of him. Haven't had the chance to develop them. The film is still in the camera in our suite."

  "Why don't I take the film with me? The embassy will have the photos for me tonight."

  "I'll run up and get the camera," Sunni said.

  She was gone about ten minutes. When she returned she came toward them slowly, rubbing her elbow, her face screwed up as if she were going to cry.

  "Toby," she said in a squeaky voice.

  Toby jumped up.

  "Luv? What's the matter?"

  "There was a man in our room–a black man. He was stealing your camera. I caught him at it. He knocked me down when he ran out the door. I was so scared I couldn't even yell."

  She had begun to shake. Toby held her tightly. "Landreth! The rotten bastard." He glanced at Belov. "You see?"

  "I'm sure it's no coincidence. I would have liked to have the photos, but they aren't essential. Toby, do you remember the layout of the hospital? Could you sketch the grounds and the location of the cottage where you saw Landreth?"

  "I think so."

  Toby put Sunni in her chair and she sipped her drink with a queasy expression, still trembling occasionally. Perhaps it had dawned on her what might have happened if the thief had been carrying a knife. Toby applied himself to the sketch that Belov wanted.

  "I think the best thing for the two of you is to stay close to the hotel until you hear from me. Give me twenty-four hours, and don't worry."

  "Mr. Lundgren? Mr. Chet Lundgren?"

  Belov looked up and beckoned to a tall African in a striped dashiki carrying a message board with a little tinkling bell atop it.

  "I'm Lundgren."

  "Ah, yes sir. There is inquiry for you, the lobby. Please."

  Belov smiled at Toby and Sunni and excused himself. He followed the messenger to a dim corner of the lobby, where a brown-skinned man in a white suit turning rusty at the creases waited with his hat in one hand, a small package
in the other. The man had a dental arch as long and narrow as a paper clip, and donkey teeth. He nodded several times to Belov, almost bowing, as Belov gave the messenger a coin and waited for him to depart.

  "I am from Akim Koshar, Mr. Belov. He asked me to deliver this to you."

  "Open it," Belov said, making no move to accept the package.

  The man looked puzzled, but did as he was asked. Inside a jewel box was a greenish flat stone the size of a thumbnail, intricately carved on both sides. He held it up for Belov to inspect.

  "Do you like it? I was told–any piece of Jade would do. The message would be clear."

  Belov hesitated, then smiled and took the Jade, which depicted two feathered serpents locked in celestial combat. He slipped the piece into his jacket pocket. Perhaps, he thought, in some curious way it might bring him luck in their race to the Catacombs.

  "The message is clear," he said to Koshar's man.

  Chapter 17

  VILLA BIB-SHALA

  Dar es Salaam, Tanzania

  May 15

  "I'm very disappointed."

  Lady Hecuba ha-Levi de Quattro-Smythe, naked in her boudoir, drew a straight razor from anklebone to kneecap along the smoothly muscled, golden-brown calf of her left leg. She dipped the lathery razor in a crystal bowl of water and gave it a swish to clear the edge, then lifted her eyes to the mirror in front of her. She pouted at the beautiful black girl who stood awkwardly a few feet behind her, twisting a necklace of twenty-four-carat iridescent gold around one fist as if it were a common piece of package twine. As she had expected, Nyshuri looked at the floor and hunched her shoulders in discouragement.

  "I was only thinking of you," the black girl mumbled. "It was a very great risk to steal it. The Asian woman who owned it insisted that the hospital be turned upside down. But of course it was her fault she lost the necklace. She was a fool to wear it to the hospital in the first place."

  The flashing of the gold links in the light and airy boudoir seemed to agitate a molting Madagascar green tree boa which Lady Hecuba maintained in a large terrarium nearby. It whipsawed around the bare climbing branch in its cage and bumped its head resoundingly against the sliding glass door in front. Hecuba frowned and, with the razor suspended, reached behind her with the other hand.