Tycoon shrugged again. “I have the uncomfortable feeling there’s going to be a lot more to it than just wheeling this fellow into the hospital,” he said.
They landed at Ndolo Airport at Kinshasa, a private field three miles from the city center. Again only Tycoon left the plane. Plates of moamba — chicken cooked in palm oil — and rice were sent aboard. With the plane’s air-conditioning system off, the heat built up rapidly. More than an hour passed before Tycoon returned. He came aboard in a jubilant mood.
“We’re in,” he said. “A little trick they call the matabiche. Or, to put it crudely, a bribe.”
“How much?” Peter Rabbit asked.
“Five thousand zaire — ten thousand dollars.”
Peter Rabbit winced. “For that kind of money they should throw in a couple of lepers.”
After another thirty minutes of delay for refueling and safety checks, they left Kinshasa and flew due eastward, following the general route of the huge river curving through the jungle. Elliott was fascinated by the wild country below. He could see no evidence that man had ever been there.
Doctor Segal came to sit beside him. “Ever read Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness?” he asked. “There’s one line in it I’ve never forgotten: ‘Going up that river was like traveling back to the earliest beginnings of the world, when vegetation rioted on the earth and the big trees were kings.’ Down there is where it took place. The Zaire River. The Congo, they called it in Conrad’s day.”
“In my day, too,” Peter Rabbit said. “I was down there with it in sixty-five.”
Tycoon turned around, surprised. “I didn’t know that,” he said. “Broadsword didn’t mention it.”
“He may not know it,” Peter Rabbit said. “That was before I joined the company. Pierre Mulele and his Simbas were killing a lot of people. Me and about twelve hundred other guys hired out to the Belgians to put a stop to it.”
“Did you know Loomis?” Tycoon asked.
Peter Rabbit waited a couple of heartbeats before answering. “I knew him,” he said. “He was there.”
Elliott had been isolated on station so long that he seldom heard much company gossip. But he knew about Loomis. Everyone knew about Loomis.
“I knew him in Vietnam,” Tycoon said. “Way back early. I was there when it all happened.”
“Loomis was one tough son of a bitch,” Peter Rabbit said. “He was on the run then. Always suspicious, kept to himself. And nobody messed with him. I can tell you that.”
“Johnson was tougher,” Tycoon said.
“Not the way I heard it,” Peter Rabbit said. “Johnson was company all the way. Loomis wasn’t. He was his own man. Nobody ever bought him.”
“I won’t argue the point,” Tycoon said. “I wouldn’t want to go up against either one. If they’d left the war to those two, they might not have had to call in a half-million men.”
“Whatever happened to Loomis?” the Doctor asked.
“He’s riding shotgun for some dictator in South America,” Peter Rabbit said.
“The Caribbean,” Tycoon corrected.
“The company ever drop the contract?” Elliott asked.
“A long time ago,” Tycoon said. “In fact, I understand that when the top brass heard what was going on, all sorts of hell was raised.”
“I worked with Johnson once,” Elliott said. “He seemed all right.”
“They were a hell of a team,” Tycoon said.
Peter Rabbit was standing up, looking out the window. “Where exactly are we going, anyway?”
“A small Protestant mission up beyond Kisangani,” Tycoon said. “I doubt if it even has a name.”
Elliott was watching the jungle slide by below. “Is the country there any different from this?”
“Not a hell of a lot,” Tycoon said. “It looks pretty much the same from the Atlantic to Lake Tanganyika a thousand miles to the east. There are more than ten thousand missionaries down there. The Catholics alone have six hundred missions. God knows how many Protestant.”
“Will we have to travel far from the plane?”
“Not if things go right. There are more than two hundred landing strips hacked out of the jungle. We’ll set down at one and pick up our man.”
“How did the company find him in all that country?” Elliott asked.
“Shortwave radio, most likely. There isn’t much of any other way of doing business out here.”
“I suppose they were lucky to find a good case,” Elliott said.
The Doctor looked up from Homer. “Not necessarily. I’ve looked up the figures. They average more than four hundred cases a year.”
In mid-afternoon they landed on a narrow strip surrounded by jungle. The turf was rough, and the Lear jet veered sharply as Tycoon rode the brakes to bring the speed down. The end of the runway rushed toward them, but Tycoon didn’t seem perturbed. He was amused by Elliott’s nervousness. “You should be along when we really have a short runway,” he said.
As they taxied up to the edge of the trees, Elliott could see a small group waiting around a Land Rover.
Tycoon cut the engines, and the group came toward the plane. Two blacks carried a stretcher, and two white men walked a few paces behind.
Tycoon placed a hand on Dr. Segal’s shoulder. “Time to make some medical noises,” he said. Dr. Segal moved toward the door. Tycoon turned to Elliott. “You and I will go out with him. Let him do most of the talking. Just play it by ear. He’ll introduce us as executives of the drug firm that has found the miracle cure.”
Peter Rabbit was peering out the window. “Looks like that cat’s gonna need it,” he said. “He hasn’t moved. He may be dead already.”
“You keep out of sight,” Tycoon said. “If these natives get a good look at you, it might set primitive religion back a hundred years.”
The Doctor went down the ladder first and walked out to meet the group. Tycoon hung back, giving him time. Dr. Segal shook hands with the missionaries, exchanged a few words, then knelt to examine the patient. Tycoon seemed to accept the movement as a signal. He walked down the ladder. Elliott followed him.
“An excellent test case,” Dr. Segal said as they walked up to the group. “Well advanced, but still retains all the vital signs.”
“We’re extremely grateful for your cooperation,” Tycoon told the missionaries.
Dr. Segal made the introductions. Elliott missed the names, including his own. The tall missionary was a Robert Mitchum type. The short one resembled Peter Lorre.
“We would be honored if you would care to visit our mission,” the Peter Lorre said. “It’s only five miles away.”
Dr. Segal declined politely. “Perhaps another time,” he said. “As you can understand, minutes may make the difference in our septicemic studies.”
While Dr. Segal discussed the medical history of the case, going over the records, jotting down notes, Tycoon and Elliott helped the blacks load the patient. Then farewells were said, the doors closed, and Tycoon started the engines.
The whole loading operation had taken less than twenty minutes.
Tycoon devoted his full attention to the takeoff. Aligning the plane at the end of the strip, he brought the engines to maximum power before releasing the brakes. The plane gathered speed rapidly. But Tycoon held it just off the ground, gathering more air speed, until the end of the runway, then he climbed steeply into a shallow bank, circling back westward. When they reached cruise altitude, he set the automatic pilot and left his seat.
“Now the work begins,” he said. “We’ve got to prepare the patient for admission to the hospital. As Dr. Segal told you, the disease risk is minimal. But we’ll still follow antiseptic procedures, as a precautionary measure. We’ll all do as Dr. Segal says.”
“We’ve brought medipaks,” Dr. Segal said. “Sterile gowns, surgical masks, gloves. And we’ll all scrub thoroughly afterward. That should be sufficient.”
They moved the patient to the center of the cabin space and released th
e stretcher straps. Dr. Segal peeled back the blankets, and they were able to study the patient for the first time.
He was big and jet black. The skin of the arms, neck, and upper torso was leathery and wrinkled. The face was broad, the nose flat, and the mouth negroid. The hair was bona fide Afro, as big as a medicine ball, and filthy. The legs were scarred from years in the brush, and the man obviously had gone barefoot most of his life. He was breathing, but seemed to be in a deep coma.
“I suppose we can look at the bright side,” Peter Rabbit said. “He doesn’t have a bone through his nose. But who’ll ever take him for a European?”
“We’ll have our own doctor at the hospital,” Tycoon said. “I doubt that anyone will check closely. But we’re to do all we can. And we’re counting on you for the biggest part of his cover. Broadsword said you once trained as a tailor.”
Peter Rabbit stared at him in amazement. “How the fuck did they know that?” he asked. “I’ve never told anyone.”
Tycoon shrugged. “I suppose it’s in your record, somewhere. And that’s how you came to be on this mission instead of screwing a couple of chicks. It’s true, isn’t it? You have training as a tailor?”
“Affirmative,” Peter Rabbit said. “When I was growing up in Brooklyn, my old man apprenticed me out to an uncle in a tailor shop. But I thought I was through with that needle-and-thread shit years ago.”
“This won’t take long,” Tycoon said. “We’ll help you measure him. In the compartment behind the head, you’ll find a half-dozen suits, and you can alter one to fit. I think we have all the gear you’ll need.” Tycoon looked up at Elliott. “Think you can turn that real-McCoy Afro into a continental clip? I understand you once did some barbering.”
Elliott had worked in a barbershop one summer to earn extra money while in college. “I haven’t cut hair in fifteen years,” he said.
“It’ll come back to you,” Tycoon said.
Dr. Segal broke out the medical packs. They donned the sterilized gowns and strapped the black upright. After Peter Rabbit took measurements, Elliott went to work, honing the wire-tough Afro down to a reasonable facsimile of a European trim.
Afterward, they washed the black thoroughly. Dr. Segal used an electric buffer to scrape away calluses from the feet and hands. On the last part of the flight, after they cleared the Gambia, they carefully dressed the black in his new finery: silk underwear, over-the-calf hose, blue pastel shirt and coordinated tie, continental-style suit, and English jodhpurs. To Elliott’s astonishment, a wallet filled with pocket litter — a well-used passport, credit cards, and such — established a new identity.
“How did they do all that on such short notice?” he asked.
“I suppose they always have some identification waiting for people who need it,” Tycoon said. He set up a Polaroid camera and began fitting special lenses. “All we need now is his portrait to complete his passport.”
Dr. Segal used tiny surgical clips to hold the black’s eyes open. They propped him up and Tycoon snapped his picture.
“I just thought of something,” Peter Rabbit said. “What if this cat wakes up in the hospital and starts talking whatever language he uses?”
Tycoon and Dr. Segal exchanged glances. The Doctor seemed mildly embarrassed.
“We’ve thought of that,” he said. “I’ve given him a massive shot of novocaine at the base of the tongue. The muscles won’t function very well for the next twenty-four hours or so.”
“And after that?”
Dr. Segal reached for the black’s wrist. He measured the pulse against his watch. “I doubt if there will be any ‘after that,’” he said.
Chapter 17
Minus 4 Days, 19:37 Hours
The landing in Lisbon seemed anticlimactic. An ambulance was waiting as they taxied to the end of the runway at the small, private field off Campo Grande north of town. An unobtrusive but sizable fleet of small cars lurked in the darkness along the edges of the field.
A Mercedes pulled up and stopped beside the ambulance. While attendants loaded the patient, Elliott, Dr. Segal, Peter Rabbit, and Tycoon joined the silent driver in the Mercedes. Two cars pulled out ahead of them and two behind. The caravan drove southward into the older part of town. Turning off on Gomes Freire they headed to St. Joseph’s Hospital. They were met at the emergency room door by a platoon of nurses and orderlies. A tall, lanky Portuguese doctor came out to shake hands with Dr. Segal. They conferred briefly. Broadsword emerged from the shadows and climbed into the Mercedes.
“We were lucky,” Broadsword said. “We’ve managed to sucker them out of position. But it’s taken a lot of doing, and I’m still worried. It’s a big outfit. Very intense. Half our European force is keeping them occupied out toward Estoril.”
The driver started the car, and they drove rapidly back toward the safehouse.
“Any idea who they are?” Tycoon asked.
“No. I’ve tried to keep from blowing the whole thing by making contact with them. But if I can get you people out of town safely, we’ll see if we can’t find one who’s talkative.”
Broadsword seemed pleased with the way the mission had gone. “We’re well within our time margin,” he said. “Langley should be satisfied.”
They remained at the safehouse only long enough to complete the debriefing.
They then left at thirty-minute intervals. Peter Rabbit went first, heading for Portela de Sacavem and a flight to Barcelona. Tycoon went back to his jet, bound for Rome. Dr. Segal’s flight was to Madrid, where he was scheduled to switch to a military jet for a quick trip to Washington.
Elliott was the last to leave.
“Be damned careful,” Broadsword said. “I’m still worried. Go straight to Oslo, check in with Langley, then lie low until all this blows over. This organization seems to have fantastic resources. When they realize we’ve had them on a false scent, they may get rough. They’ll want to find out what in hell has been going on.”
Elliott’s baggage had been packed and sent ahead. A car and driver picked him up at the safehouse to take him to Portela de Sacavem. Preoccupied with his thoughts, Elliott didn’t see the collision ahead of them on the expressway. His first inkling of danger was the driver’s sudden braking. He glanced up and saw a car flipping end over end thirty yards away. Another creamed on the right-hand barriers. Elliott’s driver put the Mercedes into a skid and managed to miss the wrecked cars by scant inches. They came to rest on the shoulder beyond, jammed against the guard rail. Traffic screeched and crunched to a halt behind them.
They were unhurt, but they were forced to wait twenty-five minutes while the road was cleared. The delay was enough for Elliott to miss his flight. The next was two hours and fifteen minutes away.
The driver studied his watch in indecision. “I was supposed to see you off,” he said. “But I’m due in Estoril in a few minutes for a pickup. And I’m already late.”
“Go on,” Elliott told him. “I’ll be all right.”
Reluctantly, the driver left. Elliott stood in the terminal for a few minutes, watching faces. He was certain he hadn’t been spotted. And he had no intention of remaining conspicuous in a public terminal for two hours. He had no trouble in deciding what to do.
He walked to the taxi ramp and hired a cab. “A’Cave,” he said.
The girl wasn’t in sight when he entered the crowded bar. He ordered a drink and sat waiting, his back to the wall. He declined offers from other prostitutes, and watched the door. He had spent the better part of an hour toying with the drink and was on the verge of giving up when he saw her come down the stairs with an American sailor. They were in a heated discussion. Elliott moved closer.
“No suckee suckee,” the girl was saying. “Fuckee fuckee. Twenty escudos.”
“No fuckee fuckee,” the sailor said. “Suckee suckee.”
Elliott tapped the sailor on the shoulder. “I hate to interrupt such intelligent conversation. But if the lady doesn’t want to blow you, why don’t you blow?”<
br />
The sailor swung around unsteadily to face Elliott. “What the fuck’s it to you, mate?”
“If you’re not going to do anything but argue with her, I’d like to take her off your hands,” he said. He turned to the girl. “Fuckee fuckee is fine with me,” he said.
She smiled at him tentatively, uncertain.
“Well, it’s not with me,” the sailor said. “You better shove off, mate.”
“I plan to,” Elliott said. “But I’m taking the girl with me. And I believe you’re too intelligent to try to stop me.”
The sailor blinked at him. His eyes shifted to the width of Elliott’s shoulders, to Elliott’s loose stance. He stood for a moment in indecision.
“Ah, fuck it,” he said, backing away.
“That’s precisely what I intend to do,” Elliott said.
Pushing the girl ahead of him, Elliott moved through the crowd and up the stairs. No taxis were in sight as they left the club, but in the distance Elliott saw one dropping a passenger. As the taxi came toward him, Elliott raised an arm and the driver pulled to a stop at the curb. Elliott and the girl climbed into the back seat. The girl gave the driver an address that meant nothing to Elliott. As they settled into the soft leather upholstery, Elliott wrapped his arms around the girl.
“You remember me?” he asked.
“Sure, I ’member you,” she said. But she didn’t. Her answer came too fast.
Elliott knew his childish hope was pathetic — that she would recall one brief encounter, when she no doubt screwed a dozen men nightly. Yet, she was everything that had haunted him throughout the African trip. Small, deliciously compact body. Rich, dark hair worn in a gamin cut. Delicate cleft chin, thin waif face, and childlike innocence to the eyes.
She moved her hand to his crotch. “You like?” she asked.
“I like,” he said, bending for a long, tongue-searching kiss. Her hand moved experimentally. He had wild thoughts of taking her in the back of the taxi.
And in that moment, the doors of the taxi flew open and four men piled in, guns drawn.
The taxi had slowed for an intersection. The driver didn’t acknowledge his new passengers or miss a beat in the handling of the wheel as he moved on through the intersection. Elliott knew, with sickening certainty, that he had been set up in a fashion any amateur should have recognized.
The Hamlet Warning Page 14