Assignment Black Gold

by Edward S. Aarons

  “What does all this have to do with a secret log?”

  “Well,” Kitty said, “it was stolen.”

  Durell felt a thin twinge of excitement run along his nerves. “Stolen from where? When?”

  She shook her head. “That’s what I’ve been trying to remember, Sam. Do you mind if I—if we—”

  “Tell me, first.”

  “Well, a week before you arrived in Lubinda, you know, that’s when it happened. Brady came back from the interior with his usual load of wood carvings and such, to export, and he was only in town a couple of hours when Hobe came down to the shop and charged him with spying and stealing his log.”

  “Did Hobe Tallman know that Brady worked for K Section?”

  “I don’t—I think so. Anyway, the two of them had a terrible quarrel. Actually, a fight. Poor Hobe got the worst of it, I suppose, although Brady tried to reason with him at first. Hobe really seemed to be out of his mind, about that missing private log.”

  “Where was it kept, do you know?” Durell asked.

  “Oh, it was out on the rig. In Hobe’s private office there. In a safe. You remember, someone had searched that place when we found Brady murdered—”

  Durell said, “Do you think Hobe was upset enough to kill Brady?”

  “Oh, no. I can’t picture poor Hobe going into real violence. No.” The girl shook her head, rolling her cheek against Durell’s chest. He was aware of her quickened breathing, of the hardness of her nipples against his breast. He felt a quickening in himself, too, in this private little niche they shared, so remote from the rest of the world. But the world was with them in any case, with all its angry passions and blood and rage. This moment, as he lay with her in the warming shelter of the rock, was something stolen from the dark world in which he lived and worked. Yet he felt as if he were a thief, holding the girl like this, his mind on matters other than the love she so patently offered him.

  “Who do you think did it, then?” he asked quietly.

  “Killed Brady? I thought it was the Apgaks. But now I—I’m not so sure, Sam.”

  “Can you guess?”

  “No.”

  “Matt the Fork?” he asked.

  She stiffened slightly. “Sam, he’s your friend. How can you suggest—”

  “Hobe Tallman’s private log of the drilling program could be very valuable. It could be worth millions, to certain people. To certain rival companies, say. Maybe even—” He paused.

  She turned her head to look up at him. “What is it, Sam?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’ve thought of something.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Sam, I don’t want to talk about it anymore."

  Later, he thought it had rarely been better. He was aware of the desperation of her love and the loneliness in all her movements. There were times in the past when he had known what she felt now, that he was alone in a world that held only danger for him. He responded to her gently, and when she lay naked beside him, he held her softly, yet with some reassurance, giving to her something she needed so desperately at this moment in her life, what he himself wanted and did not possess for himself. He did not delude himself about her emotions. He knew they would change and pass, as all things changed; and if they survived and found some normalcy, she would move away from him then, and seek her own path to follow, just as he himself would move on to another place and another time. But for this moment, they were together, they were one, surging like the sea, seeking, finding, bursting like a mighty wave, one within the other, to find solace later in the quiet and gentle retreat.

  “Get dressed." he whispered softly.

  She was drowsy. “What?”

  “Listen,” he said.

  There were voices above them on the rock that sheltered them from the growing tumult of the wind. The air smelled more strongly of approaching rain. The night was less than half over, and the stars were no longer visible, hidden now by a low, thick scudding of clouds. At first, he had thought the voices were merely the wind, which sounded at times like a rushing river. He unwrapped himself from the girl and reached for his .38 and sat up. He

  could not see her face. The darkness was absolute.

  “I hear them,” she said.

  “Is it the Saka?”

  “And another man.”

  Durell stood up quietly and felt his way along the rock to the ledge on which the Saka had stood guard. He heard the wind flap the old man’s striped cloak. Kitty touched his back. He tried to urge her into the niche again, but she tightened her grip on his shoulder. When he looked up, the wind cut into his eyes and he could see nothing. Then, very dimly, he made out the form of the tall old man, and another. The Saka still leaned on his tall staff. The other man knelt, almost like a penitent. He felt Kitty’s breath in his ear as she translated the harsh consonants of the language.

  “He wants to come back. He prays the Saka to take him back.”

  “The other man?”

  “And others, too.”

  “How many?”

  “Wait,” she said.

  The newcomer was a squat, burly Lubindan who wore the paramilitary uniform of the Apgaks. The darkness came and went as the clouds scudded by overhead, now and then bringing more light from the night sky.

  “Forty, he says,” Kitty finally whispered.

  “From Madragata’s company?”

  “Yes. They are amazed at the miracle of finding the Saka alive and well. They will follow him anywhere, this man says.”

  “What about Madragata?”

  “They have deserted the Apgaks to follow the Saka.”

  “Good enough,” Durell said. “Stay here.”

  “Sam—”

  He left her, climbing quickly up on the ledge. The Saka saw or heard or felt him in the darkness. The old man turned his head. “Ah, Mr. Durell. You heard?"

  “Some of it.”

  “This man is an Apgak lieutenant. My son Komo, who is more my son than if he were of my flesh and blood, seems to have been correct. He needs my help. And this man and his companions will also help.”

  “One question,” Durell said.

  “Yes?”

  “Madragata kidnapped six American oil workers from off the floating platform. He means to hold them for ransom. I want them back—if they haven’t been killed yet.”

  “They are alive, Mr. Durell. And I shall get them back for you. It is not far from here. You need not concern yourself with the encampment. The guards are few, this man says.”

  "How can you be sure it isn’t a trap for you?”

  “I believe this man. As he had faith in me, I have faith in him.”

  “Can you stop the Apgak rebellion?”

  “All things can be stopped, even the turning of the earth, at one distant day. But I shall not labor for you, or for your country, in this. Neither shall I work for that Maoist Chinese. What I shall do will be for Lubinda and my people, the Lubindans and Apgaks alike.”

  “Fair enough,” Durell said.

  “And you will not go with me on this matter. I know you wish to, Mr. Durell. But it is question of pride, and perhaps privilege for an old man. And perhaps a test.”

  The Saka seemed to stand straighter, defying the weight of the wind against his tall, thin body. “You will take Mrs. Cotton black to Lubinda. The storm that is coming is not an ordinary affair. I would feel better, having discharged my obligation to you for carrying out Komo’s mission, if I knew that you and the young woman were safely back in the city.”

  Durell hesitated. “And the American prisoners?"

  “They will be returned tomorrow. There is transport for you and Mrs. Cotton, by the way, not far from here. The Apgak camp can provide a jeep. I suggest you waste no time. Drive back to the riverbed and follow it quickly to the sea. When the floods come, or the water overtakes you, you will be lost. Use the beach to return to Lubinda."

  Durell saw there was no point in arguing with the old man. He felt the Saka could be trusted. Th
e prisoners would be returned. And it was the Saka’s affair who would determine the future of the tiny country, not his.

  For himself, he had felt an urgency to get back as soon as possible ever since Kitty had spoken to him in their rocky niche.

  The darkness seemed to lift for a moment, and he saw that the Saka had extended his hand. Durell took it in his. The old man’s grip was dry and firm.

  “Go quickly, with my thanks, and tell Komo to wait for me. Lubinda will be safe. For the Lubindans.”

  “As it should be," Durell said.

  He turned and climbed back down to Kitty.

  Chapter 17.

  There was no dawn. The Pequah huddled under the lash of the first seasonal rain. The wind drove a frothy foam across the waters of the estuary, and the unnatural darkness hid the far shores of the river. There was smoke in the air, and from far away came the distant thump and crunch of mortars and the crackle of automatic fire that rivaled the thunder rolling across the sky. Apparently the Apgaks under Madragata had timed their assault on the government with the approach of this first seasonal storm.

  The power from the electric plant was out, and Kitty lit two kerosene lanterns and provided Durell with a five-cell torch, while she scraped breakfast together for them on a gasoline camp stove. From the windows of the apartment over Brady Cotton’s antique shop, he saw that every store in the Pequah market area was tightly shuttered and closed. No one was on the streets. The open-air food market was deserted, its space swept clean and empty by the heavy, thunderous curtains of rain that came from the east. Despite the wind and the rain, the air still had a hot, suffocating quality.

  “I don’t know where to look,” the girl said.

  “We’ll go over everything again.”

  “The shop downstairs is a mess. It would take a week to go through every corner down there."

  “We don’t have a week,” Durell said.

  She fried bacon and cracked eggs in a saucepan over the Coleman stove. Coffee bubbled in an enameled pot. The kitchen was still spotless. Without turning, she said, “Do you think the Apgaks will make it?”

  “They’re attacking the Presidential Palace now."

  “I hope the Saka gets here.”

  “He’s not a miracle man,” Durell said. “All this fighting will be hard to stop, now that it’s been started.”

  “Will they be coining here?”

  “Yes.”

  “For us?”

  “Yes,” Durell said.

  “Should we go to the oil dock?”

  “Later,” he said.

  He had searched the simply decorated apartment with utmost thoroughness, using every technique taught him by the training “Farm” in Maryland. If Brady Cotton had stolen Hobe Tallman’s secret drilling log, he had not stashed it in these upstairs rooms. Durell listened to the sounds of fighting on the outskirts of the city and watched branches and palm fronds fly through the air in the narrow lane below. A small armored car rumbled around the corner; it was crammed with helmeted government troops. The black Lubindan faces under the helmets looked grim and a bit frightened. The armored car paused, the machinegun swiveled uncertainly, and then it rumbled on.

  A few moments later, there was the sharp rattle of gunfire from around the corner. A man began to scream. The sound was abruptly cut off, and then thunder came and drowned out everything else. The lane remained empty. None of the shopkeepers ventured out from their steel-shuttered doors to see what was happening.

  Durell went downstairs and began the tedious search of the shop and the cluttered storeroom in the rear. Kitty came down, bringing his breakfast on a tray. He drank the hot coffee gratefully. The girl had showered and piled her thick hair neatly on top of her head. She had changed into clean denims and a pale blue blouse and heavy boat shoes. Her face in the glow of the big flashlight was calm but pale.

  “Brady wasn’t a thief," she said.

  “Hobe thought he might be.”

  “If Brady took anything, it was for you—for your people. It must have been something he thought Washington would be interested in.”

  “Exactly.”

  He spent more than an hour searching the shop and the storeroom. He did not really expect to find what he wanted, but he had to be sure it was not here. The girl helped him. Now and then they heard muffled shooting, but none of it seemed to be moving their way. He covered everything he could think of. There was an old desk in the store-room, and he emptied every drawer, went through Brady’s business records, and tapped the wood for hollow places. He turned furniture upside down, checked for newly stitched seams, examined the plank floor for loose boards. Nothing, He went into the shop and examined all the curios, looking at the backs of the wood carvings, weighed the grotesque but beautiful statuettes, and ran his fingers along wooden seams, searching for a hollow place. Nothing. He found some crates in a shed out back and took a hammer and broke them apart and checked the contents—bolts of cloth woven by natives in the interior forests, more wood carvings, two antique Portuguese guns, a moldy leather-bound diary by a Portuguese missionary.

  Nothing.

  “I told you,” the girl said.

  “Brady still could have taken it somewhere."

  “Did you examine his—his body when you found him on the rig?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then he didn’t have it on him?”

  “He could have hidden it,” Durell said.

  “Where?”

  He straightened. “On the rig.”

  “You can‘t go out there in this storm.”

  “I have to,” he said.

  There came a brief metallic knocking on the steel shutters over the shop window.

  It was Komo Lepaka. The colonel wore a short rubber poncho that only accentuated his extreme height and thin, knobby legs. A squad of soldiers rested in the narrow lane, leaning against the walls, smoking, relaxed. Thunder crashed again overhead. Smoke drifted through the sheets of rain that poured down from the leaden African skies. Durell could smell the odor of burning wood, of spent explosives. It seemed to cling to the tall black man. Komo’s eyes were red-rimmed, and his gaunt, bony face looked even more drawn than usual.

  “May I come in, Mr. Durell?“ he asked quietly.

  Durell gestured. “Is it official?"

  “Partly. The struggle is still a toss-up. The Apgaks have the suburbs along the southern blank of the river. They’re fighting for the Presidential Palace now. As a security officer, my task is here, not with the military. I came -to ask you about the Saka. Did you find him?”

  “Yes. He said he was coming.”

  Nothing changed in the man’s face. “The Old Mother sent you directly to him?”

  “She was helpful.”

  “And she was well?”

  “She survives.”

  “And the Saka?”

  “Alive and vigorous.”

  While Lepaka looked around the shop, lighting one of his small thin cigars and obviously taking a momentary respite from what had been a grueling day, Durell signaled to Kitty to get more coffee. The colonel’s eyes did

  not miss the signs of Durell’s rapid search. Durell told him briefly of their discovery of the Saka’s cave, of the confrontation with Madragata and the Chinese agent, Ch’ing, and of the Saka‘s promise to rescue the Americans being held captives for ransom.

  “He is truly coming?”

  “He promised.”

  “But when?"

  .“I don’t know,” Durell said.

  The man’s eyes drooped tiredly. “You were looking for something here.” It was a statement, not a question. “Whatever it is, Colonel, it’s not in the shop or in the apartment upstairs,” Durell said. “It’s just something Brady might have left for me.”

  “Whatever happens, Mr. Durell, I wish to thank you. I am grateful.”

  Durell waved his hand downward. “It’s not over yet, is it? You can do me a favor, though. I want to go back to the Lady.”

  Komo eyed him br
iefly. “It is not possible in this storm.”

  “I’ll find a way, somehow.”

  “Is it so important?”

  “To me, yes. To my job.” Durell paused. “And one other thing. I want to talk to Hobe Tallman. Is he out at his bungalow?”

  “I fear not. He is not to be found anywhere.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Colonel Lepaka shrugged. “I have looked for him and cannot locate him. But his wife is at the dock office. I am afraid she is not in very good shape, however. She is very upset, Perhaps she can tell you about Hobe. And I must be going. Once again, I thank you for going to the Saka. I only hope your mission will not be in vain. We haven‘t much time now.”

  “Neither have I,” Durell said quietly.

  In the jeep, Kitty asked, “Where are we going? This is the wrong way for the dock.”

  “I want to see Matty, at the hospital.”

  “What’s he got to do with it?”

  “Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.”

  The streets were deserted, although it was close to eleven o’clock in the morning. The rain still tore at the city, now in a vertical heavy downpour, new in sudden gusts that swept the narrow lanes and alleys of the Pequah like a thousand wet brooms. Durell drove the jeep carefully toward the wide boulevard on the banks of the river, then turned east and inland toward the new white concrete hospital built with World Bank funds. A large Red Cross flag hung wetly from a makeshift staff on the roof, a plea to the combatants to respect the sick, the wounded, and the dying. The sound of mortars and rifle fire came from the other side of the city, near the wide landscaped grounds of the Presidential Palace. Durell gave the fighting area a wide berth. Colonel Lepaka had handed him a scribbled pass that promised them passage through two temporary roadblocks on the boulevard. On the grassy median, between palm trees, were several troop-carrying trucks, silently parked. The Lubinda militia in them stood stolidly in the downpour, unprotected, by any canvas coverings, their faces morose and blank.