by Ted Mark
We exchanged greetings.
"Manzu is the great-grandson of a famous Bantu emperor," Lagula added. "He is a leader in the fight against white oppression."
"A fight which is as old as history," the boy said, tapping the book.
"A fight which has to end," I said, suddenly very conscious of being white.
"Or to be won," the boy said meaningfully. Then he took off his glasses and his face relaxed into a smile. "But please don't misunderstand, Mr. Victor. I don't want black supremacy any more than white. It's simply that we are being forced into a corner where the battle may have to be joined by just such absolutes. Only by the white man's voluntarily relinquishing his immoral hold over the black man can such harsh terms of battle be avoided. In Rhodesia, the Negro has nothing to relinquish, and so no position from which to compromise. Thus it is the white man who must give if he wishes to avoid total race war. Perhaps in your country it is different, but here-"
"It is different," I interrupted him. "But there are similarities as well. The problem isn't as clearcut, since non-whites are only ten percent of our population. The danger of forcing them into a rigid anti-white position may not be great, but it is present."
"I should have warned you about Manzu," Lagula said, laughing. "He is a living discussion trap. Sometimes I think he would like to talk the white Rhodesians into giving back the country."
"If only that were possible," Manzu sighed.
"So young, and so serious." Lagula laughed again.
"Freedom" – Manzu pointed to the book again – "has always been a young man's battle throughout history."
"And the young men of Rhodesia are engaged in it constantly," Lagula said, turning to me. "It is they who saved your life on two occasions, Mr. Victor. The first time it was Manzu himself."
"What do you mean?"
"It was nothing." Manzu looked embarrassed. "I work as an attendant in the men's room of the hotel to which you came. Shortly before your arrival, I overheard two members of T.U.M.S. making plans to assassinate you in your bed. The Liberation Front for which I work still maintains some contacts with British agents. I alerted them, and they arranged for Lagula here to warn and protect you."
"He also arranged to smuggle me into your room before you got there," Lagula added. "And the second time it was a confederate of Manzu's, a waiter at the hotel where Miss Tabori was staying, who eavesdropped on a conversation and learned that T.U.M.S. expected you to contact her and had a man waiting to throw a bomb into her room when he was sure that you were there."
"Unfortunately," Manzu said with genuine regret, "we didn't find out that Lagula's house was to be a target until it was too late to save the lady."
"How is it," I wondered, "that the T.U.M.S. people allow themselves to be heard in the presence of African natives? You'd think they'd be more cautious."
"You have to understand their idiotic premises," Manzu said. "To the white man we are virtually invisible. He never looks at us, and so he never sees us. We are simply servants – no, less than servants – more a part of a decor. One doesn't hesitate to speak in the presence of a chair or a drapery. Not only has prejudice conditioned the white man to think of us as mindless, but as without senses, incapable of hearing, or at least of assimilating what we hear. It is a paradox. It is this very thing which we are fighting, and yet it is the same thing which is one of our greatest weapons in the fight. That a men's room attendant – a mere boy who will still be a boy when he is sixty – might have the mentality to even think of freedom is inconceivable to the self-brainwashed segregationists. That he might fight for it is completely beyond their ken. 'Good niggers' like that aren't the ones making the trouble, they say. It's only the savage, criminal types who dope themselves up and go berserk who cause the trouble."
"And yet they are beginning to wake up," Lagula pointed out. "Recently, I begin to see fear in their eyes. A black man who walks six blocks in a white neighborhood will be stopped six times by six separate patrols and searched for weapons. And I have heard whites warning each other not to turn their backs on their houseboys."
"Yes, that is true," Manzu granted. "It is a period of transition from the complete lack of awareness of contempt to fear. But the old habits are still strong with the whites. When they're not confronted by the situation directly, they forget themselves. They forget the threat. They forget us. And they speak freely when common sense ought to dictate otherwise because we are not yet really thinking human beings in their estimation."
"And so Manzu is dedicated to opening their eyes," Lagula told me. "To a limited extent the British endorse his objectives, and-"
"It's far too limited an extent!" Manzu said with some anger. "Why don't they send us guns? Why?"
"And so," Lagula continued, smiling at Manzu fondly as he overrode his interruption, "as a British agent, I frequently find Manzu's cooperation invaluable. His comrades are the source of much of my information."
"Were they responsible for your timely arrival tonight?" I asked.
"No. That was sheer chance. I was in the area looking for you when I heard the gunshot. I arrived just in time to see your predicament and end it with my blowpipe."
"Again, my thanks," I said. "To both of you," I added.
"You are welcome, Mr. Victor." Lagula glanced at his wristwatch. "But it is time for us to end discussion and consider some information which should interest you, Mr. Victor. It concerns the Russian agent, Vlankov. An agent of British Intelligence has been keeping him under surveillance."
"I should have guessed," I laughed. So that was who the third man was in the espionage procession led by Highman when I spotted him leaving the art gallery.
"This afternoon Vlankov followed a man who was in the car that tried to kill us," Lagula, continued, not knowing that I already knew this. "Vlankov followed the man to his hotel. When the man went down to dinner, Vlankov sneaked into his room. He didn't stay too long, but when he came out he abandoned his watch on the man and went to an airline office where he purchased a ticket. British Intelligence believes that he found something in the man's room which pointed to the girl we are all seeking. They think there's a possibility that he may have stumbled on something telling him where the girl is. They thought you might want to follow up on this and be on the plane with Vlankov. And so they took the liberty of arranging it." Lagula handed me an airline ticket.
I looked at it. It was for the weekly flight from Salisbury to Ankara, in Turkey. It was stamped for a twelve o'clock departure that night.
I remembered then how insistent Highman had been that the jeweled phallus go out on a midnight flight. It must be the same plane. But Vlankov wasn't interested in the phallus. What could he have discovered in Highman's room to make him take that plane? Might he really have found a hot lead to the whereabouts of Dr. Nyet?
"Yes," I told Lagula. "I definitely want to be on that plane."
"I thought you would. But there are problems. The two men you fought with back at the art gallery are both staunch members of T.U.M.S. I recognized them. Our paths have crossed before. By now their organization must be scouring the town to find you – and probably me as well. And they've probably convinced the authorities that you're a murderer, so the police will be after us, too." Lagula glanced at his watch again. "We have an hour to get you to the airport. It's only a half-hour ride, but we have to allow for interference. However, I scheduled our departure for now so that you wouldn't get there too early. Hanging around there would only increase your chances of being picked up."
While Lagula was speaking, Manzu had crossed the cellar to a window looking out on the street. Now he pulled aside the curtains and peered out, "It is there," he announced.
"Manzu arranged for a car for us," Lagula told me.
"It is a stolen car," Manzu apologized. "But it's the best I could do on such short, notice and it shouldn't be missed before morning."
I thanked Manzu once again for everything he had done, wished him luck, and followed Lagula out to t
he car. "I'll drive," he said, getting in behind the wheel. "I know the back streets to take us into the vicinity of the airport. That way we'll avoid the highway patrols. If we're lucky, we may not run into any of the street patrols."
We were lucky – right up until almost the end of our ride. Then, with the lights of the airport in sight, sirens sounded from an intersection ahead of us and two official-looking lorries pulled up in such a way as to block the road. As uniformed men poured out of the lorries, a third siren sounded from behind us.
Lagula hit the brake, and a moment later we were pedestrians again. Shouts to halt were followed by bullets as we plunged into the underbrush fringing the road. Lagula pulled me down behind some bushes almost immediately, and we stayed absolutely quiet as the searchers thrashed the brush around us.
After a while they moved off and Lagula whispered in my ear. "They won't give up," he said. "They've got the area staked out now, probably cordoned off, and pretty soon they'll start a systematic search. We have to act before they do. And we have to act fast if you're going to catch that plane."
"What should we do?" I whispered back.
"I'm going to draw them off. When I do, you climb over that fence across the road. There's a landing strip there, and if you follow it you'll come to the main part of the airfield."
"But what about you?" I asked, genuinely concerned for this little man I'd come to like so much and value so highly.
"I'm going to lead them right back that way," Lagula whispered, pointing behind him.
"What's there?"
"Nothing." He grinned. "And everything," he added. "It's jungle. The nice thing about being a savage," he said sardonically, "is that I'm much more capable of coping with the jungle than our so-called civilized playmates out there. Once I've distracted them from you, I'll have no trouble losing them."
"And then what will you do?"
"Head straight back to the Bulalwa country. I've become too prominent in Salisbury. My usefulness as an agent there is over. So I'll just go home to my five brides. If you should encounter British Intelligence in your travels, you might convey my resignation."
"Will do," I promised. "But I hate to see you taking a chance like this for me."
"The real danger comes later." He rolled his eyes. "Surviving the white Rhodesians is as nothing compared with the problem of surviving the greetings of five frustrated Bulalwa ladies." The pigmy clasped my hand. "Goodbye, Mr. Victor," he said.
"Goodbye, Lagula." I watched him crawl off, thinking to myself that there went the biggest man I'd ever met. I'd have bet my right arm that he was more than enough of a man to satisfy the quintet awaiting his return. And even if I was wrong, I knew he'd die trying.
Five minutes passed, and there were shouts and gunfire off to my right. I waited for the running footsteps to pass my hiding place, and then I dashed across the road and started climbing the fence. I was almost to the top when I heard Lagula's mocking laugh. There were loud curses then, and more gunfire, but as I dropped down to the ground on the other side, that indomitable, nose-thumbing laugh sounded again and I was reassured. If Lagula had gotten this far, I was sure he'd make it all right.
I trotted down the airstrip, past the hangars, and to the back of the main terminal building. I peered through the window. There were Rhodesian cops checking people's papers at all the entrances and exits. I looked at my watch – 11:55. I ducked around to the other side of the terminal building and spotted a plane loading there. I was just in time to see Vlankov boarding it. A moment later one of the uniformed cargo attendants climbed into the belly of the plane with a large package. From the shape and size of the package, I guessed the last-minute delivery of the Nepalese phallus had been accomplished despite the demise of the man originally entrusted to see to it. Highman must have managed to make other arrangements.
I waited until I saw the ground crew start to remove the wheeled staircase from the side of the plane before I dashed up to it. "You're late, sir," the stewardess chided me as she checked my ticket. "You almost
missed your flight."
"Sorry. I was unavoidably detained," I told her.
"That's all right." She smiled pleasantly. "Seat number eight in the back, please."
Vlankov's face was a study in astonishment as he saw me coming down the aisle. I gave him a jaunty wave, and the astonishment changed to a snarl. I didn't see what he had to be miffed about. He'd been tailing me, and now it looked like I was tailing him. Turnabout is fair play, isn't it?
I half-dozed through most of the flight to Ankara. When we landed, I didn't even try to pretend I wasn't following Vlankov. I didn't have to follow him far. He never left the airport terminal.
When he first sat down there, I strolled over to the window looking out on the field and divided my attention between the plane from which we'd just disembarked and Vlankov. The package I'd spotted before was unloaded and placed to one side of the field with some other cargo. But most of the cargo was loaded on hand trucks and wheeled around to the back of the terminal. I guessed that the package was slated to be transferred to another plane.
I was right. About two hours later Vlankov got up, and at the same moment a baggage handler fetched the package and loaded it into another plane which had just taxied up to pick up passengers. Vlankov was now standing at the line-up waiting for a gate to open. The sign above the gate said Flight 317-0slo.
I was lucky. There was plenty of space available on the plane. I bought a ticket without any trouble and followed Vlankov aboard.
When we landed in Oslo, I began to think that Vlankov and I might be involved in a game of tag on a global scale. Again he didn't leave the airport. Again the package I thought contained the phallus was held with other cargo waiting to be loaded on other planes.
A half-hour in the Oslo airport, and then Vlankov got up abruptly. A flight for Stockholm had just been announced. He joined the queue at the gate where it was loading. Why hadn't he gone directly from Ankara to Stockholm, I wondered. There were more flights out of there to Stockholm than there were to Oslo. Still, I didn't have time to figure it out. I hurried to buy a ticket on the Stockholm flight.
Standing at the ticket counter, I watched Vlankov pass through the gate and board the plane. With my ticket in my hand, I started to follow him. But as I came through the gate, I spotted the package I'd been watching still sitting off to one side of the field.
"Has all the cargo been loaded on this plane?" I asked the stewardess.
"Yes, sir." She looked at me curiously.
"Thanks. I've changed my mind." I turned away and went back into the airport terminal. There was no sign of Vlankov.
That being the case, there was nothing else to do but watch the package. So I watched it for about a half-hour. Then it was plucked up by a hand truck and loaded onto an old four-motor, bucket-seat plane that had just wheeled up alongside the building.
I inquired at the information desk and found out that the plane was bound for Hammerfest, a seaport on the Barents Sea at the northern tip of Norway. It was mainly used for cargo, I was told, but it did carry passengers when the need arose. At most only a few people took advantage of this during any one flight. And tonight, my informant believed, there was only one ticket sold for the flight.
I made it two. I boarded the rickety crate and strapped myself into a bucket seat facing the door. It was almost take-off time when Vlankov finally showed. The look on his face was priceless when he saw me sitting there waiting for him.
"Do you play gin rummy?" I asked.
"Da."
"Then it's a pity we don't have any cards," I sighed.
"I do." He produced a deck and riffled the cards in my face challengingly.
"Deal," I told him as the plane taxied down the runway and into the air.
"Why are you following me?" he asked as I dealt.
"Why were you following me back in Salisbury?" I countered.
"I asked you first."
"Shut up and play cards," I advis
ed him.
He was silent for a few moments, but then he spoke again. "We will bury you!" he quoted, sneering.
"Gin." I smiled at him pleasantly.
He scored it, bared his teeth, and re-dealt the pasteboards. "Look," he took a different tone. "We are together in this. No matter what our feelings about the struggle between Russia and America, can't we put them aside and cooperate for the good of both our countries? Why shouldn't we share what we know?"
"Great idea. You first," I told him.
"But since you are following me," he said smoothly, "it is you who should speak first. That will prove your good intentions."
"All right." I readily agreed. "The fact is that I've stumbled on something which should really be of vital interest to you."
"Da? Da?"
"It's just this," I told him conspiratorially. "Russians are the world's lousiest gin rummy players."
"Capitalist imperial pig!" he sputtered.
"Gin." I proved my point.
"You American's don't really want world peace," he muttered, dealing again.
"And you Russians do?" I picked up my cards and discarded one.
"Da! We do want peace."
"Sure you do." I picked up his discard and fitted it neatly into my hand. "A piece of Europe, a piece of Southeast Asia, a piece here, and a piece there."
"That is your whole trouble. You are not serious peoples" He was angry now and pounding the table. "How can we cooperate if you won't be serious? What are you doing?" he asked as I spread my cards out face up on the table once again.
"Gin."
"Nyet!" he protested.
"Da," I assured him. "And schneider."
By the time we bumped down in Hammerfest, I'd taken him three more games. The last two were played in total silence. He'd run out of both propositions and insults, and I'd run out of wisecracks. Still, his parting rationale as we disembarked from the plane is worth noting as an interesting example of typical Commie doublethink.
"Gin is a bourgeois game,"' he sneered. "Chess is the only pastime really worthy of the intellect. And we Russians are traditionally the chess champions of the world."