Assignment Black Gold (18 page)

“Was Hobe in debt?”

“I suppose so.” She shrugged. “Betty talked about that,
somewhat. Back home in the States, the big house that he bought for her is
mortgaged to the eyeballs. He’s just lost a condominium apartment, too. They
foreclosed on him. Betty wants to be rich, you see. Really rich. Maybe that’s
why she married him, getting fooled by his big front, a hot-shot oil man. And
he’s failed her. Brady said once that if Hobe didn’t strike a winner this time,
he was finished. And Betty often said that she was ready to walk out on
Hobe if he failed again.”

“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. The 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.”