Assignment Black Gold (19 page)

“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 briefly. “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.

The Portuguese nurse at the reception desk looked harassed
but not frightened. “Senhor Forchette?” she asked, in reply to Durell’s
inquiry. “One moment, sir. We are extremely busy.”

“Just tell me his room number,” Durell suggested.

“
Sim
.
Yes. One moment.”

She got up in reply to a call from a hurried intern and left
the desk. Two soldiers carrying a wounded man on a stretcher stumbled into the
lobby, dripping with rain. Durell reached across the desk for the index cards
and

rifled swiftly through them.

“It’s Room Two-twenty. Come on, Kitty.”

He took the stairs. threading his way through the confusion
in the hospital corridors and avoiding the elevators, which were working on
power taken from the hospital’s emergency generator. The lights in the hall
were dim. Outside, although it was nearly noon, the river speckled with the
downpour of rain, looked dark and ominously gray, as if it were merely dawn.
The freighters at their moorings in the fairway were invisible beyond the
blowing curtains of rain. Durell took the steps two at a time, ducked past a
gaggle of nurses, an armed soldier who was lighting a cigarette, and went down
the hall. Kitty trotted dutifully at his heels.

Room 220 was open. The hospital bed was unmade, and the
traction equipment at the foot of the bed had been pushed aside. A nurse whirled
about in startled fear from the window.

“
Sim
?
What is it?”

“The patient," Durell said. “Senhor Forchette. Where is
he?”

The woman spread thin hands. “He is gone. I just discovered
it. I have been so busy-we are all so busy—I could not check on him before.”

“Could he walk?"

“Oh, yes. But with some difficulty. With a limp. But he is a
strong man. He objected to being here from the very first. He said he had
business to attend to.”

“When did you see him last?”

The nurse rubbed her forehead with stiff, shaking fingers.
“I brought his breakfast one hour ago. Everything is late this morning. Tell
me, are the Apgaks—"

“The Army will hold them back,” Durell reassured her.

“How was he when you saw him?”

“Angry. Very upset. Senhor Forchette is not a man who enjoys
being kept in bed. His wound is not severe, you see. It was in the fleshy
part of the thigh, and the bullet was removed quickly. He wanted to see Dr.
Ghala. He was very angry, very impatient. I had no extra time for him.”

Durell thanked the nurse and pushed Kitty out of the
hospital room and ran down the fire stairs again. in the heavy wind and
rain outside, there was a moment’s difficulty when he found two tall Lubindan
soldiers waiting to commandeer his jeep. He showed them Colonel Lepaka’s
scribbled pass, but they were in no mood to honor it. Durell took the
half-empty bottle of Cape brandy from under the back seat and gave it to the
most insistent soldier, and the man suddenly grinned and nodded. Durell hurried
Kitty into the front seat and used the ignition key. The jeep whined and
sputtered and would not start. The two soldiers started back toward them, after
taking deep slugs of the fiery liquor. They seemed to have changed their
minds about letting the jeep go. At the last moment, the engine caught and
Durell slammed the vehicle into gear and gunned the motor. The soldiers lurched
forward, hesitated, and he spun the wheel hard on the graveled driveway and
headed outward. An ambulance filled with military casualties screamed in
at the same time, heading for the emergency doors. Durell yanked the wheel to
the right, ran over the soggy lawn. The wheels spun, tore out half a flower
bed, then caught on the asphalt again, and they were off, careening down the
wide, empty thoroughfare beside the
rainswept
river.

“Not bad,” Kitty blew out an explosive breath. “It looks
like the city is minutes away from anarchy. The Saka had better show up soon.”

“He will.”

“Where now? What’s so important about Matty‘?

“We’ll try the Lubinda Marine Oil docks,” Durell said.

There was a makeshift guard at the steel-mesh gate to the
small switching yard on the concrete wharf. The rigging men had posted
themselves at intervals around the small compound, some armed with rifles,
most with just lengths of two-by-fours or iron pipe. Visibility from the edge
of the dock where the WDT switching locomotive was parked was only about fifty
yards. Beyond, the sea was lost behind the fitful curtains of mist and
rain. The two burly American roustabouts at the gate pulled it open when they
recognized Durell and Kitty Cotton.

“Get inside. The whole town’s
goin
’
crazy.”

“Have you seen Matty?”

“Yeah. He’s off his rocker, too. Came tearing in here ten
minutes ago, still
wearin
’ his hospital things.”

“Which way?"

The roustabout pointed and Durell gunned the jeep, bumped
over the railroad tracks, swung around the switcher, and hugged the edge of the
concrete dock where the big rig tender was still berthed. Repair work on the
deck where the explosives had damaged the ship had come to a halt in the storm.

Matty the Fork was not in his office. Through the wide
blue-tinted windows on the top floor of the concrete building, Durell
could see as much of the besieged city as the rain and wind allowed. Fighting
was going on very close to the Presidential Palace. He wondered about the Saka.
In the heat of battle, it would be difficult to turn the tide of events.
And the old man had deliberately cut himself oft from his country's politics,
seeking the solitude and peace of the Kahara Desert. Durell shook his head and
looked about Matty’s office.

The desk had been rifled, the drawers were all pulled
out, one had fallen to the floor and spilled its contents of papers, file
folders, and desk equipment. Kitty went to the window and stood looking out at
the dim flashes of fire from the mortars that were crashing into
the southern suburbs of the town. There was more firing audible from the
nearby Pequah marketplace. The girl’s hair was plastered to her scalp by the
rain, and her shirt and denims clung to every line and curve of her tall,
slender body.

From a door in the opposite wall of Matty’s office
came an angry, irregular thumping. Durell turned and tried the knob. It was
locked. There was a ring of keys amid the debris that littered Matty’s desk. He
went back to it, listened to the muffled, angry voice behind the locked door,
and selected a key that fit.

Betty Tallman was inside. At first, he thought she had
been injured and attacked, and then he smelled the alcohol and knew that she
was simply drunk. Very drunk. Her first words were a
spew
of curses taken straight from the mouths of the rigging crew. Then her eyes
slowly focused and she recognized Durell’s tall figure.

“Oh. It‘s you. Thanks, old buddy,” she mumbled. “Son of a
bitch locked me in here.”

“Are you all right?”

“Need another little
drinkie
,
that’s all, Sam, boy.”

“Who locked you in here?”

“It was Hobe, the finking little bastard.”

“What about Matt?”

“Was it him a while ago? He heard me, all right. I kicked
that door and kicked at it and yelled at him. He yelled back, asked me where
Hobe was. I wouldn’t tell him unless he let me out, and he wouldn’t do that.
And then he went away."

“When was this?"

“Just a few minutes ago.”

The small room off the office had been a stationary
storage cubicle. Its steel shelves were loaded with the reams of printed
business forms that no enterprise Seems able to avoid. It was only six by six,
and the alcohol fumes and the smell of vomit made the air
unbreathable
.
The blond woman staggered out and drew a deep breath, her breasts arrogant and
aggressive against the lines of her pink cotton shift. There were silver
bracelets on both her wrists, a long row of them in Lubindan style, and she
wore at jingly necklace of tiny silver bells that burrowed into her deep
cleavage. She wore makeup for an evening out, but tears and rubbing had smeared
her mascara and lipstick. She had lost one shoe, and she limped awkwardly on
the single high, cloggy heel.

“
Gawd
, I’m a mess, I know. Don’t
look at me, Sam. Is that Kitty Cotton?" She peered uncertainly at the girl
by the window. “Sure is. Like a drowned pussycat. Shit.

Sam, I offered you—”

“You need a drink,” Durell said.

“I sure as hellfire do.”

He went back to the desk and found the bourbon bottle in the
drawer where he had seen Matty the Fork take it when they had first met.
It had only been days ago, but it seemed like an eternity. Durell ignored
Kitty’s prim, reproachful eyes and gave the bottle to Betty Tallman. She
lurched unevenly to grab at it, her hips askew, and drank thirstily, pushed her
straggly hair back from her face, and drank again. She did not offer to return
the bottle to Durell. She blew out air gustily and grinned.

“A mess, sure as hell.”

“Who locked you in the closet?” Durell asked.

“Hobe, who else? The damned pipsqueak!”

“Why?”

“He was mad. Guess I went a bit too far with him last night.
He was really hyped up. Going to pieces. He called me names, so I told him a
few things back, right to his face.” The woman giggled. “Shouldn’t have done
it, but he had it coming to him.”