“I am surprised,” he said, “you could have been so stupid to have fallen in love with a man incapable of love.” He shrugged. “Well, this is the end for you. In some ways, you have been useful, but we have never entirely trusted you. You have the mind of a whore. We have kept track of your various men friends. I felt sooner or later you would meet a man who would make a fool of you.” He looked at his watch. “Come with me.”
Janine got to her feet.
“What are you going to do with me?” she asked huskily.
“You’ll see. Follow me.”
He turned and moved to the door.
For one panic stricken moment, she had the urge to rush past him, out into the hall, through the doorway and into the darkness of the night, but she knew she wouldn’t get even as far as the door. She would be helpless in the grip of this man. If she was going to die, she would try to die with dignity.
Bracing herself, she followed him out of the room, across the hall and into a small bedroom. He stood aside to let her pass.
There was only a bed in the middle of the room and an upright chair by the wall. The wooden shutters were locked across the windows.
She stood by the bed, trying to control the fluttering muscles in her legs. She kept her hands behind her so he couldn’t see that her hands were trembling.
He shut the door and leaned against it.
“Take your clothes off, please,” he said in a quiet, polite voice.
She stiffened, jerking up her head.
“No!”
“I have five Arab servants who work in the garden,” Malik said, his expression bored, “If you don’t do what I ask, I will call these men who will take an unhealthy pleasure in stripping you naked. Please, undress.”
Her tongue touched the glass phial and she hesitated. Should she use it now? Yet even at this moment, life was still precious to her. She hesitated and was lost. With shaking fingers, she undressed, looking at him from time to time, terrified that he could watch her with such bored, detached eyes. He was as impersonal as a doctor waiting to make an examination.
When she stood naked before him, he pointed to the bed.
“Lie on the bed, please.”
She sat on the bed, her hands hiding her breasts and looked pleadingly up at him.
“Can’t you just shoot me? Do you have to do this to me? I have been useful to you. I …”
“Lie flat, please.”
As she dropped back on the pillow, he moved so swiftly she had no chance of realising what he was doing until it was done. Her ankles were locked into the rings of handcuffs attached to the bed posts and then as she tried to sit up, screaming to him not to touch her, he fastened her wrists to the top of the bed.
He moved away and looked down at her, spread-eagled on the bed.
“I’ll leave you now,” he said. “I’m late for an appointment. I have told my servants to make use of you in my absence. You’ve lived like a whore so you must be prepared to die like one.”
She lay there, panting, fighting back the scream that rose in her throat.
“There are seven of them,” he went on. “None of them are very clean. They know I will be away all night. No doubt they will tell their brothers and their cousins what is to be had in this room. You should have a very busy and disgusting night. I can’t think of a more suitable way for you to end your love life, can you?”
She closed her eyes.
There was a long pause and then she heard the door shut. She made one hopeless and desperate effort to slip out of the handcuffs, but only succeeded in tightening them. She heard a murmur of voices, then the sound of the Cadillac starting up, then silence.
As the door opened a few inches and a brown, rat like face appeared around the door and two black beady eyes alighted on her, she gave a shuddering sob and crushed the glass phial between her teeth.
Girland’s care-free grin, as he shook hands with Borg, masked a feeling of dismay. How had these two tracked him here? he wondered as he said, “Well, where did you drop from?” He ignored Schwartz who stared stonily at him. “Have you just arrived?”
Borg got up on a stool beside Girland and signalled to the barman.
“Gimme a big whisky on the rocks,” he ordered, then to Girland, “The boss is getting the ants. He wants to know what the hell you are doing.” He reached for his drink, nodded to Girland and drank. “Just what
are
you doing, palsy?”
Girland said, “Do you think this is a good place to talk about that?”
Borg looked around the room, saw a vacant table in a corner and nodded to it.
“Over there do?”
Girland got off his stool and the two men, carrying their drinks, crossed the room to the table and sat down. Schwartz joined them, pulling out a chair and sitting, he faced them.
“I couldn’t give Radnitz the full dope in a cable, and it wasn’t safe to use the telephone.” Girland leaned forward and lowering his voice, went on, “the Russians are in on this. They have two agents right here in Dakar and they are watching every move I make … except the ones I don’t want them to watch.”
Borg’s eyes bugged out.
“You mean they know who you are?”
“They know that all right, and they know I’m working for Radnitz. And another thing, Dorey’s got a man out here too. He’s on to me as well.”
“So you’re having fun, huh?”
“You can call it that. The set-up is tricky. I’ve found Carey’s contact: a Portuguese. He imagines I’m working for Dorey. Tonight, I have a date with him and I think he’ll take me to Carey.”
“That’s something!’’ Borg said excitedly. “That’s what the boss wants, isn’t it?”
“But I’ve got to handle this alone, Borg. If Fantaz sees you two, he won’t play. As it is, he’s suspicious of me. As soon as I’ve talked with Carey and got what Radnitz wants out of him, I’ll contact you two.”
Borg hesitated.
“I don’t know about that. The boss said …”
“We stay with you,” Schwartz said. “The boss said from now on, we work together and we stick together.”
“Well, yes, that’s right,” Borg said. “That’s what the boss said, palsy. We’ll keep out of sight, but we’re sticking with you.”
“How do you do that and keep out of sight?” Girland asked impatiently. “If Fantaz spots you, he won’t play.”
“Then I’ll persuade him to,” Schwartz said.
Girland thought for a moment, then shrugged. Maybe these two might be useful, he told himself. If Malik moved in, he might not be able to handle him on his own.
“Well, okay,” he said. “I have a date with Fantaz at nine o’clock at Diourbel. It’s about an hour’s drive from here. If you come with me, you’ve got to keep out of sight when I meet him. Is that understood?”
Borg nodded.
“Well, I’m hungry,” Girland said. “We have time for a quick snack. There’s a place just around the corner.”
The three men left the hotel and made their way to a café bar.
A thin African, wearing a shabby European suit watched them enter the café, then he walked down a narrow street to where an old, dusty Buick was parked.
Samba Dieng sat at the wheel, a cigarette drooping from his thick lips. Two other Africans, also in European dress sat in the back of the car, also smoking. They all looked at the thin African as he poked his head into the car and began to talk rapidly to Dieng.
“Three of them?” Dieng looked startled. He turned to the other two sitting at the back. “He has two others with him.”
“What’s it matter?” The African who spoke had a knife scar down the side of his face. The expression in his black eyes was vicious. “We can handle them,” and his black hand rested lightly on the machine gun he had across his knees.
“Get in,” Dieng said to the thin African and started the car engine.
The thin African obeyed, slamming the car door. Dieng drove past the cafe, glanced in, catching a glimpse of Girland as he leaned against the bar, eating a sandwich. Dieng was aware of two other men with Girland but he had no time to see them properly.
He found a parking space further down the street and stopped. The thin African got out and walked back until he was opposite the café. He lolled against the wall and waited.
At a quarter to eight, Girland paid for the sandwiches and nodded to the other two.
“Let’s go. I have a car across the way.”
As the three men walked over to the Citroen, the thin African returned to the Buick. He climbed in and Dieng started the engine. He watched the Citroen pull out and turn the corner and he followed. There was a certain amount of traffic on the road and he had no fear that the men in the Citroen would suspect they were being followed. The time to worry about that would be when they were in open country.
Girland drove in silence, but when they reached the Autoroute, he said, “Watch out behind. We don’t want to be tailed.”
Borg shifted around in his seat and stared back at the long stretch of dark road.
“Three cars and a truck behind us.”
Girland reduced speed.
“We’ll let the cars overtake.”
A few minutes later, two cars roared past.
Borg said, “The truck and a car. The car is keeping behind the truck.”
“Watch it,” Girland said and once again increased speed. “The car’s coming out now from behind the truck. It’s coming after us.”
Girland continued to drive fast for the next ten minutes, then he began to slow down.
“We’re coming to the turn off.” He braked slightly and swung the car onto the Rufisque-Diourbel road.
After a minute or so, Borg said, “Looks like a tail, palsy. The same car still with us.”
Girland slowed down.
“He’s slowed,” Borg reported.
“We’ll stop at Rufisque. Let’s see what he’ll do then,” Girland said and again increased speed.
When they reached the crowded main street of Rufisque, Girland pulled up, got out of the car and walked over to a cigarette stall. As he was buying a pack of cigarettes, he saw a dusty Buick drive rapidly past. He caught a glimpse of four men in the car before the car disappeared into the darkness.
“That the one?” he asked Borg as he walked back to the Citroen.
“That’s it,” Borg said.
“We have a little time in hand. We’ll stick around here for five minutes. They were all Africans in the car as far as I could see. Maybe they weren’t following us.”
He stood by the car, breathing in the hot night air while Borg and Schwartz remained in the car.
Borg said, “This place kills me. Look at those people. What have they got in their mouths?”
“Bamboo sticks,” Girland told him. “That’s how they keep their teeth so clean.”
He got back into the car.
“Watch out,” he said as he engaged gear. He drove slowly out of the town. When once clear of the horse-drawn carts, the swarm of unsteady cyclists and the slow moving crowds, he increased speed.
“The next town is Thies, then Diourbel,” he said.
Later, after they had driven through Thies, Borg said sharply, “We have our tail back.”
“Then they know we are going to Diourbel,” Girland said. “You two got guns?”
“What do you think!” Schwartz said. This was the first time he had spoken during the whole drive.
“The car’s coming up,” Borg said and pulled a Colt automatic from his holster. “It’s coming up like a goddamn streak.”
Girland kept glancing in his driving mirror. The Buick flashed on its headlights, and Girland edged off the centre of the road, his off-side tyres leaving the tarmac and biting into the sandy verge of the road.
The Buick went roaring past. Borg saw the outlines of four men in the car. None of them looked their way, and then the Buick was ahead. Driving at well over a hundred and eighty kilometres an hour, its tail lights began to disappear into the darkness.
“What do you make of that?” Borg said, putting his gun back into his holster. “False alarm, huh?”
“Could be.” Girland flicked on his headlights. “Don’t relax. The road is straight and narrow for some kilometres. They could be going on ahead to fix an ambush.”
“Then don’t drive so fast,” Borg said, hauling out his gun again. “We don’t want to run into them.”
Ten minutes crawled by. Girland was now driving at a steady sixty kilometres an hour. Suddenly, the Citroen’s headlights picked out something in the road ahead of them.
Girland’s sharp eyes saw it was a car parked across the road, forming a barrier.
He slammed on his brakes and the car screeched to a standstill.
“Out!” he exclaimed and opened his door. He rolled out of the car, hitting the sandy verge with his shoulder and then flattened down in the sand. His hand jerked his gun free from its holster.
Both Borg and Schwartz also threw themselves out of the car, both darting for cover along the side of the road.
They had scarcely dropped flat before there was a burst of machine gun fire. They heard the windscreen of the car shatter and the car heaved as bullets slammed into the back of the seats where the three men had but seconds ago been sitting.
Schwartz’s .45 crashed into sound. There was a yell and a shadowy figure rose up from behind the bonnet of the Buick and fell forward.
Girland heard the machine gun clatter to the road. He began to crawl forward. In the uncertain light of the moon, he saw something move and he took a snap shot at it, his gun barking spitefully. There was a howl of anguish and a tall figure straightened up, clutching his arm. Schwartz’s gun banged again and the man dropped, spreading out on the road.
The other two men had had enough. They turned and ran, keeping low. Girland heard their pattering footfalls as they dashed for shelter, then he heard them crashing through the thickly growing shrubs. Cautiously, he stood up and with Schwartz, advanced towards the car. Borg remained flat in the sand, sweat running off his face, his breath coming in short gasps.
Reaching the Buick, Girland kicked against the machine gun which he picked up. Schwartz was bending over the fallen men. He grunted and straightened. Girland joined him.
“They’ve wrecked our car,” he said. “We’ll take theirs. Let’s get going.”
Satisfied it was now safe to move, Borg scrambled to his feet and ran up.
“Jeeze! That was close,” he panted. “What do we do now?”