It was just a question of waiting now. At this stage he could do no more, and nothing could possibly go wrong. It was a stroke of real luck that Shaw, having so miraculously escaped from Zambi village and the ants, should have come straight here rather than try to make it into Manalati and alert the authorities… and yet, even if Shaw had got to Manalati he couldn’t have done anything to stop the march of events now, no matter how wide that fat bastard Wiley had opened his big mouth — which obviously he had done, no doubt feeling secure enough to do so once he’d got Shaw safely in his hands as he’d thought. That was the trouble with the blacks: a little power gave them a big dose of megalomania, and, like all others of his race, Wiley became boastful a little too early in the game.
Wiley!
Hartog’s mouth twisted into a thin, bitter, downturned line. God… but he loathed that stinking African and what he’d had to do to keep him sweet all these last weeks. But it was going to be worth all the crawling, all the degradation and the gall. Well worth it.
A hell of a lot of people were going to get the biggest shock of their lives to-night — or to-morrow, when they read their papers — and Wiley was going to get the biggest shock of all.
Suddenly Hartog put his head back and gave a long, high-pitched shout of laughter, laughter in which there was no trace of humour but more than a hint of unbalance. His whole body shook. The peal of hysteria rang around the office, beat at the closed window. After a few moments he subsided, took a long look as though in farewell around the station and the surrounding jungle, the fringes of which were touched by the glare of the floodlights on the gates, and then he turned away from the window.
Taking up a 9 mm. Browning automatic, he checked the slide carefully and thoughtfully. Then, putting the weapon in his pocket, he went out of the room and along the passage and pushed open the door of the telephone exchange, the station’s link with the outside world.
As he went in the operator on watch looked round and said, “Evening, Mr Hartog, sir.”
Then his head jerked in astonishment. He’d seen the small round mouth of the automatic pointed at his head, and Hartog coming close. Hartog said softly, “Get away from the switchboard, Morgan.” The scientist’s eyes were crazy, filled with that red glint. He snapped, “Go on — move!”
The ‘safe’ was off, and Hartog’s knuckles gleamed white. The naval rating got up and backed away. Hartog went right up to him, and, still keeping the automatic levelled, his left arm jabbed forward suddenly with all his weight and muscle behind it, and took the operator on the point of the jaw. There was a crunch of bone and the man sagged to the floor, his eyes glassy, his jaw shattered and hanging limp and bloody.
Hartog bent and examined him, his sensitive fingers almost caressing the broken face. He murmured, “Sorry, old lad, but it’s got to be that way.”
Then he went across to the switchboard, took up a mouthpiece, and buzzed the guardroom at the gates on the internal line. When the petty officer of the guard answered he said, “Oh, P.O…Hartog here. Commander Geisler’s busy with Commander Shaw, and I said I’d ring through to you. We’ve just had word from Jinda that the authorities expect some sort of trouble and they’ve ordered a police riot squad out from Manalati to stand by here — just in case.”
“Very good, sir. When are they due?”
Hartog said, “I gather they’re well on their way and they’ll be here quite shortly. Commander wants you to ring him when they arrive.”
He cut the connexion and sat back for a moment, wiping his face. Then he lit a cigarette, got up, and dragged the operator’s body under cover where it couldn’t be seen from the doorway. Breathing heavily, he resumed his seat at the switchboard.
The two police cars and the armoured vehicles pulled up just outside the gateway, having left Wiley along the track to make his entrance later.
The Inspector in charge put his head out of the window of the leading car and called in English to the sentry.
“Riot police reporting from Manalati as ordered.”
“Okay.” The sentry swung the gates open. “Get out and come in by yourself first, please. Sorry, but that’s routine around here.”
“Of course.” The Inspector got out into the rain, pulling a waterproof cape over his head and shoulders. He ran through to the shelter of the guardroom’s veranda and pushed a wad of documents at the sentry. He said, “Here is a party-pass and also the individual documents to cover all my men — twenty-two constables, two sergeants, and myself, all of the riot squad. You will find them in order.” He pushed his steel helmet back from his glistening forehead and mopped at his face and neck. “Very bad, all this. We have been sent out as an extra safeguard—”
“Sure. We know about you, I guess. What do they expect to happen?”
“I do not know!” The Inspector grinned and shrugged broad, squat shoulders. “Maybe just somebody panicking— you know how it is — but they say the mob is rising and may march on the station, and the Government is taking no chances. For myself, I hope we won’t be needed!”
“You can say that again… right, this lot’s okay.”
The sentry, who had glanced perfunctorily through the bunch of passes, handed them back and looked up. “Here’s the P.O. now. He’ll see to you.”
Whistling a tune between his teeth, the sentry hooked his thumbs into his belt and moved away as the British petty officer came out from the guardroom. The policeman began to repeat his story, and the petty officer said, “All right, mate, save it. We’ve been told. Come inside while I ring the Commander’s office. The Duty Officer’ll take you over.”
He turned back into the guardroom and the Inspector followed. Taking up the phone to the exchange the petty officer said, “Commander’s Office, please… oh, that you again, Mr Hartog?”
As though he had received his cue, the Inspector of Police moved up casually behind, his face tight and watchful, and then he reached into his holster, brought out a heavy revolver, and quickly reversed it. Lifting it, he brought it smashing down on the petty officer’s skull. As the man fell, the Inspector turned away and walked out of the guardroom. A sergeant had got out of the first of the armoured vehicles and was standing on the veranda nodding and grinning at the sentry, who was trying out his smattering of the language on the African. The Inspector called out something in the local dialect and the sentry looked round at him. At once the sergeant brought up his gun and gave the sentry the same treatment as the petty officer had had. The rating crashed forward, his cap falling off and rolling down towards the gates through the rain-pocked mud. The police cars started up and drove in, together with the armoured vehicles. Constables stood up in the turrets with sub-machine-guns levelled towards the compound. One of the armoured cars turned and headed back to cover the gates from inside, and then the gates themselves were shut and locked by the sergeant.
The rest of the vehicles drove on, the fingers of their crews caressing the triggers of heavy weapons. When they stopped the African police piled out and ran for their objectives — the administration building and the living quarters and mess-rooms — while the big, lumbering vehicles remained in their strategic positions, dominating the whole area with their silent menace.