“Yes, quite.” Shaw’s brow wrinkled. “Just what do they mean to do, sir?”
“I don’t know. We can only make guesses — that’s all — as to what method they’ll use. The objective’s clear enough, though: To force Tshemambi into withdrawing the treaty rights. My own guess would be that the general riot situation which Nogolia shares with the rest of Africa, though until recently not so badly, is Edo-inspired in Nogolia’s own case — that’s to say, he’s cashed in on a prepared exterior situation — and he hopes to force Tshemambi’s hand that way. Anyway, this rioting has been very much more widespread lately, though it hasn’t yet reached proportions serious enough to make the politicians sit up and take notice — you see, you have to look at it within the framework of the rest of Africa. When the whole damn continent’s aflame Nogolia’s troubles appear almost minor—at present, to those who can’t or won’t think ahead. Now, in addition to the rioting, there have been reports of large-scale go-slow movements in the basic industries, and that’s going to affect the country’s economy before long, and there’ll be more rioting as a result of that alone. I understand from our man in Jinda that Edo hasn’t yet manifested himself to his followers, so it’s a fair guess, I think, that his coming will in itself be the signal for something really big to start. Meanwhile they’re nicely softened up and the situation’s getting grimmer every day. When it starts it’ll develop very fast — and quite apart from Bluebolt, that’d be a sorry thing to happen in a country which so far has managed to remain friendly in spite of all the current problems between black and white.”
Shaw nodded slowly. He asked, “Who have we in Jinda, sir?”
“You mean who had we.” Latymer’s face hardened. “We had John Stringer. And Stringer’s dead.”
“Killed?”
“Yes. Killed before he could get anything more through to us than what I’ve already told you. He was found right in a rnain street of Jinda, just before dawn a day or two ago. I didn’t get the news right away. When they picked him up he… just fell to pieces.” Latymer’s face was pale now, the massive skin-grafts standing out grotesquely. “He’d been very cleverly dismembered, and then equally cleverly fitted together again… until he was moved, you see. It’s odd, isn’t it— Stringer and Mason both dead! As usual, all mention of Stringer’s work has been kept out of the papers, but I’m told there’s been an intensive investigation on the spot and all that’s emerged so far is quite negative. No one knows a thing. But something was found branded on to his forehead. This.”
Latymer slid a hand into the drawer of his desk, brought it out, and pushed something across to Shaw. The agent picked it up. It was a small square cardboard box, which he opened. Inside, mummified and impaled on a pin, was a large black spider. It was a wicked-looking brute. Shaw stared at it in horror, as at something evil.
Latymer went on, “That’s a Black Widow. It’s the trademark of the Cult. The adherents have this image burnt into the flesh, of their right forearms, just below the bend of the elbow.”
He tapped the box. “Stringer sent this little specimen through just before they got him, and it forms just about the only real clue we’ve got.” He added, “I suppose you didn’t happen to notice if that guard last night had the mark?”
“No, sir. He had his coat on all the time.”
“Quite, that’s what I thought… pity, though. It would have given us something to go on, a definite lead.”
Shaw asked, “If these people are marked as you say can’t they be picked up easily enough?”
“On what charge? There’s nothing illegal in itself about belonging to a Cult. Admitted, Stringer’s murder is clearly linked with the Cult and some of the marked men have been arrested in Jinda, but they won’t open their mouths and nothing can be proved against them. Scotland Yard’ll find the same thing in the case of Handley Mason — that it’s a brick wall.” Latymer stubbed out his cigarette and lit a new one. “As to the Cult itself, if we can get hold of the men behind the scenes and nip it in the bud in time, it’ll fade out, at least in its present form. But meanwhile it’s gathering momentum fast.”
“I suppose you want me to do the nipping, sir?”
“That’s the general idea! We can’t afford to risk the physical manifestation of this Edo feller, Shaw. He’s got to be identified and then short-circuited. He’s got to be shown up for what he is — a hired rabble-rouser who’s out to set brother against brother in Nogolia and create yet another power vacuum which’ll be filled by the Eastern Bloc. The situation throughout Africa doesn’t give me much hope that the Nogos will mind that very much, I admit, but I do believe that if Edo can be shown to be a flop they’ll damn soon desert from his ideas. There lies our hope, Shaw — and we’ve got to force him into palpable failure before things get too hot for Tshemambi to hold.” He inhaled deeply. “It’s not only that, either. I’m particularly worried about the staff up at the control-station. They’re under big pressure, they’ve been out there a long while, establishing the base and then latterly running it as an operational unit. All around them, in the other African states, there’s been nothing but trouble and riot and rape — all that sort of thing, the whole damn continent on the boil. Now they can see it moving closer to their own lives. If I know anything of that kind of existence I’d say it’s getting right under their skins, preying on them day after day. They’ve got a hell of a lot of time on their hands, time in which to do nothing but think, and in the end that can begin to affect the mind. I wouldn’t like anything to go… well, let’s say badly wrong, just because some one’s getting to the end of his resources.”
“What exactly have you in mind, sir?”
Latymer said slowly, “It’s just a rather unpleasant feeling. Sometimes coming events cast their shadows before them. I don’t like it, Shaw. It’s such a trigger-happy situation, and these boffins… they’re obviously highly intelligent men, that goes without saying. When a super-intellect starts thinking too much, thinking perhaps in circles, starts feeling frustrated and hemmed-in, or is just plain anxious to the point of getting itself a neurosis — well, then anything can happen. Those particular men are sitting on a metaphorical volcano which could go up at any given moment — which will go up when Edo gives the word — and they know it.”
“Do you think the Edo boys may try to sabotage the base?”
Latymer said, “It’s a definite possibility, although of course it’s well defended.”
“Even against a determined mob — I mean, if these Edo people are fanatics, they won’t mind being slaughtered in hundreds, I imagine?”
Latymer shrugged. “Probably not. In a way, you know, it’s if Edo fails to move Tshemambi by the less sensational methods that things will get really dangerous for the station itself in the direct physical sense. He’ll have to use tougher methods, you see. And Tshemambi’s an obstinate old devil, for which in the main we ought to be thankful, of course… but I’m thinking more about the staff. When things get bad accidents tend to happen. People fly off the handle. If anything went badly wrong it would play into Edo’s hands, give him a first-class propaganda lever to sway the new, uncommitted nations against Britain and the U.S. Nogolia’s something of a testing-ground just now, in a way, and the fence-sitters will take their cues from what happens there. Now — say there’s an accident, and the boys at the station start shooting up the Africans, it’s not going to look so good, is it? A lot of Edo’s work would be done for him and the whites discredited yet again in the parts of the coloured world where we have still got some influence and friendship. And don’t forget the blacks are a reckonable force these days.”