"We will make no mistakes," Bor said, speaking with the measured tones of a chief of staff outlining strategy. "We assume he will accompany the tourist party to Wankie. He must do that to maintain what he assumes is his cover. That is our perfect place to hit, as the Italians say. Deep in the bush. We will have the armored truck. A helicopter in reserve. Use Herman, he is dedicated, and Krol for a gunner, he is an excellent shot — for a Pole. Outposts on the roads. Draw up a complete tactical plan and a map, Heinrich. Some people would say we are using a mallet to swat a beetle, but they don't know this beetle the way we do, eh?"
"He is a beetle with a wasp's sting and a skin like a chameleon. Not to be underestimated." Mullers face showed the ugly anger of bitter memories.
"We want more information if we can get it, but our prime objective is the elimination of Andrew Grant once and for all. Call it Operation Kill Beetle. Yes — a good name, it will keep our main purpose before us.
"Kill Beetle," Muller repeated, savoring the words. "I like that"
"Now," the man called Bor went on, ticking off points on the metal projections of his artificial hand, "why is he in Rhodesia? Political evaluation? Is he looking for us again? Are they interested in the increasing flow of gold which we are so pleased to provide? Could it be they've heard of our well-organized gun boys, guaranteed to succeed? Or is it perhaps none of these things? I suggest you brief Foster and send him to Salisbury with Herman in the morning. Have him talk with Wilson. Give him explicit orders — find out. He is to gather intelligence only, not alarm our quarry."
"He follows orders," Heinrich Muller said approvingly. "Your tactical plan is excellent, as always."
"Thank you." The good eye glittered at Muller, but even in appreciation of a compliment it had the cold, merciless appearance of a cobra viewing a target, plus a speculative narrowing, like a reptile with egomania.
Nick discovered something he had not known — how smart travel agents, tour operators, and travel contractors keep their important customers happy. After cocktails at the hotel Ian Masters and four of his personable merry men drove the party to the South Africa Club, a lovely tropical-style building amid lush grounds lit by colored lights and refreshed by sparkling fountains.
Inside the club the girls, resplendent in their colorful gowns, were introduced to a dozen men. All were young and most were handsome, two wore uniforms, and for solidity there were two older citizens, one with a distinguished grouping of decorations on his dinner jacket.
A long table was reserved for the party in an ell of the main dining room, adjacent to the dance floor, and with its own service bar. After the introductions and pleasant chat, they discovered place cards which cleverly seated each girl between two men. Nick and Gus found themselves side by side at the far end of the table.
The senior escort murmured, "Ian is a good operator. This makes a hit with the women. They see enough of you and me."
"Look where he put Booty. Next to old Sir Humphrey Condon. Ian knows she's VIP. I didn't tell him."
"Maybe Manny sent along her old man's credit rating in the confidential advices."
"With that body she can do all right without a push. She looks class, maybe he guessed." Gus chuckled. "Don't fret You'll have plenty of time with her."
"I haven't been making time lately. But Ruth is good company. Anyway, I've got some worries about Booty..."
"What! Not this soon. Its only been three days — you couldn't have..."
"Not what you're thinking. She's cool. Something's wrong. If we're going into the gold business I suggest we keep an eye on her."
"Booty! Could she be dangerous... spying..."
"You know how these kids like adventure. The CIA has fallen into a lot of messes using kindergarten snoops. Usually they do it for the money, but a gal like Booty might go for the glamour. Little Miss Jane Bond."
Gus took a deep swallow of his wine. "Wow — now that you mention it, this fits in with what happened while I was dressing. She called and said she wouldn't go with the group tomorrow morning. The afternoon is free time for shopping anyway. She has hired a car and is going off on her own. I tried to pin her down and she sounded secretive. Said she wanted to visit something in the Motoroshanga district. I tried to talk her out of it, but hell — if they've got the funds they can do anything they please. She got the car from Selfridge's Self-Drive Cars."
"She could have gotten one easily from Masters, couldn't she?"
"Yes." Gus trailed off the word with sibilant s sounds, his eyes narrow and thoughtful "You may be right about her. I thought she just wanted to be independent, the way some of them do. Showing you they can operate all right on their own..."
"Can you reach Selfridge's and find out about the car and time of delivery?"
"They have a night number. Give me a moment." He was back in five minutes, his expression slightly grim. "A Singer Vogue. At the hotel at eight. It looks like you're right. She had arranged credit and a permit by cable. Why didn't she ever mention that to us?"
"Part of the intrigue, old man. When you have a chance, ask Masters to have a self-drive at the hotel for me at seven. Make sure it's as fast as that Singer."
Later in the evening, between the roast and the sweets, Gus told Nick, "Okay. A BMW-1800 for you at seven. Ian promises it'll be in perfect shape."
Just after eleven Nick said polite good nights and left the club. He wouldn't be missed. Everyone seemed to be having better than a good time. The food had been excellent, the wines plentiful, and the music sweet Ruth Crossman was with a dashing lad who looked as if fun, fellowship, and virility were his prime qualities.
Nick returned to Meikles, soaked his battered body again in hot and cold tubs, and checked his gear. He always felt better when every item was in place, oiled, cleaned, saddle-soaped, or polished according to its needs. Your mind seemed to function faster when you had no small doubts or worries.
He removed the packets of bills from a khaki money belt and replaced them with four blocks of explosive plastique shaped and wrapped like bars of Cadbury chocolate. With them he put eight fuses that normally traveled among his pipe cleaners, identified only by tiny blobs of solder on one end of the wire. He turned on a small transmitter beeper, which had a signal good for eight or ten miles under fair conditions, and noted the directional response to his transistor radio, the size of a pocketbook. Edge toward the transmitter, strong signaL Flat toward the beeper, weakest signal.
He turned in and was grateful that no one disturbed him until the desk called him at six. His travel alarm went off with a burr-r-r-r just as he hung up.
At seven he met one of the muscular young men who had been at the party the night before, John Patton. Patton handed him a set of keys and pointed to a blue BMW gleaming in the fresh morning air. "Full of gas and checked out, Mr. Grant. Mr. Masters said you particularly wanted it in perfect shape."
"Thanks, John. That was a nice party last night. Did you have a good rime?"
"Grand. Wonderful group you brought Have a nice trip."
Patton walked briskly away. Nick grinned slightly. Patton had not betrayed by the flicker of an eyelid what he meant by wonderful, but he had been snuggling Janet Olson, and Nick had seen him drink a goodly amount Stout fellow.
Nick reparked the BMW out of sight, checked himself out on the controls, explored the trunk space, and inspected the motor. He checked the underframe as best he could, then used his receiver to see if the car was bugged. There were no betraying emissions. He worked his way all around the car, scanning all the frequencies his special set could receive, before deciding the car was clean. He went up to Gus's room and found the senior escort hurrying his shaving, his eyes foggy and bloodshot in the glare of the bathroom lights. "Big evening," Gus said. 'You were smart to cut out. Whooh! I got in at five."