He stared. One of them was John J. Johnson — last seen in New York's East Side Air Terminal, described by Hawk as a rare man with a hot trumpet. He had given Booty an envelope then. Nick decided he had come to pick it up. Very clever. The tour group, with its familiar credentials, came through customs easily, with hardly a piece of luggage opened.
Nick crawled back from the rise, made a 180-degree turn, and surveyed his backtrail. He felt uneasy. He had seen nothing behind him, actually, yet he fancied he had heard a short call that did not fit in with the animal noises. Intuition, he wondered? Or just overcaution in this strange country. He studied the road and the bundu — nothing.
It took him an hour to circle, using the five-stall garage to shield him from the patio, and approach the house. He crawled within sixty feet of the group behind the screens and hid behind a fat gnarled tree; the rest of the manicured shrubs and colorful plantings were too small to hide a midget. He focused his telescope through a notch in the branches. At this angle there would be no revealing sunflash from the lens.
He could hear only bits of talk. They seemed to be having a pleasant meeting. There were glasses and cups and bottles on the tables. Evidently Booty had arrived for and enjoyed a good lunch. He wished he had. The patriarch who looked like the host did a good deal of talking, as did John Johnson and the other black man, a wiry, smallish type in dark-brown shirt and pants and heavy boots. After he had been watching for at least half an hour he saw Johnson lift a packet from the table that he recognized as the one Booty had received in New York — or its twin. Nick never jumped to conclusions. He heard Johnson say, "...not much... twelve thousand... to us vital... we like to pay... nothing for nothing..."
The older man said, "...contributions were better before... sanctions... good will..." He spoke evenly and in a low tone, but Nick thought he heard the words "golden tusks."
Johnson unfolded a sheet of paper from the packet Nick heard, "Thread and needles... ridiculous code but clear..."
His rich baritone traveled better than the other voices. He went on, "...they are good guns and the cartridges are dependable. The explosives always work, at least so far. Better than the A16..." Nick lost the rest of it in the chuckles.
A car's motor sounded from back along the road Nick had used. A dusty Volkswagen came into view and was parked in the drive. A woman of about forty went into the house and was greeted by the older man and introduced to Booty as Martha Ryerson. The woman moved as if she spent much of her time outdoors; her stride was brisk, her coordination excellent. Nick decided she was almost beautiful, with intense, open features and neat, short brown hair that stayed in place when she took off her wide-brimmed hat Who would...
A heavy voice behind Nick said, "Don't move quickly."
Very quickly — Nick did not move a muscle. You can tell when they mean it — and probably have something to back it up. The deep voice with its musical British accent said to someone Nick could not see, "Zanga — tell Mr. Prez." Then, louder, "You can turn around now."
Nick turned. A Negro of medium height clad in white shorts and a pale-blue sports shirt stood with a double-barreled shotgun cradled under his arm, aimed just to the left of Nick's knees. The gun was an expensive one, engravings clear and deep in the metal, and it was ten-gauge — a portable short-range cannon.
These thoughts passed through his mind as he calmly watched his captor. He had no intention of moving or speaking first — that made some people nervous. A movement to one side caught his eye. The two dogs he had seen at the small house at the beginning of the road walked up to the Negro and then looked at Nick as if to say, "Our lunch?"
They were Rhodesian Ridgebacks, sometimes called lion dogs, weighing about a hundred pounds each. They can break a deer's leg with a grip and twist, knock down good-size game with their battering-ram charge, and three of them can hold a lion. The Negro said, "Stay, Gymba. Stay, Jane."
They sat down beside him and lolled their tongues in Nick's direction. The other man looked down at them. Nick turned and leaped away, angling to keep the tree between himself and the shotgun.
He was counting on several things. The dogs had just been told to "stay." It might hold them still a moment. The Negro probably wasn't the leader here — not in "white" Rhodesia — and perhaps he had been told not to shoot.
Blam! It sounded like both barrels. Nick heard the whine and shriek of light shot as it cut the air where he had been an instant before. It whacked against the garage he was approaching, forming a jagged circular pattern to his right. He saw it as he leaped up, hooked a hand over the garage roof, and threw his body up and onto the top in a one-hock mount and roll.
As he twisted out of sight he heard the scampering feet of the dogs and the heavier sounds of the running man. The dogs each gave a loud, gruff bark that carried a long way as if to say, "Here he is!"
Nick could imagine them with their forepaws up on the side of the garage, those great mouths with the inch-long teeth that reminded him of crocodiles', open hopefully. Two black hands gripped the edge of the roof. The Negro's angry features rose into view. Nick whipped Wilhelmina out and writhed around, putting the barrel an inch from the man s nose. They were both still for an instant, looking into each other's faces. Nick shook his head negatively, said, "No."
The black face did not change expression. The powerful hands opened, and it dropped from sight. On 125th Street, Nick thought, they'd call him a real cool cat.
He surveyed the roof. It was covered with a light-colored compound similar to smooth, hard stucco, and without obstruction. If it hadn't been tilted slightly toward the rear you could put up a net and use it for a deck tennis court A bad place to defend. He looked up. They could climb any of a dozen trees and shoot down at him, if it came to that.
He drew Hugo and dug at the stucco. Perhaps he could blast a hole with plastique and steal a vehicle — if there was one inside the stalls. Hugo, its steel driven with all his powerful strength, dislodged chips smaller than fingernail parings. It would take him an hour to make a cup for the explosive. He sheathed Hugo.
He heard voices. A man called, "Tembo — who's up there?"
Tembo described him. Booty exclaimed, "Andy Grant!"
The first man's voice, British with a touch of Scots burr, asked who Andy Grant might be. Booty explained and added that he carried a gun.
Tembo's deep tones confirmed it. "He's got it with him. Luger."
Nick sighed. Tembo had been around. He guessed that the Scots burr belonged to the older man he had seen on the patio. It had the ring of authority. Now it said, "Put your guns down, men. You shouldn't have shot, Tembo."
"I didn't try to hit him," Tembo's voice replied.
Nick decided he believed it — but that blast had been damn close.
The voice with the burr sounded louder. "Hello up there — Andy Grant?"
"Yes," Nick replied. They knew it anyway.
"You bear a fine Highland name. You're Scottish?"
"So far back I wouldn't know which end of a kilt to get into."
"Ye should learn, mon. They're more comfortable than shorts." The burr chuckled. "Want to come down?"
"No."
"Well, have a look at us. We won't hurt you."
Nick decided to risk it He doubted they'd murder him casually with Booty looking on. And he wasn't going to win anything from this roof — it was one of the worst positions he'd ever gotten into. The simplest could be the most dangerous. He was glad none of his vicious antagonists had ever gotten him into a bind like it. Judas would have had a few grenades lobbed up and then riddled him with rifle fire from the trees for insurance. He put his head over the side and added a grin to his, "Hello, everybody."