Incongruously, at that instant a PA system flooded the grounds with a drum roll. Everyone froze. Then a good band — it sounded like the Scots Guards Band or the Grenadiers — thundered and piped into the opening bars of "The Garb of Auld Gaul." In the center of the group below him, the old man with weathered skin, standing over six feet of thin length and straight as a plumb line, roared, "Harry! Please go and turn that down a wee bit."
A white man whom Kick had seen in the group on the patio turned and trotted toward the house. The older man looked up at Nick again. "Sorry — we did nae expect conversation wi' tha music. 'Tis a fine tune. You recognize it?"
Nick nodded and named it. The old man smiled. He had a kindly, thoughtful face, and he stood easy. Nick felt uneasy. Until you knew them, this was the most dangerous type in the world. They were loyal and straight — or pure poison. They were the ones who led troops with a riding crop. Marched up and down atop trenches piping "Highland Laddie" until they were shot down and replaced by another. They were in the saddles as Sixteenth Lancers when they came upon forty thousand Sikhs with sixty-seven pieces of artillery at Aliwal. The damn fools charged, of course.
Nick gazed down. History was so helpful; it gave you a line on men and lessened your mistakes. Booty stood twenty feet behind the tall old man. With her were the two other white men he had noticed on the porch and the woman who had been introduced as Martha Ryerson. She had donned her wide-brimmed hat and looked like a pleasant matron at an English garden tea.
The old man said, "Mr. Grant — I'm Pieter van Prez. You know Miss DeLong. Let me present Mrs. Martha Ryerson. And Mr. Tommy Howe at her left and Mr. Fred Maxwell to her right."
Nick nodded to all and said he was delighted. The sun was like a hot iron on the back of his neck where the pirate cap did not reach. He realized how he must look, took it of it with his left hand, gave his forehead a wipe, and put it away.
Van Prez said, "Hot up there. Would ye care to toss your gun down and then join us for something cool?"
"I'd like something cool but I'd rather keep my gun. I'm sure we can talk this out."
"Sur-r-re we can. Miss DeLong says she thinks you're an American FBI agent. If you are, you've no quar-r-rrel with us."
"Of course not I'm just concerned about Miss DeLong's safety. That's why I followed her."
Booty couldn't keep quiet. She said, "How did you know to come here? I watched in my mirror all the way. You weren't behind me."
"Yes, I was," Nick said. "You just didn't look carefully enough. You should have gone by the driveway. Then doubled back. You would have caught me, then."
Booty glared at him. If looks could give you a rash! "The Garb of Auld Gaul," softer now, ended. The band swung into "Road to the Isles." The white man was walking back from the house, slowly. Nick shot a glance under his supporting arm. Something moved at the corner of the roof, at the back.
"Can I come down..."
"Toss down your weapon, laddie." The tones weren't so gentle.
Nick shook his head, pretending to think. Over the martial music something scraped and he was engulfed in a net and swept off the roof. He was groping for Wilhelmina as he landed with a stunning crash at Pieter van Prez's feet.
The older man leaped, got a double-handed grip on Nick's gun hand as Wilhelmina tangled in the net ropes. An instant later Tommy and Fred hit the pile. The Luger was jerked away from him. Another fold of the Bet whipped over him as the white men sprang back and two blacks flipped the net ends across with practiced precision.
Chapter Four
Nick had landed partly on his head. He thought his reflexes were normal but they were slowed for a few seconds, although he realized everything that was going on. He felt like a TV watcher who has sat so long he is stiff and his muscles refuse to flash into action, although his mind continues to absorb the content of the screen.
It was damned humiliating. The two blacks secured the end ropes of the nets and stepped back. They resembled Tembo. He imagined one of them might be the Zanga who had gone to warn Pieter. He saw John J. Johnson walk around the corner of the garage. He had been back there to give them a hand with the net.
The band struck up "Dumbarton's Drums" and Nick scowled. The stirring music had been deliberately played to cover the sound of the moving men and the net. And Pieter van Prez had organized the movement in seconds, with the smooth tactics of an experienced strategist. He gave the impression of a likable, eccentric old chap who played bagpipes for his friends and rued the loss of horses for the cavalry because it ruined foxhunting when on active duty. So much for historical reference — the old boy probably understood random-selection computer analysis.
Nick took a couple of deep breaths. His head had cleared, but he felt no less foolish trussed up like fresh-caught game. He could reach Hugo and cut himself free in an instant, but Tommy Howe held the Luger very professionally and you could bet there was other firepower hidden here and there.
Booty giggled. "If J. Edgar could see you now..."
Nick felt heat travel up his neck. Why hadn't he insisted on that vacation-or retired? He said to Pieter, "I'll take that cool drink now if you'll get me out of this mess."
"I don't suppose ye have another gun," Pieter said, and then showed his diplomatic generalship by not having Nick searched — after letting him know that he had thought of the possibility. "Unfasten him, lads. Please forgive the rough treatment, Mr. Grant. But you are trespassing, you know. These are bad times. One never knows. It does nae seem to me that we have any quarrel, unless the United States is getting ready to put hard pressure on us and that makes no sense. Or does it?"
Tembo unwrapped the net. Nick stood up and rubbed his elbow. Truthfully — I don't believe you and I have any differences. Miss DeLong is my concern."
Pieter neither bought it nor rejected it. "Come along up in the cool. You can use a glass on a day like this."
Everyone except Tembo and Zanga sauntered to the patio. Pieter personally prepared a tall one and handed it to Nick. Another subtle gesture of mollification. "Any man named Grant takes Scotch and water. Did ye know ye were followed from the highroad?"
"I thought so once or twice but I saw nothing. How did you know I was coming?"
'The dogs at the small house. You saw them?"
"Yes."
Tembo was inside. He phoned me and then followed you. The dogs track silently. What you may have heard was his command to them to hold back and not alert you. It sounds like an animal's growl but your ear may have distrusted it."
Nick nodded agreement and took a long draught of the Scotch. Ah-h-h. He noticed that van Prez occasionally lost the burr from his speech and talked like a well-educated Englishman. He gestured at the beautifully furnished patio. "A very nice home, Mr. van Prez."
"Thank you. It shows what hard work, thrift, and a substantial inheritance can do. You're wondering about my name being Afrikaans and my actions and accent Scotch. My mother — a Duncan — married a van Prez. He came up with the first treks from South Africa and put together much of this." He waved a hand at the great expanse of land. "Cattle, tobacco, minerals. He had a keen eye."
The others had distributed themselves on the foam-rubber chairs and lounges. The patio would have served a small, mom-and-pop resort hotel. Booty was in an adjacent conversation U with John Johnson, Howe, Maxwell, and Zanga. Mrs. Ryerson brought Nick a tray of snacks — meat and cheese on triangles of bread, nuts, pretzels. Nick took a handful. She sat down with them. "You had a long, hot walk. Mr. Grant. I could have driven you in. Was that your BMW parked near the highway?"
"Yes," Nick said. "The strong gate stopped me. I didn't know it was so far."