Mrs. Ryerson pushed the tray nearer his elbow. "Try the biltong. There..." She gestured at what looked like dried beef curled on the bread with dabs of sauce. "Biltong is just salted meat but it's delicious when prepared properly. That's a bit of pepper sauce on the biltong."
Nick smiled at her and tried one of the canapés while his mind clicked. Biltong-biltong-biltong. For a moment he recalled Hawk's last keen, kindly glance and caution. His elbow pained and he rubbed it. Yeah, kindly Daddy Hawk, pushing Junior out the door of the plane for a parachute jump. It has to be done, son. I'II be there when you hit. Don't worry, the chute is unconditionally guaranteed.
"What do you think of Rhodesia, Mr. Grant?" van Prez asked.
"Fascinating. Exciting."
Martha Ryerson chuckled. Van Prez glanced sharply j at her and she returned his look with amusement. "Have you met many of our citizens?"
"Masters, the tour contractor. Alan Wilson, a businessman."
"Ah, yes, Wilson. One of our most enthusiastic advocates of independence. And sound business conditions."
"He mentioned something about it."
"A brave man, too. In his way. The way the Roman legionnaires were brave. A sort of half-interested patriotism."
"I thought he'd have made a fine Confederate cavalryman," Nick said, following the lead. "You get the philosophy by putting courage, ideals, and greed in a Waring blendor."
"Waring blendor?" van Prez asked.
"A machine that whips them all together," Mrs. Ryerson explained. "It stirs everything into a sort of soup."
Van Prez nodded, imagining the process. "It fits. And they can never be separated again. We have a lot like that."
"But not you," Nick said carefully. "I imagine your point of view is — more reasonable." He glanced at John Johnson.
"Reasonable? Some call it treasonable. For the record let's say I can't make up my mind."
Nick doubted that the mind behind those sharp eyes was ever unmade for very long. "I understand it's a very complicated situation."
Van Prez poured a dash of whiskey into their glasses. "It is that. Whose independence comes first? You had a similar problem with the Indians. Should we solve it your way?"
Nick refused to be drawn into that one. When he was silent Mrs. Ryerson interjected, "Are you just conducting the tour, Mr. Grant? Or do you have other — interests here?"
"I've often thought of going into the gold business. Wilson turned me down when I tried to buy some. I hear the Taylor-Hill-Boreman Mining Company has made new strikes. Maybe they'll be more interested."
"I'd stay away from them if I were you," van Prez said quickly.
"Why?"
"They have markets for everything they produce. And they are a tough crowd, with firm political connections. It's rumored that other things go on behind the gold facade — strange rumors of assassins for hire. If they catch you the way we did, you won't just be netted. You wont survive."
"And where does that leave you as a Rhodesian patriot?"
Van Prez shrugged. "On balance."
"Did you know that people also say they are financing the new Nazis? They contribute to the Odessa fund, support half a dozen dictators — with both guns and gold."
"I've heard. I don't necessarily believe."
"Is it improbable?"
"Why would they sell to Communists and finance Fascists?"
"What better joke? First you dump the Socialists, using their own money to bankroll your blows, and then you finish off the democracies at leisure. When it's over they'll build statues of Hitler in every capital of the world. Three hundred feet high. He made it. Just delayed a little while, that's all."
Van Prez and Mrs. Ryerson looked questioningly at each other. Nick guessed the idea had been around here before. The trills and shrieks of the birds were the only sounds. At last van Prez said, "I must think about that Time for tea." He stood up.
"And then Booty and I can depart?"
"You go and have a wash. Mrs. Ryerson will show you the way. About your going, we'll have to have an indaba here on the stoep about that." He waved a hand that took in all the others.
Nick shrugged and followed Mrs. Ryerson through the sliding glass doors into the house. She led him down a long hall and pointed to a door. "There."
Nick whispered, "Biltong is good. Robert Morris should have shipped more to Valley Forge." The name of the American patriot and Washington's winter quarters were AXE identification words.
Mrs. Ryerson gave the correct answer. "Israel Putnam, the general from Connecticut. You came at a bad time, Grant. Johnson was smuggled in via Tanzania. Tembo and Zanga just came back from Zambia. They have a guerrilla group up in the jungle along the river. They are fighting the Rhodesian army now. and they're doing such a good job the Rhodesians have had to bring in South African troops."
"Booty brought money?"
"Yes. She's just a courier. But van Prez may think you have seen too much to be let go. If the Rhodesian police show you pictures of Tembo and Zanga, you could identify them."
"What do you suggest?"
"I don't know. I've lived here for six years. I'm in-place AXE P21. I can probably free you eventually, if they keep you."
"They won't," Nick promised. "Don't disturb your cover, it's too valuable."
"Thank you. And you are..."
"N3."
Martha Ryerson swallowed, regained her calm. Nick decided she had been a beautiful girl. She was still very attractive. And she evidently knew that N3 meant Killmaster. She whispered, "Good luck," and went away.
The bath was ultramodern and well equipped. Nick washed quickly, sampled the men's lotion and cologne, combed his dark-brown hair. When he returned through the long hall, van Prez and his guests were gathered in a large dining room. A buffet — actually a smorgasbord — was spread on a side table at least twenty-five feet long, covered with snowy linen and set with gleaming silverware. Pieter graciously handed the first large plates to Mrs. Ryerson and Booty and invited them to begin the attack.
Nick loaded his plate with meats and salad. Howe was monopolizing Booty, which was all right with Nick until he had eaten a few mouthfuls. A Negro man and woman in white uniforms came from the rear of the house to pour tea. Nick noted the swinging doors and decided the kitchen was beyond a butler's pantry.
When he felt a little less empty Nick said pleasantly to van Prez, "This is an excellent luncheon. It reminds me of England."
"Thank you."
"Did you decide my fate?"
"Don't be so melodramatic. Yes — we must ask you to stay at least until tomorrow. We will telephone your friends and say you had motor trouble."
Nick frowned. For the first time he felt a small measure of hostility toward his host. The old man had put his roots down in a land that suddenly bloomed with problems like a locust plague. He could feel for him. But this is too arbitrary.
"May I ask why we're being detained?" Nick asked.
"Actually only you are being detained. Booty is pleased to accept my hospitality. I don't think you'd go to the authorities. It's none of your affair and you seem a reasonable man, but we cannot take chances. Even when you do leave, I'm going to ask you as a gentleman to forget anything you've seen here."
"I believe you mean — anyone," Nick corrected.
"Yes."
Nick noted the look of cold hate that John Johnson cast in his direction. There had to be a reason they needed the one day's grace. Probably they had a column or tactical group between the van Prez ranch and the jungle valley. He said. "Suppose I promise — as a gentleman — not to talk if you let us return now."
Van Prez's grave glance went to Johnson, Howe, Tembo. Nick read negatives in their faces. "I'm sorry," van Prez answered.