Fastidiously, Foster pitched the heads over, one by one.
Judas, standing with Muller near the helm, nodded approvingly. "Have that hosed down," he ordered Muller. "Foster — let's have a talk."
This was the man Judas had ordered to watch Nick, and in so doing had made a mistake, although it might turn into a plus. Foster had the greed of a pig, the morals of a weasel, and the reasoning power of a baboon. A full-grown baboon is a match for most dogs, except a Rhodesian Ridgeback female, but the baboon thinks in odd little circles and has been bested by men who had the time to fashion weapons from available sticks and stones.
Judas told Foster, "Watch this Andrew Grant Stay out of sight. We're going to take care of him."
Foster s baboon brain promptly concluded he would gain acclaim by "taking care" of Grant If he had succeeded, he probably would have; Judas considered himself an opportunist. He came very close.
This was the man who watched Nick leave Meikles in the morning. A small, neatly dressed man with powerful shoulders that hunched over rather like a baboon's. So unobtrusive among the people on the sidewalks that Nick did not notice him.
Chapter Six
Nick had awakened before dawn and ordered coffee sent up as soon as room service could manage it He kissed Boots' awake — noting with satisfaction that she matched her mood to his own; love-fun had been great, now on with the business of a new day. Make the parting perfect and your anticipation of the next kiss would ease you by many a rough moment She drank a quick coffee red a long good-bye embrace, and slipped away after he checked the corridor as all clear.
As Nick was brushing a sports jacket, Gus Boyd arrived, bright and bouncy. He sniffed the air of the room. Nick frowned inwardly, the air-conditioner hadn't carried away all of Booty's perfume. Gus said, "Ah, friendship. Wonderful Varia et mutabilis semper femina."
Nick had to grin. The lad was observant and his Latin wasn't bad. How would you translate that? Woman is always a switcheroo?
"I prefer happy clients," Nick said. "How's Janet doing."
Gus poured himself coffee. "She's a sweet jellyroll. There's lipstick on one of these cups. You leave clues all over."
"No, there isn't" Nick did not waste a glance at the buffet. "She didn't put any on before she left. All the other girls — er, satisfied with Edman's efforts?"
"They're absolutely enthusiastic about the place. Not a single damn complaint, which you know is unusual. Last night was a free night so that they could explore restaurants if they wanted to. Every one of them had a date with one of the colonial types and they lapped it up."
"Ian Masters put his boys up to it?"
Gus shrugged. "Could be. I encourage it. And if Masters puts a few dinner checks on the account, I never object as long as the tour has gone well."
"Are we still leaving Salisbury this afternoon?"
"Yes. We fly to Bulawayo and take the morning train to the game preserve."
"Can you get along without me?" Nick snapped off the lights and threw open the balcony door. Bright sun and fresh air flooded the room. He gave Gus a cigarette, lit one himself. "I'll join you at Wankie. I want to check into the gold situation more thoroughly. We'll beat the bastards yet. They've got a gravy train going and don't want to let us ride."
"Sure." Gus shrugged. "It's all routine. Masters has an office in Bulawayo that handles the transfers there." Actually, although he liked Nick, he was pleased to lose him — for long periods or short. He preferred to dispense tips without observation — you could pick up quite a percentage over the long pull without shorting the waiters and porters, and there was a lovely shop in Bulawayo where women usually lost all thrift-control and spent dollars like dimes. They bought Sandawana emeralds, copperwarc, and antelope and zebra-skin items in such quantity he always had to arrange a separate baggage shipment. He had a commission arrangement with the shop. Last time through his cut had been $240. Not bad for a one-hour stop. "Be careful, Nick. The way Wilson talked this time was a lot different from when I did business with him before. Man, what a scrap you put on!" He shook his head at the recollection. "He's become — dangerous, I think."
"So you got that impression too, did you?" Nick winced as he probed his sore ribs. That flop from the roof at van Prez's hadn't helped any. "That guy can be black murder. You mean you didn't notice it before? When you bought the thirty-dollar-an-ounce gold?"
Gus flushed. "I figured — aw hell, I don't know what I figured. This thing has started swinging. I'd just as soon drop it, I think, if you figure we'll get jammed up bad if anything goes wrong. I'm willing to take chances, but I like to watch the odds."
"Wilson sounded like he meant it when he told us to forget the gold business. But we know he must have found a helluva market since you were here last. First he sells you gold cheap, so he must have had it spilling out of his treasure rooms. Then he doesn't have any at any price. He's found a pipeline, or his associates have. Let's find out what it is, if we can."
"Do you still believe there are Golden Tusks. Andy?"
"Nope." It was a rather simple catch question and Nick gave a straight answer. Gus wanted to find out if he was working with a realist. They might have dummied a few up and painted the gold white. Hollow tusks of gold to beat the sanctions and help smuggle the stuff into India or wherever. Even London. But now I think your friend in India is right. There's plenty coming out of Rhodesia in nice four-hundred-ounce bars. Notice he didn't say kilos or gram-weights or jockey leads or any of the slang terms the smugglers use. Nice, big standard bars. Yummie. One feels so wonderful in the bottom of your travel case — after you've cleared customs."
Gus grinned, chasing a fantasy. "Yeah — and a half-dozen of 'em shipped with our tour baggage would feel even better!"
Nick slapped him on the shoulder and they went down to the lobby. He left Gus at the dining-room passage and went out into the sun-splashed street. Foster picked up his trail.
Stash Foster had an excellent description of Nick and the picture, but he countermarched once, near Shepherds', so that he could see Nick full-face. He was sure of his man. What he didn't realize was that Nick had an astonishing photographic eye and memory, particularly when concentrating. At Duke, in a controlled test, Nick had once remembered sixty-seven photographs of strangers, and was able to fit them to their names.
Stash had no way of knowing that, as he passed Nick amid a group of shoppers, Nick caught his direct glance and catalogued him — baboon. Other people were animals, objects, emotions, any related detail to help his memory. Stash received an accurate description.
Nick heartily enjoyed his brisk walk — Salisbury Street, Garden Avenue, Baker Avenue — he strolled when there were crowds, swung at marching double-time when the walk was empty. His strange pattern irritated Stash Foster, who thought, What a nut! Going nowhere, doing nothing: stupid physical culturist. It would be a pleasure to let the lifeblood out of that big, husky body; to see that straight spine and those wide shoulders fallen, twisted, crumpled. He scowled, his wide lips pulling on the skin of his high cheekbones until he looked more apelike than ever.
He was wrong about Nick's going nowhere, doing nothing. Every moment the AXEman's mind was absorbing, contemplating, filing, studying. When he finished his long walk there was little about the major area of Salisbury he did not know, and a sociologist would have been delighted to receive his impressions.
Nick was saddened by his conclusions. He knew the pattern. When you have traveled in most of the countries of the world, your capacity for evaluating groups expands like a wide-angle lens. A narrow view would show hard-working, sincere whites who had wrested a civilization from nature by bravery and hard work. The blacks were lazy. What had they done with it? Weren't they now — thanks to European ingenuity and generosity — better off than ever?