"A man was stabbed to death at the railway offices today. At about the time you were there."
Nick put on his astonished look. "Not — Roger? Oh no..."
"No, no. The man I asked you if you knew. Foster."
"Care to describe him?"
Barnes did. Nick shrugged. Barnes departed. But Nick permitted himself no elation. There went a smart man.
He returned the car to Masters and flew in a DC-3, via Kariba, to Main Camp at the Wankie National Park. He was pleased to find at Main Camp a thoroughly modern resort The manager accepted him as one of the escorts for the Edman Tour that would arrive in the morning, and installed him in a comfortable, two-bedroom chalet — "No charge for your first night."
Nick was beginning to appreciate the escort business.
Although Nick had read about Wankie National Park he was amazed. He knew its five thousand square miles held seven thousand elephants, great herds of buffalo, as well as rhino, zebra, giraffe, leopard, antelope in infinite variety, and dozens of other species he had not bothered to memorize. Yet Main Camp was as comfortable as the products of civilization could make it, with an air strip where CAA DC-3s were met by the latest model cars and the innumerable microbuses, striped black and white like mechanical zebras.
As he strolled back toward the main lodge he saw Bruce Todd, Ian Masters' man — "a soccer star" — standing near the entrance.
He greeted Nick, "Hello, I heard you arrived. Enjoying it?"
"Magnificent. We re both early-"
"I'm a sort of advance scout Checking the rooms, cars, all that. Feel like a sundowner?"
"Good idea." They strolled to the cocktail lounge, two bronzed young men who drew women's eyes.
Over whiskies and sodas Nick's body relaxed, but his mind was active. It was logical for Masters to send an "advance man." It was also possible, even probable, that Salisbury athlete Todd had a connection with George Barnes and Rhodesian Security Forces. Certainly Barnes would think it worthwhile to put a tail on "Andrew Grant" for a while; he was a prime suspect in Foster's strange death.
He thought of those carloads shipped daily from the THB mine complex. The waybills would be meaningless. Perhaps chrome or nickel ore with gold hidden in any car they chose? That would be clever and practical. But carloads? They must be dripping with the stuff! He tried to remember the shipping weights of asbestos. He doubted that he had read about them, for he could not recall them.
Sanctions — hah! He held no definite opinion on the right or wrong of them or the political issues involved, but the old, bitter fact applied: Where there is enough involved, self-interest rules. It was probable that Wilson, Masters, Todd, and the others knew exactly what THB was doing, and approved. Perhaps even collected a fee. One thing was certain, in this situation he could only absolutely rely on himself. All others were suspect.
And the killers Judas was supposed to be dispatching, the efficient assassin force he could dispatch all over Africa? That fit in with the man. It meant more money in his pocket and it helped him get rid of a lot of unwanted enemies. Someday, his gun slingers would come even more handy. Someday... Yeah, with the new Nazis.
Then he thought of Booty and Johnson and van Prez. They would not fit the pattern. You could not quite imagine them moving-only-for-the-money. Nazism? That was really out. And Mrs. Ryerson? A woman like her could enjoy the good life in Charlottesville — riding to hounds, social affairs, admired, invited everywhere. Yet, like a few other in-place AXE agents he had met, she isolated herself here. When it came to it, what was his own motivation? IATA had offered him twenty thousand a year to supervise their security operation, yet he roamed the world for less. All you could tell yourself was that you wanted to put your ounce of weight on the right side of the scales. Fine — but who says which side is right? A man could...
"...the two waterholes nearby are Nyamandhlovu and Guvulala Pans," Todd was saying. Nick had been listening carelessly. "You can sit high up and watch the animals come in for their evening drinks. We'll go there tomorrow. The girls will like the steenbok. They look like Disney's Bambi."
"Point them out to Teddy Northway," Nick said, and was amused at the pink that rose up Todd's tanned neck. "Is there a spare car I can use?"
"Not actually. We have two sedans of our own and we use the microbuses with a guide for the guests. You can't drive around here after dusk, you know. And don't let the guests out of the cars. It can get a bit sticky with some of the livestock. The lions sometimes appear in prides of fifteen or so."
Nick concealed his disappointment They were less than a hundred miles from THB's property. The road from this side did not quite reach it, but he assumed there might be unmarked trails over which he could put a car or, if necessary, walk. He had a small compass and a mosquito net and a plastic poncho so small they fitted in a pocket His small map was five years old but it would do.
They went into the dining room and had eland steaks, which Nick found excellent. Later they danced with some very pretty girls, and Nick excused himself just before eleven. Whether or not he was able to explore THB from this point, he had lit enough fuses for one of the unknown explosive forces to let loose very soon. It was a good time to stay in condition.
He joined Bruce Todd for an early breakfast and they drove the fourteen miles to Dett Station. The long shiny train disgorged a horde of people, including five or six tour groups in addition to their own. Two of the groups had to wait for cars. Masters was wise to have his man on the spot. They had the two sedans, a microbus, and a Volvo station wagon.
The girls were bright and beaming, chatty about their adventures. Nick helped Gus with the baggage. "Smooth trip?" he asked the senior escort.
"They re happy. This is a special train." Gus grunted with a heavy bag. "Not that the regular ones aren't a helluva lot better than the Penn Central!"
After a hearty "early tea" they drove, in the same vehicles, into the rugged bundu. A Wankie guide drove the little striped bus, and at the manager's request, because he was short of men, Gus and Bruce drove sedans and Nick took the wheel of the Volvo wagon. They stopped at Kausche Pan, the Mtoa Dam, and several times on the narrow road to watch herds of game.
Nick admitted it was astonishing. The instant you left Main Camp you entered another world, harsh, primitive, threatening, beautiful. He had drawn Booty, Ruth Crossman, and Janet Olson for his car, and he enjoyed the company. The girls used hundreds of feet of movie film on ostrich, baboons, and ververt monkeys. They groaned sympathetically when they saw lions tearing at the carcass of a downed zebra.
Near Tshompani Dam a helicopter droned over them, looking out of place. It should have been a pterodactyl. Shortly afterward the little caravan came together, sharing cold beer that Bruce produced from a portable cooler, then, as tour groups will, they drifted apart. The microbus stopped to view a great herd of buffalo, the sedan's occupants were photographing wildebeest, and, at the girls* urging. Nick rolled the wagon down a long, curving loop of the road which might have been in the Arizona hills during a dry sprine.
Ahead, at the foot of the hill, he saw a truck drawn up at an intersection where roads, if he remembered the map, branched off to Wankie, Matetsi, and back to Main Camp via another route. The truck was marked in large letters Wankie Research Project. As they left the slope he saw a panel delivery wagon stopped two hundred feet along the northeastern road. It was lettered the same way. Odd — he hadn't noticed the park administration plastering their name on everything. They liked to leave an impression of naturalness. Odd.