Karate.
This man was training himself in the practice of the killer sport from Japan. Shaw knew about Karate, knew about its deadly nature… knew how the Karate expert used his hands, his bare feet, his elbows, how he toughened these parts of his body to a steel-like hardness until he could shiver a brick with a single blow of his fist, how he could smash living bone into splinters with one blow from the side of his hand.
Shaw had felt a spontaneous reaction from Flame when she had first seen the man — a jerk of her body and a quickly indrawn breath; she was trembling now, her body pressed closer against Shaw’s as if seeking extra comfort and reassurance. Meanwhile the Negro took no notice of them; he went on and on with his rhythmic plunging into the box of stones, as if utterly unware of anyone in the room beside himself. His lips were moving; he was counting to himself. A certain number of plunges would be part of his daily routine.
At last he stopped and swivelled towards Shaw. His face was heavy with folds of flesh, in sharp contrast to his beautifully kept body, and it was cruel with a sadism that Shaw had seldom seen in any man’s face. The eyes were ice-cold and proud, yet when he spoke his voice was polite and almost friendly — and entirely without trace of a Negro inflexion; this was a very different type of man from Josephson and Spice.
“You know what I have been doing?” he asked.
“Practising Karate.”
“Not practising exactly, my friend!” The Negro gave a hard laugh, a sound without humour; a self-satisfied, arrogant laugh. “Keeping myself in first-class trim would be more accurate. I am a Karate expert. I do not allow my expertise to lose its sharp edge of perfection. Men tell me I am a perfectionist in everything… and possibly they are right. I permit nothing second-rate either in myself or in those who work for me — as Miss Delaney can perhaps confirm. Maybe she’d like to tell you who I am.”
Shaw started and glanced at Flame. Her lips bloodless, she said in a low voice, “It’s Big Pete Omofouloo.”
“The boss of the Sex Kitten?”
The Negro answered that himself. He said, “Very much so, Commander Shaw.” He got to his feet springily and walked with leopard-like litheness to a swivel chair behind the desk. He sat again, placing his elbows on the arms of the chair with his finger-tips together, looking coolly at the two prisoners, who were still held on the rope. “If you wish to know why I did not have you brought here right away from Mr Josephson’s apartment, I can give you a very simple answer, Commander. I wished you and Miss Delaney to suffer for a while, so that you would be softened up — so that you would have some idea of what would happen to you should you not co-operate with me hereafter. You understand?”
“Perfectly.”
The Negro smiled. “Excellent!” Then he nodded at the range rider. “Mr Sanderson?”
The range rider clicked his spurred boots. “Sir!” he said smartly. He turned towards Shaw and Flame. “You are now in the presence of the President of the Council of Black America… President Tucker, President Elect of the United States of America.”
Confirmation, if such was needed now, of what Siggings had said — and more than that, much more.… Shaw took a deep breath. He asked sardonically, “Elected by whom? What kind of a crazy set-up is this, anyway?”
The cowboy seemed about to take some sort of retaliatory action when the man behind the desk lifted a hand. “Leave them,” he said sharply. “Let them approach the desk.”
“You heard the President,” Sanderson snapped. His function seemed to be that of an adjutant — adjutant of some kind of mad, quasi-military formation. Still restricted by the rope, Shaw and Flame moved forward together. Shaw stared at the Negro. Now he was closer, he could see that the man was a good deal older than he had thought, possibly in his middle sixties, though he had the figure and carriage of a man half his age. The stomach was flat, the waist and hips supple, the hair still thick and jet black, touched only above the ears with grey. He was an impressive man by any standard and as dangerous as a snake by any standard too, and with just about as much feeling. The general impression of controlled brutality wasn’t lightened now by the sight of overall small scarring on the face and one long gash that ran from just below the left eye, right down the cheek and on down into the neck itself.
Shaw asked, “Why Tucker, anyway? I thought your name was Omofouloo.”
“Correct in a sense, Commander. Generations back, before the slave-ships came to West Africa and kidnapped my ancestors, my family was that of Omofouloo. I came of a line of chiefs. My great-great-grandparents were brought under hideous conditions to Virginia, and sold in the open market to a family named Tucker, whose name became my grandfather’s when he was born… for my foolish ancestors came to regard themselves as willing children and dependants of the house. I, on the other hand, reverted to the family name of Omofouloo, by which I have always been known. Now, however, that I am about to lead the Black people forward to mastership, I prefer to underline the slave status of my grandparents by resuming their name and that of my father. You see, Commander, it appeals greatly to me… to let the White people see that the descendant of a former slave can take over the Presidency.” Tucker’s eyes searched Shaw and then he nodded at Sanderson. “Leave us,” he said.
As Sanderson and the guards turned away and the rope fell slack, the Negro went on. “You will both please bear in mind that if you attempt to attack me you will die before you can reach across the desk. Such an attempt would be extremely foolish in any case, since you must realize by this time that you would never leave my headquarters afterwards — nevertheless, there are lunatics in this world, and for my own protection I have taken certain measures. You will perhaps have seen the ornamentation in the front panel of this desk?”
Shaw nodded.
“Concealed in that ornamentation is a series of slits, some vertical, others horizontal, all running across each other. Through those slits a number of automatic weapons can fire at the rate of one hundred rounds a minute each. I have only to press a button with my knee, a feather touch, and an electronically-controlled firing circuit is made. All the apartment beyond this desk will be filled with bullets. Anyone standing where you are standing now will be literally colandered. You follow me?”
“I follow you,” Shaw answered quietly. “So what about getting down to business?”
“Precisely as I was about to suggest myself, Commander.”
“Then you might start by telling us why you had us brought here?”
The Negro nodded. “Certainly. I had you brought for a very simple reason — so that you might answer some questions.” He leaned back comfortably, but his right knee stayed close to the side of the desk. “You have up-to-date access to very many secrets — current secrets, as opposed to the worn-out information we have gleaned from others who have come into our hands. Not only this, but you have been assigned by your superiors to investigate the Dead Line in particular. You will be able to tell me many things that can be of much help to our future planning — even at this stage. If you refuse to answer my questions…” Tucker shrugged, smiled coldly and fiddled with a massive gold ring on the second finger of his right hand. “Do not make the mistake of thinking I have no means of persuading you to talk other than the threat of death, Commander. That would be entirely wrong. I have found from past experience that the actual manner of death can be a far more potent threat than the fact of death itself. We all have to die — but we do not all have to suffer.” He shrugged. “You may disagree, but I believe that when you think about it you will see my point. At a certain stage — I repeat, at a certain stage—death inevitably ceases to mean very much… but the suffering does not. That is always real, and yet always avoidable. You may believe that as a trained and hardened counter-espionage agent you are, if not immune to persuasion, at least strong enough to withstand it to the point of a welcome insensibility, if you understand me. Let me assure you that you will be proven wrong.” The cold eyes took on a sudden hard glitter. “If you ask why, then I answer by pointing to my former cabaret stripper. Your suffering will be by proxy. You will watch her die by slow degrees under the most unpleasant conditions if you do not co-operate.”