The huge African sighed. He said, “Be reasonable, Commander Shaw. We thought she might come in handy — and she has. She has in effect brought you here, is that not so? If she had been known to have died in London, we could not have used her name in this way.”
He gave a soft, jeering laugh.
Shaw said painfully, “You bastard… what are you going to do with us now?”
“I thought I’d already told you. You are going to have a grandstand view of the final act, you and the girl. Do you know what the last act is going to be?” He laughed again in Shaw’s face, then nodded towards two Africans. “These men do not understand English, so I can tell you now.”
“Go on.”
“All right, Commander. It is just this: We have arranged for Bluebolt’s missile to be brought down… on African territory.”
Shaw stared at him, unbelievingly at first, unable to take it in. He repeated stupidly, “On African territory… but why?”
“Because Tshemambi is still adamant. He is so obstinate, that old fool. So we have to take other measures. It is as simple as that… and in many ways it suits us better, because what we shall now do will be very much more far-reaching than if we were merely to cause the removal of the Bluebolt post. Think, Commander, think — of the psychological effect!”
Still Shaw stared at him. A vein began throbbing away in his temple and he felt that his head must burst as he started to realize… He breathed, “So Hartog was really with you all the time — that’s how you’re going to do it—”
“Quite correct. You British,” Wiley said witheringly, “you think you are so very, very clever. You think that once a man is screened by the fools in your security services he is safe for ever. But he isn’t, you see, he isn’t! Now — think what will be the effect on the coloured peoples throughout all the world — India, Malaya, the West Indies… even the coloured people in London and New York — think what will be the effect on all of them when a British-American satellite sends its missile down from the Manalati base… on to Ghana or Sierra Leone, the Cameroons, the Congo or Kenya, or other lands. For how much longer after that will the West retain what is left of its hold on the minds of men — and for how much longer will the uncommitted nations remain uncommitted, Commander Shaw? Does this not look very much like the end of a way of life, Commander, the end of the road for Britain and America — whose overseas policies have in any case been suspect for a long time?” He added jeeringly, “Your propaganda machines will never correct the balance which will swing against them!”
“Do you really mean all that? Would you really sacrifice your own people, Wiley?”
The man’s big face glowered at him. He said with emphasis, “There is nothing I would not do to ensure success. If some people have to die, they are only drops in the ocean, sacrifices to a greater objective. And of course the people who are helping me do not know what my plan really is. They believe that with Hartog’s benevolent assistance I am going to disarm Bluebolt by making the British bring the missile down harmlessly in the sea. When it lands in fact on Africa instead of in the sea, I shall ensure without doubt that it is the British and Americans who get the blame for it. That will be very easy.” He jabbed a finger towards the agent. “You are going to witness the attainment of our objective. You, yourself, are going to give the signal which will bring the missile down from Bluebolt… exactly how, you will find out a little later on.”
Wiley broke off as another man came in and spoke rapidly to him. As he turned back to Shaw, he said, “Our transport has arrived… and now there is no time to lose. We must get away from Jinda in case the man Geisler should be able to get a search made for you when you do not return.” He added, “We shall be going to a village called Zambi, which is not so very far from your control-station, my dear fellow.”
Wiley snapped an order in the local dialect to the two Africans, who let go of Shaw’s arms and sent him staggering into a corner. As he fell, half dazed, the men came forward and tied his hands and ankles securely. After that he was carried out of the room, back along the passage, and into the street, where he was pushed into the back of what looked like an ex-British Army truck. He was laid flat on the dirty, littered boards. The baying, the dreadful hysteria of the mob, beat in his ears, the terrible sound of the blood-lust which would so very soon now lead to rape and plunder, arson and wholesale murder of the remaining whites. He heard a few isolated shots away in the distance. A moment later Gillian Ross, her face dead white but dry-eyed, was pushed, bound as he was, into the truck with him and the two Africans climbed in behind her with heavy revolvers in their hands. Their faces were greasy with sweat, their eyeballs rolling, fingers itchy on the triggers. Shaw knew that even if he were able to make any move, he would be dead before he’d lifted a hand — and so would the girl.
The truck’s hooter blared out and a man in front began yelling. Then the truck vibrated into life and slowly they moved off; slowly because somehow the word had spread — the bush-telegraph in action, and men had come to watch. Fists smacked against the hood supports, came through gashes in the torn canvas of the old truck. Faces leered in over the tailboard, jeering, triumphant, shiny, menacing; men spat derisively, made insulting gestures with their fingers, ran along with the slow-moving vehicle, reaching in, sagging across the tailboard to paw the girl. The two Negroes on guard grinned happily, joining in the fun, salaciously, their hands roving. Shaw felt the blood pound through his body, felt the fierce upsurge of stored fury, impotent fury, as his fingernails dug into his palms. Then the truck went ahead faster and the predatory hands fell away. There was more firing, a little closer now, and the streets began to clear quickly. Shaw felt that Tshemambi must still — as yet — be more or less in charge of the situation; but he could never hope to keep control once Bluebolt’s dreadful, devastating load was brought down on to the African continent. The old Prime Minister and his moderate Government could never hope to survive that storm.
The truck put on speed, shot ahead, and rattled away from Jinda.
Gillian Ross had rolled close to Shaw and now she lay there inert and hopeless, her eyes shut but red-rimmed, and every now and then Shaw could feel the quiver that ran through her body, the body that he could now see carried the clear marks of beatings.
After a hideous, nightmare drive of some fifteen hours during which the rains still held off following the intermittent pattern usual at the start of the wet season, and during which Shaw was convinced that every hairpin bend taken dangerously on two wheels must be their last, the truck turned off into a narrow track leading down to the tribal village of Zambi in the Naka Valley. That track was close and overgrown, and branches snapped, flipped along the sides as they drove in, once more tearing the canvas. It was a continual flip-flap of sound.
Their approach must have been spotted some way ahead, and the runners had reported their coming to the headman of the village; for they were still some way off, deep in the green tunnel, when Shaw caught the heavy beat of native drums and then the mounting sound, the flesh-creeping baying sound which he had heard in Jinda but now much more primitive and menacing; and underneath it the unmistakable note of pure hysteria, a hysteria worked up probably by the local ju-ju man and by the native beer.
Men and women came out to meet the truck, howling, chanting, armed with wickedly tipped spears and short, thick clubs, their near-naked bodies grotesquely ochred and carved, shining with grease under a pale early-morning sun as the truck emerged from the hacked-out track into the village clearing.