Nick’s only non-business question of the afternoon related to Miss Elizabeth Ashton.
“How is she?” Tad looked at him, surprised. “Why, fine. Busy at the office this afternoon. You’ll see her later, at the Patricks.”
So Liz hadn’t told him what had happened that morning. Nick felt oddly pleased. “Who are the Patricks?”
“Oh, sorry, I forgot to tell you. They’re friends of the Ambassador’s. Dinner there tonight with Sendhor and Adebe and Rufus Makombe and several others. The Ambassador and his wife are staying with the Patricks; have been since the Embassy was bombed. Nice people.”
They were nice people, Nick discovered that evening. So nice that they didn’t even seem to think he was being undiplomatic when he wandered off into the garden with Liz during the pre-dinner cocktail hour.
“I’m surprised to see you looking so full of beans and vigor,” said Nick approvingly. In the soft afternoon light, with the sun gleaming over her dark hair and her creamy, flawless skin, Liz looked more delectable than ever. Her wide, huge eyes looked directly into his with a frankness he seldom met in his profession. For the first time in years he wondered briefly if his own eyes revealed the counter-plotting and the murder that lay behind them. “How’s the shoulder?”
“A little sensitive, that’s all. Abe’s doctor looked at it; it’s fine. How was your day?” She dismissed the subject of her shoulder carelessly.
He told her what he thought she should know, and they talked with growing ease beneath the swaying leaves and brilliant wild trees that arched above their heads. As they talked he became increasingly aware of the warmth and vitality of the tall and generously proportioned girl beside him.
“We’d better get back to the others,” she said at last “I really wanted to talk to you alone for a minute to tell you about your invitation.”
“Invitation?”
“Uh-huh.” The small lines crinkled at the corners of her eyes. “We’ve regretted not putting you up in true ambassadorial splendor. And since this morning... well, I had to mention to Ambassador Thurston that there was some little contretemps in your hotel room, and he was most upset. Oh, I just said that your room was searched, that’s all. It’s up to you to tell him whatever you think best. But he was very concerned, and after beating about the bush for about fifteen minutes he finally managed to suggest that I ask you to stay with me, since my Aunt Abigail is visiting and can be our chaperone. So, naturally, I agreed. Don’t worry, I have lots of room. A darling little house in N’domi — that’s a suburb — about five minutes’ walk from everything.”
Nick raised his eyebrows at her. “That’s a very tempting invitation,” he said, turning its advantages over in his mind. “And very kind of you to let yourself get pushed into it. But are you sure Aunt Abigail won’t mind?”
Liz smiled cheerfully. “Quite sure. She left last week — how could she mind?”
They laughed so much that Tad Fergus came to find out what the joke was. They fobbed him off with an ancient elephant story and went into formal dinner in the Patricks’ enormous paneled dining room.
The Nyangese guests did their best to be cordial but it was clear that they were worried and distracted. Vice-President Adebe left early with his lovely chocolate-colored wife and a harried looking Sendhor. Rufus Makombe, about to leave after ignoring Nick all evening, changed his mind suddenly on hearing a fragment of conversation and made a point to draw Nick into a corner. In his clipped but lyrical language he apologized for his earlier coolness — “Inexcusable bad manners” — and begged indulgence. With the preliminaries over, he said: “So you are going to Dakar? I hope you have found some important lead to take you there. We need it; we desperately need it.” His strong young face was taut and a tiny muscle twitched uncontrollably. “You do not realize — but of course you do. Have you found out something?”
Nick nodded slowly. “Not much. Just enough to make me want to look around outside the borders of this country.”
Rufus nodded with satisfaction. “Ah! I also feel it is something bigger than this little country of Nyanga. If you have no hotel reservations, may I suggest the Hotel Senegal? It is not so lavish as the N’Gor, but it is much more convenient and I am well known there. I can arrange the booking, if you wish.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you, but please don’t bother. Perhaps if I mention your name...?”
Rufus nodded vigorously. “Do that, and they will give you the hotel. I wonder if you are by any chance interested in some form of entertainment? Probably not anything too frivolous, but there is a place called the Kilimanjaro where there is magnificent entertainment in the true African style.” His words hung questioningly in the air.
“If there’s time, I’d be most interested,” Nick answered. “What sort of place is it?”
“Not a club, not a club,” Rufus shook his head emphatically. “I cannot quite describe it to you because there is nothing exactly like it in Europe or America. No liquor is served, only many kinds of wine. Also very strong African beer. No meals, but many interesting little sample dishes of regional specialties. There is a circular stage in the center of the one big room, and there you will see such entertainment as you have never seen. The African High Life, you have heard of that? Yes, there is that. And the drums of the Congo, and the Chopi pianos. Also magnificent singing of the songs of our tribes and our cities. Nothing borrowed from other cultures. All our own!” The crest of his enthusiasm suddenly dropped him and the light went out of his eyes. He ended lamely, “Well, perhaps you will not like it. I only mention it in case you wish to experience something remarkable that you will never find in Washington.”
The party broke up shortly afterwards.
Liz took Nick home with her in her own battered old car, which she handled with an assurance that pleased him. He noticed that she kept a wary eye on the rearview mirror and the cross streets and was driving faster than was necessary on the quiet residential streets.
“Is it armored?” he asked sardonically.
“Huh?” Liz kept her eyes on the road.
“Your car. The Chief’s concerned about bullet-proofing me. Far more concerned than I am.”
“Oh. No, of course it isn’t. But he was the one who suggested that his big battlewagon might look a bit conspicuous sitting outside my place. With any luck, no one’ll find out you’re staying with me. The Ambassador’s sworn to secrecy. Of course I told Abe Jefferson.”
“Of course.” He eyed her ample good looks with a slight feeling of resentment. She and Abe and the Ambassador were arranging him to death. Maybe one of these days he’d actually be allowed to make some decisions for himself.
She caught his eye. “Don’t feel bad about us pushing you around,” she said, with an extraordinary flash of intuition. “It’s just that you’re an important visitor who mustn’t be bothered with trifles. Besides, we want to keep you safe. We like you — had you noticed?”
And she liked his answering smile.
“I’ve noticed a good many things that I like very much,” he answered, “and you’re one of them. And because of that, I’m not so sure it’s a good idea for me to stay with you. I could be a danger to you.”
“Guess who thought of that?” she said, maneuvering the wheel and darting the old car up a narrow side street. “We’ll have plainclothes-police protection. We’ll be able to come and go as we please. But no one else can. Is that all right with you?”
“Great. And my checkout from the hotel? My baggage? Have you arranged that, too?”