“We’ll find out who else,” Nick answered flatly, his eyes flint-hard and his jaw set. “Let’s get this plane to Abimako and get on with it.”
Theoretically, he knew “who else.” The problem was to find him. And deal with him accordingly.
Nick’s role as a high ranking diplomat on a special trouble-shooting mission had begun with an urgent summons followed by detailed instructions from Hawk, who seemed to think that one free weekend between assignments was enough vacation for any man. Carter had mumbled to himself, said goodbye to the girl and hopped the first plane home to New York for briefing and new orders. The head of AXE had long since given up the luxury of spare time for himself and was apparently under the impression that his top secret operative would, too.
When Nick had gone to meet the others in a small conference room at United Nations headquarters he had already transformed himself into a top State Department official with the mental intensity of a Robert Kennedy, the cool geniality and drive of a Sargent Shriver, and the quietly determined bearing of the Secretary of Defense. He hoped he had chosen suitable models.
The Secretary of State for African Affairs sucked quietly on his pipe and waited for Polikov to finish with his small talk and settle down. His eyes wandered over the group around the table and he thought suddenly how insignificant the meeting seemed and yet how important it really was. Four men and himself versus the disintegration of a newborn African nation and a probable showdown with the U.S.S.R. There were other channels of mediation, true, but he knew instinctively that in spite of all the talk that might follow failure, the AXE mission was their only real chance to save a situation that had grown rapidly from minor incident to murderous chaos and from slight mistrust to hatred and suspicion.
Polikov and Mbanzi, of course, had never heard of AXE. The Secretary for African Affairs devoutly hoped they never would. Sending a spy with the title of Killmaster on a fact-finding expedition was scarcely a move calculated to inspire confidence in the plaintiff. In fact, it could just blow everything to hell. But the President himself, with the full support of the National Security Council, had felt that this was a job for Hawk’s department. He had mentioned Nick Carter specifically by name.
The Secretary tapped his pipe on the huge ashtray and cleared his throat.
“Gentlemen,” he began. “As you all know, I have already held a preliminary meeting with the representative from Nyanga, which I followed with discussions on a presidential level. The Russian Ambassador in Washington has filed a protest with the United States. As a result we are meeting here today in an effort to clarify the situation and agree upon our course of action.”
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, thoroughly disliking the formal language he felt obliged to use. Hawk eyed him sympathetically and chomped quietly on his evil-smelling cigar.
“We have all met informally,” ‘Dusty’ Thompson continued. “Now I should like to explain why each of us is here.” Serge Polikov produced a knowing smile. Nick disliked him instantly. “Dr. Tom Mbanzi is the head of the United Nations delegation from Nyanga, which became an independent nation on September 7th of last year. He is here because President Makombe of his country prefers to conduct negotiations under the auspices of the United Nations, rather than lodge formal governmental protests. If our present efforts fail — and it is vitally important that they do not — both Nyanga and Soviet Russia will call for a meeting of the Security Council, and Nyanga will break off relations with the United States. The Soviet Union,” he added, turning a cool gaze upon Polikov, “has mentioned the possibility of employing more drastic measures. I prefer not to detail them at this point.” Polikov grinned wolfishly. “Mr. Polikov of the Russian delegation is here at the request of President Makombe as well as of his own government, since their interests in this matter are so closely related. Mr. Hawk and Mr. Carter are here as special representatives of the United States Department of State. The President of Nyanga and the President of the United States have agreed to send a fact-finding mission to Nyanga, one that will be in constant personal contact with both governments. Mr. Hawk is to remain in New York as the liaison official. Mr. Carter will go to Nyanga as troubleshooter on the scene.” Polikov snickered and repeated, “Troubleshooter!” Thompson regretted his choice of word even as it came out. Polikov would pick it up and make something of it. But Mbanzi was eyeing the Russian with the faintest of frowns. Good. Dusty Thompson had liked this young African scholar and diplomat from the moment of first meeting. And he had not liked the sneering Polikov. Because he was a Russian? Thompson pushed the thought away.
“And now, Dr. Mbanzi, if you would be so good as to describe the situation in your own words?” Thompson gratefully clamped his pipe between his teeth.
Mbanzi began to speak in the lilting, melodic tones of the African who is fluent in many languages and yet still loves his own for its richness and its subtleties. He looked at Hawk and Carter while he spoke, and saw a soldierly old man with gimlet eyes and a youngish athlete with the brow of a savant. Both looked hard as nails and immensely capable.
“I will touch only upon the salient points,” Mbanzi said. “Every incident has been documented. I have here more reports for you to read.” He laid his hand briefly on a pile of papers. “In substance, my country has been plagued since the day after independence. There has been fighting in the streets of Abimako. Government officials have received mysterious threats. Every day there is shotgun fire. A bomb was exploded in the President’s own garden. The Russian Embassy has been bombed. Russian individuals — technicians and government personnel — have been terrorized. Armed bands have started to roam the countryside, threatening to kill and burn and pillage until the people overthrow the government. Everything that could possibly happen to give my country a bad name and to topple its elected officials is happening. Even to stirring up peaceful tribespeople and making a rebel army out of them. Hospitals stoned. Missions burned. Our friends from the Soviet Union, murdered.” He stared at Dusty, his strong young face accusing. “Why this pattern of terror, when all was peace before? Julian Makombe was elected by the people. They used to honor him. It is not by themselves that they have started to destroy. They have been influenced from outside.”
“By what you believe to be undercover agents of the United States,” Hawk said bluntly. “Where is your proof, and what could be the motive?”
“The proof is in tape recordings, in photographs, in pamphlets, in the laboratory,” Mbanzi said intensely. “An American voice broadcasts incitements to riot. Leaflets are handed out, with drawings and slogans in the American style. Weapons and bomb fragments have been recovered. They are American. As to motive...”
Polikov laughed. “It could not be more obvious, surely? The whole world knows that the United States Government supported the rightist Karumah for the Presidency and that President Makombe studied in Moscow, that he believes in the Communist dream. It is only too clear why the Americans are trying to make his government fall, to discredit his country and the new regime. And to go so far as to persecute Soviet citizens...!”
“I understand that the American Embassy in Nyanga was also bombed,” Carter cut in. “You do not regard this as persecution?”
The Russian snorted. “On a weekend, when no one but the domestic staff was there! An obvious cover action. A foolish, naive ploy designed to cloud the issue.”
“And these bomb fragments, Dr. Mbanzi,” said Nick. “Standard American weapons are easy to come by. Voices and pamphlets are simple enough to fake. But bomb fragments do not usually bear the maker’s name. May I ask how and where they were analyzed?”