“Spite?” he said thoughtfully. “No-ooo, I wouldn’t say that. Not altogether. Natural hatred, one might say, of one part of the world for another. And I have no intention of killing you just yet. You see, as you continue to enjoy your stay here, I may need to offer proof that you are still alive — that is, if you are to serve your purpose. My purpose, I should say. And so, we will keep these in good condition, yes?” The knife jabbed lightly at her ears. “And this, and this, and these.” He chuckled and probed her body with the knife point. Liz sucked in her breath. The light jabs didn’t hurt but they suggested a most unpleasant future. Beads of cold sweat formed suddenly on her forehead. “You understand me now?” Rufus continued. “You are a hostage. For your friend Carter. In case my other efforts to quiet him down should come to nothing. He seems to be a very hard man to pin down. Or perhaps your experience has been otherwise? Never mind; you can tell me about that some other time.” The knife snaked down between her feet, slicing carelessly through the leather thong and nipping at her flesh. “Ah! How clumsy of me. But you may as well get used to it, because if Carter does not contact my colleagues quickly — that is, supposing they have not already taken care of him — then he will have to be prodded. One or two little mementoes should do the trick, I would think, if he is anything of a gentleman. Now get up, Miss Ashton, and follow me. Up! That’s it. This way, please.”
He bowed with mock courtesy and waved her out of the cave. The morning glowed with a light far more cheerful than she felt was fitting, and when she looked down from the slight rise on which they stood she could see the whole sweep of the settlement he had brought her to. It was not big, but it was concentrated, a little stronghold of huts and tents virtually surrounded by low hills. An army camp, with half-uniformed muscular hulks of men attending to the morning chores. Not a very strategic position, she thought; not for defending. But what a hiding place! Especially if no one was looking for it.
“Move, please.” Rufus prodded her down the slope. The two guards eyed her scanty costume with stoic indifference. Couple of queers, I’ll bet, she told herself, feeling relief at their lack of interest. “Here we stop,” said Rufus. “Unfortunately I must tie you up again. But you win find it warm here in the sun, and the view is good. In fact, you will find it very, very warm.” He tied her by the shoulders to the crossbar of an H-shaped wooden frame, facing the busiest section of the camp, and secured each leg to one of the uprights. “So, that should be sufficiently uncomfortable. Please do not concern yourself with thoughts of discomfort, heat, thirst, hunger. Think of a persuasive message to send to the prying Carter, so that he will respond while you are in reasonably good condition. And — oh, yes!” He snapped his fingers. “I almost forgot, and the fat one so badly wants to know. Perhaps you will tell me who he really is?”
“Who he really is?” Liz stared back at him. “Why, you know as well as I do who he is. What ‘fat one’? What’re you talking about?”
“Ah, no. I ask the questions.” Rufus smiled. “But I will give you time to think. Meditate, enjoy the scenery and the country air. I will come back later to continue our pleasant little chat.” He inclined his head graciously and turned away, heading for the largest of the camp buildings. The little breeze that fingered his toga swirled around the camp, touched her straining body, and died a sudden death. The sun burst full into the valley and rekindled the heat of yesterday.
The nearest shade tree was many yards away. There must have been a swamp or a stagnant pool nearby, because an odor of warm rot began to rise and the mosquitoes soon rose with it. They and the big bluebottle flies descended swiftly on the tempting expanses of her bare skin and began their tortuous symphony of buzzing and high whining. After a while they started biting...
Liz gritted her teeth and made herself concentrate on the scene before her. It was not a pleasing prospect. Between her and the nearest tents was a tall pole topped with an aged human skull that seemed to be staring straight down at her and sneering at her predicament. Beyond it, a little yellow man in drab uniform seemed to be lecturing a group of Nyangese tribesmen on the art of — what? Godalmighty, slitting open abdomens! His gestures were hideously graphic. In front of a low, shedlike structure another yellow man was talking quietly to a second group of avid listeners. Now what would a couple of Chinamen, Liz wondered, be doing and saying in the heart of this troubled little African nation in Rufus Makombe’s cozy mountain hideaway? Unite, Colored Nations of the World! Black and Yellow, Stick Together! Spread the Word! Kill, like this, and this and this!
She shuddered under the blazing heat of the sun. Kill your own brother, maybe? For an ideal? Hell, no. For gain. Power. Helped on by a group of yellow men with ideas of their own. Christ, how was she going to get out of this mess and get word to Jefferson or Carter?
The mosquitoes whined and bit incessantly. The sun bore down mercilessly and the angry blotches on her body became one blazing, unbearable and sweating rash. And what exactly did Rufus expect her to do? Chew off a fingertip and send it to Nick Carter’s hotel room in Dakar with her love, and would he please call upon her at his earliest convenience?
She strained against her bonds for the hundredth time. Rufus knew how to tie knots, that was for sure. Womanizing, hot-rodding, debonair younger-brother-Makombe had managed to keep a bundle of secrets hidden away beneath that handsome, carefree exterior.
Her head began to swim. She closed her eyes and tried to remember a childhood prayer. The gentle words turned into a string of curses, at herself for her helplessness and at Rufus for whatever the! hell he was.
An angry, agonized bellow ripped the air. She opened her eyes to see Rufus bursting from one of the huts, his toga flapping around his ankles and his hands clenched into fists that beat furiously around him. He shouted at the groups of men as he strode toward her; the words tumbled out too quickly for her to understand, but she thought she heard a name. What was it? Mirella? Yes, that was it. Mirella...
Rufus advanced upon her, his face muscles working and the whites of his eyes showing huge and staring against the glossy blackness of his face.
His clenched right fist lashed out and slammed at her face.
“killers! Killers! Killers! All of you!” He hit her on the other side of her face, and her head jerked painfully sideways. “Now you will die. Mirella — my beautiful — my Mirella! Why should you live when she is dead?” His fist came at her again. She ducked her head and caught the blow with her forehead. “She is dead! He killed her!” His breath came in heavy, jerking gasps, and she could see his muscles straining against the loose cloth. “Now you die, without him. Now there is no hope for you!” He kicked her brutally, like an enraged child.
“Rufus Makombe, stop!” Liz threw back her head and yelled at him. “You crawling yellow bastard, is that all the guts you have? Tie me up and make goddamn sure I don’t kick you back? Get me off this thing and stop screaming like a bloody fairy!”
His fist stopped in mid-air and slowly fell to his side. She could see the yellowish-white foam that flecked the corners of his mouth. And the tears in his eyes. Rage or anguish? Both, she decided, blinking back her own.
“So you still dare to talk to me like that. And you really expect me to untie you and let you go, I suppose.” The words came out of his mouth like poisoned arrowheads. “No. But you are right about one thing — it is beneath my dignity to touch you. You will die as she died.” Rufus swallowed heavily and his mouth twisted into an odd, inhuman shape. “Only for you it will take longer. For you there will be suspense and fear — and then sudden death that you can see coming at you, and you will be able to do nothing but watch it and scream and take it here!” His voice rose to a shout and he clasped his hand to his chest like a man clutching at a knife thrust through his heart. “And then...” his voice dropped again, so low that it was almost a whisper, “and then your friend Carter can enjoy what’s left of you before we finish him.”