Jefferson thought for a moment and then grinned suddenly. “I have a friend visiting me from Cairo. He is the gentlest, most honest man in the world, and I would trust him with my last sou if he were starving, but he is afflicted with a most sinister looking cast in his eye. He looks capable of the most appalling crimes. Yet he is decent and quick-witted and is known to no one in this part of the country. I am positive he will cooperate. You will be going to your hotel now? I will call you there and confirm the arrangement.”
“Do that,” said Nick, “bearing in mind that all the walls have ears. Or did you perhaps know that already?”
Jefferson stared at him. “Do they indeed?” he said at last. “No, I did not know that. I was not even aware which room was yours until I enquired of the desk clerk. Do you not wish to have the encumbrances removed?”
“Not yet,” said Nick. “Not as long as they amuse me. Miss Ashton, may we drop you at your office? Oh, that’s right. You don’t have an office, do you? What sort of arrangements are there for me to meet the Ambassador?”
“In answer to your string of questions,” she said, smiling, “No, please don’t drop me. I have to talk to you on behalf of my boss — as his representative. You’re going to have to put up with me until this afternoon, when he’ll have gotten rid of some outraged Soviet visitors whom he doesn’t want to inflict on you. One of my jobs is to keep them out of your hair. And yes, we do have an office, temporary quarters in the Sun Building. There’s a skeleton staff on duty. His name is Tad Fergus,” she added.
Abe Jefferson chuckled. “Shocking, the way the emancipated female talks about the pursuant male. Ah, here we are.”
Uru slid the big car to a stop alongside the curb. Corporal Stonewall Temba leapt out and opened the curbside rear door with a casual strength that nearly ripped it off its hinges. Nick’s mouth twitched into a slight smile. He liked these people, all of them. He only hoped to God that he could trust them. But he would soon be sure of that, after today — and the small traps he had set.
Jefferson let Liz walk on ahead and did not speak again until he was out of earshot of all but Nick. Then he spoke very softly.
“I do not know, as yet, how much you care to say in front of others,” he murmured. “Myself, I am sure of all these people. But if your room is wired, you must be very, very careful. Now.” Once again he reminded Nick, fleetingly, of Hawk. “I shall speak to my friend. If he agrees, I will call and simply say ‘The meeting is arranged.’ If not, I will say, ‘The meeting is postponed.’ Agreed?”
Nick nodded. “Any other prospects if he falls through?”
“I will try to think of someone and let you know in time. There is one other thing that may be of help to you.” Liz stopped at the entrance to the hotel and waited for them. Jefferson stopped as if about to turn back to the car. “The two addicts we are still holding in the jail. We knew at once that they are not from these parts. We find that they are known in Dakar, that they are common criminals with no political affiliations but who will do anything to support their vice. Of late they have been seen frequenting a back-street place in Dakar called The Hop Club.” His expression reflected his distaste. “It is a gathering place for the beatniks of the new world, the worst type. Not poets drinking coffee, but the lost ones. Now, I do not know how this can help you, but perhaps something will suggest itself to you.”
“Something just may,” Nick murmured. “Thanks. I’D hear from you, then.”
He shook hands with Jefferson. Stonewall saluted mightily from his post beside the car.
Liz was tapping her foot impatiently at the hotel entrance.
“Secrets, already,” she said disapprovingly as Nick joined her.
“Uh-huh,” he agreed cheerfully. “I wanted to know what he meant by ‘the pursuant male’ in connection with Tad Fergus.”
“Oh, really!” she protested. “Is that all you have to think about?” A little pink spot appeared provocatively on each cheek.
“Of course not,” Nick said reproachfully. “I’m also thinking it’s about time I had some breakfast.”
She stood watching him with that Men-Are-Impossible look on her face while he checked at the desk for messages or callers. Nothing had come in. They walked together up the one flight of stairs to what the management persisted in calling his first floor room and what all Americans think of as the second. Nick remembered to use his cane to help him up the stairs.
“Back injury?” Liz enquired sympathetically.
“Mm. Slipped in the bathtub as a lad,” he lied.
He stopped outside Room 101, rear, and fished for his keys.
But the door was already unlocked.
Nick pushed Liz gently away from the door. “Stay back,” he whispered urgently. With one long arm he thrust the door abruptly inward and waited.
Nothing happened.
A breeze from the open window fluttered the breakfast tablecloth on the service cart. Nick hefted his cane experimentally and glided silently into the room, his eyes darting about like pinpoint flashlights. The built-in geiger counter that was his sixth sense was sending him urgent warning signals. The desk drawer he had locked so carefully was open. A floorboard creaked faintly. Inside the closet? Sounded like it.
“Why, it was only the waiter,” Liz said from behind him, relief and amusement in her voice. “He forgot to lock the door.”
Nick cursed her silently and flung her a furious look.
“Sure,” he said, as easily as he could. “Just wait outside for me, will you? I’ll pick up the book and be right with you.”
The closet door flung open even as he spoke and a black-and-white figure shot out, one arm raised and flashing forward with the suddenness of a bolt of lightning in a summer storm. Nick raised the cane like a shield and twisted his body sideways. He saw the flash of silver and heard the click of metal against the cane, and then he heard Liz scream.
What happened next was scarcely a credit to agent N-3, the man whose fellow agents called him Killmaster. He lost his legendary balance. And as he stumbled the flying figure snarled and flung itself full-tilt against the service cart. The metal table overturned and slammed down on Nick. Plates, coffee pot and scrambled eggs cascaded over him. He swore bitterly and fluently and made a wild grab for the bare black legs that streaked past him toward the window. His clutching fingers slid off a sleek greased surface and scrabbled at thin air. With a blistering oath that outdid all his previous efforts he gathered himself together and sprang at the black man whose long, greased legs were straddling the window sill. Nick grasped furiously at a pair of soiled white shorts and heard them tear. The man made a strange yelping sound and disappeared over the window sill, leaving Nick with his hands full of torn shorts and his face full of egg.
Below him, in the square, the man ran off with a curious hobbling gait. Clearly, he had hurt his leg on landing. Clearly, too, he was much concerned at pulling down his shirttails as far as they would go. The last Nick saw of him was a pair of frantically bobbing buttocks followed by a yapping dog.
Nick was grinning and cursing to himself when he heard Liz’ half-sobbing giggle. Christ Almighty! He had forgotten all about her. He swung around, still clutching the foolishly torn pants, and saw Liz inside the room slumped against the wall. She was pointing feebly at him and shaking with weak laughter, even though tears of shock and pain trickled down her face.
“Oh, you look... you look so... you look so funny! And him!” She went off into gales of laughter. The blood spread inexorably across her left breast and oozed through the cloth of her dress in tiny globules.
“Goddamn!” Nick dropped the shorts and moved toward her, unaware that he was dripping with cold coffee. One hand slammed the door shut and the other went around her waist. “I told you to stay outside!”