With Keating trailing behind, the old man threaded the ancient winding streets that huddled around the jutting rock of the Acropolis. The four blacks walked around the ancient citadel, striding purposefully, as if they had to be at an exact place at a precise time. Keating had to stay well behind them because the traffic along Theonas Avenue was much thinner, and pedestrians, in this rain, were nowhere in sight except for his quarry. It was quieter here, along the shoulder of the great cliff. The usual nightly son et lumière show had been cancelled because of the rain; even the floodlights around the Parthenon and the other temples had been turned off.
For a few minutes Keating wondered if Rungawa was going to the Agora instead, but no, the old man and his friends turned in at the gate to the Acropolis, the Sacred Way of the ancient Athenians.
It was difficult to see through the rain, especially at this distance. Crouching low behind shrubbery, Keating fumbled in his trench coat pocket until he found the miniature «camera» he had brought with him. Among other things, it was an infrared snooperscope. Even in the darkness and rain, he could see the four men as they stopped at the main gate. Their figures looked ghostly gray and eerie against a flickering dark background.
They stopped for a few moments while one of them opened the gate that was usually locked and guarded. Keating was more impressed than surprised. They had access to everything they wanted. But why do they want to go up to the Parthenon on a rainy wintry night? And how can I make Rungawa’s death look natural if I have to fight my way past three bodyguards?
The second question resolved itself almost as soon as Keating asked it. Rungawa left his companions at the gate and started up the steep, rain-slickened marble stairs by himself.
«A man that age, in this weather, could have a heart attack just from climbing those stairs,» Keating whispered to himself. But he knew that he could not rely on chance.
He had never liked climbing. Although he felt completely safe and comfortable in a jet plane and had even made parachute jumps calmly, climbing up the slippery rock face of the cliff was something that Keating dreaded. But he did it, nevertheless. It was not as difficult as he had feared. Others had scaled the Acropolis, over the thirty-some centuries since the Greeks had first arrived at it. Keating clambered and scrambled over the rocks, crawling at first on all fours while the cold rain spattered in his face. Then he found a narrow trail. It was steep and slippery, but his soft-soled shoes, required for stealth, gripped the rock well enough.
He reached the top of the flat-surfaced cliff in a broad open area. To his right was the Propylaea and the little temple of Athene Nike. To his left, the Erechtheum, with its Caryatids patiently holding up the roof as they had for twenty-five hundred years. The marble maidens stared blindly at Keating. He glanced at them, then looked across the width of the clifftop to the half-ruined Parthenon, the most beautiful building on Earth, a monument both to man’s creative genius and his destructive folly.
The rain had slackened, but the night was still as dark as the deepest pit of hell. Keating brought the snooperscope up to his eyes again and scanned from left to right.
And there stood Rungawa! Directly in front of the Parthenon, standing there with his arms upraised, as if praying.
Too far away for the dart gun, Keating knew. For some reason, his hands started to shake. Slowly, struggling for absolute self-control, Keating put the «camera» back into his trench coat and took out the pistol. He rose to his feet and began walking toward Rungawa with swift but unhurried, measured strides.
The old man’s back was to him. All you have to do, Keating told himself, is to get within a few feet, pop the dart into his neck, and then wait a couple of minutes to make certain the dart dissolves. Then go down the way you came and back to the pensione for a hot bath and a bracer of cognac.
As he came to within ten feet of Rungawa he raised the dart gun. It worked on air pressure, practically noiseless. No need to cock it. Five feet. He could see the nails on Rungawa’s upraised hands, the pinkish palms contrasting with the black skin of the fingers and the backs of his hands. Three feet. Rungawa’s suit was perfectly fitted to him, the sleeves creased carefully. Dry. He was wearing only a business suit, and it was untouched by the rain, as well-creased and unwrinkled as if it had just come out of the store.
«Not yet, Mr. Keating,» said the old man, without turning to look at Jeremy. «We have a few things to talk about before you kill me.»
Keating froze. He could not move his arm. It stood ramrod straight from his left shoulder, the tiny dart gun in his fist a mere two feet from Rungawa’s bare neck. But he could not pull the trigger. His fingers would not obey the commands of his mind.
Rungawa turned toward him, smiling, and stroked his chin thoughtfully for a moment.
«You may put the gun down now, Mr. Keating.»
Jeremy’s arm dropped to his side. His mouth sagged open; his heart thundered in his ears. He wanted to run away, but his legs were like the marble of the statues that watched them.
«Forgive me,» said Rungawa. «I should not leave you out in the rain like that.»
The rain stopped pelting Jeremy. He felt a gentle warmth enveloping him, as if he were standing next to a welcoming fireplace. The two men stood under a cone of invisible protection. Jeremy could see the raindrops spattering on the stony ground not more than a foot away.
«A small trick. Please don’t be alarmed.» Rungawa’s voice was a deep rumbling bass, like the voice a lion would have if it could speak in human tongue.
Jeremy stared into the black man’s eyes and saw no danger in them, no hatred or violence; only a patient amusement at his own consternation. No, more: a tolerance of human failings, a hope for human achievement, an understanding born of centuries of toil and pain and striving.
«Who are you?» Jeremy asked in a frightened whisper.
Rungawa smiled, and it was like sunlight breaking through he storm clouds. «Ah, Mr. Keating, you are as intelligent as we had hoped. You cut straight to the heart of the matter.»
«You knew I was following you. You set up this meeting.»
«Yes. Yes, quite true. Melodramatic of me, I admit. But would you have joined me at dinner if I had sent one of my aides across the street to invite you? I think not.»
It’s all crazy, Jeremy thought. I must be dreaming this.
«No, Mr. Keating. It is not a dream.»
An electric jolt flamed through Jeremy. Jesus Christ, he can read my mind!
«Of course I can,» Rungawa said gently, smiling, the way doctor tells a child that the needle will hurt only for an instant. «How else would I know that you were stalking me?»
Jeremy’s mouth went utterly dry. His voice cracked and failed him. If he had been able to move his legs he would have fled like a chimpanzee confronted by a leopard.
«Please, do not be afraid, Mr. Keating. Fear is an impediment to understanding. If we had wanted to kill you, it would have been most convenient to let you slip while you were climbing up here.»
«What …» Jeremy had to swallow and lick his lips before he could ask, «Just who are you?»
«I am a messenger, Mr. Keating. Like you, I am merely a tool of my superiors. When I was assigned to this task, I thought it appropriate to make my home base in Tanzania.» The old man’s smile returned, and a hint of self-satisfaction glowed in his eyes. «After all, Tanzania is where the earliest human tribes once lived. What more appropriate place for me to—um, shall we say, associate myself with the human race?»