Bluebolt One (24 page)

He was glad when he heard the sound of an aircraft circling to touch down on the sodden field. Soon now he would be in Jinda, and he could perhaps get some action started if the man who called himself Edo really had turned up. Within a few minutes he had run through the soaking rain and climbed into the small cabin behind the pilot, who was a white. Then they were off, plunging through the mist of rain, climbing, climbing until they reached above the thick cloud layer and sped under a hot blue sky for Jinda.

Shaw had much on his mind during that run in; Hartog’s story—true or false? That Lee Enfield bullet... the way he’d come out with the story about Edo having turned up... his open admission that he was a member of the Cult... his habit of drink, which something must be driving him to—a guilty conscience of sorts? Shaw didn’t know; the man was an enigma, a contradiction. Somehow there wasn’t quite the right feeling to all this. Certainly Hartog didn’t strike Shaw as being a traitor; there was a latent honesty in the man somewhere. And yet—if he could be assumed to have fooled the Cult into accepting him on his own merits, could he not equally well be assumed to have fooled Geisler and now Shaw? Again, couldn’t it have seemed to Hartog to be a good idea, a disarming idea, to go straight to the man whom he knew to be investigating, and tell him about Edo’s coming— in other words, tell him something which he would be bound to hear for himself sooner or later in any case—if it was true at all? And couldn’t the same thing be said of his admission that he had joined the Cult?

Where was the answer?

When the aircraft came over Jinda the clouds had gone, leaving a welcome if only temporary lull in the rains.

A policeman, an African constable in a smart, well-starched khaki uniform and blue peaked cap, and with a folded cloak over his arm, was waiting for Shaw in the main dispersal hall of Jinda Airport. When he saw the tall, angular form swinging along, the only passenger off the specially cleared military plane, he stepped forward and saluted.

“Bwana, you are Commander Shaw?”

“That’s right. You’ve come from Colonel Mgelo, have you?”

“Yes, Bwana. There is a car outside. Please follow.”

The man turned about smartly and marched away, Shaw behind him. He went up to a police car which was parked at the entrance, and he swung the door open, standing aside and saluting. And then, as Shaw ducked to get in, he saw the small round hole, the gun held very steady in a big black fist, and the tilt of a brown hat over crinkly greying hair and a heavy, cruel face.

Instinctively he reached for his own gun and backed away. He backed into the muzzle of another gun, held by the African policeman. A voice murmured in his ear, “Keep your hands at your sides, white man.”

From the car’s interior Sam Wiley said softly, “At last, Commander Shaw. I am only sorry Mr Canasset is not here to welcome you as well—but he is already where your people can’t touch him. Now please get in quickly and without a fuss.” He reached out, took Shaw’s gun, and pushed it down beside him. He said, “You will not recognize me—”

“Oh, yes, I do!” Shaw spoke between his teeth. “That powder of yours. . . it wore off, you know, a little sooner than you thought it would, I dare say, Wiley! Anyway—how did you get into Nogolia?”

Wiley laughed. “Money talks fast enough.”

Shaw stared at the man, his face stiff. “If I refuse to get into the car you won’t dare to use that gun. There’s rather too many people about, I fancy.”

“With the Jinda police force behind the Cult?” Wiley lifted his eyebrows mockingly, looked sadly at Shaw for a moment, shaking his head. “We would merely be dealing with a man resisting arrest. No, I don’t think you would get away with that. And, you see, if it so happened that you did, then the girl would have to die, and I’m afraid she would die somewhat messily. So if you wouldn’t mind getting in . . .?”

Shaw felt the policeman’s arms wind round him like steel bands, and his arms were wrenched up behind his back. He was thrown forward into the car, landing in a heap at Wiley’s feet, and then he felt the cold steel of the big African’s gun in his neck. People looked on but made no move to interfere with the police as the constable slammed the door and ran round to the front and jumped in. At once the car pulled away fast. It looked so innocent, with its police driver and the constable sitting statue-like beside him in the front seat, its blaring siren clearing away the ordinary traffic along the road into Jinda.

“I suppose you think you’re pretty smart.”

Shaw spoke savagely, feeling Wiley’s gun-muzzle pressed close into his side now as he sat beside the African on the thick cushions.

Wiley chuckled throatily. “Wouldn’t you agree? You could scarcely afford to disregard a summons from the Chief of Police of a host country, especially after you’d checked that the call really did come from him—could you? As to these men,” he added, waving a thick arm at the uniformed men in the front, “they, too, are the genuine article.” He looked gloatingly at the agent. “You realize what all this means, of course?”

“You tell me. I like facts better than guesses at times like this.”

“Very well. It means this: You’ve failed, and our movement is ready. As to you. . . I could not make the assumption that you would not find out, or guess, what we had in mind to do, and that is why I had to get my hands on you again, before you could throw any more spanners in the works, Commander Shaw. And now you’re going to have the fun of being in at the kill. However, you will hear more of this later.”

They came into the shanty town on Jinda’s outskirts, their speed dropping to a mere crawl as they moved with difficulty through roads choked with shouting Africans, Africans in whom the blood-lust was well and truly up now. Shaw’s mouth was set into a hard line. The situation was obviously going to blow right up at any minute, had developed catastrophically in the short time since he’d passed through the capital. . . heavens, he thought unbelievingly, that was only yesterday!

Soon the car was forced to a halt, surrounded by a pressing, screaming mob, a mob that had seen the white man sitting in the back. The din was growing alarmingly, the smell of heated African bodies was seeping in through the windows, and a moment later a big stone was flung at the glass and fragments showered into the interior, cutting Shaw’s cheek. Still keeping his gun pressed tightly into Shaw’s side, Wiley leaned across, shouting and gesticulating. Somehow he made the mob understand. And as they understood, they seemed to go mad, leaping up and down in what seemed to be a frenzy of joy. They pressed away, the news spread; Wiley’s car was being given a clear passage, and all around at the roadsides men and women were prostrating themselves.

Shaw looked out of the window in amazement, and then, when he heard the swelling roar of acclaim, the sheer hysteria of the welcome, he, too, understood.

Hartog had been so right.

Edo had come—and he was sitting right next to him.

The shouts, the cries went on unceasingly, swelling, mounting . . . "
Edo, Edo, Edo. . . .”

The mob was going mad.

Wiley leaned towards the window again, lifted a hand to his disciples, waving, bowing, smiling; a lordly figure. He called out, and they stilled their voices gradually. Then Shaw noticed the way Wiley jerked his hand ahead, drawing the mob’s attention to something on the road, and he looked and saw the other car.

That car had two white men in it, and as the police car came up closer, Shaw watched, impotently and in horror, as the doors were wrenched open and the predatory hands reached in, the mob baying out on a high note of animal hate. A moment later a flame leapt into the air and within seconds the whole car was a fiery mass. The shouting beat into Shaw’s ears, and then he saw the two men being literally flung through the air from hand to hand above the heads of the Africans howling for their blood, their faces dead white and their eyes staring, blood pouring from gashes in their bodies. Then they dropped down into the middle of the seething mass which closed in like vultures, tearing and ripping, kicking and lashing and gouging, baying like beasts. For one brief, never-to-be-forgotten moment a pain-contorted face reared up above the black heads, screaming horribly. There was a convulsive heaving twitch and the body arced backwards like a bow, gave one more long scream, and then it was over.

Shaw was trembling and drenched with sweat. This, he knew, was just the start. If he couldn’t get away, if he couldn’t rid Africa of Wiley and the wicked teachings of his filthy Cult, then a page of history would be turned, bloodily, finally, and for ever.

And there didn’t seem to be one hope in all the world of getting away now.

Wiley gave a brief order to the police driver and the car swung off into a side street where the way was relatively clear. Some minutes later, after many twists and turns, they drew up outside a building on the fringe of the European sector and Shaw was ordered out. The police car drove away with the English-speaking constable, and Shaw was sent reeling towards a doorway. Behind him Wiley kept the gun lined up, though it was scarcely necessary to do so; Shaw knew well enough that if he tried a break-away just now Wiley had only to let him go and the mob, still howling in the near distance, would quickly do the rest. Just before he was pushed inside he caught a glimpse of a truckload of African soldiers speeding down for the riot area, and then he was jabbed forward into a dirty passage. And at the end he saw the terrified, wide-eyed face of a girl staring at him. . . .

The girl was white and she was Gillian Ross. Behind her, he saw a squat, powerful African, his dark fingers gripping the girl’s shoulders.

Shaw started forward, and at once Wiley grabbed his arms. He struggled violently, risking the gun behind him; but another black pushed past and came for him, and he was sent staggering into a room opening off the passage to the right. As he lurched into the middle of this room he heard the girl’s despairing cry, a cry which was bitten off in a gasp of pain.

He wheeled round, fists clenched. He demanded, “What are you doing with her?”

“Never mind for now.”

"I—"

A heavy blow took him in his side and he gasped, stumbled backward. There were two more Africans in the room and they came for him now, took his arms and butted him brutally in the kidneys with their knees until he almost fainted. When they had finished Wiley went through his pockets, removing the special identity card which, in the circumstances of the journey to Jinda as he had thought, Shaw had kept on his person.

Shaw gasped, “The girl. . . I want to know. . . she hasn’t done you any harm.”

Wiley grinned. “If we had not brought her she might have done us a considerable amount of harm by opening her mouth.”

“Better if you’d killed her back in London—like you thought you’d killed me.”

The huge African sighed. He said, “Be reasonable, Commander Shaw. We thought she might come in handy—and she has. She has in effect brought you here, is that not so? If she had been known to have died in London, we could not have used her name in this way.”

He gave a soft, jeering laugh.

Shaw said painfully, “You bastard. . . what are you going to do with us now?”

“I thought I’d already told you. You are going to have a grandstand view of the final act, you and the girl. Do you know what the last act is going to be?” He laughed again in Shaw’s face, then nodded towards two Africans. “These men do not understand English, so I can tell you now.”

“Go on.”

“All right, Commander. It is just this: We have arranged for Bluebolt’s missile to be brought down. . . on African territory.”

Shaw stared at him, unbelievingly at first, unable to take it in. He repeated stupidly, “On African territory . . . but why?”

“Because Tshemambi is still adamant. He is so obstinate, that old fool. So we have to take other measures. It is as simple as that. . . and in many ways it suits us better, because what we shall now do will be very much more far-reaching than if we were merely to cause the removal of the Bluebolt post. Think, Commander, think—of the psychological effect!”

Still Shaw stared at him. A vein began throbbing away in his temple and he felt that his head must burst as he started to realize. . . . He breathed, “So Hartog was really with you all the time—that’s how you’re going to do it—”

“Quite correct. You British,” Wiley said witheringly, “you think you are so very, very clever. You think that once a man is screened by the fools in your security services he is safe for ever. But he isn’t, you see, he isn’t! Now—think what will be the effect on the coloured peoples throughout all the world—India, Malaya, the West Indies. . . even the coloured people in London and New York—think what will be the effect on all of
them
when a British-American satellite sends its missile down from the Manalati base. . . on to Ghana or Sierra Leone, the Cameroons, the Congo or Kenya, or other lands. For how much longer after that will the West retain what is left of its hold on the minds of men—and for how much longer will the uncommitted nations remain uncommitted, Commander Shaw? Does this not look very much like the end of a way of life, Commander, the end of the road for Britain and America—whose overseas policies have in any case been suspect for a long time?” He added jeeringly, “Your propaganda machines will never correct the balance which will swing against them!”

“Do you really mean all that? Would you really sacrifice your own people, Wiley?”

The man’s big face glowered at him. He said with emphasis, “There is nothing I would not do to ensure success. If some people have to die, they are only drops in the ocean, sacrifices to a greater objective. And of course the people who are helping me do not know what my plan really is. They believe that with Hartog’s benevolent assistance I am going to disarm Bluebolt by making the British bring the missile down harmlessly in the sea. When it lands in fact on Africa instead of in the sea, I shall ensure without doubt that it is the British and Americans who get the blame for it. That will be very easy.” He jabbed a finger towards the agent. “You are going to witness the attainment of our objective. You, yourself, are going to give the signal which will bring the missile down from Bluebolt. . . exactly how, you will find out a little later on.”