Assignment Black Gold (6 page)

“What sort of things?” Durell asked.

“Pressure. The local government, the Apgaks. The government
is making noises about putting up more blocks of concessions, as much as
fifteen blocks covering a thousand square miles, if we don’t come through.
We’ve been delayed—the usual stuff. Safety valves and packing, and getting that
sixty-ton blowout preventer stack in position before we started drilling. Shit.
I figured we’d put Nigeria in the shade. I figured the Lady would pump
some fifteen-thousand barrels a day, sweet oil, no sulfur. So after rig-up, we
got a
pinchout
due to overlap, missed the dome. the
mud-pit agitators broke down. lost some junk down the hole. and laid down three
days fishing for it with the junk basket. Just some lost tools. I fired
the roustabout who was there.”

"Is there oil out there?” Durell asked.

"Yes," Matty said flatly.

“Any proof?"

“Not yet. Not a drop. But I’m an old rigger. Sam. I can
smell
it, I tell you. But Hobe took all
the records and shut us down. No more pipe, no more trips made, nothing. Hobe
says it’s a tiny hole. But l
know
there’s oil under that water." Matty chopped the air vehemently, as if
attacking an invisible, frustrating enemy. “I’m sorry, Sam. I’m just plain mad.
is all. I got to get down there on the dock and help those flatheads set things
right. You’re

staying at the Lopodama Hotel?“

“I checked in there, but I haven’t seen the room yet.”
Durell paused, watching the squat man. “One more thing, Matt. Tell me about
Hobe Tallman and his wife.”

“Oh. Betty?”

"Yes."

Matty the Fork looked sour. “Like almost every other
Stateside dame you see down here. Cranky and full of tricks. Makes passes at
anything in pants just to while away the time. Maybe that‘s what bugs Hobe.
He‘s a good superintendent, mostly. Worked with him before, in Sumatra. But
he’s got ants up his ass or something. Maybe it‘s Betty, but
i
don’t know. He ought to send her home. But maybe we’ll
all be going home soon, anyway.” Matty hesitated. “They even say she took on
Lopes Fuentes Madragata. The Apgak general. The Mao Chinese got Lopes in their
pockets, no mistake, but I don’t think
Betty‘d
care
about that, Just before he broke with the new government, he was around town a
lot, quite a wheel. Then he took to the bush and began terrorizing and
murdering. Maybe Betty figured he had enough Portuguese blood in him to
pass, make him acceptable, I wouldn’t know. Maybe she doesn‘t have any
scruples. But they say that she and Lopes, during the time he was Interior
Minister, had a hot fire going.”

“Did Hobe know about it?”

“Even if he did, he wouldn’t have let on.” Matty sighed.
“I’m sorry, Sam, I’ve got to get back to work. Come back for a drink. any
time—if I’m still here.”

"You can’t help me about Emily Cotton?"

“I told yon, he must be in the bush somewhere, And one other
thing. l saw you talking to Colonel Komo Lepaka. You want to watch out for him.
His little swagger stick can turn into a spiked
jamba
club if you don’t play
things his way. Does he want to see you?"

"Yes, in a mild kind of way," Darrell said.

“There‘s nothing mild about Komo. You’d better get your ass
over there.”

Chapter 6.

Durell returned to the Lopodama Hotel instead. It was after
one in the morning, and the excitement generated by the explosions—sabotage or
accident—on the dock had died down. The night‘s humidity made him feel as if he
were breathing water. The hotel was an old one, going back to Portuguese days,
built in the rococo colonial style. The central building resembled a miniature
Petite
Trianon
, and there were two low wings of faded
pink stucco and ornate pilasters that faced the estuary. Two freighters swung
at their anchor moorings offshore. The riding lights made red and green ribbons
across the quiet black water.

Durell’s room was at the extreme end of the west wing, on
the second floor. It had a balcony overlooking the river and rotating
wooden fans in the pale green ceiling. Plaster winged cupids smiled at him from
each corner. The bathroom was large, tiled in elaborate arabesque designs, with
a great long tub and a rusty shower. He had done little more than drop his bag
in the room before going out to look for Brady Cotton and winding up at Hobe
Tallman’s bungalow.

It had been a long day, and he felt bone-weary from the
heat; but he was not too tired to take the usual precautions when entering the
room.

Someone was in his bath. He heard the splashing of water
while he stood in the broad, tiled corridor outside. He paused, then inserted
the big iron key soundlessly and pushed the carved panel inward with his fingertips,
not sure whether the bath water was a diversion for an unwelcome presence
waiting just inside the doorway. He drew his gun. The only light came from the
bathroom door, which stood ajar. No one waited for him in the bedroom. He let
his eyes adjust to the faint moonlight that came through the tall, narrow
windows facing the sea. His bed had been turned down, his bag had been unpacked
by the maid. It was the sort of old-fashioned service one did not expect these
days. A small wind blew the gauzy curtains.

More
splashings
came from the
bath. He walked silently across the tiled floor and stood in the doorway.

Betty Tallman looked up at him with a smile from a foaming,
bubbly tub full of steaming water. Her pale hair was piled high upon her head,
and he saw her full round breasts above the soapy water and the round arch of
one hip.

“Hi, Sam.”

“Hello, Mrs. Tallman,” he said flatly.

She looked at his gun. “Expecting the Apgaks again?”

“I didn’t expect it would be you,” he told her.

“Shoo, I don’t bite. Maybe I scratch a little, but I don’t
bite. Do you mind? The
posadero
said I could wait in here for you. Hobe’s still at the bungalow, but all that
mess out there cut off our power and there was no hot water, and I just felt as
if I couldn‘t stand it another minute without a hot tub, so I thought of you
and came here. Colonel Lepaka was kind enough to give me a lift.”

“Why?”

“He’s really a nice man.”

“Why come to me?"

Her smile did not touch her hard entertainer’s eyes. “I feel
safe here with you. And we have some things to discuss. I don't think you mind
mixing business with pleasure. Would you hand me that towel, please?”

He tossed it to her as she stood up in the tub. Her body was
lush, ripe, inviting. She handled herself with no sense of shyness. She kept
watching him with a direct, bold stare, her eyes amused.

“Don't worry about Hobe,” she said softly.

“I don’t. What do we have to talk about?"

“Later,” she said. “Do my back, please?”

He helped her with the towel.

“Let’s talk now," he said.

“Are you afraid of me?”

“A little. Is it about Brady?”

“Of course. And you.”

“Do you know where Brady Cotton is?”

“Don’t you like me?“ she asked.

“You look fine to me.”

“Then why don’t you touch me?”

“What about Brady?” he insisted.

“Oh, shoo. Let’s talk in bed.”

“Let’s talk now,” he said again.

“Well, I just happen to know that Brady Cotton is an orphan.
He has no family at all. So what kind of an inheritance could he possibly
receive?”

“It’s an insurance thing,” Durell said.

“An accident policy?”

“Something like that.”

“But I happen to know that Brady Cotton doesn’t have a
single mark on his body. He brags about it.”

“So?”

“So, Mr. Samuel Durell, I think you're a liar. I don’t think
there is an inheritance or an insurance policy.”

“And?”

“Maybe I’ll tell the police your papers are phony. Maybe I should
talk to my good friend, Colonel Komo Lepaka."

“Go ahead. Do that.” Durell said bluntly.

She looked puzzled. She did not try to hold the big towel to
conceal her tall, naked body. She let it slide to the tiled floor at her
feet and stared at him for a moment, her lower lip full and petulant, and then
she made a sniffing sound and moved past him, deliberately letting her hip
brush against him. He ignored her, which was rather difficult, and checked the
bathroom carefully, inspecting the cabinet, the pressure tank above the
lavatory, then the big closet. He found a bug fastened loosely to the inside of
the closet door. The tiny microphone wires led into a newly drilled hole in the
wall. He left it there and went into the bedroom. Betty Tallman had made herself
comfortable in the big bed, and was considering her long fingernails,
smiling secretly to herself. She had scented herself, and he could not help but
be aware of her, of the
updrawn
knee, the long full
thigh and calf, the painted toenails. The search of the bedroom took longer,
but he found a second bug hooked to the rather battered silken shade of a table
lamp under the mirrored wall opposite the bed. He did not touch it. In the
mirror, he saw Betty watching him.

“What are you looking for?” she asked.

“Nothing. Get dressed.”

“You don’t mean that. We've got plenty of time. Hobe doesn’t
care. He doesn’t care What I do anymore. That’s the trouble. He’s all wrapped
up in the failure of the Lady. It’s an obsession with him. He’s scared to
death."

“Of not finding oil?”

“Of lots of things. Of the Apgaks, of losing me, the whole
place. The whole bit.”

“He seems all right to me.”

“It’s a good facade. But I know him, see?” Impatience made
her voice a bit shrill, gave the first betrayal of what her life had been
be-fore her marriage to Hobe. He remembered she had been a bur girl in dubious
bars from Texas through all the Gulf states. She wiggled fingers at him.
“Come here.”

He went to the bed and sat down. She smiled with revived
satisfaction and began to undo his shirt. Her hands were warm, eager, a bit
perspired. From somewhere in the hotel, a Portuguese
fado
singer mourned the loss of
her seafaring lover to a tune dating back three hundred years. Betty’s eyes
grew heavy-lidded. He didn’t like the glitter in their depths.

“You do like me, dent you?” she murmured. “I suppose you
think I’m terrible, being here like this. Hardly knowing you and all. But
Lubinda gives me the
wickie-wackies
. I hate it so. If
it weren‘t for Hobe—”

“He's been good to you, hasn’t he?”

“Sure, but—"

“But now that he’s in trouble, you’re ready to
cheek
out?”

“Oh, Sam, don’t be so cruel.”

“Do you know where I can find Brady Cotton?”

She pouted. “Be nice to me, I’ll be nice to you.”

“Tell me, first.”

“Why don’t you ask Hobe?”

“Hobe said he doesn’t know anything.”

“He knows a lot more than he lets on. Ask him again.”

“What are you looking for?” she asked.

“Nothing. Get dressed.”

“You don’t mean that. We’ve got plenty of time. Hobe doesn't
care. He doesn’t care what I do anymore. That’s the trouble. He’s all wrapped
up in the failure of the Lady. It’s an obsession with him. He’s scared to
death.”

"Of not finding oil?”

“Of lots of things. Of the Apgaks, of losing me, the whole
place. The whole bit.”

“He seems all right to me.”

“It’s a good facade. But I know him, see?” Impatience made
her voice a bit shrill, gave the first betrayal of what her life had been
before her marriage to Hobe. He remembered she had been a bar girl in dubious
bars from Texas through all the Gulf states. She wiggled fingers at him.
“Come here.”

He went to the bed and sat down. She smiled with revived
satisfaction and began to undo his shirt. Her hands were warm, eager, a bit
perspired. From somewhere in the hotel, a Portuguese judo singer mourned the
loss of her seafaring lover to a tune dating back three hundred years. Betty’s
eyes grew heavy-lidded. He didn’t like the glitter in their depths.

“You do like rue, don‘t you?” she murmured. “I suppose you
think I’m terrible, being here like this, hardly knowing you and all. But
Lubinda gives me the
wickie-wackies
. I hate it so.
“If it weren’t for Hobe—”

“He’s been good to you, hasn't he?”

“Sure, but!”

“But now that he’s in trouble, you’re ready to checkout?”

“Oh. Sam, don’t be so cruel.”

“Do you know where I can find Brady Cotton?”

She pouted. “Be nice to me, I’ll be nice to you.”

“Tell me, first.”

“Why don’t you ask Hobe?”

“Hobe said he doesn’t know anything.”

“He knows a lot more than he lets on. Ask him again.”

Chapter 7.

Colonel Komo Lepaka let his heavy eyelids grow even heavier
and his murky dark eyes grow sleepier. The skin over the fine bones of
his small face shone with sweat. The prison room was like an oven, even for
him.

“I am sorry, Senhor Durell. We still use the facilities left
to us by our former colonial masters. Not the most comfortable, this old brick
dungeon. I apologize. We have built a new Presidential Palace, a port, and a
hotel, but we have not yet constructed new security headquarters.”

“Am I under arrest?” Durell asked.

“No, no. As I told you on the dock. I simply would like to
talk with you." The man folded one abnormally long leg over the other. His
seven-foot body looked collapsed on the hard wooden chair he had chosen. Durell
looked for another chair, saw none. and remained standing. Lepaka’s South
African khakis were as immaculate as before. He took a pair of horn-rimmed
glasses from the pleated pocket of his bush jacket and put the-in on with slow
deliberation, then reached into the plain wooden desk beside him and took out a
manila folder, laid it flat on the desk, but did not open it. He looked
up
 
Durell across the small, cell-like
office. There was a single barred window in the room and an iron door. No air
came through the window, and the place stank of urine and excrement and the
untold miseries of many generations of prisoners. Durell hoard moaning and
groaning from down the prison corridor, and tried not to pay any attention to
it.