Catacombs (5 page)

"Ron, you're unconscious," Morgan said, his most lavish compliment.

He went slowly down the shaky steps with Len. Introductions; protocol. In addition to his kids the ambassador had brought along his deputy chief of mission and some staffers. Buddy Lyman had a corrugated shock of blond hair that hung off one side of his head, a gangling, amiable, pop-eyed ugliness that was somehow endearing. Morgan took him aside.

'What's going on at Jumbe's?"

"I don't know, sir; he has about thirty houseguests."

"I thought he'd become reclusive. Are they all politicians?"

"Sort of a mixed bag, I'd say. From scientists to jetsetters."

"What do you know about the Russians who flew in?"

"Wendy and I were already here when the plane arrived, but Dr. Kumenyere kept us all waiting in the terminal while he went out to meet them. They drove off right away in three Mercedes sedans, with a military escort. I didn't get a good look at any of the Russians. By the way, security is very tight in the area, particularly over at Momela Lakes, in the park. Soldiers, roadblocks, checkpoints."

"What do you make of it?"

"My sources aren't doing me much good there, sir. Of course there's a war on, but it's at the other end of the country. There are rumors that because Jumbe has been rattling sabers, the Afrikaners will try to assassinate him."

"Another fly in their butter isn't enough to worry them."

"People seem to think an invasion is imminent. Jumbe has everyone on edge, wondering what comes next."

Morgan scanned the sky; the jet fighters had disappeared.

"How's the war going?"

"Zaire's been rumbling over a gunboat that was shot up on Lake Tanganyika last week; they've flown sorties across the border and threatened to give the Zambians, who have lost most of their fighters, some striking power. Personally I think a few good rains would cool everybody off."

"Who's Dr. Kumenyere?"

"He's head of the Kialamahindi Hospital in Dar, which is probably the best health care facility in East Africa. Kumenyere is Jumbe's personal physician, closest friend, and his only remaining advisor. No one in government speaks to Jumbe anymore unless Dr. Kumenyere okays it."

Buddy Lyman looked over Morgan's shoulder at an oncoming caravan of automobiles and military vehicles.

"Kumenyere's back."

Morgan glanced around. "What's he like?"

"In the U.S. he'd be landed gentry. His father is a planter in the Moshi area, wealthy even for a Chagga, and they're the most prosperous, ambitious people in the country. There's a strain of Masai in the family; Kumenyere has all the arrogance and emotional insularity of that tribe. One day he'll be impossible to deal with, the next he's warm and chatty and the best friend you'll ever have. I never know what's on his mind. He's well educated, polyglot, sophisticated. He gets around: New York, Monaco, Gstaad, depending on what's doing. He's wrung a fortune for his hospital out of some very rich people. Wendy says he also has quite a reputation as a lover. One of his mistresses was the actress, distinguished theatrical family, you know the one, that dingbat Marxist, there are rumors she's had a child by him."

The three cars slowed as they came nearer; the party of American diplomats closed ranks and Morgan turned to face his reception committee. A black chauffeur stopped the lead Mercedes with a little grab of the brakes and shot out from behind the wheel to open the rear door.

Dr. Robeson Kumenyere was sitting back crosswise on the seat of the air-conditioned car, talking on a mobile telephone, long legs overlapping at the ankles; an index finger tapped the receiver of the white telephone as he murmured in a voice too low to be overheard. He gave no sign that he was observed, anticipated. He wore French sunglasses, a medium-gray Savile Row suit, black Bally loafers.

The chauffeur reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and rubbed a still-moist bird dropping from the roof. The men in the other cars, apparently bodyguards, didn't budge. Morgan, treated to cool air from the interior, waited for the better part of three minutes with nothing to dwell on but the doctor's profile: the graceful neck; high, Nilotic cheekbones; and a straight-bridged nose which gave him an air of noble distinction.

Kumenyere finished his conversation with a rich chuckle and hung up. He unwound from the car and took off his expensive sunglasses, hanging them by an earpiece from the breast pocket of his jacket.

He stood tall and relaxed in front of the Americans, a slight, amiable smile on his face. He was one of those lithe and physically savvy men whose every move seems choreographed. He had a tendency to look aslant at everyone, an attitude of lazy hauteur that had its charms because his sable eyes seemed incapable of hard focus or harsh judgment; they looked instead perversely enchanted.

Lyman presented Morgan; he and Kumenyere exchanged an elaborate African greeting, handshakes doubled by wristlocks. There was power in the doctor's grip; his hands were almost as long as cricket bats.

"Jumbe is so pleased you could join him," Kumenyere concluded. He mumbled his English as if he were unsure of the language, or not fond of speaking it. He bent graciously to take Len's hand, composed a welcome in Swahili.

"Mr. Secretary! Mr. Ambassador!"

Morgan looked around. A tall young Englishman with a petite blond girl in hand was bearing down on them across an empty stretch of tarmac, the girl jogging to keep up with his long strides. He looked grim and anxious. The girl was frightened. Kumenyere glanced up at the approaching pair, frowned, looked over his shoulder at one of the cars filled with bodyguards. Immediately there were black men with impressive guns all over the place.

The English boy stopped, intimidated, and looked imploringly at Morgan.

"You're Mr. Atterbury, aren't you? I'm Tobias Chapman and this is Sunni Babcock."

"My father is Blitz Babcock," the girl said in a high strained voice. "I know you've met him in Washington."

"Oh, yes," Morgan said, and Chalmers Lyman nodded. At least the name was familiar. The family had money. Babcock was a horseman or yachtsman or something, and he'd held a minor post in the previous administration.

Kumenyere spoke, angrily, in a low voice to one of the bodyguards.

"No, just a moment," Morgan said firmly. "It's all right." He smiled at Sunni Babcock, who was very pretty and probably still in her teens, young enough to have a trace of acne around her nose. She and the boy leaned against each other, breathing hard. "Can I help you?"

"It concerns my father," the boy said quickly. "Chips Chapman. He's been missing for quite a long time, and I've been trying to find him, you see. But it's very difficult, there's almost no official cooperation–"

"I know what this is about," Kumenyere said to Morgan. He was no longer angry, and he gestured nonchalantly at his guards for a less conspicuous show of weapons. "But I regret that we haven't the time. Jumbe
 
will be very annoyed if we're late. Let me have a word with them, Mr. Secretary."

He approached Toby Chapman and Sunni Babcock and spoke to them in tones too low for Morgan to overhear. He was pleasant and diplomatic. Toby Chapman was rigid, the girl near tears. They both tried to catch Morgan's eye again, but Kumenyere put his arms around them and smoothly walked them away from the official party, toward the terminal building.

"What's going on?" Morgan asked Lyman.

The ambassador seemed embarrassed not to know. "Chapman, Chapman," he muttered. "I just can't recall the name offhand."

"Those kids are pretty upset. Try to find out what the story is, and see if there's anything we can do."

Kumenyere returned within five minutes, smiled apologetically, and gestured to indicate that the situation was under control. But he offered no explanations.

Almost immediately they were on the road to Chanvai, flashing through those moments when the day is precisely divided into dark and light, earth and sky. They passed villages where the markets were closing down for the night. Domestic fowl, goats, pigs, and children fled from the scream of sirens. But the open road seemed miraculously empty of all other traffic, including motor scooters and bicycles, which might have slowed them down.

Len, his face to the window in the backseat of the Mercedes, identified the nubby tall heads of giraffes communing in a circle of sky, upthrust as if to drink from the dwindling lake of light. In the front seat Kumenyere smiled at the boy's enthusiasm and straightened his impeccable shirt cuffs.

"Jumbe tells me he hasn't been feeling well," Morgan said.

Kumenyere allowed the possibility with a little nod.

"He's still a sorrowing man. Heartsick. His own blood runs thin and cold because of the wanton slaughter of his sons. I do what I can."

"But apparently Jumbe's in a mood for company."

"It's his birthday," Kumenyere said, as if he were surprised that this hadn't been mentioned. But there was a glint of sly humor in his eyes.

"I thought Jumbe wasn't sure what day he was born."

"The anniversary of his coming into this world is of no significance. Rather we observe, in this season of renewal, an important passage to an advanced age grade–a cultural milestone in Jumbe's evolution, in this life and beyond."

Len looked away from the window. "I read about rites of passage in Facing Mount Kenya."

Kumenyere smiled approvingly. It was obvious that he liked Len, and was sensitive to the courage that had enabled him to ignore depressing handicaps.

"Jomo Kenyatta wrote about the Kikuyu, with which many tribes, including my own, have a blood relationship. Among the people of the Umba, Jumbe's tribe, to learn the lessons of life is to be reborn each time. When one joins the ranks of the most respected elders, he must teach the hard and often punishing lessons of life to the less enlightened, so that after earthly death he may justify, before the tribunal of his ancestors, the continuing existence of his soul."

Morgan said, "Jumbe long ago put the ways of the tribe behind him. And he was raised a Christian."

"As a leader of government he is most sensibly opposed to tribal factionalism, an evil which in its worst form can result in another Biafra. As for Christianity, Jumbe will always acknowledge his small debt to the White Fathers. But his roots are deep in this earth, African earth, which the gangsters of the Transvaal defile by their continuing presence here."

"His grief over his sons and over the war is understandable. But nothing good can come of escalating the war by attempting to beat his few plowshares into spears."

"It would depend on the size of the spear, would it not?" Kumenyere said, with a slight rolling of the eyes and a glint of megalomania. Morgan wished he knew more about the intimate relationship of Jumbe and the doctor.

"I came mainly for the fishing and not polemics; if there's going to be a celebration, then tonight I hope I'll be able to toast Jumbe's statesmanship as well as his wisdom. Of course I couldn't help noticing that other eminent guests have arrived."

"Yes," Kumenyere said, too carelessly. "Marshal Nikolaiev concluded a round of talks with our Libyan friends and allies in time to be with us on this splendid occasion. Do you know him?"

"Not personally," Morgan replied, containing his astonishment. What lure had Jumbe used to coax this aging Russian hawk to a perch on his wrist? Victor Kirillovich Nikolaiev was a much older man than Morgan, and the Soviet Minister of Defense. He was not given to lingering unnecessarily beyond the borders of his own country. "I didn't know Jumbe was acquainted with Marshal Nikolaiev. His ministry doesn't have anything to do with the Third World nations."

The driver of the Mercedes braked hard and swerved to miss a striped gazelle bounding out of wilted grass beside the tarmac road. Kumenyere gave him a loud tongue-lashing, conveniently forgetting what he and Morgan had been talking about. He then began a conversation with Len about the wildlife of Tanzania. Like many of his countrymen, he thought there were too many protected animals in a nation that could not raise enough food for its people. Len argued spiritedly for even more conservation.

Morgan settled back to do some thinking. He felt sad, because Jumbe had compromised their friendship to get him here; apparently he no longer cared what Morgan thought. What was Jumbe after? Weapons; obviously, to implement his obsession. He wanted rockets, in a year when three quarters of a million of his people were on famine relief, and the world was in a deepening recession which had everyone anxious. Morgan assumed that Jumbe's traditional allies, the Chinese, who had already pumped nearly a billion dollars into East Africa, refused to dig any deeper.

The only thing Morgan didn't understand was why someone of Victor Kirillovich Nikolaiev's status would spend even five minutes humoring Jumbe. It made him more than a little uneasy.

They came to a crossroads, where Morgan observed soldiers and armored vehicles. Cars and trucks were backed up in a long line, parking lights like the low amber eyes of supplicants, waiting for them to pass. The caravan entered Arusha National Park and proceeded around the misty wetlands of Momela Lakes, a prime bird sanctuary now much reduced in size in a dry year. Morgan regretted that it was too dark for more than a glimpse of ponds–so shallow they were little more than floating gardens–which served as havens for hippos and moonlighting elephants. They drove slowly past a clifflike herd standing very near the road in a glade of papyrus, and even Kumenyere fell silent out of respect for their power. But the beasts seemed indifferent to the motorcade; their ears were flared like antennae to trap the brilliant chatter of the stars.