The Mysterious Ambassador (13 page)

"I can't trust you to Bababu," said the Phantom to Diana and the team. Jotando, the farmer, scowled at the name. "I'm going to find Ambassador Cari. I believe he can give you a safe escort to the airport. You will all wait here."

"Down there?" said Diana, looking down into the dark cellar.

"Down there. This area will be swarming with soldiers after they find the boat."

Diana shuddered, looking down into the darkness. "Spiders?" she asked.

The Phantom translated to Jotando and he grinned. He took a crude broom and a lantern and went down the ladder.

"Do we have to wait down there?" asked Chris Able.

"Yes."

"For how long?" asked George Schwartz.

"Until I come back for you," said the Phantom. After a few moments, Jotando climbed back into the room and smiled at Diana.

"Ho-kay," he said.

"Where on earth did he learn that?" Diana laughed.

"You're not the first Americans in Bangalla," said the Phantom. He kissed Diana quickly, then waited at the door.

"Now," he said.

Resigned, the team climbed down the ladder into the cellar, taking the lantern with them. In case of trouble, no lights, the Phantom told them. When they were in the cellar, Jotando closed the trapdoor and covered it with the rug. The Phantom hurried away, assured that his charges were safe. In the past, the hideout had never been found. He had planned well, but strange things can happen that alter the best-laid plans, as Scottish poet Bobby Burns mentioned long ago.

Five miles down the river, Colonel Mokata waited on the army dock with a squad of soldiers. Befitting his position as second in importance only to Bababu in this new nation, he wanted to take an entire company with armored cars to meet the captive medical team. Bababu had squashed that with a roaring oath. Didn't the idiotic
gukaka
realize this must be kept secret? Otherwise the entire news corps from the airport would be at the dock with him. And Bababu had a few matters to discuss with the team before anyone, including that
gukaka
Ambassador Cari, knew they were back. And the team was to be taken from the dock, not to the palace, but to Bababu's command tent in the army camp at the edge of town. Bababu emphasized all this with a well-aimed kick at Colonel Mokata's rear end. Mokata stumbled out of his leader's office as the sentries watched in astonishment, then gathered up his dignity and strode to his waiting limousine.

Mokata rode through the streets of Mawitaan with two trucks of soldiers following him. On his limousine, pennants flew, proclaiming his status. The few citizens who were on the streets glared at him as he passed. He shared the general hatred felt toward Bababu. Mokata arrived at the dock where several officers awaited him. They saluted him smartly and handed him field glasses. A motorboat was coming down the river. From earlier reports, this would be the boat they were waiting for. As it came closer, moving strangely slowly in the stream—drifting, one officer commented—they could see the name of the craft at the bow through the field glasses, an odd foreign title lettered in gold,
The Belch.

The boat was obviously drifting, with no sound of a motor, and no one visible on the deck. Maybe they were in the boat's small cabin. Two soldiers jumped into a speedboat and raced out to the launch. One grasped the bow rope, and they brought
The Belch
to the dock. As the soldiers tied the boat to the dock, they stared at it in confusion. Mokata walked quickly to the boat, prepared to receive the distinguished team, the prisoners. Instead, he and his fellow officers saw bodies lying on the floorboards of the boat. Soldiers in uniform. Their soldiers. One was an officer. All were lying in a heap. Two of Mokata's men turned them over so that all could see their faces. They were known to the men on the dock. An officer pointed at the unconscious men, then looked at Mokata with wide eyes. Mokata stared. Sweat broke out on his forehead. The image of that field phone flashed in his mind. The same mark was on the jaws of all three soldiers and the officer: the skull.

Colonel Mokata reported the arrival of
The Belch
and its cargo to Bababu in his command tent. The general cracked another cigarette holder, this time between his teeth. The four men from
The Belch
had finally been revived in the camp clinic. They were still groggy. It would be some time before they could return to active duty. Their reports of what happened on the boat were still confused. Evidently, the male captives twelve or twenty of them—the number was uncertain ("There were only five!" roared Bababu)—had mounted a surprise attack with concealed weapons, coming from all sides, from the rear, from the water, from overhanging tree boughs. The soldiers had fought bravely, killing twenty-two and wounding thirty before succumbing to overwhelming odds and superior fire power. Such were the facts obtained by Bababu's intelligence officers who interviewed the soldiers in the clinic.

Bababu sat down heavily in his big leather chair, inserted another cigarette in another holder, put it between his teeth, lighted the cigarette, then cracked the holder as he glared at Mokata.

"And that mark on each one?" he asked.

"They didn't know about it. We held up a mirror so they could see. They still didn't know," said Mokata.

Bababu thought for a moment, then slammed his fist on the table so that phones, a clock, pens, and dishes bounced and clattered. If something couldn't be answered, if something was disturbing and couldn't be solved, put it away. Handle what could be handled. That was Bababu's way. He bounded up, quick for a heavyweight and went to a wall map.

"We stopped that boat here," he said, pointing to the map. "About ten miles up the river. Somewhere between there and our dock, the doctors got away. Send out every soldier. Search every house. Set up road

blocks. Find those doctors. Now!" he finished with a

roar.

Mokata hastily picked up a phone.

"And the skull marks?" he asked.

"I don't want to hear any more about that. Not a word! Is that clear?"

"Yes sir."

Army trucks bounced over the country roads. Lines of soldiers moved across the fields. Others walked along the river, beating among the bushes on the banks. Road blocks were set up. Every farmhouse and barn was searched. Chickens and eggs were stolen. Trinkets were taken. Girls were chased. It was a vast manhunt. Also, woman-hunt—one of the medical teams was a foreign girl. Pretty, too. That made it more interesting. The general was anxious to get these prisoners. Anxious. That was the word that came down. That meant rewards, medals, promotions. By the time the hunt was under way, the man with the sunglasses and a dog that looked like a wolf had reached the town and was lost in the busy market.

In Jotando's concealed cellar, the team waited unhappily. The place was dark and damp, lit only by the feeble lamp. Diana watched anxiously in the flickering shadows for spiders, but had seen none so far. She didn't mind snakes and she had faced shark, barracuda, and big cats without terror, but spiders bothered her. She couldn't bear to look at pictures of the many-legged beasts. Even the idea of spiders bothered her. So far so good. The men watched her anxious glances. Chris Able ran his fingers up her back. She leaped and screamed. The team looked to the ceiling, startled. Maybe someone had heard.

"If you ever do that again," said Diana, shuddering.

"I'll kill you," finished George Schwartz. "Damn fool."

"Sorry, Diana," said Chris. "Couldn't resist."

"Stop playing games. Get serious," said Alec Kirk. "We're in a jam."

"Ridiculous," said George. "We've done nothing ex-

cept stop their lousy epidemic. Instead of giving us medals, were fugitives."

"No, we're not. Luaga is," said Diana.

"No? Look at us, hiding in this creepy place. If we're not fugitives, what are we doing here?" said George.

"After the way your good friend, the Mighty Magoo, handled those soldiers, I guess they want us, too," said Chris.

"He knows what he's doing," snapped Diana. "He didn't want Bababu to get hold of us. Let's hope we never find out why."

"Shh-shh," said Alec.

They heard the faint sound of voices coming from outside, then the heavier sound of footsteps above them. Alec hurriedly blew out the lantern. They sat in the darkness. The voices were louder now, just above them. They sat tensely.

A squad of soldiers had reached Jotando's farmhouse. They knew it. It was the most prosperous farm in the district. Also, they remembered when they had come for grain collection in the fall, Jotando had nothing to give them, nor could they find any. (It had been successfully hidden in the cellar.) They also knew him as a sturdy supporter of Luaga. So they handled the little man roughly, and knocked over furniture and emptied cupboards in their search, pilfering whatever looked salable. Jotando protested, calling them bandits. They threw him onto the floor, then arrested him and pulled him out of the house. The hidden team heard all this commotion as they sat tense and miserable in the darkness. The soldiers had not found their hiding place but they had not finished with Jotando's farm. Bandits, were they? Resisting arrest! No grain for the army, with the richest farm in the district? A friend of Luaga's, eh? The fearless little Jotando shouted angrily at them, which only goaded them further. As two of them held hijp., the others splashed oil from Jotando's barn on the walls and floor of the farmhouse and set fire to it. Then they stood back to enjoy Jotando's horrified reaction as well as the exciting spectacle of the blaze.

In the cellar, the team heard the raucous laughter, heard the splashing (water?), smelled the smoke, saw the flames. There was nothing else to do but get up the ladder fast and get out. Which they did.

The watching soldiers were amazed to see the figures dash out of the flaming house. Three foreigners—the doctors, a jungle man—the Wambesi boatsman, and a foreign girl. Pretty, too! The doctors! The object of the great search. What pure dumb luck! They shouted with laughter as they grabbed the team who were gasping and choking, half-blinded by smoke as they stumbled into the open air. The captors flagged a command car that carried a two-way radio and hurriedly made their report to headquarters. The general himself replied. And even through the fading crackling reception on the radio, he was exultant. Bring the doctors and the girl to him. Tell no one. No one! The farmer Jotando? Take him to the execution wall. The squad piled into a truck with their captives. Jotando was put in a smaller car. The team stared at the little man, seated with the soldiers. He had tried to help them. He was going to his death. The car moved away. The truck bounced onto the military camp where Bababu was waiting. Also, waiting were cash, medals, promotions. Pure, dumb luck!

Ambassador Cari had a suite of rooms in an old colonial hotel that was situated in a large tropical garden. Once, this hotel had been famed for its cuisine and service. Colonial officials and officers with their ladies had attended brilliant balls here. Visiting heads of state, world travelers, writers, and film stars had known the gracious hospitality of this beautiful hotel with its famed gardens, fountains, wide verandas, and obsequious servants. Now, with the war of liberation followed by civil war, it had all changed. A skeleton staff barely kept the place open. Most of the large dining rooms, ballrooms, salons, and corridors were closed off. Only a small dining room, formerly used for chauffeurs, ladies' maids and the like, and a few bedrooms and suites remained in use.

Cari stood in the French doors opening onto the

wide second-floor veranda and noted vaguely that a tall man with a large dog was walking through the garden. Then he turned back into his room, glancing out a side window that overlooked a street below. As usual, the street was almost empty. Since the terror of Bababu's dictatorship had begun, people stayed behind locked doors and shuttered windows. Cari nervously drank a cup of tea. He had just made a phone call to New York headquarters. His report had been completely negative. Item one: attempt to restore the legal government—hopeless. Item two: the medical team? No news. Item three: the missing pilots? No news. Over the hissing crackling radio-telephone which he thought might be monitored by Bababu's men (and was) he was as noncommittal as he could be and he hoped headquarters got the message. The situation was tight. And, so far, hopeless. What to do? Hang on, as long as you can. He sighed at the memory of the unsatisfactory conversation, then turned from the window to pour another cup of tea. He was startled and almost dropped the cup. A man was standing in the open doorway that led onto the veranda.

"Ambassador Cari," he said.

He was a big man wearing a hat and topcoat, and sunglasses that concealed his eyes.

"Who are you? Where did you come from?" stammered Cari. His room was on the second floor. This was the man he'd seen in the garden.

"I came with the medical team," he said.

"Where are they?" said Cari excitedly.

"Hidden," said the man. "That's why I am here. They need your help to get to the airport. Bababu is hunting them."

The words came out clear, sharp, and fast. This stranger was evidently not a man for small talk. He got right to the point. Cari stared at him, confused.