The Mysterious Ambassador (18 page)

He loosened the blanket strips, pulled Bababu out of the car, and draped him over Hero's strong back. The general and the guards remained as they had been— unseeing, unhearing, unfeeling, unconscious. He untied them and threw the strips over Hero's saddle, then closed the doors.

He permitted himself a big sigh, and Devil licked his hand. He had taken a big gamble, an enormous risk. It had worked. "Bring peace and legality," the cable from the Secretary-General had stated. It hadn't said
how.
That important gentleman might be surprised, even astounded, by his methods. But the Phantom had his own direct way of doing things. He mounted Hero carefully and they moved off into the jungle. Soon they were gone. The limousine remained in the dark clearing. The interrupted chorus of insects resumed. Small bright-eyed animals watched the silent car, to see what it would do. Flying insects buzzed around it, occasionally smacking against a window. No reaction from the inside. Soon, the night life of the jungle clearing took up where it had left off. With the dawn, the nocturnal creatures went to their rest, and the day shift took over. Bright little eyes peered at the big black car, at the occasionally twitching objects inside. Little creatures, creepers and flyers, sampled the tires and the paint and the banners, searching for something digestible. The sleepers slept on.

At dawn, as the camp went through the surly motion of getting up, one of the night guards from the front gate passed the command tent on the way to his own bunk. He saw the guard sprawled on the ground, and hurried to wake him up before he was discovered asleep on duty. And at such a post—the general's tent! Bababu had executed men for less. But the guard wouldn't wake up. He wasn't asleep or drunk. He was knocked out, with a mark on his jaw. The gate guard stared. He himself had seen the general drive out during the night. He heard a weak cry from inside the tent, and peered in. Colonel Mokata was sprawled on his cot, up on one elbow, his fingers touching his aching throat. His neck was black and blue. He had awakened a few moments before and found a memo in his hand—an order from the general:

Do nothing until you hear from me.

It was in the familiar childish block letters. He had looked for his jacket and hat, to put them on before entering the general's tent. They were gone. He staggered into the big tent. Bababu was gone. He returned to his cot and collapsed in complete confusion, where the night guard from the gate had found him.

It took awhile to put the pieces together. Bababu was gone. Three of his guards were also gone. It took several hours to revive the remaining one. That mark on his jaw. Mokata saw it. A few others saw it. Where had Bababu gone? As his chief executive officer and aide, Mokata should know. He didn't. What had happened to his neck, to his jacket, to his hat? When the guard revived, he questioned him. The man remembered nothing. He was amazed to see the mark on his jaw, and as a man of Oogaan, he knew what it was. To avoid panic, Mokata ordered the man kept out of sight in the clinic. But word spread, whispering began. Where was Bababu? And the other guards?

About noon, Mokata received word about the limousine. Two boys hunting rabbits had found it and told their elders. Everyone knew Bababu's car. It was the only one like it in Mawitaan. Mokata himself raced to the spot with a convoy of motorcycles and armored cars. They found the three guards beginning to revive, mumbling, and moved their arms and legs like exhausted swimmers in deep water. And on their jaws, all three jaws, the mark. The convoy returned to camp with the limousine. Mokata questioned the three. One had a hard time talking with his broken jaw. One remembered the tapping sound near the car. The other remembered seeing the first one sitting by the rear tire. That was all they remembered. All were shocked by the skull marks on their jaws. All knew what they meant. Mokata had them isolated, with strict orders that they not be seen or talked to by anyone. But they had been seen and the word spread. The Phantom.

Now Mokata sat at the table in the command tent. He stared at the empty brandy bottle and the glass. Everything was in order. He read and reread that order a dozen times:
Do nothing until you hear from me.
Somehow, that didn't sound like Bababu. He would have written
do nothing;
the rest was not necessary. Mokata had the feeling, impossible to verify, that an alien hand had written that, and as the icy fingers of fear brushed his brain and his heart, he knew the terror that Bababu had lived through that night as skulls danced and swam in the air about him. Where was Bababu? The Phantom knew.

Bababu awoke feeling hot, aware that the sun was shining in his face. He was sweating and his head and face ached. Flies buzzed around him. He shook his head and tried to lift his hand to chase the flies away. The hand wouldn't lift. He opened his bleary eyes and stared blankly for a few moments. Where was he? In the palace—in the camp? In the grip of an enormous hangover, he was having trouble waking up. More sleep needed. He tried to roll over, and couldn't. Now little alarm bells began to ring in his dulled body. Something was wrong. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, then opened his eyes wide. What he saw sent a tremor through him. He was not in his palace bed, nor in the command tent. He was in the woods. Sitting on the ground, against a tree. He couldn't move his hands, or legs either, because they were tied. He was tied to a tree. Suddenly, the nightmare of the night came back. That masked figure. A bad dream? He looked around. A big white horse was grazing a short distance away. Another animal approached him slowly. A dog? No, bigger, shaggy with pale-blue eyes, long white teeth. A wolf? He sat still, not daring to move. The wolf came within a foot of him and looked into his face. There were no wolves where Bababu had grown up. But he had heard about the wolves eastward in the mountains. As deadly as big cats. This animal wore a metal-studded collar. Tame? That gave him a moment of hope. Then relief, as the animal turned away, as though sensing something. The "something" was at the side, just beyond his line of vision. He turned his neck, straining to see, scratching his head on the rough tree bark. Then the "something" stepped into his line of vision. Bababu's tough heart missed a beat, his mouth fell open, and his eyes almost popped. It was the masked man of his nightmare. The figure loomed over him.

"You're awake," he said.

Bababu breathed deeply. It was all real. A man. Somehow, he could contend with that.

"Who are you?" he said.

"You know," said the masked man. His right hand was near Bababu's eyes. The hand moved slightly. A ring on the fourth finger glinted. A skull ring. Then the hand moved to the boot of one leg, and pulled up a foot-long blade that was carried there. The sharp knife glistened in the sunshine. Bababu recoiled violently against the tree trunk, as though trying to push through it.

"No!" he cried hoarsely.

"No, what?" said the masked man.

"Don't kill me!" cried Bababu, plainly .terrified as he twisted and jerked on the bonds that held hiiti.

"You've killed so many with your own hands. Didn't you think your turn would come?"

"I can give you anything. I can make you rich," said Bababu desperately.

"He who lives by the sword dies by the sword. Weren't you ever told that, Bababu?"

"What?" said Bababu, his chest pounding, spittle dripping from his lips.

"I have no intention of killing you," said the masked man. "That will be the duty of others."

And he bent down with the knife and sliced the bonds around Bababu's chest that lashed him to the tree. Another slice freed his legs.

"Get up."

His hands still tied, Bababu struggled to his feet. The masked man returned the knife to his boot and walked to the white horse, then swung up into the saddle in one easy motion. Horse and rider approached Bababu. The wolf stood nearby.

"I do not wish to kill you, Bababu," said the masked rider. "You will be judged by your peers, if that is possible. The word peer means equal. I doubt if we can find any jury low enough to be your equal," he continued.

He was not smiling as he said this. The eyes could not be seen behind the mask. The face was grim. There

was no anger in his voice, but his tone was cold and hard. (
The voice of the angry Phantom can freeze the heart of an evil man
—old jungle saying.)

Bababu looked wildly from side to side. His legs were free. If he could run .. . run and find a place to hide. Impossible now. The man and horse could ride him down. And there was the wolf, its pale-blue eyes watching him, its gleaming white fangs exposed as it panted in the jungle heat.

"Don't try to run, or Devil will have to bring you back," said the rider, seeming to read his thoughts. Bababu knew without being told who Devil was. That wolf. "He's not a very good retriever. He might damage you. So don't try," continued the masked man. He pointed to a small path.

"Start walking that way."

Bababu took a deep breath and tried to control the quaver in his voice. There was something he had to know.

"Are you—the Phantom?" he said, having trouble getting out the last word.

"Yes," said the rider. "Walk."

But Bababu's legs refused to work. He stood stock- still, as if in shock, staring at the man on the horse. It was as if a child had been raised on tales of a bogeyman, stopped believing the tales, then years later was suddenly confronted with him. The masked man sat quietly watching him, voting for the moment to pass. Bababu raised his tied wrists to his chest and his lips trembled. What he was thinking, what he tried to put into words was—
please go away—please let me go—• please take me home.

"Please, please," was all he said. The Phantom shook his head and pointed.

"Walk," he said.

Bababu nodded heavily, then walked to the path. The wolf and horse and rider followed. The Phantom knew that the first shock of this meeting would pass. Bababu was a tough, wily man, the brutal survivor of a hundred brawls. He had strangled helpless victims with his own hands, and caused the deaths of countless others. As his fear faded, his brutal toughness would return. On this journey through the jungle, he would need constant watching

After a short walk, the Phantom rode alongside Bababu, knife in hand.

"Hold up your hands," he ordered.

Bababu obeyed. The sharp blade sliced the bonds and his hands were free. His confidence began to return with each step after that, and his eyes darted from side to side, watching and waiting for his chance to escape. They stopped by a stream and satisfied their thirst. The Phantom pointed to a nearby bush that was thick with edible berries. Bababu was free to help himself. He did. They moved on. And whether riding, or walking, or sitting, the Phantom always stayed a short distance away from his captive. The woods were darkening; Bababu watched the fading light with narrow feyes. Maybe his chance was coming with the night. Then he almost jumped out of his skin as a gun roared behind him. The Phantom had shot a hare that leaped across the path near them. Now they stopped in a clearing. The Phantom motioned to Bababu to sit by a tree. He did. The Phantom dismounted and, kneeling on one knee, made a small fire. Using his long knife, he rapidly skinned the hare, cleaned it, and put it on a spit over the flames. Bababu watched this activity closely, waiting for his chance. This wasn't it. The wolf was watching; the masked man was facing him as he worked. Later, he told himself.

When the hare was cooked, the Phantom cut it in half and handed a portion to Bababu. Bababu ate it voraciously. He would need his strength to get back out of this jungle. Now the sun had set and the night was dark. The only light was the campfire, throwing large shadows. The wolf's eyes glowed in the dark. Bababu noticed they were always looking at him. The Phantom was among the bushes, slashing with his knife. He approached Bababu holding long sections of vine in his hands, and, without a word, passed a length around his middle and tied him to the tree trunk. Another length bound his arms. A third length held his legs. "Don't try to get away tonight," he said. "You might get hurt." Bababu said nothing. He would wait his chance. The

Phantom was standing between him and the dying campfire as he looked up into a large tree.

"An old gorilla nest up there. I'll sleep there," he said. And he climbed up. Bababu shook himself, trying the vines. They were tough and held. Gorilla nest? Were there gorillas in the area? The fire died down, then out. Jungle sounds grew louder in the night. A chattering monkey, a chirping bird, crackling insects. Then a cat, perhaps a leopard, coughed, far away. Bababu stiffened, suddenly frightened by his helplessness.

"You, up there," he called.

"Yes?"

"What if animals come? Leopards, lions, hyenas?"

"Well?"

"What can I do?" asked Bababu into the darkness.

"Nothing," replied the voice.

"Nothing?" said Bababu, appalled. "That isn't right." The next sound from above was a chuckle, brief but unmistakable.

"What do you know about right?"

Bababu writhed and twisted. The vines held. "What if I'm attacked," he shouted.

"Save me a lot of trouble. Now, be quiet."