The Mysterious Ambassador (19 page)

Bababu stayed awake half the night, staring into the darkness, aware of every sound. He finally sagged against his bonds, exhausted and fell asleep.

At dawn, a hand on his shoulder woke him up. And the big knife sliced the-vines, freeing him. After a breakfast of spring water and berries, they were on their way, the Phantom riding, Bababu walking. About midday they stopped in a clearing. To the right, in the distance, were sounds of people—voices, laughter, shouts, a village. The Phantom directed Bababu to sit against a stump.

"You will wait here," he said, then directed his attention to the wolf.

"Sit and hold, Devil," he said.

The big wolf sat a few yards from Bababu, facing him.

"For your own sake, do not try to run away. Devil will not let you. He's been taught many things, but he is not an ideal retriever. A good retriever, a birddog for example, brings back the game undamaged. Devil never learned to do that."

And the Phantom rode off, disappearing into the high bushes. Bababu stared at the wolf. Devil stared steadily at the man. Bababu couldn't believe his luck. Somehow, this was his chance. He looked about quickly for a weapon—a stone or heavy stick. There was no heavy stick, but he did see a large stone the size of a melon. That would do. It was beyond reach, ten feet away. He would wait until something distracted the animal, then grab it. But Devil remained motionless, his pale eyes fixed on the man. Bababu didn't know how much time he had. Better move, take his chance. He made a sudden move for the rock. Devil growled and started forward, long fangs gleaming. Bababu sat back quickly. That growl was deadly. He was sweating heavily, not just from the jungle heat. He wiped his forehead. Devil didn't move. Good. He rubbed his leg. No reaction. He stretched, yawned, and slowly, ever so casually, got to his knees. Devil started a growl, then stopped as Bababu rested on his knees. Good. He thought rapidly. He would get to the stone and smash the wolf if it leaped at him. He gauged the distance. He could reach it in two steps. Its base was concealed by leaves. Was it partially buried in the ground? Might take a moment to get it up. If worse came to worst, he'd have to use his bare hands. He looked about and began to whistle, hoping to lull the wolf, then suddenly sprang toward the rock.

He got his hand on it, it was lying loose on the surface, but as he grasped it the wolf sprang like an arrow shot from a bow. Two hundred pounds of muscle and bone hit him. He went down as though hit by a speeding car. The long teeth were at his throat. He felt them sinking into his flesh and screamed in terror. He didn't hear the whistle, but Devil did. Suddenly, the animal was off him. He was lying on the ground whimpering, his hand at his throat. The wolf stood a few feet away, his pale eyes fixed on him. Bababu was afraid to move. He heard the familiar voice from somewhere.

"I thought you might try that. I waited."

The Phantom was on his white horse in the bushes.

Bababu slowly sat up and looked at his hand. It was lightly smeared with red blood. He touched his throat—only scratches. The horse and rider came close, to his side.

"I warned you. You are not hurt, but another moment would have been too late. Devil is
not
an ideal retriever. Now, get back to that stump and wait for me."

Whimpering, Bababu went back to the stump and sat there. He touched his throat and looked at the wolf, then at the rider.

"Would he have killed me?" said Bababu hesitantly.

"Possibly. He is trained to hunt big cats. Such battles are to the death. He once killed a male lion three times his own weight. Don't test him again. Devil, sit and hold."

And the Phantom rode into the bushes, out of sight. Bababu relaxed against the stump. His captors were a deadly pair. But he'd been in tight spots before. A good chance would come. He had no idea where he was being taken. Something about a jury of his peers. Whatever that meant. He wondered what village it was, not too far away. If he knew, he could orientate himself. He strained his ears. He could hear the voices and the sounds, but he couldn't identify them. Too far.

The Phantom was gone about an hour. Before he returned, the drums began. Bababu searched back in his memory—the talking drums. What were they saying? Something about
Council of Chiefs come to .. .
but he couldn't make out the rest. The sound of two drums became the sound of four, then eight, then many. Big drums, little drums, high tones, deep tones.
Council of Chiefs, come to
. . . whatever it meant, it wasn't his affair. He had other things on his mind. Escape. Revenge. Revenge on this masked man, and his damnable wolf with the pale-blue eyes that were fixed upon him now. Someone had once mentioned "boiling in oil" to Bababu. He'd never tried it, but he could visualize it. That's what he would do. Bababu was not an overly imaginative man. When he meant to do something, he meant it literally. When his time came, he would boil them in oil together. That pleasant thought made the time pass as he sat against the stump, watched by the immovable Devil, listening to the talking drums.
Council of Chiefs, come to the . .
. not his affair? Bababu was wrong. He way the affair.

The Phantom returned and they resumed the march. The masked man had been to the nearby village and had started the drum message there. He had returned with some fruit for his captive and himself, also some local unguent for Bababu's slight throat wounds. Bababu accepted the fruit and the salve without thanks.

They continued on and, by watching the sun, Bababu knew they were going east, deeper and deeper into the jungle. He'd lost track of the days. How many since he'd awakened tied to the tree? Six, eight, twenty? Throughout the long march, they'd seen no one. The Phantom was taking unused paths, keeping his captive hidden. He wanted no word to go back to Mawitaan. Then, one night, tied to a tree as before, Bababu became aware of a faint distant roar, steady, like no other sound in the jungle. What could it be? A waterfall? A big waterfall, to the east. And suddenly Bababu knew where he was headed. And suddenly the rest of the talking drum message became clear to him.
Council of Chiefs come to the Deep Woods. The Deep Woods.
Home of the Bandar, the pygmy poison people—home of the Phantom. And some of the terror he had known in his command tent returned. Like all jungle folk, he had been bred with the taboo of the
Deep Woods,
where, it was said, even the cannibals and headhunters feared to go. He strained at the tough vines that held him to the tree. He wouldn't go there—wouldn't!

The next morning, as they started the trek, he stumbled and complained that he was tired, his feet were sore, he could no longer walk. The Phantom nodded, dismounted, and boosted Bababu into the saddle. As he did so, he kept one hand on Hero's neck and spoke softly to the great white stallion. Seated in the saddle, Bababu grasped the reins and was suddenly exultant. Now was his chance. As the Phantom took a step away, Bababu kicked his heels into Hero's side, lashed him with the reins, and shouted, "Go!"

The white stallion responded by rearing up on his hind legs, then slamming down on his forelegs and bucking violently. Bababu was a heavy man and an accomplished rider, but Hero tossed him twenty feet into the air. Bababu landed on his back, crashing through low bushes. And as he lay there gasping, the wind knocked out of him, he heard for the first and last time, the loud and hearty laughter of the Phantom.

There would be no more horseback for General Bababu. He would walk the rest of the way. There were no more stops, no more rest periods. The jungle was thicker now, barely passable as the Phantom rode ahead finding almost invisible paths. Bababu followed, and a step behind him were the jaws of Devil. Now the waterfall became louder and closer and louder still, until it was almost deafening. Then a pygmy, arrow in bow, appeared in the bushes. And another stepped out on a tree bough above, arrow in hand. And another and another. Bababu looked about and saw that the little men were on all sides, and realized with a sinking feeling that all hope of escape was gone. These were the pygmy poison people and this was the
Deep Woods.

General Bababu's mysterious disappearance did not go unnoticed. Though Colonel Mokata and the army tried to bottle up the story, alert newsmen still in Mawitaan sniffed out some of the details. The dictator's midnight departure for parts unknown; the cryptic note, "Do nothing until you hear from me"; the slugged guards found in the abandoned limousine. They missed one detail—the skull marks on the jaws of the guards. It would have meant little to them if they "had learned about it. Mokata and the high command took great pains to keep the existence of the skull marks from their troops. In spite of that, the word spread from tent to tent. And the whispers began. Bababu had not simply gone away. He had been spirited away in the dark of night, plucked out of the midst of fifty thousand soldiers. Only one could do that. He had left his mark. Contrary to regulations, lights were left on through the night and the rate of desertions increased.

The same word spread through the town. The sniping from rooftops increased. Military patrols were attacked on dark streets. Soldiers avoided certain quarters that had become more dangerous to them. Luaga's followers, the disbanded congress, and all the other enemies of Bababu became more daring in their opposition. They began to speak publicly against the dictator, first in cellars and homes, then on street corners and in halls, and finally in a huge mass meeting in the high school stadium. Mokata and his fellow officers watched this hostility rapidly grow. "Down with Bababu." If it went much further, it would take a massacre t® stop it. Yet the order had said, "Do nothing until you hear from me." An order from Bababu was a command. Where was he?

The world press picked up the story with big head-

lines in the neighboring countries, smaller headlines in more distant places.

In New York, the UN Secretariat read the story with special interest. There had been no word from their mysterious ambassador, Mr. Walker. What was really happening? Cari and the medical team had no ideas to offer. The team's brief vacation was almost up, and they were preparing for their Caribbean trip. Diana and Kirk discussed the story at lunch.

"What happened to Bababu?" said Kirk.

"What do you think?" said Diana, smiling.

"Your good friend, Mr. Walker?"

"Very possible. It sounds like him. You've seen him in action," replied Diana.

Kirk nodded, visions of the powerful figure moving among men who dropped like tenpins.

"Yes, indeed," he said. "The chief asked me what I knew about it this morning. I said, 'Nothing.' Do you think we should tell him our ideas?"

Diana shook her head.

"We're certain of nothing," she said. "Not officially. Personally, I'm positive it's him. But UN ambassadors are not supposed to go around kidnapping heads of state, even illegitimate ones like Bababu."

Kirk chuckled.

"UN ambassadors are not supposed to knock out the private guards of heads of state. Imagine, those three found in that car in the jungle. I'd like to have been there. Bababu's personal bodyguard. Do you suppose one of them was in charge of whipping us?" said Kirk.

"I certainly hope so," said Diana fervently.

Those were the reactions to Bababu's cryptic departure in Mawitaan and beyond the borders of Bangalla. The reaction in the
Deep Woods
was even stronger.

Passing through the cold waterfall, Bababu stood, dripping wet, before the skull throne. He'd heard about this place, and only half-believed it, all his life. Here it was. The stone throne, the cave mouth like a giant skull. Burning torches were set in the cliff and about the clearing, throwing flickering shadows. On one side in these shadows, ranks of pygmies stood watching him silently and without expression. Each carried bow and arrow or short lance, and he knew these weapons were tipped with poisons that were instant and deadly. His captor and guide was nowhere to be seen.

Bababu stood like a bull at bay. His jacket was unbuttoned, and water dripped over his heavy arms and powerful matted chest. His big fists were clenched. He could smash any one of these little men with one blow, smash the skull like an eggshell. He searched their faces for some sign of friendliness, or of shrewdness. Maybe one or more wanted to make a deal. They knew he was rich and powerful. In Bababu's world, there was always someone ready to make a deal. He looked at face after face, but they remained impassive, with no expression at all. While he had the chance, he would try. He didn't know their language, but there was a language that all jungle folk understood, a combination of many tongues, ancient and modern.

"I'm rich. I can make anyone rich who helps me," he said in the jungle tongue. "I can give anyone who helps me anything they want. Land, houses, automobiles ..." he paused. What would these pygmies want? Land? They had the entire
Deep Woods.
Houses, automobiles—did they know what they were? Jewels, money? There were rocks polished in the mountain streams—to be picked up by anyone. They used no money. Women? He searched their faces again. No sign. Nothing. What kind of woman could he give to a pygmy? A female pygmy?

Then he had a desperate thought. Make a run for it. The pygmies had deadly weapons, but they wouldn't kill him.
He
didn't want them to kill him, of that Bababu was certain. He made a tentative turn away. Arrows snapped into place in bows; lances were raised. Bababu was a bold man, and, when his back was to the wall, a brave one. Ignoring the deadly weapons that meant "instant death in agony," he turned back toward the waterfall and began to walk, almost holding his breath as he did.