Nick Carter - Rhodesia

She had been kissing his ear, on the inside, and she made a little gulp before she asked throatily, "Shouldn't what?"

"Forget to look."

She made a little snorting sound like a chuckle. "I forgive you." She ran the tip of her tongue up his jawline, around the top of his ear, tickled his cheek, and he felt the warm, moist, shivery probe again. He forgot all about Booty.

When Nick stepped out of the elevator into the spacious lobby the next morning, Gus Boyd was waiting for him. The senior escort said, "Andy — good morning. Hold it a sec before we go in to breakfast. Five of the girls are in there already. Rugged darlings, aren't they? How do you feel after the opener?"

"Just fine, Gus. Could have used a couple more hours' sleep."

They strolled past the desk. "Me too. Janet is quite a demanding doll. Did you make it with Booty or did Masters complete his score?"

"I wound up with Ruth. Very nice." Nick wished he'd slop this boy-to-boy chitchat. He had to be truthful, he needed Boyd's full confidence. Then he felt guilty — the lad was just trying to be friendly. Escorts no doubt exchanged these confidences as a matter of course. He himself, operating always as a loner behind invisible barriers, was losing touch with other men. Have to watch that.

"I've got it fixed for us to be free today," Gus announced cheerfully. "Masters and his merry men are taking the girls to Ewanrigg Park. They'll have lunch with them and show them a couple of other sights. We won't have to pick them up till cocktail time. Want to look into the gold business?"

"It's been on my mind since we talked."

They reversed their course, went out, and strolled along the sidewalk under porticos that reminded Nick of Flagler Street in Miami. Two alert-looking young men getting a breath of morning air. "I'd like to know you better, Andy-but I guess you're straight. I'll introduce you to my contact. You got any cash with you? Real cash, I mean."

"Sixteen thousand U. S."

"That's almost double what I'm holding, but I think my credit is good. And if we convince this guy we can really operate hell go in with us. He's loaded."

Nick asked casually, "Can you trust him? How much do you know about his background? No chance of a trap?"

Gus chuckled. "You're a cautious one, Andy. I think I like that This guy's name is Alan Wilson. His father was a geologist who made some gold strikes — peggings they're called in Africa. Alan is a tough man. By that I mean he's served as a Merc in the Congo and I heard he was very fast and free with the lead and steel. Don't mention I told you that Wilson's father has retired, I think. Probably loaded. Alan deals in exports. Gold, asbestos, chromium. In big, big lots. He's for real. I checked on him in New York."

Nick shuddered If Gus had described Wilson accurately the lad was sticking his neck out near a man who knew how to handle an axe. No wonder amateur smugglers and embezzlers so often wound up stretched out straight after fatal accidents, "How did you check on him?"

"A banker friend of mine slid a query back to the First Rhodesian Commercial Bank. Alan is rated like middle seven figures."

"He sounds too big and square to be interested in our little deals."

"He's no square. You'll see. Do you think your Indian connection can handle a really big operation?"

"I'm sure of it."

"That's our in!" Gus gave a delighted snap to the in, lowered his voice again at once. "He told me last time I saw him he wanted to set up a really big operation. Let's try it with a small shipment. If we can set up a big pipeline, and I'll bet we can once we've got the stuff to operate with, we'll make fortunes."

"Most of the world's gold output is spoken for, Gus. What makes you think Wilson can deliver in quantity? Has he opened new mines?"

"From the way he talked I'm sure he has."

In an almost new Zodiac Executive, thoughtfully supplied by Ian Masters, Gus drove Nick out the Goromonzi Road. The landscape again reminded Nick of Arizona in its best season, although he noted that the vegetation appeared dry except where it was artificially watered. He recalled his briefing reports-Rhodesia was having a near-drought. The white population looked healthy and alert, many of the men, including the policemen, wearing spodess shorts that looked starched. The black-skinned natives went about their jobs with an unusual intentness.

Something seemed odd here. He studied people thoughtfully as they rolled along the boulevard, and decided it was — tension. Under the crisp, busy attitude of the whites you could sense unease and doubt. Behind the friendly industry of the blacks you could guess there was watchful impatience, masked resentment.

The sign said WILSON. It stood in front of a complex of warehouse-type buildings fronted by a long three-story office structure that might have belonged to one of the better-run corporations along U.S.1.

The installation was neat and well-painted, the lush foliage forming colorful patterns on the brown-green expanse of lawn. As they circled the approach drive to a big parking lot Nick saw trucks parked at loading ramps in the rear, all of them large, the nearest a giant new International that dwarfed the Leyland Octopus eight-wheeler maneuvering beyond it.

Alan Wilson was a great big man in a great big office. Nick guessed him at six-feet-three and 245 pounds — hardly an ounce of it fat He was tanned, moved easily, and the way he slammed his door and returned behind his desk after Boyd's brief introduction of Nick showed he wasn't glad to see them. Hostility glared from every plane of his face.

Gus got the message and his words stumbled. "Alan... Mr. Wilson... I... we came to continue... the talk about the gold..."

"Who in hell told you to?"

"Last time you said... we agreed... I was going to..."

"I said I'd sell you gold if you wanted it If you do, show your documents to Mr. Trizzle in the front office and make your arrangements. Anything else?"

Nick pitied Boyd. Gus had spine but it would take a few more years to harden it for situations like this. When you spent your time giving orders to uneasy travelers who minded you because they wanted to believe you knew what you were doing, you weren't prepared for a big man you thought was friendly to turn and smack you in the face with a wet fish — hard. And that's what Wilson had done.

"Mr. Grant has good connections in India," Gus said too loudly.

"So have I."

"Mr. Grant... ah... Andy is experienced. He's moved gold..."

"Shut your stupid mouth. I don't want to hear about it. And I certainly didn't tell you to bring anyone like him here."

"But you said..."

"Who — you said. You do all the saying, Boyd. Too much of it to too many people. You're like most Yanks I've met You've got the disease. Perpetual diarrhea of the mouth."

Nick winced in sympathy for Boyd. Smack — smack-smack. Wet fish in the face one after another could be horrible unless you knew the remedy. You should grab the first one and either cook it — or slam it back at the giver twice as hard. Gus was flushed a bright pink. Wilson's heavy face looked like something carved out of aged-brown beef, deep frozen until rock hard. Gus opened his mouth under Wilson's angry glare and nothing came out. He glanced at Nick.

"Now get out of here," Wilson growled on. "And don't come back. If I hear that you've said anything about me I don't like, I'll look you up and smash your head."

Gus looked at Nick again with an expression that asked, What in the world has gone wrong? What did I do? This man is mad.

Nick coughed politely. Wilson's heavy glance swung to him. Nick said evenly, "I don't think Gus meant any harm. Not as much as you pretend he did. He has done you a favor. I have markets for up to ten million pounds in gold per month. At top prices. Any currencies. And if you could guarantee more, which of course you can't, I have a line to tap the IMF for more funds."