The song of the muezzin floated over the pastel jumble of houses in the Tangier Casbah at twilight, calling the faithful to evening prayer. In the old days, the muezzin himself appeared in the minarets of the mosque, but now a recording played over loudspeakers: a mechanized call to the Muslim ritual of obeisance.
Karen Ross sat on the terrace of Captain Munro’s house overlooking the Casbah and waited for her audience with the man himself. Beside her, Peter Elliot sat in a chair and snored noisily, exhausted from the long flight.
They had been waiting nearly three hours, and she was worried. Munro’s house was of Moorish design, and open to the outdoors. From the interior she could hear voices, faintly carried by the breeze, speaking some Oriental language.
One of the graceful Moroccan servant girls that Munro seemed to have in infinite supply came onto the terrace carrying a telephone. She bowed formally. Ross saw that the girl had violet eyes; she was exquisitely beautiful, and could not have been more than sixteen. In careful English the girl said, “This is your telephone to Houston. The bidding will now begin.”
Karen nudged Peter, who awoke groggily. “The bidding will now begin,” she said.
Peter Elliot was surprised from the moment of his first entrance into Munro’s house. He had anticipated a tough military setting and was amazed to see delicate carved Moroccan arches and soft gurgling fountains with sunlight sparkling on them.
Then he saw the Japanese and, Germans in the next room, staring at him and at Ross. The glances were distinctly unfriendly, but Ross stood and said, “Excuse me a moment,” and she went forward and embraced a young blond German man warmly. They kissed, chattered happily, and in general appeared to be intimate friends.
Elliot did not like this development, but he was reassured to see that the Japanese—identically dressed in black suits— were equally displeased. Noticing this, Elliot smiled benignly, to convey a sense of approval for the reunion.
But when Ross returned, he demanded, “Who was that?”
“That’s Richter,” she said. “The most brilliant topologist in Western Europe; his field is n-space extrapolation. His work’s extremely elegant.” She smiled. “Almost as elegant as mine.”
“But he works for the consortium?”
“Naturally. He’s German.”
“And you’re talking with him?”
“I was delighted for the opportunity,” she said. “Karl has a fatal limitation. He can only deal with pre-existing data. He takes what he is given, and does cartwheels with it in n-space. But he cannot imagine anything new at all. I had a
professor at M.I.T. who was the same way. Tied to facts, a
hostage to reality.” She shook her head.
“Did he ask about Amy?”
“Of course.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“I told him she was sick and probably dying.”
“And he believed that?”
“We’ll see. There’s Munro”
Captain Munro appeared in the next room, wearing khakis, smoking a cigar. He was a tall, rugged-looking man with a mustache, and soft dark watchful eyes that missed nothing. He talked with the Japanese and Germans, who were evidently unhappy with what he was saying. Moments later, Munro entered their room, smiling broadly.
“So you’re going to the Congo, Dr. Ross.”
“We are, Captain Munro,” she said.
Munro smiled. “It seems as though everyone is going.” There followed a rapid exchange which Elliot found incomprehensible. Karen Ross said, “Fifty thousand U.S. in Swiss francs against point oh two of first-year adjusted extraction returns.”
Munro shook his head. “A hundred in Swiss francs and point oh six of first-year return on the primary deposits, crude-grade accounting, no discounting.
“A hundred in U.S. dollars against point oh one of the first-year return on all deposits, with full discounting from point of origin.”
“Point of origin? In the middle of the bloody Congo? I would want three years from point of origin: what if you’re shut down?”
“You want a piece, you gamble. Mobutu’s clever.”
“Mobutu’s barely in control, and I am still alive because I am no gambler,” Munro said. “A hundred against point oh four of first year on primary with front-load discount only. Or I’ll take point oh two of yours.”
“If you’re no gambler, I’ll give you a straight buy-out for two hundred.”
Munro shook his head. “You’ve paid more than that for your MER in Kinshasa.”
“Prices for everything are inflated in Kinshasa, including mineral exploration rights. And the current exploration limit, the computer CEL, is running well under a thousand.”
“If you say so.” He smiled, and headed buck into the other room, where the Japanese and Germans were waiting for his return.
Ross said quickly, “That’s not for them to know.”
“Oh, I’m sure they know it anyway,” Munro said, and walked into the other room.
“Bastard,” she whispered to his back. She talked in low tones on the telephone. “He’ll never accept that. . . . No, no, he won’t go for it. . . they want him bad. . .”
Elliot said, “You’re bidding very high for his services.”
“He’s the best,” Ross said, and continued whispering into the telephone. In the next mom, Munro was shaking his head sadly, turning down an offer. Elliot noticed that Richter was very red in the face.
Munro came back to Karen Ross. “What was your projected CEL?”
“Under a thousand.”
“So you say. Yet you know there’s an ore intercept.”
“I don’t know there’s an ore intercept.”
“Then you’re foolish to spend all this money to go to the Congo,” Munro said. “Aren’t you?”
Karen Ross made no reply. She stared at the ornate ceiling of the room.
“Virunga’s not exactly a garden spot these days,” Munro continued. “The Kigani are on the rampage, and they’re cannibals. Pygmies aren’t friendly anymore either. Likely to find an arrow in your back for your troubles. Volcanoes always threatening to blow. Tsetse flies. Bad water. Corrupt officials. Not a place to go without a very good reason, hmm? Perhaps you should put off your trip until things settle down.”
Those were precisely Peter Elliot’s sentiments, and he said
so.
“Wise man,” Munro said, with a broad smile that annoyed Karen Ross.
“Evidently,” Karen Ross said, “we will never come to terms.”
“That seems clear.” Munro nodded.
Elliot understood that negotiations were broken off. He got up to shake Munro’s hand and leave—but before he could do that, Munro walked into the next room and conferred with the Japanese and Germans.
“Things are looking up,” Ross said.
“Why?” Elliot said. “Because he thinks he’s beaten you down?”
“No. Because he thinks we know more than they do about the site location and are more likely to hit an ore body and pay off.”
In the next room, the Japanese and Germans abruptly stood, and walked to the front door. At the door, Munro shook hands with the Germans, and bowed elaborately to the Japanese.
“I guess you’re right,” Elliot said to Ross. “He’s sending them away.”
But Ross was frowning, her face grim. “They can’t do this,” she said. “They can’t just quit this way.”
Elliot was confused again. “I thought you wanted them to quit.”
“Damn,” Ross said. “We’ve been screwed.” She whispered into the telephone, talking to Houston.
Elliot didn’t understand it at all. And his confusion was not resolved when Munro locked the door behind the last of the departing men, then came back to Elliot and Ross to say that supper was served.
They ate Moroccan-style, sitting on the floor and eating with their fingers. The first course was a pigeon pie, and it was followed by some sort of stew.
“So you sent the Japanese off?” Ross said. “Told them no?”
“Oh, no,” Munro said. “That would be impolite. I told
them I would think about it. And I will.”
“Then why did they leave?”
Munro shrugged. “Not my doing, I assure you. I think they heard something on the telephone which changed their whole plan.”
Karen Ross glanced at her watch, making a note of the time. “Very good stew,” she said. She was doing her best to be agreeable.
“Glad you like it. It’s tajin. Camel meat.”
Karen Ross coughed. Peter Elliot noticed that his own appetite had diminished. Munro turned to him. “So you have the gorilla, Professor Elliot?”
“How did you know that?”
“The Japanese told me. The Japanese are fascinated by your gorilla. Can’t figure the point of it, drives them mad. A young man with a gorilla, arid a young woman who is searching for—”
“Industrial-grade diamonds,” Karen Ross said.
“Ah, industrial-grade diamonds.” He turned to Elliot. “I enjoy a frank conversation. Diamonds, fascinating.” His manner suggested that he had been told nothing of importance.
Ross said, “You’ve got to take us in, Munro.”
“World’s full of industrial-grade diamonds,” Munro said. “You can find them in Africa, India, Russia, Brazil, Canada, even in America—Arkansas, New York, Kentucky— everywhere you look. But you’re going to the Congo.”
The obvious question hung in the air.
“We are looking for Type Jib boron-coated blue diamonds,” Karen Ross said, “which have semi conducting properties important to microelectronics applications.”
Munro stroked his mustache. “Blue diamonds,” he said, nodding. “It makes sense.”
Ross said that of course it made sense.
“You can’t dope them?” Munro asked.
“No. It’s been tried. There was a commercial boron-doping process, but it was too unreliable. The Americans had one and so did the Japanese. Everyone gave it up as hopeless
“So you’ve got to find a natural source.”
“That’s right. I want to get there as soon as possible,” Ross said, staring at him, her voice flat.
“I’m sure you do,” Munro said. “Nothing but business for our Dr. Ross, eh?” He crossed the room and, leaning against one of the arches, looked out on the dark Tangier night. “I’m not surprised at all,” he said. “As a matter of—”
At the first blast of machine-gun fire, Munro dived for cover, the glassware on the table splattered, one of the girls screamed, and Elliot and Ross threw themselves to the marble floor as the bullets whined around them, chipping the plaster overhead, raining plaster dust down upon them. The blast lasted thirty seconds or so, and it was followed by complete silence.
When it was over, they got up hesitantly, staring at one another.
“The consortium plays for keeps.” Munro grinned. “Just my sort of people.”
Ross brushed plaster dust off her clothes. She turned to Munro. “Five point two against the first two hundred, no deductions, in Swiss francs, adjusted.”
“Five point seven, and you have me.”
“Five point seven. Done.”
Munro shook hands with them, then announced that he would need a few minutes to pack his things before leaving for Nairobi.
“Just like that?” Ross asked. She seemed suddenly concerned, glancing again at her watch.
“What’s your problem?” Munro asked.
“Czech AK-47s,” she said. “In your warehouse.”
Munro showed no surprise. “Better get them out,” he said. “The consortium undoubtedly has something similar in the works, and we’ve got a lot to do in the next few hours.” As he spoke, they heard the police Kiaxons approaching from a distance. Munro said, “We’ll take the back stair.”
An hour later, they were airborne, heading toward Nairobi.
DAY 4: NAIROBI
June 16,1979