"RAID"-ING THE JUNGLE QUEEN
Subic Bay didn't see as many U.S. Navy ships these days. Certainly, nothing like the great days after the war. And it was certainly very rare to see such a small ship pull up for a short stop, discharge a passenger, and then put out to sea again within a few hours. Spooks, Jimmy thought. Like always, when the Americans did something strange in someone else's country, you could be sure it was all James Bond stuff.
Jimmy had spent his adult life on these docks, sometimes (though not often) even earning a more or less honest living, and had seen just about everything. Now, though, the passenger who had debarked from the ship approached him, and he decided that the gods were never quite done visiting surprises on him. A stunning blond woman, dressed in an expensive business suit, carrying a large travel bag and a laptop computer, was approaching him.
"Excuse me, could you help me? I'm looking for someone."
The flattened accent. The china-blue eyes and cornsilk hair. She was an American. Jimmy loved Americans. All the money in the world, all the arrogance to go with it, but more afraid of being embarrassed than any other people he knew.
"You have found him, Missy." Jimmy opened his arms wide. "Here he is, waiting for you." The blonde looked as though her long trip had tired her considerably, and that probably accounted for her stubborn refusal to see the man's insolence for the danger it was. Jimmy looked around him-he loved an audience: there were a few of the drunken regulars slumping at a table outside the shop, one or two tourist types, and one other figure deep in the shadows of the eaves.
"Look, I don't have time for this. I am meeting Doctor--"
"I am the Doctor, Missy. I am what you call the Doctor Feel Good." He stepped into the blond woman's path, blocking her way. "Come with me, I give you the examination, OK?" For the first time, the woman seemed to take in his six-foot-three frame and his bronzed, sun-hardened face. Now, he put a sweaty palm on her forearm, and for the first time, the woman seemed to realize that there was danger here.
"Get your hand off me!" She hissed at him. Jimmy smiled, and the woman's reaction made it clear that she had never for a moment considered the possibility that her words would not result in immediate compliance. The hand didn't move. If anything, the fingers began to apply a firmer grip. "I said let me go!" This time the voice rose in pitch, not quite hysterical, but far from confident.
"Oh, Missy, all the good times we are having. You come with me." Now his grip on her arm was unyielding, and he could feel her beginning to tremble as the façade of confidence began to crack.
"Let her go."
Jimmy sighed. Tough guys, always there were the tough guys here.
"Why, you think maybe you get a little piece if you play Mr. Dudley the Do Right?" Jimmy sneered. From the corner of his eye, he could see that the speaker was the unfamiliar figure, now stirring in the shadows.
"I won't ask again." The voice was low and calm, with a clipped accent that reminded Jimmy of all the Limey sailors he had rolled when the Bay was still important to the Brits. There was something odd about the voice, though, and as Jimmy turned, he decided the voice was far from the oddest thing. The busybody that stood before him was a woman! Above average in height, with a thick braid of glossy auburn hair over one shoulder. A green shirt was stretched across a figure the like of which Jimmy had only seen on American TV. She was dressed in a light jacket, heavy canvas shorts, and combat boots. Bottle-green sunglasses made her eyes impossible to read. She didn't speak again, clearly waiting for Jimmy to make up his mind. He looked at the blonde who shook, terrified, in his grasp, and then at the woman in the dark glasses, who looked to be no more afraid of him than she would have been of a housecat. Well, Jimmy could have a terrified woman any time he liked. The challenge of this woman standing defiantly in front of him could not be ignored. He released the blonde's arm, and stepped to within inches of the Englishwoman. He reached a hand out, lazily, and fingered the thick braid hanging over her shoulder.
"Hey, you right. Lady, I think you want me all for yourself. Well, I am all yours!"
The pain came so suddenly and sharply that Jimmy didn't even scream. He couldn't tell if his wrist had been broken, or the fingers connected to it, or maybe both. He fell to his knees, his breath coming in gasps. His good hand was braced on the ground for support when the sole of a combat boot reduced the number of his good hands to zero. Jimmy rolled onto his back, gulping for air like a landed fish. Through the haze of his pain, he noticed that he might have even gotten off easily: as the woman stepped back, her light jacket fell open enough for him to see a pair of enormous automatic pistols strapped to her belt. As he writhed, the woman stepped past him without a glance, and spoke to the blonde.
"Ms. Anderson?" The blonde looked, dazed, at her rescuer.
"Yes...Yes, I'm Madlyn Anderson. I...I'm here to meet someone." She appeared to be trying to pull herself together. "Do you know a Doctor...uh, Doctor-"
"I'm Tara Fields."
"Oh, Doctor Fields. I hadn't expected...I mean--"
"Why don't we get checked in at the hotel, and perhaps get a bit to eat. We'll talk over dinner." Tara Fields lifted the woman's heavy bag and slung it easily over one shoulder. Madlyn Anderson gave one astonished backwards glance at Jimmy moaning on the ground, and followed her new companion into the dim of the hotel lobby.
Josita sighed as she looked in the mirror one last time. Why did her Mama always have to make everything so hard? There was nothing wrong with a girl wanting to look nice, and to work in a fancy hotel in the city, well, this kind of lipstick and makeup was just expected of her. Mama was so old-fashioned. She didn't even approve of the fine white uniform the hotel gave her to wear; well, Josita would have to be crazy not to want to show off her figure, and Mama would just have to get used to it.
As she stepped out of the ladies' room into the darkened hallway, Josita gave a final pat to her hair, a tug on her skirt, and walked right into her Mama's worst nightmare.
Josita had just walked past the linen closet, when she heard the sound of the closet door open, then felt a massive hand cover her face and drag her back inside. She hadn't even had time for a startled cry as the door was kicked shut by her captor. The meaty hand crushed her face, cutting off her breath. Josita felt her head yanked backwards, and some kind of rag was jammed deep into her mouth. She choked and coughed as she felt another rag wedged between her teeth to hold the first one in, and then tied tightly behind her head. There were two pairs of hands assaulting her: Oh, God, not only was she to be raped, but there would be two of the filthy beasts. Josita kicked blindly ahead of her, and was rewarded with the satisfying "crack" of the toe of her shoe making contact with a shin. There was a gasp, and a curse, and she felt arms being wrapped about her legs to hold them still. Now, the one holding her from behind gave a wrenching yank to her arms and dragged them behind her back. She did her best to yell into the gag, but the tattered cloth trailed loose fibers down her throat, and she had all she could do to keep from choking on them. Her hands were pulled together behind her, and coarse rope was tied tightly around them. After several turns, she felt a knot tied in the rope, and the man released her hands. He bore down on her with his weight, and she could tell that he must be grotesquely fat. He then placed his hands on her hips, and Josita closed her eyes, expecting the worst, and insanely regretting most of all that her Mama was right, after all!
The hands on her hips ran up and down her side, quickly. Instead of the movements becoming more intimate, though, she could feel a fat pair of hands slapping lightly at her side. One voice grunted a command, and the man holding her legs forced her to her stomach. Her first thought was so disgusting she shuddered, but once more, the hands made no move to violate her in any intimate way. Instead, the man muttered, "Los llaves." One hand had finally found the inside pocket of her uniform, and pulled most of it away with the ring of keys it removed.
"Pronto," he grunted. Still lying on her stomach, Josita felt her ankles tied hurriedly with the same coarse rope that bound her hands. The man then dropped her feet, and they slapped hard on the floor, the pain causing her to lie still for a moment, rather than roll over to get a view of her attackers. Instead, both men vanished around the corner.
Josita lay on the floor, sobbing with relief. All they had taken from her was the keys. What they might do with them, she neither knew nor cared. As she began working her wrists free, she decided that perhaps listening more to Mama in future might not be a bad idea.
"Dr. Fields, do you know why I'm here?"
"Not really." Tara glanced around the plush dining room, instinct telling her that it would be better they not be overheard. Seeing that no one was close enough to eavesdrop, she continued. "The man from your embassy said something about 'pirates.' They're not really my line of country, but I told him I'd go ahead and meet you. So, who are these pirates?"
"Well, I don't know if 'pirates' is really the right word. What we're talking about here is actually slavery."
Tara Fields grimaced slightly. "There's been slavery in some part of Africa or other for centuries. Africans are still bought and sold, often by their own people. That's a matter for governments. You won't do much about that by catching one or two so-called 'pirates'."
The American leaned closer. "Actually, it's a little more complicated. It's more than just slavery. It's slavery for--" her voice dropped to a whisper "sex."
"Ah, you mean now there are some white tourists missing."
Madlyn Anderson flushed. "You're oversimplifying. We have reason to think--"
"Ms. Anderson." Tara Fields cut her off. "I'm happy to have met you, and to help you get safely on the next leg of your journey, but I really doubt there's much I can do to assist you at this point." She looked around for the waiter.
"Doctor Fields. There is much I don't know about all this, but I've been told that you might be able to help me with one of the pieces of information I do have. What does the name 'Ayesha' mean to you?"
A small smile formed on Tara Fields' lips, and she muttered, "She-who-must-be-obeyed."
"I beg your pardon?"
"'She'. Ayesha. Africa's last great mystery."
"What do you mean?"
"King Solomon's Mines, Prester John, Opar: all the great myths and legends of Africa have been exposed to the sunlight, and have withered and died in the process. Ayesha's different, though. Every time someone thinks they've finally nailed that one down, something odd or unexplainable pops up."
"Who or what is Ayesha?"
"She's the great white queen. Supposed to be the most beautiful woman in the world. Immortal, and generations old. She's said to rule a kingdom somewhere in the continent's interior, where she and her followers resist the modern world. They say she secretly recruits women from all over the world for an army whose sole purpose is to destroy any man who comes near. Of course, these days, she probably wouldn't be too keen on most women, either," she nodded at the woman's cellular phone and laptop computer. "Doesn't hold with modern technology."
"Then she exists."
"I didn't say that. I only said that her story is probably one of the last great African legends that no one has been able to finally put to rest. But what does all this have to do with your missing white women-- I assume they are women?"
"In fact, two small private yachts have disappeared in circumstances that lead us to believe some paramilitary force is involved. Our people have generated some intelligence that seems to concern this 'Ayesha.' At the NSA, we are very concerned about the possibility of a non-aligned army being financed in the heart of Africa."
Tara Fields stared. "Are you honestly saying that someone in the United States government believes that a legendary witch-queen is kidnapping American women to sell into white slavery to finance her army of Amazons in a revolution?"
"I have evidence, Dr. Fields."
"What sort of evidence?"
"I'm not quite sure."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"I am carrying a sealed diplomatic pouch with intelligence reports, maps, and actual photographs that concern this Ayesha and her army. That's why I'm on my way to Zimbabwe: I'm meeting a representative of Interpol there, for consultation on this material. A woman with your experience as an explorer would be most valuable. My government even supplied me with an extra plane ticket for you."
Tara Fields smiled. "Ayesha, eh? I'm almost tempted." Her face clouded. "I assumed that your information was on that computer. Now you say it's in a diplomatic pouch. Where is it?"
"In my luggage, up in the room."
Tara Fields tried to decide if the woman was an idiot, or simply rattled from her encounter at the docks. "Why don't we just pop up there and make sure everything is just as you left it?" Trying not to alarm the American, Tara Fields found the waiter, paid the check, and ducked back to the front desk to retrieve her own bag. It was at that moment that Madlyn Anderson noted two men, one enormously fat, making their way through the lobby. They were in a hurry, and it struck her as odd that these were the first men she had seen that seemed to be too busy to mentally undress her as they walked past. When Tara Fields joined her a moment later, she had already dismissed them from her mind, and she accompanied the auburn-haired adventuress upstairs.
The door to the room stood open, and as the two women approached, they could see that the interior had been thoroughly overturned. Madlyn Anderson scrambled around, looking for the bag. Tara Fields knew they wouldn't find it, but knew they couldn't afford not to check.
After some minutes, satisfied that the bag was not in the room, Madlyn Anderson sat heavily on the side of one of the beds. Her voice was hoarse. "What am I going to do?"
"You're going to start by getting some sleep. You'll need it." Madlyn Anderson nodded numbly, and kicked off her shoes. Instead of heading for the other bed, though, Tara Fields had gone to sit at the room's small table.
"What about you? Aren't you going to sleep?"
"I'll sleep on the plane."
"Plane?"
"You did say you had two tickets, didn't you?" Anderson nodded, puzzled. "Well, it would seem that someone thinks you have some pretty compelling evidence about the legendary Ayesha. 'Africa's last great secret', I called her. How could I pass that up? Your Interpol contact must have some information we can use." Tara Fields lay one of her automatic pistols on the table, and drew out a battered leather-covered notebook and pen, settling back in the chair with an eye on the door.
"I'm telling you, Lisa, it was the damndest thing I've ever seen. This guy Jimmy is one of the toughest characters on the docks, and the woman just flattened him."
"And you don't know who she is? Greg, I'm surprised." Lisa Lansing looked skeptically at the cameraman. Her green eyes twinkled, and sandy brown hair danced around her shoulders. Her boss had told her more than once: "Cut the hair, lose the bangs, and an anchor job is yours." Good thing she didn't want one.
"Best I could find out is that she's some kind of archaeologist."
"An archaeologist who beats the crap out of dockside scumbags, then has a secret meeting with a representative of the U.S. government? Are you trying to tell me that's not a story?"
"We're supposed to be going home."
"So go."
"The company credit cards are in your name."
"So they are. Guess we're staying, then."
"Now, wait--"
"Greg, I'm just going to snoop around for a day or two, and see what these two women are up to. If it's incredibly boring, we'll drop it and go home. But if there's something going on here, we can't just ignore it."
Greg sighed. "Lisa, when you start to 'snoop around,' you always seem to get someone mad enough at you to try and kill you. Remember the time you were tied up in that leaking rowboat? And the time-"
"Yeah, yeah, and there was the time I was handcuffed to the steering wheel of the limo with no brakes; and the time the crooked deputy mayor tried to sell me to some Middle Eastern sheik." She smiled. "See, they haven't got rid of me yet!"
Greg sighed again. "O.K., where do we start?"
The approaching African twilight bathed the veranda in red. Lord John Roper sipped his drink, sitting with his wife at the small table. In nearly thirty years in Africa, he had seen change of every variety; the one constant in his life had been the hunt. Forget the politics: there was always someone willing to pay well to have the finest hunter in Africa on his safari. Roper had hunted everything there was to hunt. For much of his career, he had decorated his walls with trophies from the prize animals he'd killed. Lately, though, this had begun to pall. It seemed an ironic twist from a vanished past, but Roper had begun to "Bring 'Em Back Alive." He had faced the most dangerous beasts in the world, and with his wits and his traps, had triumphed, reducing the kings of the jungle and the veldt to exhibits to be gawked at by tourists. Now, as he studied the picture before him, he prepared to undertake his greatest challenge.
"Magnificent."
His wife leaned over, admiring the photograph. "Would you look at that mane?" she breathed.
"A neck made for a collar, wouldn't you say?"
"Oh, and a leash," she responded.
"If we were to take this fine beast, I couldn't bear to part with her."
"Of course." His wife's eye drifted to a small, stout pole which rose, incongruously, from the floor of the den next to his chair. A thin, golden chain was attached to it. "She would stay right here."
"She would require a lot of special training."
"Which you know I would gladly administer, my love."
"And what about you, my dear? If I indulge myself in the greatest hunt of my career, what will your share be?"
"To see that magnificent creature lying at the feet of my husband, spirit broken, knowing that my lord and master can tame anyone or anything. What wife could ask for more?"
Lord John Roper closed his eyes, drew a heavy breath, and let the photograph fall to the table. The fading light fell on a color picture of a woman: tall and lithe, with fierce green eyes and a river of golden hair flowing to her waist.
"Ayesha," he breathed. "You will be mine."