'Sorry, Ollie, all in the name of humanity,' Pitt said with a grin.
'Think Rudi made it?'
'If he stayed in the shadows and kept his cool, there's no reason for him to wind up like us.'
'What do you think old French moneybags expects to gain by making us sweat?' Giordino mused, wiping the sweat from his face with his arm.
'I have no idea,' answered Pitt. 'But I suspect we'll know why he stuck us in this hot box instead of turning us over to the gendarmes before too long.'
'He has to be a real sorehead if he's mad over us using his telephone.'
'My fault,' said Pitt, his eyes reflecting mirth. 'I should have made a collect call.'
'Oh well, you couldn't know the guy is a cheap screw.' Pitt looked at Giordino in long, slow admiration. He marveled that the stocky Italian could still summon up a sense of humor despite being on the brink of passing out.
In the long, agonizing minutes that followed, their ovenhot cell in the bilge, their ominous predicament, was pushed aside in Pitt's mind as he focused his thoughts on escape. At the moment any optimism was futile. There was not nearly enough muscle between them to break their chains, and neither he nor Giordino had the means to pick the locks on their handcuffs.
His mind conjured up a dozen contingencies, each ready to be canceled in favor of another. None were workable unless certain situations fell into place. The main hitch was the chains. Somehow or other they would have to come off the steam pipe. If not, Pitt's best-laid plans evaporated before they could get off the ground.
He broke off his mental gymnastics as the guard pulled up one of the floor plates and swung it back on its hinges. He took a key from his belt and opened the cuffs attached to their chains. Four crewmen were standing in the engine room. They leaned down and lifted Pitt and Giordino to their feet, dragged them through the engine room, up a stairway, and into a lush-carpeted hallway of the houseboat. One knocked on a teak door, then pushed the door wide and shoved the two prisoners into the room.
Yves Massarde sat in the middle of along, leather couch smoking a thin cigar and swirling a goblet of cognac. A dark-skinned man in an officer's military uniform sat in a facing chair, drinking champagne. Neither man rose as Pitt and Giordino stood before them dressed only in shorts and T-shirts, dripping with sweat and moisture.
'These are the pitiful specimens you fished from the river?' asked the officer, regarding them curiously through black, cold, and empty eyes.
'Actually, they came aboard without an invitation,' replied Massarde. 'I caught them in the act of using my communications equipment.'
'You think they got a message through?'
Massarde nodded. 'I was too late to stop them.'
The officer sat his glass on an end table, rose from his chair, and walked across the room until he was standing directly in front of Pitt. He was taller than Giordino, but a good 6 inches shorter than Pitt.
'Which of you was in contact with me on the river?' he asked.
Pitt's expression cleared. 'You must be General Kazim.'
'I am.'
'Just goes to show you can't judge a person by their voice. I pictured you as looking more like Rudolph Valentino than Willie the Weasel--'
Pitt crouched and turned sideways as Kazim, his face abruptly flushed with hate, his teeth clenched in sudden rage, lashed out at Pitt's groin with his booted foot. The thrust was vicious and carried most of Kazim's weight behind it. His expression of wrath suddenly turned to one of shock as Pitt, in a lightning move, caught the flailing foot with his hands in mid-flight and gripped it like a vise.
Pitt did not move, did not cast Kazim's leg aside. He merely stood there holding it between his hands, keeping the General balancing on one leg. Then very slowly he pushed the maddened Kazim backward until he dropped into his chair.
There was a stunned silence in the room. Kazim was in shock. As a virtual dictator for over a decade, his mind refused to accept insubordinate and contemptuous treatment. He was so used to people quivering before him, he did riot know how to immediately react at being physically subdued. His breathing came quickly, his mouth a taut white line, his dark face crimson with anger. Only the eyes remained black and cold and empty.
Slowly, deliberately, he eased a gun from a holster at his side. An older automatic, Pitt observed with remote detachment, a 9-millimeter Beretta NATO model 92SB. Unhurriedly Kazim thumbed down one side of the ambidextrous safety and aimed the muzzle at Pitt. An icy smile curled beneath the heavy moustache.
Pitt flicked a side-glance at Giordino and noted that his friend was tensed to leap at Kazim. Then his gaze locked on Kazim's grip on the automatic, waiting for the slightest tightening of the hand, the tiniest flexing of the trigger finger, bracing his knees to dodge to his right. This could have been an opportunity for an escape attempt, but Pitt knew he had lost any advantage by pushing Kazim too far. His death would be slow and deliberate. It stood to reason Kazim was a good shot, and he would not miss at that close range. Pitt knew he might move fast enough to duck the first shot, but Kazim would quickly adjust his aim and shoot to maim, first one kneecap, then the next. The General's evil eyes did not reflect a quick kill.
Then, half an instant away from when the room would explode in gunfire and convulsive bodies, Massarde made a flourish in the air with his hand and spoke in a commanding voice.
'If you please, General, conduct your execution elsewhere, certainly not in my party room.'
'This tall one is going to die,' Kazim hissed, the black eyes gazing at Pitt.
'All in due time, my good comrade,' said Massarde while casually pouring himself another cognac. 'Do me the courtesy of refraining from bloodying up my rare Nazlini Navajo rug.'
'I'll buy you a new one,' Kazim growled.
'Did you consider the fact he might want a fast and easy way out? It's obvious he baited you, choosing a fast death rather than suffering the agony of long, drawn-out torture.'
Very slowly the pistol dropped, and Kazim's deathly smile turned wolfish. 'You read him. You knew exactly what he was about.'
Massarde gave a Gallic shrug. 'The Americans call it street smarts. These men have something to hide, something vital. We both might benefit if they could be persuaded to talk.'
Kazim pushed himself from the chair, approached Giordino, and raised the automatic again, this time shoving the Berettas barrel against Giordino's right ear.
'Let's see if you are more talkative than you were on your boat.'
Giordino didn't flinch. 'What boat?' he asked, his tone as innocent as a priest at confession.
'The one you abandoned minutes before it blew up.'
'Oh, that boat.'
'What was your mission? Why did you come up the Niger to Mali?'
'We were researching the migratory habits of the fuzzwort fish by following a school of the slimy little devils upriver to their spawning grounds.'
'And the weapons aboard your boat?'
'Weapons, weapons?' Giordino made a downward turn of his lips and raised his shoulders in ignorance. 'We ain't got no weapons.'
'Have you forgotten your run-in with the Benin naval patrol boats?'
Giordino shook his head. 'Sorry, it doesn't ring a bell.'
'A few hours in the interrogation chambers of my headquarters in Bamako might jog your memory.'
'Not a healthy climate for uncooperative foreigners I assure you,' said Massarde.
'Stop conning the man,' said Pitt, looking at Giordino. 'Tell him the truth.'
Giordino turned and stared blankly at Pitt. 'Are you crazy!'
'Maybe you can stand torture. I can't. The thought of pain makes me ill. If you won't tell General Kazim what he wants to know, I will.'
'Your friend is a sensible man,' said Kazim. 'You would be wise to listen to him.'
Just for a second Giordino's blank look slipped, then it was back again, only this time it was beaming with anger. 'You dirty scum. You traitor--'
Giordino's verbal abuse was abruptly cut off as Kazim pistol-whipped him across the face, opening a bloody
