Place of Bones by Larry Johns

maze!”
    “An occupational hazard, colonel McCann,” he nodded. “But a controllable one.”
    “I hope you’re right.” Another impulse prompted me to ask, “Tell me, mister Luang, do you have anyone in S.I.S?”
    “Here in the Congo?” he countered matter-of-factly.
    “Wherever.”
    A slight frown. “Why do you ask?”
    I knew it was a point I should not push. “Just curious.”
    He allowed a few moments to pass. Then he said, “I think it best that we each stick to our own brief, colonel; also with great respect. I told you those things because, to use an intelligence maxim, you needed to know. Beyond that...” He let it hang in the air.
    I shrugged. “Fair enough.” None the less it was a question I could have used an answer to. I changed the subject. “Okay. That just about squares away the matter of your problems - I hope!” We exchanged smiles. “Now, how about the question of my second in command. Have you managed to locate Piet Vryburg?”
    Luang seemed relieved to be on a new topic. “We have, colonel. He is at present in Uganda. I will see to it that his answer reaches you within seven days. Which leads us nicely to the question of communications...”
     

THREE
     
    “Casa Bianca”, set in its own enclosed gardens, was a house of Moorish curved arch design. The living quarters formed a square around a small lawn, in the centre of which a tastefully ornate fountain played lightly over a marble moat, further enhancing the coolness of that most shaded area. The patio, which completely encircled the outside wall of the house, was a wide, marble-paved affair, liberally strewn with expensive garden furniture, and whose curved but low arches allowed stepped access to the landscaped and wooded main gardens, and provided ample cool shade at any time of day. The entire building had been finished in white pebbledash which, in another setting, might have appeared garish, unsubtle to the point of crudeness. But there, amongst the trees, with some of the arches all but covered with budding vines growing upwards out of colorful flower beds, the effect was one of quiet, unpretentious splendor.
    The library of Casa Bianca was a surprising contrast to the rest of the house, with its marble inlaid floors and profusion of Persian and Italian carpets and hand-carved coffee- and occasional-tables, each of which boasted onyx cigarette boxes or mahogany or ebony carvings - here the stone floor was invisible beneath a thick-pile fitted carpet. And the two walls that were not packed bookcases in their own right, had been faced with oak panels and hung with small paintings, each with its own shaded lamp illuminating scenes of African wildlife. The chairs, three of them, plus the large settee, were of studded leather. The desk was of intricately-carved ebony. Its top, a frieze of life in some African village, was covered with a sheet of thick, smooth-edged glass to create the working surface. Now it was littered with maps and papers.
    Seated at the desk, which was positioned slightly off-centre to utilize the light from the French windows, was a man of some sixty years. He was dressed in a light-weight tropical suit, his white shirt open at the neck. The pipe in his mouth, at which he sucked periodically, and his shock of slate-gray hair parted high up, lent him an air of fatherly solidity. His eyes, kindly yet with an edge of intensity enlivening them, carried the same message, as he leant forward over one of the maps, studying it minutely with the aid of a large magnifying glass.
    The man who stood by the window, his back to the desk, wore light grey flannel trousers and a loose, short-sleeved sweater. On his feet he wore open-toed sandals, hand-made in buffalo hide. His skin was tanned a deep, uniform brown and his dark hair was close cropped. His name was Jan Bluthen, and for all intents and purposes, Casa Bianca was his property. The man seated at the desk was called Jean-Paul Winterhoek, and it was he who