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“Worthwhile for you, no doubt, but what about the damsels? And by my count there was only one, and she was unattainable.”

Gunn uncoiled his lithe form from the chair and crossed to the drinks cabinet. He chuckled. “Yes indeed. And you know there’s never been anyone but yourself, and you certainly aren’t in distress.”

“Indeed I am,” said Cynthia sternly. “If you don’t take me to dinner soon, I shall be in danger of starving to death.”

Gunn handed her a glass, a slender tulip of Tio Pepe dry sherry. “Where would you like to go?”

Lady Cynthia thought for a moment. “I’ve heard good reports of that new place in St James’s Square, near where that embassy used to be.”

“That was a while ago. What do they call it, the Bombers Bar and Grill, or the Terrorist’s Takeaway?”

“Ass,” said his lady, with a soft look. “Seriously though, I think you’ll find it under The Good Companion in the phone book.”

All of which has precisely nothing to do with anything that follows, except possibly to indicate that Maxim Gunn was at a loose end and looking for excitement. It can be stated however that the evening was a success, The Good Companion proved to be exactly that - it was owned by a Cockney Jew who had learned the art of cooking in his travels to the ends of the earth - and after a liqueur and coffee Gunn drove home with Cynthia’s golden head on his shoulder. The police might have frowned, but the Gods smiled and all was well.

It was during the afternoon of the following day when Gunn, having returned to his home in Clarges Street after lunch with an old friend, received the telephone call. He was seated once more in the same arm chair, nursing a glass of Foster’s lager in deference to the Australians - the third Test Match was being shown on television - when James Sweetstory shimmered like a wraith into the room.

“Excuse me, Sir, but the Emir of Ladi wishes to speak with you.”

Gunn watched the final ball of the over before replying. “And who the devil is the Emir of Ladi; and what’s more, how did he get this number?”

Sweetstory coughed delicately. “I really couldn’t say, Sir. Are you at home?”

Gun shrugged. “Of course, James. Who knows, fame and fortune may lie around the corner.” He got up, crossed to the desk and picked up the phone.

“Maxim Gunn speaking. May I help you?”

A very cultured voice drawled at him across the wires. “Maxim, my dear fellow. Absolutely delighted to catch you in. Not busy at the moment are you, fending off the foes of Queen and country?”

Gunn was a bit nonplussed as he tried to place the voice, and then the contacts in his memory circuits clicked into place. “Good God! Dan, old fellow. How the hell are you?”

“Not so dusty, and all the better for hearing you. What are you doing this evening?”

“Not much really. I thought about going to Prof Eisenkrantz’s lecture on...”

“Something incredibly dull, I’m sure. Skip the Prof, Maxim, and come round for a spot of dinner.”

Gunn thought for a moment. “You know, Dan,” he said. “I know planes are pretty quick these days, but I don’t think I’ll be able to make it to your neck of the woods in time for dinner. After all, West Africa isn’t exactly next door.”

“Very comical,” the Emir replied. “But I am, next door that is. I’m at the Dorchester.”

“Ah, I thought the line was unusually clear.”

The Emir laughed. “If I was at home you’d be getting this message by tom-tom. Seriously though, if you’re free I’d really appreciate a chat. I’ve got this bit of a problem, you see.”

Gunn raised a mental eyebrow and grimaced. He hated getting mixed up in other’s personal problems. “Personal?” he asked.

“Not that way, old chum. My God, if it were, Dalida would kill me.”

“Dalida?”

“Ah, of course, I wasn’t married last time we met. I hope you’ll meet her soon. No, Maxim, it’s only personal insofar as I’m the Emir - the Old Man died last year - and all my people’s problems are mine too.”

Gunn nodded to himself. “Then I’ll do what I can. What time?”

“Seven thirty suit you?”

At seven thirty exactly Gunn strode up the steps of the Dorchester Hotel, arguably, and probably without doubt, the finest hostelry in the world.

He had walked through the summer evening from his house, enjoying the cool breeze from Hyde Park after the heat of the day. The uniformed doorman saluted as Gunn walked through the entrance, went to the elevator and punched the button for the top floor.

The Emir of Ladi personally opened the door of the suite, and for a brief moment or two the two men looked at each other and let the years roll away.

“How long has it been, Dan?” Gunn asked.

“All too long, old friend, and sometimes I’ve caught myself wondering if those years at Doc Jardine’s feet weren’t some kind of dream. Have you seen anything of him since?”

Gunn let his thoughts drift back to a man called Proteus and another adventure. He shook himself.

“We had what they call a brief encounter a while back.”

The tall, slim Nigerian nobleman, Ishmael dan Fulani dan Ibrahim Arewa gave a huge grin. “Come in, come in. I feel that before we begin we should toast ourselves.”

Gunn walked to a window overlooking the park, glanced down at the street from sheer force of habit, then turned back as a cork popped gently. The Emir handed him a glass and pointed to a brocade covered chair. Gunn noticed he had a glass of ginger ale, but didn’t comment.

“Well, what’ll it be?”

“To battle, murder and sudden death.” Gunn replied promptly.

The Emir, or Dan as he had become known to his friends at Cambridge who couldn’t be bothered with his string of names, wrinkled his nose. “A bit drastic, old son, but I suppose it’s something of a creed with you.”

“So long as the murder and death is someone else’s.”

Dan raised his glass. “Then, as you say; to battle, murder and sudden death.”

Gunn drained his glass thinking he’d much rather have had a Glenmorangie whiskey. “So, what’s all this about?”

“All in good time. Let’s at least enjoy dinner before we go and spoil the evening with business. I’ve ordered Chateaubriand.”

“Okay, but I shall want the truth right after. I’m incurably nosy.”

The dinner was everything it should have been at the Dorchester, and as the two men returned to the sitting room for coffee and liqueurs, Gunn eased himself back into the chair with a satisfied feeling.

“So what is the problem, Dan?” he said.

The Emir ran a hand across his hair. “Actually it’s a bit like your toast, Maxim.” He offered a cigar to Gunn, who refused. “I got your phone number from the Prime Minister.”

Gunn raised an eyebrow. “You move in exalted circles, Dan.”

“Not really. We both went to Eton, you see. Different times, of course, but it’s the tie that counts. Anyway, I sort of explained a bit of my problem - he was very busy - and he advised me to get in touch with you.” Dan smiled. “I had no idea you’d gone into the cloak and dagger business.”

“I’ve left it, officially.”

“Yes, so he said. He told me he couldn’t do anything official either, but that you’d probably jump at the chance of a bit of action. And, incidentally, he’d be much obliged if I told you he’d be obliged; if you follow me.”

”With startling clarity. Britain needs all the friends it can get these days, and an Emir on side wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Nigeria could stand a couple of friends too, Maxim. It’s my country, but it’s also pretty screwed up right now.”

Gunn shrugged. “Most of West Africa is a bit, but it’ll get sorted out eventually. It just needs time. The old colonial political boundaries didn’t take tribal differences much into account. But hell, why am I telling you that?”

Dan smiled. “Why indeed. But at least you understand the root of the problem. Not that the various tribes have ever had much love for each other anyway.” He took a sip of ginger ale. “But that’s not why I asked you here. My problem is much more local, at the moment, though I’ve a feeling it could turn into something a lot more ugly if it’s not stopped.”

Gunn shifted. “So, what is it?”

Dan got up to refill his glass. “Ever heard of the Leopard Men?”

“Sure. Practically every schoolboy has. They were standard fare in Boy’s Own Paper and Tarzan movies. But, Good God Dan, I all that nonsense was stamped out years ago. Anyway, you’re more qualified to put an end to anything nasty than I am, surely. You’re the Emir and I imagine the title carries quite a lot of pull in Ladi.”

“Not nonsense, Maxim, and most certainly not stamped out.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, I grant you the original stuff where a bunch of murderous loonies terrorized hapless villages, claiming all kinds of god-given licence, got given the bum’s rush years ago as you say. Radio and T.V. and the big world out there sounded its death knell; but what I’m talking about isn’t like that. It’s not Sanders of the River stuff. It’s much worse because I think it’s organized, and damned well organized.”

Gunn was puzzled. “Why on earth would anyone bother? I mean, apart from, as you say, terrorizing a bunch of locals, what’s there to gain?”

Dan shrugged. “I don’t know, Maxim. But someone is bothering, and it’s funded with big money from somewhere, and I’m sure it’s being done for a bigger reason than your local nastiness. It’s got to be. Nothing else makes sense.”

Gunn’s pulse quickened a couple of beats and his interest heightened. Admit it, he thought, life had been a bit boring since the Cleitan thing, and this invitation - he assumed he was about to get one - was just what he needed.

“Go on, Dan,” he said.

The Emir had lost his earlier humour and looked decidedly worried. He stood up, walked to the window and peered between slightly parted curtains. Then, apparently satisfied he turned back.

“Nobody knows why I’m in London, Maxim. Nobody that is except Dalida, and your Prime Minister. If it got out I was here for any other purpose but to buy a couple of polo ponies, I don’t think my life would be worth a plugged nickel.”

“Sure you’re not overstating this, Dan? I mean, no one in their right mind would knock off the Emir of Ladi. Dammit, it’d start more trouble than your country could handle.”

Dan smiled thinly. “That’s about right, nobody in their right mind. Unless of course trouble is just what they want, and I think it must be.” He poured them a couple of drinks and rejoined Gunn. “Sit back and I’ll tell you a story.”

“What was that window business?” Gunn interrupted.

“Just making sure no one was taking an undue interest in these windows.”

“And was there?”

“Not right now, but I’m expecting them.”

Gunn felt a spasm of exasperation. “And just who the hell are “they” Dan? And what do they want?”

The Emir held out a hand. “I was about to tell you a story, remember?”

“No, Magunta. But they are old friends, and to whom do you turn when in trouble.”

“In this part of the world? You’d better have friends. The authorities certainly wouldn’t do much, Emir or not, unless bribed.” He shook with silent laughter, and the sight was like a trembling beached black whale. “But we know all about that, Vishinski, don’t we?”

“You know about Gunn, Magunta?” Vishinski’s constant use of the giant’s name was pathetically sycophantic.

“Oh yes. We have not met, but he was instrumental in destroying a plan of considerable daring put in motion by a friend of mine, and I use the word loosely, called Wanda Liszt. I believe he killed her in the process, though there were rumours...” He gazed into the dark space of the cavern for a moment, then lowered his eyes to Vishinski. “But what do you know, little man?”

“That he was an agent for the British Government, and was considered by the directors of the old K.G.B. and G.R.U. to be the most dangerous and successful agent alive. To my knowledge he has never failed.”

“Raw boring facts, Vishinski. Tell me about the man not what he did.”

Vishinski cleared his throat. “You will understand that my information is perhaps outdated, Magunta. It is some years since I was with the K.G.B.”

“It is some years since anyone was: but a rose with but another name.” The huge man waved an impatient hand. “Get on with it, man.”

“He is about thirty-five years old, six foot two and about one hundred and ninety pounds. He is dark haired and blue eyed - hair going slightly grey at the temples - and has what might be described as hawk-like features. He is known to speak a number of languages fluently, among them many of the Western European tongues: French, German, Spanish, Greek and Russian, together with Arabic and some others with which he is not so fluent. He is an accredited expert with most firearms and assorted hand weapons, including sabre and foil, is a black belt in Karate and Kung Fu and what is loosely termed “no holds” fighting. He is checked out on many types of aircraft, prop and jet and among other things is an expert rock climber. He also holds the honorary rank of Major in the S.A.S., the Special Air service and does some training with them in...”

“Enough.” Magunta interrupted. “It would seem Gunn is very talented. But many people have a multitude of accomplishments. What of the man, Vishinski? What makes him so special?”

The Russian shrugged. “The K.G.B. analysed him with great care, and came to the conclusion that he has only one attribute that sets him completely apart. Maxim Gunn has complete faith in his own abilities.” He paused. “And it would seem also a very great deal of luck.”

Magunta gave a deep, rumbling laugh. “Vishinski, you seem to be in awe of this man. But luck is a special commodity. Did you know Napoleon valued it highly in his General Staff? But, blind faith can be undermined, and luck runs out in the end.” He paused. “So what do we do? Presumably the Emir is going to ask him here, so I think we shall forestall the problems his presence might give us. I shall send instructions to London within the hour, and I presume you know where he lives?”

“Indeed, Magunta,” Vishinski replied. “And what will you do about the Emir?”

“Nothing for the moment. He will come back soon enough now that he has contacted Gunn. It would cause too much trouble to eliminate him in England, but here, that is a different matter.”

“It will cause great trouble here also.”

“Which is what we want. Now go, little man and attend to your business. I wish to speak with my Captains.”

The Russian, glad to get away from the awe inspiring giant, scuttled from the rock chamber.

Magunta sat for a while, brooding, still as a Buddha, and presently an evil smile creased his huge dark face, and reaching out he struck a gong. The ringing tone had scarcely died away when there was a patter of bare feet and ten men: tall, strong and well muscled burst into the chamber and stood rigidly at attention before Magunta’s throne. And whatever the Emir might have thought about organization and big money, the leopard skin clad figures were straight out of horror story fiction.

In London, Maxim Gunn drained his coffee cup, refilled it from the silver pot and got up to look out of the window. It was a beautiful morning, with the street below full of people hurrying on God alone knew what business. There were girls in bright summer dresses, business men in sober suites, and the odd sprinkle of tourists wandering aimlessly with cameras and street guides.

Gunn barely saw them. His mind was focussed on what the Emir had told him the night before. There wasn’t much to go on, mostly heart-felt suspicion on the part of a man who had a finger on the pulse of his people and a genuine regard for their welfare, and that of his country. But if Dan was right, there was something nasty brewing, and he had been asked to look into it.

There was a time when Maxim Gunn would have been ordered into a certain drab office near the British Museum before starting any investigation: there he would have confronted the Director, Casimir Vileman, both would have given vent to their mutual dislike - and reaffirmed their complete confidence in each other - and the official wheels would have rolled. But those days were gone. Maxim Gunn was a free agent, a private citizen, answerable to no one but himself, and nothing but his conscience. He came and went where he chose, like the wind.

He smiled at nothing in particular, then crossed to the door and called out. “James, a moment of your time, if you please.”

Seconds later, the urbane figure of James Sweetstory, his man, general assistant and lifetime friend wafted into the room like a benevolent wraith.

“You called, Sir.”

Gunn was businesslike. “I certainly did. It would seem the game is afoot again, James, and I am called to foreign parts. I shall need a bag suitable for about two weeks.”

James Sweetstory inclined his head millimetrically. “Of course Sir. I will pack your tropical gear. West Africa can be warm at this time of year, I believe.”

Gunn’s eyebrows raised in mute query.

“The Emir, Sir. Ladi being in Northern Nigeria I was able to deduce the strong possibility of your travelling there quite soon. I shall obtain a supply of Paludrin, Sir, as I am lead to believe malaria is not uncommon. You will take it daily, Sir?” Sweetstory’s face assumed the look of an anxious mother hen.

Gunn laughed. “James, I wouldn’t dare do otherwise. For all I know you have contacts in the Emir’s staff.”

“Not exactly contacts, Sir but there is a man...”

“Enough!” Gunn interrupted. “Sometimes I wonder why this country spends such huge sums on intelligence when it has you.”

“You are too kind, Sir,” Sweetstory murmured, and vanished like Aladdin’s genie.

Later that morning, Gunn started the engine of his dark green Lagonda, and listened with satisfaction as the 5.3 litre V8 purred throatily into life, then he eased the sleek car into the traffic.

Turning into Piccadilly he aimed for the Circus, then threaded gently along Shaftesbury Avenue into the City of London, passed the British Museum on his left, and with a quick look in the read view mirror, drew to a halt outside an unassuming block of rather run-down, late Victorian offices.

The unprepossessing building in that quite side street was, in fact, the headquarters of one of the most covert intelligence agencies in the world. It was known to the few who were aware of its existence simply as the “Organization”. It was of course also known to those other similar agencies, as is the way of such things throughout the world, but they have no part in this story. What is certain, however, is that to the man in the street, and that included the ubiquitous and nosy press, it was totally unknown.

Gunn no longer worked for the Organization, but still, from time to time was allowed to use its facilities in a kind of grace and favour gesture instigated by the Prime Minister. Casimir Vileman, the Director, did not like this arrangement.

At one time Gunn would have revelled in the situation as it added a little spice to their mutual dislike: but now, maybe it was the maturity of age, maybe he was at last seeing Vileman in a different light, and maybe he was just glad he didn’t work from the drab building any longer, but Gunn no longer spent effort in trying to rile his erstwhile boss.

Sergeant ‘Earthquake’ Magoon sat at his customary post in the bullet proof glass protected cubicle at the far end of the entrance foyer. To outward appearance he was simply another concierge in another unremarkable building, whiling his days away with the sporting pages of the national papers: and that was exactly the image intended. In fact, Magoon was ex-Special Air Service Regiment, the elite S.A.S. which was either feared, hated or respected depending on your viewpoint. Maxim Gunn respected him, and Magoon’s respect for Gunn was vast.

It was all very low key. No snapping guards, no mind blowing arrays of electronic surveillance. Just one very competent and dedicated man, a glass booth, and unless you came in with a small army, absolutely no way past him.

Maxim Gunn stopped, well aware of all that. He was also aware he no longer had rights, other than that of cooperation from Vileman.

“Good morning, Sergeant.”

Magoon’s wide mouth split in a smile of pure pleasure.

“Good morning, Sir. And what may I do for you?”

“Find out if the Boss has a couple of minutes.”

Magoon made a call on his intercom, looked back at Gunn and nodded. “Caught any more weirdos, Sir?” He was referring to an adventure up on the North West Coast of Scotland they had shared not long before, and Magoon desperately wanted a bit more action, particularly with Gunn.

Gunn smiled a little sourly. “I found out there’s more to Australian wildlife than Kangaroos. Tell you about it one day.”

Magoon nodded, pressed a switch on his console to release an innocent door, and waved Gunn through.

The door lead to an elevator and the executive suites above where the atmosphere changed as quickly as the elevator door opened.

Gone was the drabness and subtle smell of not too clean age, to be replaced by carpeted halls, pastel shades, subdued lighting and an indefinable hum of efficiency.

Gunn stepped out onto the soft carpet, crossed the foyer, and poked his head round an open office door. “Wotcha, Polly,” he said. “Caught any good spies lately?”

The blonde head jerked up, cornflower blue eyes widened impossibly, and a second later Gunn was enveloped in the arms of a sweet smelling girl. Polly Anders, Vileman’s Personal Assistant and sometimes agent was a young lady with very definite enthusiasms, one of which was Maxim Gunn.

“Maxim,” she squealed.

“The same,” he murmured in her ear.

“Where have you been? Why didn’t you call? And not even a postcard.” She pulled away, eyeing him at arms length. “Maxim Gunn, you’re a rat.”

Gunn’s mouth turned down in mute admission of guilt. “But a nice rat. Anyway, there was nothing to write about.”

She went back to her desk. “Yea, I’ll bet.”

Gunn hitched himself onto the corner of her desk. “Seriously, Polly, life had begun to be interminably dull until I heard from an old friend yesterday.”

“The Emir of Ladi?”

He stood up. “How the hell did you know?”

The girl tapped the side of her petite nose. “Not a sparrow falls, my dear. Anyway, aren’t you forgetting who we report to?”

“He phoned? Hm, you and James Sweetstory should go into partnership: you’d be unbeatable. Anyway, the Chief’s expecting me.”

Polly pointed at a leather covered door, but Gunn was already moving, opened the door without knocking and closed it gently behind himself.

Casimir Vileman, whose name aptly portrayed both his appearance and nature, looked up from a sheaf of papers on the big desk and sighed. He threw down the fountain pen, slumped back and eyed Gunn with displeasure.

“When I got out of bed this morning,” he said. “I just knew the day had a slow puncture. This proves it. What do you want?”

Gunn smiled falsely. “And I’m glad to see you too.”

Vileman grunted and continued to eye him steadily through heavy glasses. Gunn continued. “I had a call from an old friend yesterday, and then had dinner with him at the Dorchester. But I gather you know about that.”

“You gather right. When do you leave, and what do you want?”

Gunn snorted. “Anyone would think you wanted to get rid of me.”

“I do. And I repeat. What do you want?”

“Merely confirmation that this is all above board and has the blessings of H.M.G.”

“Well it hasn’t. But yes, it is all above board, and the only member of H.M.G. who knows anything about it is the P.M.” He nodded at the red phone on his desk. “You mean he didn’t tell you?”

Gunn shrugged. “He leaves the details to his underlings.”

Vileman went a dull shade of puce, making Gunn wonder about his blood pressure.

“Okay Gunn. You’ve carte blanche I’m told. The Emir wants help, and for some reason we need him. We scratch his back and he’ll do the same to us. All of which means I suppose that you go to Ladi and sort out his problems. That good enough?”

Maxim Gunn nodded slowly. “I suppose it’ll have to be. You’ve no idea, of course?”

Vileman shook his head. “Not a dickey bird, old son.” Then he grinned delightedly. “But you’re the freelance expert these days, spreading your favours around in some pretty funny places from what I hear, so what’s one more. No, Gunn, the ball’s firmly in your court, and frankly I don’t even want to know. You trip on this one and the egg’ll be all over your face, not mine.”

Gunn stood up, his hand on his chest. “Your good wishes really get me, right here. You won’t mind then if I make myself free of a couple of the facilities?”

“Would it make any difference if I did?”

Gunn pointed at the red phone. “You could call; but to answer your question, not a bit.” He crossed to the door and turned, hand on the knob. “We must do this more often. It’s not often we get time for a pleasant chat.”

“You weren’t long,” Polly said when Gunn returned to her office. “Did he throw you out?”

Gunn shook his head, frowning. “I’m a bit worried about the little toad. He doesn’t look well. Maybe it’s time he retired.”

The girl made a rude derisive noise. “And who’d take his place, you?”

Gunn shuddered. “God forbid. Indigo Boone might be a good choice. The Chief of Staff’s damned smart behind all that slow Yorkshire front. On the other hand, maybe they’d give it to you.”

The impossibly blue eyes widened even further. “What have you been smoking?”

“No, I mean it,” Gunn said. “You know the business, you’re tough as nails, and you’re as devious as a left hand corkscrew. You’d be perfect.”

The blue eyes narrowed to slits. “Just the sort of testimonial a girl needs. Remind me to put it on my résumé.” Polly snapped a folder shut, suddenly all brisk efficiency. “But enough of this idle banter. I assume you want the impossible as usual or you wouldn’t be here.”

Gunn hitched himself onto the corner of her desk. “Not really.” He proceeded to dictate a list of items.

When he had finished, Polly looked up amusedly. “You don’t want much, do you?”

“Probably more,” Gunn said. “Sent down any good crims lately?” He took the obviously empty glass the other was holding and signalled for a refill.

The rumpled face creased into a smile. “We have our moments. So what are you doing as a gentleman of leisure, getting bored out of your mind, I’d imagine?”

Gunn handed him his drink. “Oh, I have my moments too.”

“Yes. I’ll just bet you do.” The barrister sipped his drink. “They do a remarkably fine steak and kidney pudding here if you feel like lunch.”

Gunn stood up. “Lead on. England’s finest for England’s finest.”

“But finest what has yet to be determined with due legality.”

The bar crowd had thinned considerably by the time the two men sat back to enjoy coffee. The barrister looked at Gunn from beneath his bushy eyebrows, and it was a look filled with curiosity.

“I presume your lack of attention to my sparkling repartee indicates a certain preoccupation, my friend. Does this mean you have a project, that the game is afoot?” And before Gunn could answer he held up a meaty hand. “No, I’m not prying. It was more an observation that a real question.”

Gunn smiled his apology. “There’s no reason you shouldn’t know. After all, I’m not bound by the old rules. No midnight oaths, no bloody signatures on ancient parchment.” He carefully stirred brown sugar into his coffee. “I don’t know whether you’re acquainted with the Emirate of Ladi...”

“Northern Nigeria,” replied the barrister promptly. “And no, not personally.”

“Northern Nigeria it is, and about the only Emirate left with any political clout. Anyway, about a year ago the old Emir was gathered to the bosom of Allah, leaving his eldest son, who just happens to be an old university mate of mine, to carry on the good work. He is now, of course Emir, and by his account a worried one.”

“So naturally he just happened to pay you a visit to ask you to sort out this problem, whatever it is.”

Gunn nodded. “More or less.”

The barrister eyed him in a manner which would have been guaranteed to make any witness falter on the stand. “I was always under the impression Her Majesty took a dim view of interfering in local politics, and an even dimmer one of her agents, ex or otherwise, swanning around on private business.”

“She does. But in this case I go with blessings of the man in Number Ten.”

The bushy eyebrows waggled furiously. “Tell me more, dear boy.”

And so Maxim Gunn broke a rule and told him, and it was well into the middle of the afternoon when his old friend sat back with a sigh.

“Good God; the romance of it all. Sounds exactly like something out of John Buchan, with a smattering of Boys Own Paper thrown in to lower the standard. You move in mysterious waters, Maxim, and from the safe depths of my arm chair I envy you. When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Then we’d better break up this happy reunion. Bring me back a whatever-it-is they specialize in as souvenirs in that part of the world.”

Gunn spent the rest of the afternoon in the reading room of the British Museum, made a quick return visit to see Polly Anders who, as she gave him his ticket said. “I’m worried about you Maxim. You seem to be getting a bit casual. It’s almost as if you were looking for trouble. Is life that dull?”

Gunn looked down fondly at the golden-headed girl who meant so much to him. “No, Polly my love; nothing so stupid. I’m just having a bit of trouble getting used to the idea that tribal witch doctors and fellas dressed up in animal skins can be much of a threat to world peace.”

“There’s probably a bit more to it than that. There’ll be something behind the front, you wait and see. The mumbo jumbo will be a lovely cover for another of those mad schemes Wanda Liszt used to dream up.” The impossibly blue eyes widened even further as a thought struck. “You don’t suppose...?”

Gunn shook his head firmly. “Nobody walked away from the Tomb of Gilgamesh.” And then he grinned boyishly. “It would be fun though, wouldn’t it?” He crossed to the elevator, thumbed the button and turned. “Mind the fort, Polly. I’ve a feeling the Big V might need a bit of help. I got the impression he’s wearing a bit thin.”

Polly nodded. “Like I said, Maxim, you may have to take over then, like it or not.”

“And as I said. No chance. That job calls for someone who’s made an in depth study of the art of being nasty. Me, I’m much too nice a chap.”

Polly Anders stuck her tongue out at his departing back.

Gunn returned to his home in Clarges Street just as the shadows were lengthening, and he knew it was going to be one of those glorious summer evenings often read about, but seldom experienced.

As he mounted the steps to his door, it swung open as if controlled by an electronic eye, to reveal the figure of James Sweetstory.

“Good evening, Sir.”

“It certainly looks like being one, James,” Gunn agreed. “Any messages, calls from damsels in distress, old ladies with missing poodles, that sort of thing?”

Sweetstory’s mouth twitched microscopically, and for one awe inspiring moment Gunn though he was going to smile. It was not to be.

“Lady Cynthia telephoned, Sir. She suggested a picnic supper by the river at Hampton Court. I have taken the liberty of preparing a basket.”

“Sounds like a first rate idea. And for what time am I summoned to the presence?”

“In fifteen minutes, Sir.”

“Then I’d better get a move on. Put the things in the car, there’s good fellow.”

“Certainly, Sir.”

“Thank you, James.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Some hours later, when the last of the tourists had climbed wearily into their buses and hired cars, and tired looking fathers toted sleeping children on their shoulders Maxim Gunn looked down at the sleek golden head on his shoulder and murmured. “One last trot round the maze I think, and then we’ll call it a day.”

His lady smiled fondly and sat up. “Really, Maxim, there are times when you’re just like a small boy.”

“And small boys need both to be humoured and, if I remember, have the most fun. So why grow up?” He stood and held out his hand. “Come on. I’ll bet you a magnum of Bollinger I don’t take one wrong turn.”

Cynthia got lightly to her feet. “You’re on. Oh, the vanity of the man. We’d better be quick, though, I think they’re about to shut up for the night.”

Hampton Court maze is at any time very easy to lose your way in, and for that reason there are people placed on things like tennis umpire’s seats to guide the more hopelessly lost.

When Gunn and Cynthia went in they appeared to be alone. As they slipped through the entrance, the tall hedges loomed menacingly, and Cynthia took Gunn’s hand.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

Gunn grinned. “Probably not. Why, don’t you like Bollinger?”

“You could just buy me some anyway.”

Gunn nodded. “I could, but you wouldn’t have earned it. Come on.”

Gunn led the way unerringly, pausing only once, until after about five minutes he announced. “Half way, my love. We’re on the home stretch...”

He stopped as if he’d run into a brick wall and stood, listening. Cynthia was about to speak, but a quick glance at his face changed her mind.

Gunn bent slowly to whisper in her ear. “Whoever’s in here with us isn’t a tourist. They’re making rather less noise than stalking cats.”

“They? How many?”

Gunn pointed through the hedge to his left, holding up two fingers. He whispered again. “Act naturally. Pretend we haven’t heard them. There’s a three-way fork just ahead, and I think a small ambush is called for.” And then in a normal voice he announced. “There, what did I tell you, we passed that particular piece of litter the first time round.” And as Cynthia replied with a scathing observation on litter bugs, he sprinted noiselessly ahead to the next corner. She followed, chatting aimlessly to no one.

Gunn rounded the corner as silently as a puff of smoke, poked a cautious eye up a parallel alley, and vanished down the left of three forks in front of him. He melted into the shrubbery and waited while Cynthia’s voice came clear over the evening air as she strolled toward the junction.

No more than fifteen seconds later, two very large black men appeared silently at the junction, pressed into the hedge and also waited. In their hands Gunn saw what seemed to be good old fashioned coshes: not the most lethal weapon, but certainly enough to knock someone stupid while you got on with the serious business of boots or garrotte. Their whole attention was on the corner and away from Gunn as he stepped forward.

“Looking for something, fellas?” he drawled lazily.

The effect of his voice was most gratifying, as both potential assassins leapt about a foot in the air and whirled as if stung by scorpions.

The fraction of a second it took for them to recover was too late for the nearest one. He was catapulted backwards into the hedge by Gunn’s flying drop kick, and stayed there, unmoving.

The second man dodged his flying companion, raised his cosh to attack, and found it firmly entangled in the leather strap of Lady Cynthia’s handbag. She yanked back hard, and as the man lost balance momentarily, Gunn chopped his hard across the side of the neck. His eyes went glassy and he subsided without a sound.

“Well done that girl,” Gunn murmured as he dropped to one knee beside the sleeping beauty. “Now, let’s just take a quick look through their pockets while we’ve got the chance.”

The quick search revealed a couple of passports and a number of credit cards, made out in the names of Muhammad Tukur and Audu Yesufu, both described blandly as company directors from Kano in Northern Nigeria.

“What are you going to do with them?” asked Cynthia.

“What, these?” Gunn stood up, holding up the documents, “or those?” He pointed at the men.

His lady shrugged. “Both, I suppose.”

“The passports I shall drop in the nearest rubbish bin, thereby causing them no end of bother, and our two friends we shall proceed to tie up with their own belts and anything else that comes to mind: are you wearing tights or stockings?”

“But they’re new,” Cynthia protested, as she turned her back and proceeded to remove them. “Won’t somebody find them?”

“What, your tights?”

“Ass,” she said, handing the flimsy item over.

“Frick and Frack? Undoubtedly, but not till morning, before which with any luck it’ll rain buckets, and I shall be winging my way across the Sahara to Kano.”

A short while later Gunn surveyed his handiwork, nodded with satisfaction, and rolled the two trussed turkeys so they lay side by side like sardines in a can.

“Come on my love, we’d better get out of this place before it gets too dark to see...”

“And you lose that magnum,” Cynthia smiled. “Anyway I reckon you owe it to me after that sterling work.”

CHAPTER FOUR

The jet engines whined down as if they’d run out of energy after three thousand miles of continuous effort. Gunn unbuckled his seat belt and peered through the window to be greeted by an unprepossessing view of flat, arid red ground, sun bleached grasses, and in the distance a couple of camels resting in the shade of a stunted thorn tree. He might have been anywhere from Northern India to Central Australia.

It was not until he started down the mobile gangway that he caught the pungent and unmistakable odours and knew he was in Africa. The mixture was indefinable apart from dung fuelled fire smoke, but he knew it as well as Lady Cynthia’s perfume, instantly recognizable among a thousand others.

Within an hour he was in his hotel room, showered and trying to make a telephone call to the Emir of Ladi, a process which he imagined might well take some time. As he waited for the connection he dressed in light weight tropical gear, poured himself a good measure of duty free Glenmorangie whisky and was about to tackle the hotel switchboard again when there was a knock on the door.

The man outside saluted in the best army tradition and cracked a huge grin. Gunn raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“Mistah Gunn, Sah?”

Gunn studied his visitor’s dark face. The smile wavered slightly but remained. He nodded. “Yes, I’m Gunn. What can I do for you?”

The man slumped fractionally with relief. “My name is Musa, Sah. I am your driver, to take you to Ladi and my Master, the Emir.”

Gunn smiled back at the man. “Well, now, that’s very good of the Emir. My thanks to him. When do we leave?”

Musa shrugged. “When you wish, Sah. Now if you will. But it will take many hours and the road is not good. Perhaps...”

“...it would be better to wait till morning,” Gunn concluded with understanding. “Yes, I should like to rest after the long flight. You have friends you can stay with in Kano?”

Musa’s grin grew impossibly larger. “Oh yes Sah. Thank you Sah. At what time shall I be here in the morning?”

“Make it eight o’clock,” Gunn replied. “You have money?”

Musa shrugged slightly. “I will be all right, Sah.”

Gunn took a note from his wallet. “Just in case, you understand. Expenses.”

The note vanished into the folds of Musa’s long whitish robe.

“Thank you Sah.” And with another snapping salute he vanished at a trot down the path between the lines of bungalow rooms.

Gunn closed the door to return to his drink and the phone.

Maybe the Emir’s name carried a lot of weight in that part of the world, but Gunn was talking to Ishmael dan Fulani in a very short time.

“This tom-tom’s in fine working order, Dan,” he said. “You don’t seem much further away than the far side of the moon.”

“The miracles of modern science, dear fellow. Even up here we’ve got computers, modems and cellular phones. But seriously, I’m damned glad you’ve arrived. How was the flight?”

“The usual. I arrived about an hour ago.”

“Good. When do I see you?”

Gunn took a sip of his drink. “Sometime tomorrow evening I imagine. I’ve just been contacted by the admirable Musa, and we leave at eight.”

The Emir laughed. “Musa’s a good man, but a bit of a rogue. I supposed he conned you into staying the night.”

“Not really. It was my idea, but he didn’t object.”

“I’ll bet. Watch him though, Maxim. He drives nearly as fast as you and with considerably less skill. Well, till then dear fellow, and take care, because I’m not at all sure the other side aren’t onto my real reason for going to London.”

“They probably are,” Gunn agreed. “I had a little bother just before leaving. See you tomorrow.”

And with that he cradled the phone, finished his drink and went in search of the dining room.

There is a shop in London where they sell maps. It has been said, with some justification, that if they don’t have what you want, to the scale you want, of even the most obscure place on earth, then it doesn’t exist. Gunn had found what he wanted, and after a rather uninspiring lunch, spent the rest of the afternoon in the air conditioned comfort of his room committing as much of the details of the Emirate of Ladi as possible to his remarkable memory. Finally, as the shadows lengthened he got up, stretched and went in search of a pre dinner drink.

The bar was crowded with a boisterous bunch of young men and women, black and white who, from the sound of it, had been attending a rugby match and were intent on celebrating a win. Gunn took his whisky to a quiet corner and watched with tolerant amusement, remembering his own university days.

He finished his drink, and was making for the dining room when he collided heavily with a young man in the process of demonstrating some movement. The youngster was full of apologies.

“Dreadfully sorry, Sir,” he said. “Didn’t see you. Damned careless of me. Not hurt, are you?”

Gunn smiled and shook his head. “Not at all. You won, I take it.”

“Yes Sir. Beat Kaduna fifteen to nil.”

“Well done.” The youthful enthusiasm made Gunn feel old beyond his years. “Dinner calls. Enjoy yourselves.” As he left the bar he thought when men that age started calling you Sir, you must look about ninety.

Dinner was an uneventful repeat of lunch. Soup, some kind of tasteless fish in sauce, and a piece of lamb that must have walked clear across Africa if its toughness was anything to go by. Still, the coffee was good and the brandy bore a famous name. Gunn signed the bill and left.

Outside, he paused on the steps. The night was full of the scents of Africa: wood smoke and spices, and the strong perfume of the frangipane in the gardens. On the road outside a group of laughing men went past on bicycles, and taxis cruised, drivers dangling half out of the windows to catch the breeze and shout to friends.

Gunn absorbed the data, inputting it to the incredible storehouse that was his memory, ready for the day when the information might be needed. Then he looked up at the night sky, carpeted with a number of stars seemingly possible only where the nights are warm, and strolled slowly in the direction of his room.

Unlike most hotels, this one didn’t house its guests in a blocky monolith served by elevators, but in a series of cabin lines spread throughout the gardens. Lights over each door threw a yellow pool on the concrete path, with intervals of dark shadow between. Gunn’s room was in the second line, about half way along.

Maybe it was a shadow darker than the rest, maybe just his sixth sense kicking into action, but whatever, Gunn stopped at the end of the row and melted into the darkness behind a tall clump of oleanders, and waited, still as a graven image.

Minutes ticked away, and then, just as he was about to admit the possibility of a mistake, a slight cough tickled from the dark and the shadow moved. Gunn’s mouth twitched in the minutest smile as he moved out of concealment, eased round the corner of the cabin line like a shy ghost and quickly ran on noiseless feet along the back of the cabins, then paused to check his suspicions.

Easing round the corner he poked his head out and could just make out the silhouette of an arm and shoulder against the lights above the hotel main entrance. The hand attached to the arm held something that gleamed dully in the lamplight. Gunn nodded grimly, suspicion confirmed. It was not just some innocent guest taking a breath of evening air. He moved back to consider options.

One, he could create a diversion and make the potential assassin leave, but that would only delay the issue as he’d try again. Two, he could try to creep up on him, and that had about as much chance of success as a popsicle in the Sahara. Three, he could rush him; and four, he call the local fuzz which would involve hours of endless explanation if they came at all.

He was about to take number three, when the front doors of the main building opened and half a dozen enthusiastic young rugby players burst noisily into the night, loudly and beerily trying to decide whether to go somewhere else or call it a night.

After a couple of minutes a consensus was reached. Four revellers trooped off towards the car park, while two wove laughing and somewhat unsteadily directly towards Gunn’s cabin line. The man in the shadows pulled back sharply.