Part 3 (2/2)
Actually, working in the field on definite a.s.signments, it was seldom you ran into other African Development Project men. But perhaps it would tie Zetterberg up, wondering just who he could trust to send looking for El Ha.s.san.
He finished off his barbequed goat and the bread and wiped his hands on his clothes. n.o.body here yet. To have an excuse for staying, he would have to buy a bottle of Gazelle beer, the cheap Senegalese brew which came in quart bottles and was warm and on the ga.s.sy side.
It was then that the woman in front of him, without turning, said softly, ”El Ha.s.san?”
II
Homer Crawford stared at her, unbelievingly. The woman couldn't possibly be an emissary from Isobel or from one of his own companions.
This situation demanded the utmost secrecy, they hadn't had time to screen any outsiders as to trustworthiness.
She turned. It was Isobel. She chuckled softly, ”You should see your face.”
His eyes went to her figure.
”Done with mirrors,” Isobel said. ”Or, at least, with pillows.”
Homer didn't waste time. ”Where are the others? They should be here by now.”
”We figured that the fewer of us seen on the streets, the better. So they're waiting for you. Since I was the most easily disguised, the least suspicious looking, I was elected to come get you.”
”Waiting where?”
She licked the side of her mouth, a disconcerting characteristic of hers, and looked at him archly. ”Those pals of yours have quite a bit on the ball on their own. They decided that there was a fairly good chance that Sven Zetterberg wasn't exactly going to fall into your arms, so they took preliminary measures. Kenny Ballalou rented a small house, here in the native quarter. We've all rendezvoused there. See, you aren't the only one on the ball.”
Homer frowned at her, for the moment being in no mood for humor. ”What was the idea of sitting here for the past five minutes without even speaking? You must have recognized me, knowing what to look for.”
She nodded. ”I ... I wasn't sure, Homer, but I had the darnedest feeling I was being followed.”
His glance was sharp now. First at her, then a quick darting around the vicinity. ”Woman's intuition,” he snapped, ”or something substantial?”
She frowned at him. ”I'm not a ninny, Homer.”
His voice softened and he said quickly, ”Don't misunderstand, Isobel.
I know that.”
She forgot about her objection to his tone. ”Even intuition doesn't come out of a clear sky. Something sparks it. Subconscious psi, possibly, but a spark.”
”However?” he prodded.
”I took all precautions. I can't seem to put my finger on anything.”
”O.K.,” he said decisively. ”Let's go then.” He came to his feet and reached a hand down for her.
”Heavens to Betsy,” she said, ”don't do that.”
”What?”
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