The Seersucker Whipsaw (25 page)

“Boy,” Shartelle said to me, “you are a natural-born conspirator. Those are two of the worst secret messages I've ever had the pleasure of reading.” He turned to Jimmy Jenaro. “Now that first one—about the skywriting—I want that to fall into the hands of the Renesslaer boys up north. One of them's named Franchot Tone Calhoun.”

“You're kidding,” Jenaro said.

“I ain't.”

“Okay. That I can do. Then you want Duffy to get this in a day or so?”

“Right. Now the other one I want to fall into the hands of whoever's ramrodding Dr. Kensington Kologo's campaign in the east. Now make sure they don't get them too easily and make sure that they understand that these are top secret and all. You follow.”

Jenaro smiled. “You don't have to draw me a map, Clint.”

“Didn't figure I would.”

Dr. Diokadu shook his head sadly. “Some place, some place far back, about fifteen minutes ago, I became hopelessly lost. I think it all started with the pun.”

Shartelle grinned, threw his head back and shouted for Samuel who responded with his usual “Sah!” from the netherworld of his kitchen. “Thought now that teatime's over, we might have a drink. I swear I think that gin and tonic is habit-forming.”

Samuel brought the drinks. Jenaro had another beer; Diokadu decided to try orange squash and gin, and Shartelle and I tried the gin and tonic.

“Now then, Doc. It's simple. I want the opposition to learn of our secret weapon—skywriting and the use of a helium- filled blimp. Now if my understanding of the Renesslaer psychology is right, they're going to try to get the skywriting before we do. That's been the secret of their success in advertising and public relations all over the world. In television, they sponsor only the tried and true. When situation comedy was the rage, they sponsored a raft of situation comedies. When the cute, low-key ads took “ hold, they started producing cute, low-key ads. They're imitators, not innovators. I doubt if they ever had a fresh idea of their own, but they can take somebody else's and do it a hell of a lot better. Now I figure they'll think skywriting is just the ticket and before you know it, they're going to have a team down here that's going to be writing old Alhaji Sir's name all over the sky. Has he got a short nickname by the way—like Ako?”

“He's called Haj,” Dr. Diokadu said.

“Now that's just fine,” Shartelle said. “They can skywrite that real easy. Now how about their party's symbol?”

“It's a pyramid,” Diokadu said.

“That's not bad either. Give me a piece of that typewriter paper, Pete.”

I handed him one and Shartelle sketched on it quickly and then handed it to Diokadu who nodded and passed it to Jenaro who handed it to me. It looked like this:

“Me no vote for man in sky, Mastah,” I said.

“Well, now, Pete, that's just what I hope the reaction is. But we gotta be certain. Now here's where Jimmy comes in.”

“How?” Jenaro asked.

Shartelle leaned back in his chair and looked dreamily up at the ceiling. He had a slight smile on his face. I had come to know that smile. I felt sorry for whomever he was thinking of.

“Jimmy, I need me a poison squad.”

“A what?”

“Have you got some good old boys down at party headquarters who'd be something like traveling salesmen back in the States? You know, they're mixers and minglers, go around to all the villages and towns and talk to the folks. Bring the latest gossip.”

Jenaro nodded carefully. “I know what you mean.”

Shartelle kept looking at the ceiling. “They'd travel in pairs. Wouldn't be identified with the party in any way, shape, or form. They'd just sort of drift into town and when the conversation turned to politics, and I imagine it does, they'd have just a couple of quiet comments. Know what I mean?”

Jenaro nodded again.

“Now say that Renesslaer does get a skywriting team down here. Have you got some boys that could get hold of their schedule in advance?”

“I've got them,” Jenaro said.

“Uh-huh. Now suppose we sent the poison squad out—maybe a day ahead of where the skywriting was to take place. And these two good old boys, these traveling salesmen, sort of bring up the skywriting casual-like?” The South was rising again at the end of Shartelle's sentences.

We all nodded this time.

“Now one old boy turns to the other and says: ‘You know, Ojo, I do not believe that the vapors from the plane in the sky destroy a man's sex, do you?'”

“And Ojo—or whatever his name is—says: ‘I have heard it said in the last village that the strange smoke is a deadly gas and that it has made many widows whose husbands still live.' Or however they talk. I think maybe I'm overly influenced by H. Rider Haggard. Then one of them—I don't care which one—says: ‘I cannot believe that the villages over which the name of Haj was written are doomed to have no more sons.' And they keep it up, moving on from town to town, village to village, just ahead of the skywriting plane.”

“Now, Jimmy, you got a hundred or so boys that you could send out to do that little job?”

Jenaro shook his head. It was a shake of admiration. “It just might do it, Clint. We can work the sexual taboos. Sure, we got the boys—in fact, the party faithful we've wit would find it just about on a par with their capabilities. They won't have to do much more than buy beer and talk, and they're good at that, if nothing else. It just so happens that I ordered a hundred Volkswagens about two months ago. Looks as if they'll come in handy.”

Dr. Diokadu held up his glass and said: “Do you think I might have another gin and squash? It's rather refreshing.” I called Samuel and he served us another round.

“It is a lie, of course,” Dr. Diokadu said. “The smoke from the plane is harmless.”

“It's harmless, Doc. It's just a chemical and crude oil that's squirted into a hot exhaust. And that's what the poison squad will say—that they
don't
believe that the smoke will cause impotency and sterility. But you're right; it's a lie. It's a lie in its conception, its intent, and its execution. Do you think we shouldn't?”

Diokadu sighed. “The Leader will not like it; Dekko won't stand for it.”

“I wasn't planning on letting them know,” Shartelle said. “They're not to know. Their job is to campaign out there among the folks. If the gutter has to be worked, then that's our job.”

“You need something else, Clint,” I said. “You can't bank on the secret messages alone.”

He nodded and rose to pace the room again. “We need two men,” he said to Jenaro. “They must be of fairly high rank in the party. They must have unimpeachable integrity. And they must be willing to make a sacrifice.”

He waited. Jenaro and Diokadu exchanged glances. “Go on,” Jenaro said.

“I want them to defect. To cross over to the opposition. One to Sir Alakada's side; the other to Dr. Kologo's camp. They'll bring information, of course. You'll provide them enough harmless stuff to make it look authentic. But the most important tidbit they will carry is confirmation of our banking everything on the skywriting and the Goodyear-type blimp. They'll have to be a couple of actors, and they shouldn't be closely tied together. Have you got a pair like that?”

“Quit looking at us, Clint,” Jenaro said. “Damned if I'll defect.”

“Not you two. But a couple of bright, young types. You're going to have to appeal to their patriotism, party loyalty and sense of adventure.”

“More likely to their wallets,” Diokadu said. “I have two in mind.” He mentioned two names. They meant nothing to me. Diokadu looked to Jenaro for confirmation. Jenaro nodded his head slowly. “One's a lawyer,” he said. “The other is an administrative type. They're both tied to the party and are on the rise. They talk a good game—give the impression that they're on the inside.” He nodded, abruptly this time. “They'll do.”

“Who makes the approach?” Shartelle asked.

“Diokadu. He's the party theoretician. They'd think I was trying to con them.”

Shartelle looked at Diokadu who didn't look happy. “All right. I'll contact them this evening. Both are in Ubondo.”

“The usual reasons for defection—” Shartelle began. Diokadu held up his hand. “We've had enough defectors in the past, Mr. Shartelle. I know the reasons for defection.”

Jimmy Jenaro got up and walked across the room. He sighted an imaginary sixteen-foot putt, wiggled his hips too much, but tapped it into the hole. “The poison squad, Clint. What's their line about the blimp—providing there is a blimp?”

“It's simple,” Shartelle said. “They don't believe it's really carrying an American A-bomb.”

“They call it the boom bomb back in the bush,” Jenaro said.

“And the drums will be used to plant the fear of impotency and death,” Diokadu said. “Two very strong fears, Mr. Shartelle. But suppose the opposition denies it?”

“Ask the public relations expert,” Shartelle said, pointing his cigar at me.

“They can't deny a rumor—or they give credence to it,” I said. “They can't stop using the planes for skywriting, or the poison squad will start taking credit for ending it. They're boxed, anyway they go—providing they go. The same holds true for the blimp. If they quit using the blimp, then the angry protests of an aroused citizenry paid off. If they deny it, why should they deny something that doesn't exist? It's like a press release that starts out: ‘Johnny X. Jones today denied widely-circulated rumors that he is an embezzler.'”

Diokadu shook his head. “But we're not counting on this to win the election, surely. It's trickery, it's deceit, and it's a package of lies—cunning, to be sure—but still lies.”

Shartelle nodded his head. “If the people vote for Chief Akomolo, they'll be voting for his program. If they want to vote against the other two leading parties, they'll have no place to go but into Akomolo's camp. Now, Doc, you know he hasn't got the votes, and I'm not sure he'll have them even if he makes a speech on the hour, every hour between now and election day. But I want to guide our opposition's mistakes; I want to encourage them. I want to keep them busy running around on useless jobs. I want them to exhaust their energies on their own bungling. I want to create dissension in their headquarters and panic in their hearts. And when something like this starts, there's a damned good chance for panic.”

“I'll go along with you, Clint,” Jenaro said quietly. He turned to Diokadu. He said a phrase or a sentence in the dialect. Diokadu nodded back.

“I just said that the hands of our enemies are not without blood. They've pulled some real shitty deals on us in the past. I've got no compunction about Clint's idea. It's cunning as you said—and tricky. If it works, we're bound to pick up votes—a lot of votes.”

“I will agree, but the Leader must not be told the details,” Diokadu said. He smiled, a trifle ruefully. “As a political scientist, Mr. Shartelle, I am learning a great deal about the seamier side of politics. It seems to be the side where the votes are won and lost.”

Shartelle smiled back. “They're won and lost every place, Doc. I just want to cover all bets. That leads me up to another question. How about the labor union, Jimmy?”

“I talked to the guy. He's willing to dicker, but he won't go for a general strike. He's saving that, he said.”

“How far will he go?”

“He'll pull out one—it's well-disciplined. They'll stay out until he tells them to go back.”

“Which one?”

“The one that'll cause the biggest stink.” Jenaro grinned happily. “The Amalgamated Federation of Albertian Night Soil Collectors.”

Chapter

18

Diokadu left, the now-familiar sheaf of papers tucked under his left arm, his right hand hitching up the folds of his
ordona
. Jenaro remained seated.