Casca 12: The African Mercenary Read Free Page A

through the diplomatic pouches of the Boer's legation in Singapore, he had a direct line by which to send and receive information with little likelihood of a leak being made either accidentally or on purpose. He'd sent van Janich a list of his needs through the pouch and had been assured that the contractors would have everything he'd requested ready for him and his men at the staging area.
    Casey signaled for a refill. "Not long now," he mumbled to Van, who just nodded his head and wondered if the girl was wearing panties under the liquid silk dress that slid over her hips like the skin of a snake when she walked. "Not long now," he repeated to himself.
    The rest of the team would be flying in from Bangkok on Garuda, the Indonesian airline. Gustaf Beidemann, the German, had requested a couple of days layover in Thailand to visit some friends before meeting with Casey. If it had been anyone else, Casey would have told him to get his ass in gear, but he knew Beidemann would have just told him to piss off, and then would go ahead and do what he wanted to anyway. There was no way to ever completely control Beidemann; he'd given up trying a long time ago. It had been several years since he'd last seen his old comrade. They had been through much together since the fall of the Third Reich: the Legion in Indochina, Dien Bien Phu, then back to Algeria for the troubles there. In those days Casey had gone by the name of Carl Langer, the same one he'd used as a panzer soldier. It had become a bit too well known since then, and when he'd received his discharge from the French Foreign Legion, he had taken the name Casey Romain. Beidemann still had a hard time remembering not to call him Langer. The other man with Beidemann was his sidekick, a swarthy Moroccan he'd tied up with in Algeria in '57. He was known as Ali ben Yousef, and had a propensity toward the use of the knife and garrote.
    They had all worked together before, and each knew the others' strong points and weaknesses. They were a good solid team. Casey forced his mind to leave the job alone. There wasn't anything else he could do right now. Too much thinking too early and he'd get edgy. There would be plenty of time to get worked up once they were on their way.
    Van was about to go and take a leak, but before he stood up, a shadow filled the room, a silhouette in the doorway against the bright sunlight as it cased the bar.
    Van nudged Casey's foot. Another, smaller silhouette joined the first. The figures were dimly lit, but the size of the first one left no doubt that it was Gustaf Beidemann, formerly of the French Foreign Legion, the Twenty Seventh Panzer Division, and a half dozen other outfits of one kind or another.
    Beidemann could get by in several languages that he'd learned solely for the purposes of buying women or ordering a drink. And he suffered from one great weakness: a passion for Russian vodka. When it was available, he would consume it by the liter, saying it was the only damned thing Russia had worth going to war over.
    The smaller figure beside him was Ali ben Yousef, a wiry little guy with the ability to open up a man faster than most could even think about it. His only loyalty was to Beidemann. The German had saved the little Moroccan's life once, and Yousef, being a devout Moslem, believed it was a sign from Allah. He'd vowed to serve the big man until the moment Allah in His infinite wisdom and mercy let him know the debt was paid off. And if and when that time came, Yousef hadn't quite made up his mind whether he would kill Beidemann or not. But such things were in the hands of Allah, blessed be His name. lnshallah!
    Beidemann pulled a chair over to Casey's table while Yousef watched the door. Ordering a beer from the now meek waitress, who seemed awed by the dimensions of her new customer, he smiled at Casey. Speaking in clipped but correct English, he spoke in that slightly superior tone that so many Germans and upper class Englishmen seem to acquire