Maxim Gunn and the Leopard Legion

By Nicholas Boving

Northern Nigeria. A wild, harsh land. A master criminal with a master plan. Magunta, the Witch Doctor, Wizard and master criminal who first appears in THE CHAOS PROJECT plans to take over West Africa by resurrecting the infamous Leopard Men. Fear is his key, and the Great Black Leopard his weapon. Gunn is called in by his old friend, the Emir of Ladi, and tracks the leopard to its mountain lair.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicholas Boving
• Release date: Jul 30, 2009
• ISBN: 9781896448084

Nicholas Boving

As for me, I now live in Toronto. I was formerly a mining engineer and travelled the world widely.Tiring of the mining industry (my unalterable conviction being that mining in 40 degrees in the shade was a vastly overrated pastime) and wanting to experience more of the world firsthand, I also worked from time to time as a docker, fruit inspector and forester. My books draw on these experiences to provide characters, backgrounds and scenes.I am the author and publisher of the "Maxim Gunn" series of action/adventure books, the second of which, "Maxim Gunn and the Demon Plan" was a finalist in the 1998 Crime Writers of Canada, Arthur Ellis Award for Best Juvenile Novel.I have also written other novels and screenplays which follow the central character to countries and places where the forces of nature as much as people provide the conflict. Three of these are currently with my agent in Los Angeles.

Book preview

MAXIM GUNN

THE LEOPARD LEGION

By

Nicholas Boving

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2006 Nicholas Boving

eBook ISBN 978-1-896448-08-04

Discover other titles by Nicholas Boving at Smashwords.com:

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/Nicholas

CHAPTER ONE

There are times, Maxim Gunn announced from the depths of his favourite arm chair, when I look back over my long and illustrious career and wonder why on earth I’ve been doing what I have.

He paused and waited vainly for his lady’s encouragement. There wasn’t any, so he went on.

Murder, mayhem and possible sudden death at the hands of the ungodly can get to be monotonous fair.

Rubbish, Lady Cynthia replied. You know perfectly well you love it. Anyway, what else are you any good at?

Maxim Gunn ignored her as much as it was humanly possible to ignore anyone so unutterably beautiful.

I did consider brain surgery.

On yourself?

As a career, Gunn continued smoothly

Cynthia snorted in a very unladylike manner. A good thing you didn’t. The cause of advanced medicine might have been set back a hundred years.

Maxim Gunn did his best to continue ignoring her. It was a struggle.

Of course, he said. There were occasional damsels in distress who made the whole thing worthwhile.

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 Guantanara, 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?

CHAPTER TWO

The man seated on the leopard skin covered throne was as massive as it was possible for a man to be and still move freely. At a guess an observer might have had him weighing in at about four hundred pounds, and yet, curiously, he did not give the impression of obesity; rather a massive bulk of inky black humanity. Another guess might have had him standing at over two hundred and fifteen centimetres, or slightly more than seven feet.

All this was evident, even though he was seated.

In a voice that sounded like the death rattle of a dinosaur, he turned slowly to the white man at his side and said.

Vishinski. How the devil did Maxim Gunn get into this?

Vishinski started as if he’d been stuck by a hat pin.

Why do you ask, Magunta?

Idiot. Because I wish to know. Do you know?

I do, Magunta.

The vast figure shifted on the throne, reached out a hand like a gorilla’s paw for a silver tankard and sank its contents in two massive swallows. Vishinski swallowed in nervous sympathy and answered hurriedly.

He has talked to our esteemed Emir, in London.

Ah. Magunta nodded. The pony buying was a thin excuse at best. Do we know what was said?

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 forty 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