Guess Who’s Coming to Kill You

Chapter 12

Benigno Lopez stood on the wharf in the fishing village of Umazaru and watched a glittering launch with a mahogany foredeck move in snugly along the pilings. Two sailors jumped off and made it fast with a pair of clove hitches on the fore and aft lines. A third sailor, with three stripes under the embroidered eagle on his arm, left the wheel, stepped ashore, and walked up to Benny.

“You Mr. Lopez?”

“That’s me.”

The sailor was all leather and raw bones and red hair. He had a Davy Crockett accent. “I’m supposed to deliver this here boat to you, Mr. Lopez.” He sounded incredulous.

“That’s right,” said Benny.

“It’s the Admiral’s barge,” the sailor growled.

“So what?” Benny said.

“It ain’t never been loaned out before.”

“My compliments to the Admiral. There’s a first time for everything.”

“I just don’t know,” the sailor said. He scratched the red sandpaper under his chin.

“You don’t know what, sailor?”

“Well, now, look it here, this boat is my baby. Keeping it shipshape is my job.”

“And a fine job you’ve done,” Benny said warmly.

“Yeah. But I mean I don’t feel right loaning this boat out to just anybody.”

Benny nodded. “I understand. I imagine you’ve got your orders, though.”

“Yeah. Only my orders is also take care of the boat and be goddam sure nothing happens to it. So how about you take her away from the dock, Mr. Lopez, and bring her back in again. Just so I know you can handle her.”

“I never handled a motorboat before in my whole life,” Benny said.

The sailor looked appalled. “The hell you say! Look it here, mister, orders or no orders—”

“But there’ll be somebody here who can,” Benny said.

The sailor said stubbornly, “Then I better wait. When’s this guy due?”

Benny looked at his watch. “He was supposed to be here at eight.”

“I’ll wait,” the sailor said. He shouted at the two other sailors. “Come on, drop a couple fenders over the side. Get the lead out!”

“Sure, Boats, you bet, Boats,” one of the sailors said, and they both hopped back aboard to hang bumpers on the dockside gunwale.

Boats frowned out at the little harbor and the sea beyond. “Wouldn’t be so goddam bad on a calm day, but that’s a mean chop kicking up out there. I had to keep her throttled down all the way from Yokooska. Look, Mr. Lopez, what’s going on? I never heard of the Navy’s all of a sudden lending out the Admiral’s barge.”

“It’s a secret test,” Benny said promptly. “They’re thinking of using these boats on the rivers in Nam. The man who’s coming here is a marine engineer.”

“One of them experts.” The sailor curled his lip to show what he thought of experts. “That him?”

Benny turned. He said gratefully, “That’s him.”

Benny was alarmed at Brook’s appearance. Brook was filthy, red-eyed, unshaven, a mess of facial bruises and cuts; his suit was a shambles; and he gave out an unpleasant odor.

“Hello, Pete,” Benny said. “Long time no smell. You all right?”

“I’m all right,” Brook said. He was looking the launch over through painfully squinting eyes.

“What kept you?”

“I’ve been detained, you might say. This our boat?”

Benny nodded toward the boss sailor. “It’s his boat. And he’s worried about it.”

“Yeah,” the sailor said. “If you’re going to handle this thing, mister, I got to be sure you know how.” His glare said that if Brook had been Navy he would personally have handed him over to Shore Patrol. A plastered civilian taking out the Admiral’s boat after a night on the town!

“All right,” Brook said, “I’ll run her once around the harbor.” He climbed aboard slowly, the sailor at his heels. He ran his puffed eyes over the controls and put his hand on the wheel. “Okay. Cast off.”

He took her away from the dock cleanly and started a wide circle around the harbor. “Anchor? Plenty of line? Life jackets? Flashlight? Paddle? Emergency flares? Compass corrected?”

“Don’t worry,” the sailor said. “I check this baby personally before it goes out.”

“Then you might tell your crew to haul in those fenders hanging on the port side. Very lubberly.”

The sailor looked surprised. Then he said, “Yes, sir,” and sprang to obey.

The sea was choppy, as advertised. The waves were now wearing whitecaps. The clouds that had been puffy earlier in the morning were flattening out. Brook kept the launch at half throttle as she pounded along.

“Tell me about it, amigo,” Benny said compassionately. He was carefully to windward.

“Things got tacky there for a while,” Brook said. He ran through the taxi-driver-Toby-Stark-Jasmine-“Han” story; how he had been drugged and tortured; how he had escaped by garroting the noodle man. He had made his way through the countryside on foot during the night and managed to strike the main road leading north to Umazaru. “I wasn’t even sure what day it was till I came to the railroad station and saw an English-language paper on the stand.”

“You should have seen the one after you left Kimiko’s pad. They still think you did it, by the way. They’re still looking for you.”

“Too bad I missed my publicity.”

“No such luck,” Benny said, and brought out of his pocket a clipping.

Brook read:

Brook handed the clipping back. His try at a smile was pitiful. “I did better than that in Cairo. That time the Egyptian cops said I was a ‘handsome’ foreigner.”

“In Cairo any man under three hundred pounds looks handsome,” Benny said.

“Joy killer.” Brook glanced at the compass. “And speaking of appearances, I’d better do something drastic about mine.”

“You also stink, amigo.”

“Try lying in your vomit for two days and nights. That looks like a galley and sink below. Take the wheel, Benny.”

By the time he returned from his ablutions the shoreline at Katori Spa was in sight. White sails were scudding about the sea like feathers. The surrounding waters were full of launches trailing white water. Brook nodded. Theirs would be just another launch.

He used the binoculars from the rack near the companionway and picked out Krylov’s boat. The Russian, big shoulders hunched over the tiller, was unmistakable. His dark thin companion looked like the Dutchman, Quackernack. Yes, it was; he had a cast on one arm. A one-armed sailing crew! There was nothing about a sense of humor in Krylov’s file.

“Everything okay?” Benny asked.

“Looks all right. They’re maneuvering for the start now.” He swung the binoculars toward shore. The lenses picked out the squat figure of Volodya in his chauffeur’s uniform on the end of the jetty; Volodya was doing a study job on Krylov’s boat through a pair of binoculars, too. “We could use some fog,” Brook said. “Any suggestions?”

“Nada se consigue solamente á pedir de boca,” Benny said.

“Damn you, you know I can’t understand you when you talk so fast. What did you say?”

“You’re just ignorant.”

Brook ignored this as beneath his dignity. By some miracle he was feeling better. He took the wheel back and put the boat on a course that took it slightly seaward of the race area, closest to the reaching leg, across wind, of the triangular course around the buoys. He kept an eye out for the pleasure boats dashing about. With the Admiral’s launch he ought to be able to beat any of them to Krylov when the Russian capsized himself.

A new flag ran up the halyard of the committee launch. The sailboats behind the starting line tacked or jibbed, most taking an initial course away from the starting line. Brook picked out Krylov’s Number 13 high on his mainsail. He was using his favorite tactic, sailing abreast of the starting line.

“Why do they chase around like that?” Benny asked.

“Jockeying for the start. A sailboat’s hard to control with exactness. And the idea is to get across the line when the gun goes off, or close to it.”

“Ah, the timing! That’s very good. Like the bullfight.”

“It’s not the least like the bullfight,” Brook said shortly.

“What have you got against bullfights?”

“Not a thing. Only don’t compare it to a sport. The essence of a sport is that you don’t know who’s going to lose. The bull always loses. Bullfighting’s a ritual.”

Benny was calm. “Like human sacrifice, hey? Like in the spy business.”

“Now you’ve got it, Benny.” His thoughts were on Krylov. It was always that way. He was in no mood for wandering.

But Benny was a natural-born nomad. “And this is the faena.” He followed the tracks of his notion like an Indian. “That’s the climax of the fight, when the matador goes out alone with his little cloth and his sword. Now we go after Krylov.”

“Your metaphor reeks, Benny. The idea is to keep Krylov’s ears on his head. And the steel out of his brain.”

“No, wait, wait,” Benny said. “Sometimes when the bull has been picked too much by the picadores and caped too much in the quites, the excitement’s all over — he’s too weak and tired for a proper faena. I think we’ve already done our hardest work with Krylov.”

“Drop it, Benny, will you?”

“You have the soul of an apparatchik,” Benny said, insulted.

Brook kept watching. The starting gun cracked, and the first of the racers crossed the line and swept ahead on their windward legs.

Then for some reason he felt like talking. He said, “Benny?”

“Yes,” Benny said.

“Why do I feel this way?”

“Which way?”

“Uneasy. Like when Toby Stark picked me up at that fireworks festival. I just happened to run into a Japanese cab driver who helped me get away from the cops. He just happened to bring me to where Toby Stark just happened to be.”

“I think,” said Benny, with the short i, “you’ve just figured out why you’re uneasy.”

“I haven’t figured it out. That’s the trouble, Benny. I mean, not this latest wrinkle.”

“The Ohara girl?”

“Yes. Why did Kimiko get killed when she did? This crap about assault during a simple housebreaking would arouse the suspicions of a Quaker. It happened right in the heart of things. I don’t buy it for a second, Benny.”

“Don’t look at me,” Benny said, grinning. “I’m not in the market, either.”

“You think it’s funny? If I didn’t know you better... and Krylov — he’s bound to know she’s dead by now. She was his main reason for defecting.” Brook stared out at 13.

“But he’s here racing, Pete.”

“He’d have to be, anyway. You know something, Benny? Maybe he won’t capsize his boat today. Maybe he’s changed his mind.” He wondered why he had been so sure before that Krylov would not.

Benny shrugged. “And if he does?”

“Then we go home to face Holloway.”

This time Benny made a face. “Amigo, you and I waste a lot of the taxpayers’ money. I wish we had more fun doing it.”

Brook kept watching the race. Even if Krylov had changed his mind and they didn’t pick him up today, the run was not a total foulup. He had neutralized Toby Stark and some of Stark’s cadre, gaining an unexpected set of points against Communist China’s Internal Security of the People’s Republic — as they called it in their Orwellian style — for Stark would now leave Katori Spa quickly and withdraw any of his agents Brook might have seen. Holloway would want a detailed report on Stark’s group; he’d be disappointed not to have been able to act fast enough to send someone to take them out permanently, but Holloway was never satisfied. There were several Class I agents on hand who specialized in that sort of thing, although such a job was occasionally given to one of the regular men. Brook had been sent hunting twice for compromised enemy agents; they were assignments he didn’t particularly relish. That, he supposed, was vestigial sentimentality. Whether you were sent out to kill or happened to find it obligatory in the natural course of events was much of a muchness. There was no such thing as murder in the spy’s vocabulary, only an occasional tactical necessity.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Benny suddenly. “I don’t like the look on what used to be your face.”

Brook did not answer.

Three racers rounded the first buoy and began to heel in the brisk wind on their reaching legs. Number 13 was one of them. Brook raised the binoculars again. Krylov was still hunched over the tiller; his skinny companion with the cast on his arm was crouched on the forward thwart. Beyond the perimeter of the course three or four motorcraft were putting along with an idle air.

Then it happened. Brook had Krylov in the binoculars as the big Russian hauled in his mainsail and deliberately shifted his weight to the lee rail. Forward, his crippled crewman sprawled in surprise, adding his weight to the lower side.

The boat went over.

Brook jammed his throttle forward. The big gas engine surged under his deck as his bow came out of the water and the stern quarters began to plane, sending a flat-plumed wake far behind. They reached the capsized sailboat very quickly. The Dutchman, Quackernack, was treading water and looking up at them with his mouth open. Krylov was near the hull of the sailboat; he pushed away and swam toward them. Brook maneuvered in a tight circle, approached Krylov upwind, and brought the boat to a stop as the Russian drifted into the bow. Benny had already thrown the ladder overside; he helped Krylov climb aboard.

Krylov looked grim. “Good morning, gentlemen. Did you think I would not?”

“Hang on.” Brook jammed the throttle forward again.

As they were speeding south from the broad mouth of Sagami Bay they felt the sea-change, even though the low silhouette of the Izu Peninsula was visible and the mound of the live volcano on the island of Oshima, almost dead ahead, humped against the hazy sky. The sea was rough. But Brook kept his engine at three-quarter throttle. The bow thumped into the oncoming waves in a cannonade.

Krylov and Benny, with tight handholds, stood in the cockpit near Brook. The Russian kept staring astern as if expecting pursuit at any moment. He had dried himself off and changed into a pair of khakis below. They were tight on him. He had to shout to be heard.

“Well, it has happened,” he said. “I find it impossible to believe.”

“We’re not home free yet,” Brook said.

“Home free. A typical American expression. I am going away from home, not toward it.”

“Alex,” said Brook, “you surprise me. None of us have homes in our business.”

Krylov kept staring back. “I had such stupid dreams. Kimiko and I... a little dacha somewhere with all those American machines of yours. We would go to concerts and she would wear fine dresses and jewels. I would buy a dinner jacket. Do you know I have never owned a dinner jacket? I always had to borrow one from the embassy.”

“I’m sorry about Kimiko,” Brook said. “I thought it might change your mind.”

“It almost did. I think that if I had not gone so far, I might very well have done so. Now I have nothing, nothing.

“I’m sorry,” Brook said again. He stepped from the wheel. “Take it, Alex. I have to check the chart. We don’t want to miss that submarine.”

He went below, opened the chart, rested his pencil and the parallel rules and divider on it. Then he went back on deck. Using the pelorus mounted on top of the cabin, he took sightings on Oshima and the tip of the peninsula. He was back below and drawing in a corrected course when he heard Krylov call.

“Peter!”

Brook ran up on deck. Krylov pointed astern. Brook squinted and saw the blob hanging in the sky above the horizon. He grabbed for the binoculars, looked again, then took the wheel and handed the binoculars to Krylov.

“It is coming this way,” said Krylov. He sounded worried. “One of your Navy helicopters?”

“I don’t know,” Brook said with a frown. “We discussed an escort, but I said flatly I didn’t want any aircraft hanging about.”

“Your people, Krylov?” Benny said. He took a hitch in his pants.

“I cannot see the markings yet.” Krylov was studying the aircraft with an intentness that made Brook feel sorry for him. “I don’t believe it is my people. They could rent a helicopter if they wished, of course, and we have two qualified pilots in the embassy, but they would not have had time to do so.”

“There’s somebody else who’s had plenty of time,” Brook said.

“Eh?” Krylov lowered the binoculars to look at him. “Who is that?”

“Your ex-comrades from the Chinese mainland. They got on to me and gave me some trouble. They know why Benny and I are here. They could have made a smart guess as to how we planned to make the run.”

“Your plan did not have proper security?” Krylov sounded shocked.

“We were tight enough. But their resident here is Toby Stark. Didn’t you know that?”

Krylov’s shaggy brows shot up. “I did not. But Stark would be a good one for it, yes. He would be in an excellent position. We wondered who could be their supervisor in Japan. We knew it would probably not be an Oriental. Stark. Of course.”

“He watched me maneuver to talk to you alone, saw us go sailing together that first time. He might figure we’d pick you up at sea.”

Krylov went back to watching the approaching helicopter. His lips were locked.

Brook heard a click. He turned and saw the .32 in Benny’s hand.

“Yes, I brought it this time,” Benny said.

Brook nodded and held the wheel and throttle steady. Benny and the Russian faced aft, waiting. Presently they heard the helicopter’s engine and the whump! whump! whump! of its blades.

The ’copter made a swift pass, coming in from the starboard quarter and zooming away off the port beam. Brook made out the figures of two men in the bubble cockpit. One man was bulky; unmistakably Toby Stark.

Benny’s revolver went off.

“Don’t waste it,” Brook said.

“Peashooter!”

The ’copter made a broad circle and this time approached the bow. As it came over, Toby Stark leaned out the side door with a submachine gun in his hands. The gun eructed, two belches of steel, planting a line of little waterspouts inches from their hull. Brook swung hard to port. Benny’s gun blasted again as the craft blurred overhead and passed far astern.

Benny watched it recede. He waved the .32. “They know I’ve got this now. They won’t come in straight again. That means we’re sitting ducks.”

“Also, that popgun of yours won’t go on shooting forever,” Brook pointed out.

Benny went back to his wetback accent. It gave his profanity character.

The helicopter circled once more. This time it came to a hover well away from their port beam. They saw Stark lift a hailer to his lips. His voice came to them faintly.

“Listen carefully, Brook. You haven’t a bloody chance. We want Krylov. We’ll drop a sling for him, and after that you can go on your way. Otherwise we sink your boat and shoot you all in the water. It should bring up the sharks. Take your choice. It makes little difference to me.”

Brook laughed. “Your choice, he says. He’ll sink us afterward whether we give him Krylov or not.”

“Of course,” Krylov said.

Stark’s voice boomed faintly again. “Have that man of yours throw his revolver overboard, Brook. Do it so we can see it.”

“Go ahead, Benny. Toss it.”

Benny looked stupefied. “Amigo, are you nuts?”

“Do as I say, Benny.”

“Pete, we have a chance with this. Not much, but a chance. There’s most of the cylinder left. I might be lucky—”

“Throw it overboard so they can see.”

“God damn it, Pete!” Benny cried. “We can’t just give up! They’ll kill us, anyway! You just said so.”

The voice from the helicopter said, “I am giving you ten seconds to throw that revolver overboard.”

“You heard him, Benny,” Brook said.

Benny said, “No.”

He backed up, snarling. Brook left the wheel and went to Benny and took the revolver from his hand. He waved it by the muzzle for the benefit of the helicopter and flung it far overside. It dropped into the sea with a happy little splash.

“Damn you,” Benny panted. “Damn you. You knew I couldn’t shoot you, Pete. You know what, Pete? You’re a yellow-balled bastard, that’s what you are.” He turned his back on Brook, clutching the rail and bracing himself for the machine-gun burst from the ’copter.

“A coward?” Krylov said. He sounded surprised.

Brook went down into the cabin, and Krylov grabbed at the wheel as the boat veered. The ’copter began its approach, low over the water, moving like a crab. There was triumph in every swish of its blades. Brook came back out on deck. One hand was casually at his side, the side turned away from the approaching aircraft. At Krylov’s intake of breath Benny turned away from the rail, and he saw what was in Brook’s hand, too.

“Amigo,” Benny said reverently.

“It may work,” Krylov muttered.

The huge horse-collar of the sling began to come down on its cable. Directly overhead Toby Stark half leaned from the ’copter’s side, the submachine gun in his fat hands. Brook could clearly make out the frog-eyes and the series of dimples in his cheeks. The Australian was grinning. The ’copter pilot was an Oriental who wore a billed khaki cap; he was busy with the controls.

The submachine gun in his right hand, Stark raised the bullhorn with his left. “Krylov, go to the stern. You two stay where you are. Cooperate and you and your buddy won’t get hurt, Brook.”

“Go ahead, Alex,” Brook said.

Krylov stepped toward the transom, gripping the stanchions to keep his foothold.

“Now stop your boat,” Stark called.

Brook reached out with his left hand and eased the throttle back. The helicopter moved to within a few yards, tilted slightly so that the pilot could see across Stark’s bulk and judge the distance. Brook brought his right hand up in a flash. He was gripping a pistol-like device with a short fat barrel. He pulled the trigger. The flare gun went off, kicking back with force. Its charge, like the fireball of a Roman candle, flew into the ’copter’s cockpit and exploded with a ferocious red and orange light.

They saw the pilot clap his hands to his eyes. Stark flopped backward, dropping his gun into the sea. The aircraft dipped sharply, hung for a moment, then flipped over and plummeted into the water. Its blades struck the sea first and snapped off and whirled away like skipping stones. The fuselage followed, making a king-sized splash. A moment later there was an explosion. The concussion flattened the three men; sea washed over them.

Brook scrambled to his feet, got to the wheel, heeled the throttle, kicked the clutch forward, and jammed the control to the full.

Their boat lifted its bow like a high diver taking off and plunged for the open sea. Behind them they left a wild party of sharks.