The Death’s Head Conspiracy

Prologue

The island of Mumura was like a tiny green jewel set in the deep blue velvet of the South Pacific. Tucked away in the corner of the Tuamotu Archipelago, Mumura was one of the few Polynesian islands not subjected to missionaries and civilization. The Mumuran people were still free in the fullest sense of the word. No one had put constricting shoes on their feet or covered the fine brown breasts of their women. Some five hundred of them in all, they were unaware of the paradise that was their island, for they had known nothing else.

Almost the entire population waited now on the golden beach as a motor launch sliced through the gentle breakers toward their shore. In the bow of this foreign craft stood Atu, tall and straight and unafraid of the speed of the craft or the roaring engine, as befitted a chief.

As the launch swerved to a standstill a few yards off shore the men ran down to their chief, while the women remained up on the beach laughing excitedly among themselves and cautioning the children not to get in the way.

Stepping from the boat, Atu took a large suitcase from a crewman and waded into the water, holding the case chest high to keep it dry. The launch roared to life and sped back toward the white yacht riding easily half a mile out.

Atu strode up the beach bearing the suitcase proudly before him. He laid it on a stone his ancesters had used as a sacrificial altar, but which was now used as a rostrum.

The Mumurans crowded around. The musical cadence of their language rose with excitement.

Atu raised his hand for silence, and at once the only sound to be heard was the sighing of the late afternoon breeze through the palms. The white-haired chieftan smiled upon his people affectionately, and bent to open the clasps of the suitcase the way the white men on the big boat had shown him.

He ran his hand over the glossy brown material of the suitcase. It was like nothing he had ever touched, and Atu caressed it with wonderment. Then, seeing the impatience of his people, he grasped the lid at the two corners and raised it.

He brought the treasures out one at a time, letting the people savor each one. A length of cloth, unbelieveably pliable, and splashed with spirals of colors unlike any flower in Polynesia. Necklaces strung with marvelous stones that caught the light of the sun and shattered it into a rainbow. Little oblong packages of paper-wrapped strips that were sweet to the taste. Atu slipped one into his mouth and chewed to demonstrate as the white men had showed him. He passed out the other strips, seeing that as many children as possible got them. The wonders continued to come from the suitcase. There were things that bounced, things that glittered, things that made sounds. Each new treasure brought a pleased murmer from the crowd.

This would surely be a day long remembered on Mumura.

Aboard the yacht, now steaming away from Mumura, two men stood at the rail watching the receding island through binoculars. One was heavy and bear-like, with a tangle of black hair that needed washing. The other was taller, and thin as a whip, with silver blond hair brushed straight back from a high, smooth forehead. Although the men wore civilian clothes, there was something military in the way they held themselves. Behind the taller man sat an enormous German shepherd and a muscular black Doberman pinscher glaring at the world with hatred.

Fyodor Gorodin, the heavier man, spoke. “Why don’t we get it over with, Anton? We must be far enough from the island by now.” His voice was a harsh growl that increased his resemblance to a bear.

The silver-haired man, Anton Zhizov, lowered his glasses and nodded slowly. His tiny dark eyes were hidden in deep sockets beneath straight black brows. “Yes, I think the time has come.”

Zhizov turned to a third man who paced the deck restlessly behind them. “What do you say, Wamow? Are you ready?”

Knox Warnow was a slight man with stooped narrow shoulders that made him seem even smaller than he was. He had the pale, unhealthy skin of a man who seldom went outdoors.

“Yes, yes, I’m ready,” Warnow snapped. “I’ve been ready for the past twenty minutes.”

“Undue haste can be very costly,” Zhizov said smoothly. It should make quite a pretty picture now in the rays of the setting sun.” He turned to a young man in the uniform of a seamean. “Boris, tell the captain to hold us steady, I want to get photographs.”

The young man braced at attention. “Yes, sir.” He started to move forward to the bridge, then hesitated. “Sir?”

“What is it, Boris?” Zhizov asked impatiently.

“The people on the island. Will they have had time to evacuate?”

“People? You mean those brown-skinned savages?”

“Y-yes, sir. They seemed quite, well, harmless.”

Gorodin whirled from the rail, muscles bunching in his huge shoulders. “What are you whimpering about, boy? You were given an order!”

Zhizov held up a manicured hand. “Boris is young, Fyodor. He retains a touch of humanitarianism, which is not always a bad thing.”

He turned to the young seaman. “If we are to attain our goals, Boris, it is necessary that some lives be sacrificed. As you know, conditions for all the peoples of the world will be much improved by the changes we will make, so these simple natives will have given their lives for the good of mankind. Do you understand, my boy?”

“Yes, sir,” Boris replied, though doubt still lurked in his eyes. He marched forward toward the bridge.

“I don’t know why you bother to explain things to that one,” Gorodin growled. “An order is to be obeyed instantly. That is the way you and I were taught”

“We must recognize that the times are changing,” Zhizov said. “We will need the bright young men like Boris when we are in power. It would be unwise to alienate him now.”

The pitch of the engines changed, and the yacht slowed. At the slight shift in equilibrium the two dogs braced their legs and snarled, confused by the unsteady footing. Zhizov snatched the end of their double leash from where it was looped over the rail and lashed both dogs across the muzzle. They cringed back against the cabin bulkhead, black lips drawn away from the strong white teeth in soundless snarls.

“I don’t know why those dogs don’t tear you apart, the way you treat them,” Gorodin said.

Zhizov gave a short, barking laugh. “Fear is the only thing these beasts understand. They would kill for me on command, because they know I have the power to kill them. You should learn more of psychology, Fyodor. With a young man like Boris, one must be patient. With these pretty devils, only cruelty works.” Once again he lashed the leather cord across the faces of the dogs. They made no sound.

“If you’re through playing with your pets,” Warnow said with heavy sarcasm, “I will get on with the demonstration.”

“By all means. Let us see if all the time and money we have invested in you will pay dividends.”

Warnow dug a hand in his pocket and pulled out a black leather case. From this he took a thin cylinder of metal, six inches long and tapered to a point at one end. “This is the electronic stylus,” he explained. “With this I manipulate the triggering mechanism, an intricate series of adjustments that only I know”

“Do we need all this talk?” Gorodin complained. “Let’s see the action.”

“Be patient, Fyodor,” Zhizov said. “This is Mr. War-Bow’s big moment We must let him enjoy it to the fullest After all, if his project should fail, what remains of his life will be most unpleasant” “It won’t fail,” Warnow said quickly. “You must remember that this is one of my less destructive devices. Still, it will be more than adequate for an island the size of Mumura.” Holding the electronic stylus in one hand, he began to unbutton his shirt. “The beauty of it is that even competent customs inspectors would never have found a bomb in that suitcase, because there is no bomb there.”

“We know all this,” Gorodin broke in impatiently. Warnow continued as though there had been no interruption. “There is no bomb among the trinkets because the suitcase itself is the bomb. Soft, pliable, workable into any number of shapes, the ultimate extension of the plastique explosive principle — fissionable nuclear plastic. The detonating device is miniaturized in the metal latch. And here, the triggering mechanism.” With his chest now bared, Warnow worked the tips of his fingers into what seemed to be a healed vertical scar on the left side of his chest.

Big Fyodor Gorodin shuddered and turned his face away. “Ugh, I can never stand to watch him do that” Warnow laughed shortly. “You have no compunction about watching several hundred people die from a distance. Yet you can’t stand to look at a man opening a flap of his own skin.” Gripping the edge of the scar with his fingertips, he pulled gently outward. With a sucking sound the flesh pulled away from his chest, exposing a pocket holding a round metal object the size of a silver dollar. A hundred tiny contact points no bigger than pinheads covered its face.

Warnow touched the edge of the disc lightly with the stylus. “The passkey, I call it For me the passkey to riches and revenge, for you the passkey to power.”

“And for those who stand in our way,” Zhizov added, “the passkey to oblivion.” “Quite right,” Warnow said. He began to touch the point of the stylus to a series of contact points on the trigger disc. “No need trying to memorize the order of contacts,” he told Zhizov. “It automatically changes after each completed signal. A man needs to cover himself.”

Zhizov gave him a thin smile. “I admire the thoroughness of your self-protection. Connecting your passkey to your pacemaker was a nice touch.”

“Yes, I thought so,” Warnow agreed. “If for any reason my heart should stop beating, the passkey is programmed to signal the detonation of all nuclear plastic bombs in existence. Once we are in business and all the terms of our agreement have been met I will disconnect the passkey from my heartbeat, of course.”

“Of course,” smiled Zhizov.

Warnow completed his manipulation of the stylus and smoothed the skin flap closed. “There. It’s done.”

The three men stared at the island on the horizon. Gorodin turned his massive head slowly.

“Nothing happened, Warnow,” he said, “Your bomb doesn’t work.”

“Just keep watching,” Warnow told him. “There is an automatic thirty-second time lag between the input to the passkey and the output to the detonator on the bomb. This would give me time, if it were ever necessary, to apply the disarming signal.”

“A wise precaution.” Zhizov approved. “But no such reprieve will be necessary this time.”

Warnow watched the sweep second hand complete its half circle on the face of his wrist watch. He counted the final second aloud. “Five, four, three, two, one.”

At first it was a second sun, rising as the other set. Hie yellow-orange fireball grew like some immense instant cancer as black smoke and white steam hid the island of Mumura. The shock wave raced across the water toward the yacht, visible as a ten-foot breaker rushing away from the holocaust. The wave smashed into the stern, washing over the vessel and its passengers. Simultaneously the sound hit them. A sustained rumbling roar like thunder amplified a thousand times.

Anton Zhizov turned to his companions with a thin-lipped smile of triumph. “I think we have seen enough. Let us go inside and dry ourselves while I tell the captain to get underway.”

The two dogs cowered, belly-down on the deck, their eyes wide with terror as the fireball, now a dull red, rose into the sky on a black smoke pillar. Zhizov yanked on the leash, snapping the choke-collars tight, and half-dragged the animals behind him as he led the way toward the cabin.

From the distance of the yacht, the towering club-shaped column of smoke had a certain violent beauty. On the island of Mumura, now blackened and crisped, there was no more beauty. Only the rush of the wind sucked in to fill the void where the boiling flames had consumed the oxygen. The rest was silence. And death.