The Death’s Head Conspiracy

Thirteen

The canoe trip up the coast was swift and silent. The two Mayans stroked us powerfully along just outside the tumbling surf. Neither of them spoke.

We came ashore at Vigla Chico, a settlement three times the size of the village we had left. The dwellings seemed more permanent, and a railroad track from the east terminated at the outer limit of the town. My oarsmen took me to what appeared to be the house of the local headman, talked with him briefly in Mayan, and left me abruptly without a glance.

I asked for a telephone, and was taken to an all-purpose building that apparently served as school, general store, meeting hall, warehouse, and what-have-you. The telephone was an early model in a scarred wooden frame with a crank on the side.

The next two hours were spent getting through to Merida, the capital of Yucatan, and from there through a maze of relays and intermediate operators until the familiar voice of David Hawk Anally crackled over the line.

I told him where I was and gave him a condensed version of how I got there, talking fast for fear we might lose the connection at any moment.

“I need a fast way out of here,” I told him. “There’s a railroad, but from the looks of it, the train must run once every total eclipse of the sun.”

“I’ll get a helicopter in to you. What’s the mission status?”

“The suitcases are coming aboard the Gaviota from a launch out of Curasao. Fyodor Gorodin seems to be the field man for the operation with Zhizov apparently stationed at their headquarters and making only an occasional appearance outside. No confirmation that Knox Warnow is the key man, but the evidence is strong enough that we can consider it a certainty.” I hesitated, then added, “We lost Rona Volstedt.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Nick,” David Hawk said. I knew he meant it. As director of AXE, he was familiar with death, yet the loss of an agent hurt him more deeply than most people would believe. “Can you work alone from here?” he added.

“I can, but it would be a help to have someone familiar with the territory along. It’s getting dark here now, and I don’t have to remind you we’re fighting a deadline.”

“You certainly don’t,” Hawk said drily. “Hang on a minute.”

The telephone crackled emptily in my ear for several seconds, and I knew Hawk was punching information into his desk-side computer. Then he returned with the answer:

“The CIA has an agent stationed in Veracruz, code name Pilar. She will contact you there at the Hotel Bahia Bonito.”

“She?”

“Yes, Nick, your incredible luck seems to be holding. I am told this one is a redhead well equipped with… uh… all the extras.” Hawk cleared his throat, then went on in another tone. “Can you make arrangements for a helicopter landing at Vigia Chioo?”

“There’s a clearing just beyond this building. How soon can you send a chopper?”

“I’ll have to work through the State Department. If they’re on the ball, you’ll have your bird in three to four hours.”

“Fine. I’ll arrange to have flares or fires laid out to mark the landing area.” As we discussed these details, it occurred to me that under normal conditions such information would never go out unscrambled over public telephone lines. The circumstances, however, were anything but usual, the conditions primitive.

“You’ll need money,” Hawk said. “I’ll have it waiting at your hotel in various Central American currencies. Is there anything else?”

“Yes. My Luger took a salt water bath, so I’ll want to have a gun cleaning kit handy. Also 9mm. ammunition.”

“It will be waiting.” There was a pause on the line, as if Hawk wanted to add something more. But then he said merely, “More than luck to you, Nick” and rang off.

I had a Job persuading the local head man to get the signal fires going to guide in the helicopter. He was not eager to help me. The natives of Vigia Chico were a little less hostile to the outside world than the Mayans had been in the village down the coast, but their ties to the old ways were still strong. White men had seldom come to Yucatan on peaceful missions, and the people were not eager to bring in one of their flying machines.

I finally got their reluctant cooperation through an age-old method. By promising them money. Privately, I had hoped the State Department CIA pilot would bring some cash. It might be a little sticky getting out of Vigia Chico if the villagers thought they’d been conned.

For the next couple of hours such worries were tucked away in the back of my mind as I directed the placement of the signal fires. There was plenty of dry brush around, and I had six fires set in a circular pattern to outline the landing area.

Once the fires were burning well and the clearing illuminated, I sat down to wait. And wait. And wait.

With the State Department involved, I should have known it wouldn’t go smoothly. By the time I heard the sound of the helicopter rotor, dawn was breaking and my crew of fire-builders were definitely unhappy with the delay. The pilot spotted our little party and brought his craft in, raising a great cloud of thick red-brown dust.

The pilot’s name was Martin. He was a thin young man with a sharp nose. We exchanged identification while the villagers clustered around, eying the helicopter with intense suspicion.

“I hope they sent some money with you,” I said.

“Money? What for?”

“To get help with the signal fires I had to promise these people some payment.”

Martin squinted up at the brightening sky. “I don’t know what you needed signal fires for; it’s almost full daylight.”

“When I asked for a helicopter,” I said coolly, “it was dark. I had hoped that the State Department would respond with a fair amount of speed and get me out of here before dawn. I’m on rather a tight schedule, old pal.”

“Nobody said anything about bringing money,” he grumbled.

There was an uneasy muttering from the people standing around us, and I was afraid they were catching the gist of our conversation.

“Did you bring any money of your own?” I asked.

“Well… some,” he said cautiously.

I was losing my temper. “So get it out, goddammit! I promised these people money, and I have a hunch they’ll break your bones if they don’t get it.”

Looking pained, Martin dragged a battered wallet out of his hip pocket and began leafing through the bills. In exasperation I grabbed the wallet away from him and stripped out the greenbacks. It added up to a little over fifty dollars in U.S. bills. I handed it to the head man who counted it solemnly then nodded without smiling. He spoke to the villagers, who moved away, clearing a path for us.

As we got into the helicopter, Martin said, “Did you have to give them all of it? Those Indians would probably have been satisfied with half.”

“Maybe,” I said. “And maybe they would’ve been unhappy — until they put a spear through your throat. Would that be worth twenty-five bucks to you?”

He kicked the engine to life without comment

“Don’t worry,” I told him. “I’ll make a full report of your contribution, and you’ll be reimbursed through the usual State Department channels. If you’re lucky, you’ll get your money back by Christmas. Maybe not this Christmas…”

For the first time, Martin relaxed a bit and even managed a small grin. “Okay,” he said. “I’ve got to admit it’s cheaper than a spear in the gullet. Where to?”

“Veracruz,” I told him, and we sprang into the air.