The Kremlin File

Eleven

There was a headwind, enough to ruffle the surface of the water, but not strong enough to slow us. We were slow enough at full throttle. This was no racing craft. It was designed to tow the barges that ferried the produce of the back country to the port at the capital. At the speed we were going, it was going to be an overnight cruise to even the closest island. In the bright sunshine we were a sitting duck if enemy planes showed up before we cleared the cove. Once we were outside I could hug the shore and maybe escape being seen, then make the run across the open sea at a place where they wouldn’t expect us to be. The shoals were shallow all through these parts, but I was pretty certain we wouldn’t find any more subsurface walkways. If we were spotted, we’d had it.

I was following the contour of the cove, ragged at this end with dense jungle growth all the way to the water. The limestone dropped off to an undersea canyon. Judging water depth by its color, I kept as close to the shore as I dared, hoping the tug would blend in with the dark foliage. It didn’t work.

We had almost made it when the plane came. He came in low and slow, sideslipping in the air current flowing over the ridge, spotted us only after he was practically on top of us and banked away for a sweeping circle. Then he dropped even lower and came at us.

He wouldn’t be carrying bombs, but he was armed with something or he wouldn’t be making this run. The little workhorse I was commanding had good maneuverability and I tried weaving in and out. Noah shoved Fleming into the pilot house with me, pushed Tara onto the deck, and lay on top of her.

Fast lead spit a path toward us in the water. I spun the wheel and the bullets spattered past. I heard our machine gun chatter as the plane went over us for the second time. Grabbing a look toward the stem, I saw Mitzy standing, tracking the plane, the gun jerking in her hands.

She got a hit too. A wing tank exploded, tore apart. The ship peeled off and disappeared into the water. Mitzy put the gun down and tossed me a victory sign. I didn’t feel like cheering yet. The spotter probably was in radio contact with the small plane; if the pilot got a message in, there’d be others along soon with more clout. Still, they weren’t in sight yet and we wouldn’t sit here waiting for them.

At the mouth of the cove the sand bottom rushed up toward us. But the tug had a shallow draft and we slipped over without dragging. I made the curve around the land nose into open sea. As soon as we rounded it, I saw them — a pair of patrol boats frothing at the knife prow. Sleek greyhounds with bared fangs ready to run down a wallowing turtle. Our four cylinder Dodge was not going to outdistance their big power plants.

All we could do was buy time. Chase back to the doubtful sanctuary of the fortress? I didn’t know if we could make it. I turned the tug around and called behind me.

“Anybody here know how to run a boat?”

Both girls did. They’d only been on yachts, of course, but the tug handled the same way.

“Take over here. Go on back up. We’ll have to wait for dark to try again.”

Tara slid past Fleming, reached for the wheel saying tightly, “They’re too fast, Nick. We can’t make it.”

“Sure you will. Keep the faith.”

There wasn’t time for explanations. I jumped for the stem, grabbed the machine gun and ammo and dropped over the side. I waded to shore and dived into the jungle, climbing the sharp rise. The tug lumbered on taking the direct route. The patrols turned and their bow guns reached ahead. Little fountains popped up just short of our boat.

They were in too big a hurry, staying in the wake of the tug, running side by side. Lousy pilots. They jolted and bucked, grounded on the sandbar and hung. Everyone on board fell down. I was above them with the closer one in my range. My gun swept the deck, knocked the gunner over the rail, cut across the glass bridge and dropped both men there.

The second patrol was out of machine gun reach but I wasn’t out of theirs. I moved. They didn’t know just where I was, but both their long-range guns sent bullets peppering through the trees to find me. I stood behind a thick trunk waiting for them to get tired or run out of lead. Whichever it was, it didn’t take long. They had a bigger problem than a machine gun on a hill that couldn’t touch them.

The throb of their engine revved up to a high pitch, trying to back off the bar. The stem moved from side to side. All except the pilot went overboard to shove on the sharp prow. The boat moved an inch at a time, then it floated, the crew swung back on her and she crawled for deeper water. She turned toward Port of Spain and disappeared behind the far headland.

I went down to the shore where I could see along the cove. Our boat reached the cliff and everyone was on the steps, going up. I thought I had a nice surprise for them. If one patrol boat could be freed from the sandbar so easily, I should be able to float the other. We could leave Grand LaClare in style. And if some of us borrowed the crew’s uniforms, anybody seeing us at sea would take us for a part of Jerome’s fleet. There would be no problem in floating the vessel. I planned to go on foot to the fortress, pick up my people and bring the tug here. If it had enough power to haul barges, it had the power to tow the patrol boat off the sand. I felt very good indeed.

Until I heard the voices. And the crunch of boots uphill from me.

There were men up there, four or five at least, beating the jungle, calling to each other. Where the hell had they come from? Did it matter? Obviously the gunfire had brought them. It was time for me to leave. I considered the dinghy on the patrol boat. But it wasn’t smart to put out in the cove where they could see me. I could go down and swim under the cover of the overhanging brush. Sure. There was blood in the water again and there’d be more barracuda or sharks. What I needed was to get behind the soldiers, in an area they had already searched.

Edging toward the nose of land with as little sound as possible, I turned the corner, came out on top of a bluff, and saw open sea running against the shore. A third patrol boat lay close by and its dinghy was drawn up on a stretch of sand at a bottom of the hill. I guessed the boat carried a handful of men. If it had brought more, there would be many more voices in the searching party.

What to do now? Sit down and wait for the soldiers? The idea didn’t appeal to me. By nature I’m a hunter. I don’t like waiting for trouble to come to me. I go to it. A man on the offensive has the advantage. I had an extra edge here. Anyone I heard or saw had to be the enemy. Whatever movement or sound they caught, could be one of them. They would have to hold fire until they knew they weren’t killing each other while I could zero in on anything I saw.

The only way to go was through their line. I had another edge in the density of growth here, a deep mat of tangle on the ground, a three-dimensional web of vine between the trees. Visability was only about thirty feet in any direction.

Cradling the machine gun so it wouldn’t catch in the vine, I went with caution, keeping low, worming forward. Within a hundred feet something brown moved. A man with his back toward me crouched to go under a loop of vine, intent on something ahead. He brushed through tall ferns and I lost sight of him. I went after him. If I could take him out, it would leave a hole in their line for me to go through. The noise of my shot would bring the others, but then he could turn at any second, see me and blast away. And he wasn’t at knifing distance.

I switched the machine gun to my left hand, shook the stiletto down and stalked him. Ten feet behind him now. Then he turned, bringing up his gun as he faced me. I threw the knife. It buried in his throat, dropped him before he fired, and he crumpled without sound. I went to him and bent to retrieve the knife.

My head exploded.

I came to with drums pounding inside, looked up at the treetops and saw three ugly, happy faces above army uniforms. My arms were underneath me, tied tight. One of the three men was a sergeant, the others privates. The sergeant had my knife under his belt, the privates carried my machine gun and Luger. The sergeant saw my eyes open, came closer and lobbed a boot in my ribs.

“For Belmont,” he growled and kicked me again.

Was it Belmont’s throat that I’d opened? I expected my throat to be next. There was nothing I could do to prevent being shot if I kicked the sergeant’s gut to keep him off me. He was big with a permanent lopsided grin that a scar the length of one cheek pulled up.

He rubbed his hands together, pleased with his catch. “Get up, Mr. One-Thousand-Dollars,” he said. “You going to get me a promotion too.”

I didn’t move. Apparently I was worth more to them alive than dead. If they wanted me, let them do all the work. The sergeant snapped his fingers at the privates and jerked a thumb up. The pair took my elbows and hauled me to my feet. One put the Luger against my shoulderblade and shoved. Either I walked or the gun would break the shoulder. I walked.

They pointed me down toward the beach and the dinghy. The sergeant bellowed to the rest of his team to quit looking, he had me. Two voices answered and the men came thrashing through the tangle. They all gabbled in self-congratulation, then the sergeant delegated the newcomers to bring the dead man along, and we were on our way. The bearers of the corpse were in front of me, the privates on either side, and the sergeant brought up the rear. I didn’t care much for my prospects. I figured I had a date with a dungeon and probable execution on any charge Carib Jerome chose to trump up. And even if Hawk should become aware of my fate, he couldn’t lift a finger. He couldn’t admit we had an agent involved in island politics.

Halfway to the beach, a gun spat from the jungle. A cry behind me turned us all around. The sergeant was no longer walking. He was toppling, a hole in the breast of his jacket.

The privates jumped as if to catch him, missed and swung their rifles, searching the dense growth for something to shoot at. The gun spat again and the private on my left went down, minus the back of his head. The one on my right spun, crouching, looked at the mess in astonishment and fright, and began to run.

I put a foot between his legs and sent him sprawling. I booted him in the head lightly, but it was enough to knock him cold. The remaining two privates threw their hands high over their heads.

Mitzy wriggled through the vines, a revolver in her hand leveled at the pair. She shot one before I could get close enough to shove her wrist down. The other soldier kept his hands very high.

The girl looked at me angrily. “You squeamish, Carter? We haven’t got time for prisoners.” She rubbed her wrist but kept hold of the revolver, training it again on the man.

“Quit it,” I said. “I want them alive. Keep this one covered and see if you can get the twine on my wrist untied with one hand.”

I turned my back and she picked at the knot, got it loose and I worked my hands out of the bond. Working the cramp out of my fingers, I took the cord to the soldiers. With a swift, sure gesture I demonstrated that it would not be difficult to garrote them. They got the message.

My man was coming around, groggy, scared when he discovered he was trussed up, and not in a mood to argue my orders. He got up, clumsy with the load of lead on him, and the two soldiers followed me up the ridge and down to the shore with Mitzy riding herd behind.

The sleek craft still sat on the sandbar. We waded out and I stopped my muscle boys at the bow, took the girl to the stem and hoisted her to my shoulders. Then, with me holding her ankles, she raised herself to where she could get a grip on the lower rail. She chinned up and over and went forward to the cabin.

The engine ground when she tried the ignition, caught, settled into a throaty purr and I waded forward. There was a cough, a sputter, and the noise died. The diagnosis was disaster. And I could thank myself for it.

“Cut the switch,” I called to Mitzy.

I went over to be sure, jumped for the rail, hauled myself aboard and followed the holes traced by my machine gun. Sure enough, the fuel line was cut. Worse, the tank was punctured and dry. I stood looking down, feeling a heavy sag. No fuel, no power. No power, no patrol boat. We were back on the rock and there was no way — no way — to get off.

The girl yelled from the pilot house. “The soldiers, Nick. They’re running away.”

They were. I tossed a Luger shell in front of them. They stopped, waiting with hunched shoulders for a shot in the back. I dropped over the side and splashed to them. There was no use holding them any longer but I wanted the ammo they were wearing. I shoved them on to dry land, waving Mitzy after us. When she came up, I let her cover one man while I stripped boots and trousers off the other. I knotted the cuffs, filled the pants with bullets, cinched the waist tight with the belt and slung the legs around my neck.

“Turn them loose now,” I told the girl. “We don’t need them with the boat out of fuel and they can’t do any more damage at this point. Two more or less won’t make any difference.” I waved them away.

They didn’t need urging. When they were gone, the girl and I hiked to the fortress, climbed the hill behind it and went in through the gate.

Inside Noah had a supper fire going and fish broiling over the coals. My stomach reminded me how many meals it had missed. My back told me it had enough too. Although there was another job to do before dark, there was still a long twilight to come and time for a breather.

I made it to one of the rooms, got my heavy packet off and sank to the stone floor, letting the tension run out. Mitzy would tell where we’d been.

She brought me rum from somewhere, hot fish and fruits. I didn’t know how high she was on David Hawk’s list, but if some feat of magic pulled us out of this, I meant to go to bat for her. She deserved a special medal.