The Kremlin File

Twelve

It was time to destroy the steps. They were no use to us any longer, now that escape by sea was out.

Obliterating such an archeological treasure was a step I hated to take, but it was too dangerous an access into the fortress. We would hear cars coming on the shore road and the mountain trail, but Jerome could send rowboats in the dark and slip his men up from the cove before we discovered them. There were too few of us to keep watch on all fronts.

There was pain in Noah’s eyes when I told him what had to be done.

I opened the last box of dynamite, took out two sticks, caps and a length of fuse, and paused before the old patriarch.

“It hurts me too, Noah. If we get out of this alive, I promise you AXE will build you new stairs.”

I took the machine gun down with me to the third lowest step, shot holes through the hard limestone crust and into the softer stuff that hadn’t oxidized, placed the charges and lit the fuse. I went up on the double and was inside the wall when the explosion came. An avalanche of rubble splashed into the water, then the sound died. The cliff was a sheer drop once more.

That left the two trails to keep an eye on through the night. Dr. Fleming looked well enough so Noah and I could haul him to another mountain when morning came. With the rest of my group joining Noah’s people in hiding, I could sneak into the town, locate Jerome and notch another Killmaster mark on my holster. With the army’s head cut off, things should simmer down and Fleming could be installed as president.

I put it up to Noah, would he go along with my plan? He would. Would he watch the shore road tonight while I took on the back trail? He would. We went down to the fuse and I showed him what it was about, told him the time limits involved and took off in the other direction. So long as the dynamite held, nobody was going to surprise us that night.

Tara declared herself in on the action. “My father sent me to help, you know. And you need rest. Don’t you think I can light matches as well as Mitzy?”

Light matches, yes, but I didn’t know how steady she would be under pressure. Still, her company would take the loneliness out of my vigil. I didn’t really expect an attack in the dark. The colonel’s forces had been bloodied considerably in the first assault. After the loss of the patrol boat, I figured Jerome would sit back, lick his wounds and wait for rescue.

I told the girl I’d take the first watch, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She insisted I needed to relax. She wouldn’t even play games. So I stretched out and went to sleep.

It was daylight when the sun in my eyes brought me awake. I felt whole again except for a dull ache and a lump on my head where the soldier had knocked me out. Tara sat with her back against a tree, awake but drowsy, dark circles halfway down her cheeks. I rolled toward her.

Her voice was hollow. “Nick, I’m sick, my stomach feels awful. It’s been getting worse for the last couple of horns.”

We were under the high arch of trees and shafts of yellow sunlight filtered through the leaves. The air was heavy with shadows. Tara’s skin was green-white and shiny with perspiration. A dull filter glazed her eyes. I picked her up in my arms, running up the hill to the gate. I raced inside shouting for Noah, afraid he was still at his watch. For whatever it was worth, he was the only medicine man in town.

He came in just behind me. I placed Tara gently on the ground, and Noah took over. He touched the glands in her neck, touched her wrist, pried her mouth open caught her hands, holding the palms up. I saw blisters on her fingertips before he let them drop.

I had never seen the old man in such a rush before. He dashed for one of the rooms. I started after him, but before I made it to the door he was back, carrying a mat and an armful of gourds. He dropped the mat, kicked it flat and nodded at me to lay the girl on it. I realized he wanted light and couldn’t waste time lighting torches in the dim rooms.

As I put Tara down, I peeled off her dress. Mitzy was suddenly there, curious as hell, but then she saw the blonde’s bloodless lips and was on her knees to help.

Noah had half a gourd invisible in one big hand, shaking what appeared to be water and yellow soap into a foamy liquid.

“Move back.” His words were sharp. When we did, he lifted Tara’s head, pinched her mouth open, and poured the froth down her throat.

“Manchineel,” he clipped out. “A highly poisonous tree. One taste of its fruit can mean sudden, painful death. Even touching the bark can be dangerous. Just look at this poor child.”

Abruptly, violently Tara retched. Noah propped her against a knee and poured her full again. While she alternately swallowed, choked, and heaved, I remembered what I knew of manchineel. It was pretty bad, just like Noah said.

The old man needed help now. He said, “Pour a little of the mixture on her fingers. Don’t rub them.”

I did that. He whipped her up, hauled her over his knee on her stomach and we saw her back. It too was blistered where she had leaned against the bark of the tree. I dribbled the syrupy liquid over Tara’s body and heard a sigh of relief from the old man.

“None of them broken. All right. She will be all right.”

The convulsions eased off. Tara lay limply on the ground. Noah set down the soap mix, reached for other gourds, made a thick emulsion of white powder and what looked like honey, turned the girl and poured that into her. Then he laid her on her side.

“Now you.” He stood up, examined my hands, unfastened my shirt and skinned it off inside out. I had carried her. The cloth was contaminated. He anointed my hands and his own with whatever the neutralizing agent was, giving me a rueful smile. “I should have warned you. Most of the jungle is a friend but a few things are not. Will you take one end of the mat — we will carry her into the shade now.”

Tara opened her eyes as we moved her into a dim room. Fleming was already there with a bed of fresh-cut boughs, hobbling on a crutch. I hadn’t even realized he was around. We laid Tara on the bed and Mitzy brought a bright grass coverlet. Tara was conscious now, but still a very sick girl.

There would not be an exodus from the fort today. We couldn’t carry both Fleming and Tara over the rough mountains. We would have to wait it out.

I stayed crouched beside the blonde girl, chewing on frustration, more worried about Tara than I’d liked to admit. She had gotten to me and her illness made me realize it. If Noah hadn’t recognized the poison, she’d be dead by now instead of sleeping. The old man had delivered on the dot.

Breakfast smells came through the door. I ignored them until Noah called, then I went out to where the others were gathered around the glowing brasier.

I had a surprise waiting. We had company.

A dark young man in a twist of cloth. He brought news. Noah told it to me in a tired voice while Fleming and Mitzy looked depressed. The tribe had been busy through the night, scouting. Carib Jerome’s soldiers had been busy, too. There was now a cordon of them from the shore of the cove all the way to the beach where the third patrol boat lay.

We were encircled. With two people on the sick list, there wasn’t a chance in hell of breaking through. I asked the boy if he could take me out for a try at Jerome when it got dark again. No, he said. He’d come in before the encirclement was completed. Now he couldn’t get through.

Tara hadn’t heard any movements. If I hadn’t slept, I might have — or maybe they’d been too far away. I looked at the silent figures around me, realized what easy targets we made, and lost my appetite.

We ate anyway. It was something to do. Then we sat listening. The wait was not long. I heard it first, a split second before Noah turned his head to look at me. There was the low, lazy drone of planes coming out of the morning sun.

The old man stood up without hurry, sounding as if he were inviting us for tea. “I suggest we repair to the catacombs now. Mr. Carter, will you bring Miss Sawyer.”

As Mitzy had said when I first met him, the old man was full of surprises. So he had a basement under his fortress. I wondered how deep it was, if the rock ceilings could withstand the bombs or if a hit on top would bury us below. Mitzy’s color faded under her lustrous tan and I knew the same thing was going through her mind. But once again there wasn’t much choice.

I went for Tara, lifted her and was relieved that she could put an arm around my neck. When I brought her outside, Noah was holding open a thick limestone slab, a door I hadn’t spotted before. Mitzy and the kid were already out of sight, Felming was hunching through on his crutch. I followed. Noah pulled the slab closed, leaving us in utter darkness.

A second later he struck a spark from a flint against a candle wick. We had light. Noah handed the candle to the boy, took the doctor in his arms, and walked into a dark entrance of a tunnel, then down some steps. The boy beckoned to us, holding the little flame above his head. The space was wide enough for us to pass, but the roof was low. The tall man ahead bent double. I had to kink my knees and even Mitzy ducked her head.

It was a long flight down. Encouraging. There would be enough rock over us to absorb quite a jolt. At the bottom a sharp turn took us into a fair-sized chamber.

We settled down on the floor and Noah pinched the candle. To conserve air, he said. Minutes passed. The planes must have reached us by now, but no explosions shook the headland. There was no sound at all.

It was spooking me. What were they waiting for? Then I had a new idea. In our haste to get away from the bombs, we’d left ourselves no exit. It was quite possible that the air raid would slam shut the door of the catacombs, piling rubble against it so it couldn’t be moved. There was only one way we’d be sure to get out — with dynamite. And that had been left upstairs.

Mitzy had brought the machine gun and I felt for it in the dark. I made my way up the stairs and eased the slab door open about two inches. The bright daylight blinded me, but I thought I caught movement. I stayed where I was until I could see clearly. Four figures in Russian uniforms materialized. Of course. The colonel wanted Fleming alive, not blown into fertilizer.

They had machine guns too. Climbing out of their parachute harness, they separated, two starting one way around the grounds, two the other, looking into rooms. They evidently expected to find people there. The search speeded up. They were all looking away from me, going through houses on the opposite side. I shoved the slab aside and stepped against the dark wall. I’d made a bad mistake. If I’d waited above ground I could have picked them off parchuting through the air. Now I had to stay here and sweat it out.

It was quite awhile before one of them put his head around my door and looked into the muzzle of my gun. The empty rooms had made him careless, his gun was down. I motioned for him to come in and stepped back. He didn’t like the idea, but he came. When we were well inside, out of sight, I slammed my barrel against his head. He fell and didn’t move. I went back to the door.

The next man was backing out of a room around the comer; close enough. I shook out the stiletto and threw it. I don’t often miss, but he turned. The blade passed him, rang on the wall and clattered at his feet. He stared, then swung my way but not until I had moved back from the opening. He yelled to the others in rapid-fire Russian. An answer came from the other side of my door. They planned to come in blasting, spraying the place on their way. That suited me. I dropped down the catacomb stairs, figuring they wouldn’t shoot low and was ready when they came, bullets leading them, one at a time through the entrance. I cut them in two before they quite firing so the sound could be taken for only their guns.

The echoes covered Mitzy’s scramble behind me. Her voice panted at my shoulder.

“What’s going on?”

“Visitors. Four of them, three here, one still loose.”

I climbed to the door but couldn’t see the fourth man. I’d let go a yell of triumph, but he didn’t flush. The court yard was still. Too still. I didn’t know where he was and could get my head blown off if I went out looking. I didn’t believe he’d blunder in here now. Stalemate.

I kicked a Russian gun toward the girl and told her, “Check it for ammunition.”

“Plenty.”

“Keep your head down. I’ll go back to ask if there’s another way out. Maybe I can get to our friend by another route.”

After I described the situation, Noah lighted the candle. The flame showed Fleming sitting quietly against the wall. Tara sat a few feet away. She looked better, but still dazed. The dark hole in the depth of the mountain, smelling of dust and stale air, wasn’t exactly a recovery room. But I couldn’t take her out until that fourth man was found.

Noah spoke to the boy who had ghosted through Jerome’s army. The young man nodded and took the candle, waving me to follow. The faint light shone upon a painted screen hung behind a primitive altar. He lifted a corner of the screen, revealing a passage behind it, and went into it ahead of me. I hoped he knew where he was going. The stub of candle wouldn’t last very long. We went down more steps to a lower, curving tunnel lined with recesses. Bits of candle were stuck in the walls, never more than two-or-three inches long. The air was foul. Then I saw why. Most of the recesses held human bones, hollow-eyed skulls behind them on stone shelves. This was the burial crypt of the tribe.

The corridor was long with several turns. My sense of direction told me it led to the far side of the fortress. Finally there was a round pool of sunlight on the floor. Looking up, I saw a small hole in the roof, barely wide enough for my shoulders and too high for me to reach.

The boy understood. He reached for the machine gun, laid it and the candle on the floor, and offered his back for me to climb. I reached up, got my hands spread on the upper surface of the opening and lifted myself out.

I rested for a moment. I was on the roof of the rooms near the outer wall. The grounds appeared to be empty. I stretched an arm back down the shaft and felt the barrel of the gun the boy was handing up to me. I pulled it out, hearing the slap of his bare feet running down the tunnel. He was heading back to Noah.

Crawling to the edge of the roof I discovered my missing man, the fourth Russian — on his stomach behind the parachutes, his gun ready on the door behind which Mitzy watched. He wasn’t far away. As individuals, the enemy are never impressive. This one was young, slight, but dangerous because of the lethal toy in his hands. I called to him in Russian, wanting him to face me.

“Up here.”

He turned. I fired. He jerked and rolled. Mitzy appeared at the door, saw the body and walked toward it. I jumped off the roof.

In that fraction of time a fifth parachutist lunged from behind an open door, ramming a heavy revolver against Mitzy’s neck. To kill him I’d have to shoot through her. He was looking at me.

He called in fair English, “Throw away the gun.” Then he said something to the girl.

I let my gun fall. He gave an order: “Come this way, not close. Stand against the wall facing it.”

I crossed past them. His uniform was of better material, better tailored than what the others wore. He had the mark of an officer and a walkie-talkie hung from his belt.

Even at the distance I could heard Mitzy’s ragged breathing. He held her tighter and she gagged.

He laughed. “One chance for you both. Tell me where Dr. Fleming is. If you don’t, I shoot first her, then you.”

My stiletto was on the floor out of reach.

Mitzy’s voice rasped through her teeth. “Tell him to go to hell.”

I turned slowly, not to startle him. He cursed me.

“I didn’t tell you to move.”

I pretended to be frightened. It was easy. I chattered, “Don’t shoot. I’ll tell you. He’s hiding. I’ll get him.”

Mitzy swore at me, a thorough job. But I knew that if I could pass the catacomb’s door, I’d find guns there. It didn’t come off. The Russian knew they were there too. I could practically see the wheels turning in his head. He could use both Mitzy and me as a shield and walk to where I’d pointed. Then, using us as protection, he’d demand that Fleming give up. But suppose Fleming didn’t give a damn about our lives and shot through us to get to the enemy? That was a possibility he couldn’t risk.

So he tried another tack. He’d realized Mitzy was important to me by the way I laid down my gun the minute he’d grabbed her. He sneered.

“Yes. Go bring him. If there is a trick, the woman dies at once.”

I had to play it out. He was a head taller than the girl and I trusted my aim with the Luger to blow his block off while he watched the door I’d gone through.

“Walk slowly,” he told me. “With your hands high. Do not bend down. I will watch.”

We marched toward the catacombs. Just before I reached the steps he told me to stop, wanting to accustom his eyes to the change of light; then he told me to go on. He didn’t follow me any further. The stairs and the chamber below me felt like I was walking in India ink A soft footfall preceded me and at the bottom a hand was laid on my arm. Noah’s voice whispered against my ear.

“I saw and heard. Come with me.”

He kept hold of me, steering me ahead of him. I whispered to him what I had in mind, and his fingers tightened on my wrist.

“It will not work. You could not see behind you. There is too much risk that he would see a shadow in time to pull the trigger. We will try another way.”

The word “shadow” gave Noah an idea. At least that’s what he told me. He lit a candle, the glow dim in the large room. The light fell on an open box filled with small wooden dolls. Noah picked out one, pierced its chest with a long thin needle he’d also found in the box, then held it high in the air. His lips moved in silent prayer.

Good lord — all this while Mitzy stood outside with a nervous soldier aiming a gun at her neck.

The old man presented his prize for approval to me, walked around in a circle, and padded toward the stairs.

I had a glance at Tara’s wide eyes and open mouth and of Fleming’s expressionless face. I trailed along after Noah. This I had to see. Besides, I had to free Mitzy and she was where the old man was heading.

Mitzy and the soldier were standing in the gloom just behind the door, both of them in shadow. Noah and I stopped far enough down the steps to be out of sight. I watched the Russian’s head turn from the stairwell to the outer door. Mitzy was angled between them, easy to pivot toward one or the other. I groaned without sound. No way. No way at all to take that sharpie by surprise.

The old man tossed the doll. It landed with a tiny click on the stone in the beam of sunlight. The man’s head snapped toward the sound. I expected a shot right then to break the girl’s spine. There was none. There was a frozen moment while I cursed Noah under my breath. No trick, the Russian’d warned. Without any doubt, that doll on its back, propped up by the needle point through its back, was the trick of the century.

There was a sudden violent movement in the shade. Both the man’s arms were flung wide, his fingers spread as though an electric current had slammed through him. The gun clattered to the floor. He staggered back, made a convulsive grab at his chest with both hands, twisted, then curled down into a limp heap and didn’t move again.

Mitzy had scooped up the gun before I got there. She stood with it hanging at her side, looking from the soldier to the doll. I rolled the man over. He was dead. His face a grimace of pain, eyes bulging. The classic look of a massive heart attack.

Here was a man on a new edge of nerves, killed by fear. I knew it. I was positive of it. Of course I was. A soldier who’d seen four friends killed in an ancient pirate stronghold reeking of legend. A man all alone with enemies. Tense to the breaking point. And out of nowhere flies a symbol of death, landing at his feet. Why wouldn’t his heart stop?

It couldn’t but did it? I looked at Noah.

The old man was busy with the bodies. He dragged the five dead soldiers over by the parachutes. Two lay against the pile of cloth, ankles crossed, arms folded behind their heads. The third was propped against the wall, knees folded, arms crossed, his head resting on his hands. The fourth was arranged the same way, and the officer sat in the woven chair Fleming had used. They presented the picture of a group that had successfully completed its mission and was now resting, waiting.

I got the message. If Fleming had been taken prisoner, he’d have to be taken away. The detail would have to be picked up too. There would be a helicopter along soon. Very good. Let it come. Let it put down here. The pilot would be alone since all available room would be needed for the passengers. I could handle him and we’d have wings. All I needed was the walkie-talkie on the officer’s belt.

I went for it. Noah finished working, straightened and studied the sky. He drew a deep breath. He made a full turn, sniffing, then smiled.

“Wind is coming. It may help us later if we should need it.”

He passed with a sidelong look that dared me to challenge his voodoo performance. Then he headed for the catacomb. Mitzy and I waited for the plane.

It was a half hour before we heard the flap of the chopper. It came over, circled, shredding air, and a rattle of Russian spat out of the microphone. He wanted to know if the doctor was in hand. I didn’t have to lie in answering. I said Fleming was alive and we had him. The pilot laughed, broke contact and began to come down.

Tilting, tipping, tail swinging a little as he maneuvered the air drafts, the bird sank to the ground. Then the unforeseen happened. The prop wash blasted against the floor, ballooned out and blew the sitting bodies over on their sides.

The motor revved up. The ship lifted. It was over my head when I stepped out of the doorway, the pilot out of sight behind the belly. I couldn’t get a shot at him. Even if I could, at that height he would wreck the plane. I let go a burst anyway, drawing a line the length of the underside. It didn’t kill the pilot. He peeled up over the wall, disappearing behind it. I ran to look through the gun slots and saw the chopper drop into the cove in flames.

Beside me Mitzy taught me words I’d never heard.

We went downstairs. A candle was burning, reflected in all the anxious eyes. I shook my head.

“He got wise. We should’ve anchored those decoys. Noah, I guess your wind is about our last friend.”

It was unkind to shaft him that way. I started an apology, but he held up a hand. He was quiet, unsmiling for a long minute, then his brows lifted, wrinkling the high forehead. There was a long sigh.

“Storms in winter are rare here. We expect them in June, July, particularly in August. However, it does no harm to ask. If the rest of you will leave me, I will make preparations for the ceremony.”

Well, hell, we might as well have a show. It would pass time until Jerome threw his next wave at us.

Fleming accepted my arm to steady himself as he hopped up the steps behind the girls and the young native. Noah called after us.

“Please clear away bodies. They are offensive to the gods.” The sudden malevolance in his voice was a shock.

I dumped the officer from Fleming’s chair, let the doctor sink into it, and took the corpses to the corner turret. It was work wedging them through the slots, but by shoving them through head first, I managed to dump them into the sea. Then I went to sit beside Fleming.

Suddenly Noah appeared. He didn’t look like the same man. His head was turbaned, amulets hung around his neck, long earrings swung from his lobes, bracelets covered half his forearms, gourds hung on a belt making hollow music as he walked. His eyes were wide open, staring, black depths with no bottom. He was high on something. He didn’t see any of us, stalked to a ladder and climbed to the roof.

Up there he began to chant and dance, gourds bouncing, bracelets clinking, amulets flying, building to a pitch of frenzy. He spread his long legs, threw his head back and raised his arms to the sky. Wind, more than had been earlier, caught his white hair and beard, flailing them around his head. The voice I had guessed could thunder thundered now.

He stood, listening. Something answered. At first I thought it was a long, distant roll of thunder. A chill went through me. But it wasn’t thunder and I had another chill. The sound was planes. Bombers. Coming high.

It appeared to me that Jerome’s allies had given up on taking Fleming alive. The doctor was no use to them, only an obstacle to be swept aside to give them access to the island.

I saw the planes above the parapet, perhaps two miles away. This was no place to linger. I ran toward the catacomb, hitting two rungs at a time, waving the group toward the tunnel.

The girls and the boy picked up Fleming, chair and all, bringing him in. Noah followed. I fumbled for an altar candle, lit it, and continued on.

Down in the lower chamber I helped Fleming sit down. Mitzy, holding her machine gun, and Tara slumped against the wall. The boy huddled close to Noah.

The rock around us quaked and a dull explosion echoed off the tunnel walls. Another came before the sound faded, then others. A stick of bombs plastered the grounds above us. Dust and acrid gases filtered through, stinging our nostrils. There were five drops in quick succession.

Claustrophobia took hold of Tara. She scampered up the steps. I went after her, caught her at the top and held her tightly. There was silence. No more explosions shook the headland. The first wave of planes had gone. Now we could expect choppers and more parachutists sent to see what the bombs had accomplished. I needed to be on top to meet them.

I started up and discovered I wasn’t alone. Everybody had enough of that graveyard. Tara, Mitzy and the boy were at my heels; Fleming and a groggy Noah, supporting each other, followed.