The Terrible Ones

The Terrible Ones

Nick sat at the head of the great dining table and looked appreciatively at his companions. Isabella, Teresa, Alva, Luz, Paula, Lucia, Inez, Juanita… Ah, women, women. How he loved them! His smile widened as he gazed at them. He had bathed, shaved, slept, exercised, eaten, and now he was feasting his eyes on eight lovely ladies. Heaven, that’s what it was. He sighed with pleasure. One or two were a little mature for him, and Luz and Alva were still looking pale and strained, but without exception they had made themselves look their best for him.

“Senor Carter, you are, what you say, drooling,” Lucia said severely. She was a strikingly handsome woman of middle years who acted as the housemother Sergeant Major of The Terrible Ones. “And may I ask what you were doing in your room this morning with Juanita that made her giggle so much? She was only supposed to be taking you a cup of coffee.”

“Why, Lucia honey,” Nick said reproachfully. “That’s all she did. And all I was doing was my Yoga exercises.”

Juanita giggled again. She was a little dark girl with a quick laugh and a low boiling point. “You should have seen him, Lucia. Have you ever seen a man standing on his head and sucking in his stomach?”

“At the same time? Certainly I have not,” Lucia said firmly.

“May I ask, Senor Carter, what it is that you have on the table before you?”

Nick nodded. “I’ll get to it in a while. It shouldn’t cause you any immediate concern, but I think you’ll be interested. First I think we ought to fill you in a little more completely on what happened in Haiti. Paula?”

She told the story rapidly and succinctly, in a manner that Hawk himself would have admired. None of the women interrupted. Expressions flitted across their faces and at certain points in the recital they gave little moans of horror, but they listened as intently as any crew of AXEmen at a briefing. Nick’s admiration for them grew steadily. These women deserved to have the treasure; of all people they would use it wisely.

There was a brief silence when Paula finished. Eyes stared down at the tabletop and hands were clenched with anger.

Nick cut in quickly before reaction set in. “Luz, let’s have your story once again so we can put the pieces together. What’s most important is the clue, whatever you know about Alonzo, whatever he knew about you.”

Luz nodded slowly. “All he ever knew about me were small, personal things, and that I belonged to a group of patriots called The Terrible Ones. Somehow he must have heard a rumor that we were after the treasure, because he kept talking about it in sly little ways.” She looked beseechingly at Paula. “Truly, I told him nothing else. Not then. But I did not think he was such a bad man, only someone like us in a way, and there seemed no harm in sometimes meeting him in town. He was a man, to talk to—”

“Yes, I know,” said Paula gently. “I know just how it is.”

“And when you met him the day Paula left for Haiti,” Nick prompted, “what did he say?”

“He was excited,” said Luz. “He’d found out something and he kept hinting that it had to do with the treasure. Well, I had to know what it was — I told you last night how I tried to get it out of him. But he wasn’t giving anything away for nothing. So — I offered him a trade.” She looked steadily at Nick. “I never did think much of Paula’s idea of getting help from the Americans. So I told him about you. Said that our leader was meeting the American leader, told him the time and place. And he was furious. Said he’d just discovered his first clue and he wasn’t going to share it with anyone, not even his Cuban comrades, and he was damned if he was going to have any Americans horning in. Then he didn’t even want to give me the clue. But I… worked on him. Made all sorts of promises about how eagerly I’d look for his return and what we would do together. Said I’d go on working for my group and trying to collect other clues which he and I would share. Together we would seek the treasure, find it, and live happily ever afterwards. He seemed to believe me.” Her tone was dry. “I can imagine now how much use he would have had for me afterwards, if we really had worked together and found it. But I am positive that he told neither his fellow Cubans nor the Chinese where he was going or what he was trying to do.”

Nick nodded. “I think it’s pretty clear and he’d decided to go into business for himself. What about his clue?”

She wrinkled her nose and looked thoughtful. “I’ve thought and thought about it and I still can’t make head or tail out of it. But it does seem to fit, doesn’t it, with the other clues? ‘Trujillo es mi Pastor.’ El Benefactor Trujillo always used to love that line — that whole psalm, in fact ‘Trujillo es mi Pastor’! Do you know the rest of it? Everybody does, because he didn’t change it much: Trujillo is my Shepherd, I shall not want. And so on. The ego of the man! Oh, yes, he loved that psalm.”

“It makes a dandy clue,” said Nick. “Whatever it means.” He remembered reading about this little piece of blasphemy, how one of Trujillo’s sycophantic supporters had rewritten the psalm into a paean of praise for his dictator boss. Now its opening line had turned up as a clue. “Green pastures,” Nick said slowly, recalling the words. “Still waters. Paths of righteousness? That could hardly apply. But how about the valley of the shadow of death, and the house of the Lord? It does seem to fit with at least one of the other clues, La Trinitaria — The Trinity.”

“But that is shocking!” Lucia burst out indignantly. “Sacrilege!”

“That would scarcely have worried the Great Man,” the thin girl called Inez said bitterly. “I’m almost beginning to see why he thought it was all so funny. But I can’t see what the ‘Castle of the Blacks’ has to do with any of this.”

“Neither can I,” Nick admitted. “But maybe some research will cast some light on it. Anybody want to volunteer?”

“I will,” said Teresa the quiet one. “I have worked in libraries.”

“Good. Next — can any of you think of anyone who might know where, if anywhere, La Trinitaria used to hold their meetings?”

There was a general shaking of heads.

“We can ask among the others,” Paula said. “There’s still ninety-one of us you haven’t met. Maybe one of them can come up with something. We can also, all of us, go carefully through whatever papers our husbands may have left. I know we all have, but we weren’t looking for anything in particular.”

“Reminiscing,” Teresa said softly. “Looking at pictures and reading through old letters. And Manuel used to have a diary, I remember, but he burned it just before they came for him.”

“There must be other diaries,” a tall, willowy girl said intensely. Nick gazed at her approvingly. This was Isabella, of the flashing green eyes and mane of red-gold hair. “Not all of them had a chance to burn such things as diaries and documents. Somewhere there must be at least a scrap of paper with, say, coded notes on it.”

“Yes, but the police went through everything at the time,” Juanita objected. She had long since stopped her giggling. “They even tore apart our books.”

“I know, but something may have been overlooked. It wouldn’t be an obvious document — even Manuel’s diary was probably in code.”

“It’s worth a try,” said Paula. “Isabella, you take charge of that angle. Get onto every Resistance widow in the city and have them go through every single thing their husbands left. That wasn’t taken from them, that is. Pick half a dozen of them to help you spread the word and guide the search. It shouldn’t be hard; most of them have been screaming for something to do.” She looked at Nick and gave him a faint smile. “We’re talking about the Associate Terrible Ones, the not so very active members who still have homes and something left of their families. They’re quite good at gathering information— and spreading rumors, if you want them to.”

“I do,” said Nick. “I want them to keep their eyes peeled for any sign of Cuban or Chinese activity and report back to you at once. And I want them, in the subtlest way possible, to fill the city with rumors about separate camps of Cubans and Chinese skulking in the hills. And then, if they can possibly manage it without calling attention to themselves, I’d like some of them to plant the idea that the Cubans intend to sell out the Chinese, and others that the Chinese are using the Cubans as scapegoats. It won’t be easy, but it can be done. But it must be done in such a way that they don’t get hordes of Chinese and Cubans down on their own necks. You might try—”

“I might try putting Lucia in charge,” said Paula. “I can guarantee she’ll get results.”

Lucia smiled grimly. “And no repercussions either. It is easier than you think, Senor, to get women to spread the wildest rumors and then emerge all lily-white with innocence themselves.”

Nick grinned. “I’ll bet you’re the one who can do it, too. That leaves my share in this. While you’re about your business I’ll be looking — looking for a place not far from Santo Domingo that fits all the clues, so far as we can interpret them to date. There may be other clues, and we’ll also have to look for them. Are there any other ex-Trujillo-ites around, people like Padilla, that we can go to work on?”

“Quite a few, very likely,” Paula said wryly, “but they tend to be shy about their past. Known Trujillo supporters dived for cover when he died, and most of the others are very secretive about their politics. Nobody wants to admit having had anything to do with him. It’s only occasionally, when there’s a right-wing coup or maybe a party where too much liquor’s flowing, that one of them slips up and shows himself. We’ve had great difficulty in tracking any of them down.”

“Well, let’s go ahead with what we have,” said Nick. “And if we find we’re stymied we can dream up another piece of gossip for the rumor circuit — a reward for information or a share in the loot, or something of the sort. But in the meantime we’ve got enough to work on. One last thing, and we’ll get started.” He slid a roll of paper from the cardboard tube and spread it flat upon the table. It was a map of Haiti and the Dominican Republic, the one he had found in the upstairs room of the Chinese Dragon.

“Weill AH this talk, and all the time he has a treasure map,” Lucia said, giving it her penetrating stare.

“That’s not what it is,” said Nick, smoothing it out. “It’s probably even more important. I’d say it’s the blueprint for Operation Blast. Take a look and tell me what you think.”

Eight well-formed bodies crowded around him, and eight attractive faces gazed down at the map. The perfume they had dabbed behind their ears especially for Nick’s benefit enveloped him in a soft cloud of sweet femininity. Delectable! he thought, and inhaled luxuriantly. He felt like a sultan in his harem. Except that a sultan wouldn’t have been putting business before pleasure.

“But so many markings!” Paula said, surprised. “I thought that Blast would be something to do with a bomb project, perhaps a missile site. But why should there be so many? Look, six around Haiti and Santo Domingo. And one on Cuba. Even one on Puerto Rico. Are you sure this is for Operation Blast?”

Nick nodded. “I have the advantage of you. There was a letter from Fidel himself to our pal Tsing-fu. It didn’t give away nearly as much as I could have wished, but it did whine about the need for capital and it did mention the eight initial installations to be provided for Operation Blast. And it said that his base, the one in Cuba near Guantanamo here—” his finger jabbed the map, “—is ready. It didn’t say for what, but look where it is in relation to the others.” They looked as he traced his finger around the island coasts.

“See? It’s right opposite a corresponding base on Haiti. Between the two of them they would control the Windward Passage, not to mention the help they’d get from the other two down here. And look at the one on the easternmost point of Santo Domingo. Between that and its counterpart on Puerto Rico, the Mona Passage could be completely closed to U.S. ships. Even without the one on Puerto Rico they could manage, with the help of these back-up bases to the north and south.”

“But they can’t build bases on our soil!” Isabella said hotly, and her mane of red hair flicked against Nick’s face.

“Not yet, they can’t,” said Nick. “But they can when they take over, as I’m quite sure they mean to do. Haiti’s ripe for the picking; Domingo’s not so far behind. I think the base on Puerto Rico is a pipe dream, but even a Red can dream.”

“I don’t understand,” Luz said bluntly. “You mean this has nothing to do with bombs or test explosions or even ICBMS?”

“Ballistic missiles, yes, but short-range. And who needs bombs when you can cut the whole of South America off from the U.S. with a few short-range missiles, land-based planes and coastal batteries? Look, take over these islands, and you’ve got a fortified landbridge right across the Caribbean. U.S. ships couldn’t get through these passages without being blasted out of the water by nothing more sophisticated than shore-fire and a couple of antiquated planes. And that’s Blast. I think. But takeovers don’t just happen — they’re permitted, sometimes even encouraged. That’s one reason you have to get those tongues wagging loud and fast. The more that’s known about what’s going on, the better. And don’t let anyone kid himself that the Commies of either camp are out to help anyone but themselves.” He rolled up the map and plugged it back into the tube. “They’ll liberate you right into hell, and if there’s anything Trujillo forgot to do to torture you, they’ll make up for it.”

“And what does all this have to do with the treasure?” Lucia asked. “It’s not that I’m not suitably appalled by all you say, but why should they be indulging in a treasure hunt—our treasure hunt — when they have such elaborate plans to keep them busy?”

Nick pushed back his chair. “They have more elaborate plans than they have capital to spare. You can do a lot with a hundred million dollars of someone else’s money.” He rose and grinned cheerfully around the table. “I thank you all for your attention, and for being — all of you — so beautiful.”

“It’s so nice to have a man around the house,” Alva said dreamily.

“Yes, isn’t it?” Paula agreed. “It would have been even nicer if we’d had a whole platoon.”

He had a two-day growth of stubble on his face, ill-fitting, ill-matched clothes upon his back, and he tramped about the Dominican countryside looking like a peasant farmer hunting for a missing steer. Neither OAS troops nor the local populace gave him more than a passing glance.

But hidden in the farmer’s shapeless clothes were a Luger, a stiletto, and a replacement for Pierre, along with a few other devices appropiate less to a farmer than a man called Killmaster.

Nick tramped into his third valley of the day, thinking hard. Maybe he was looking too far afield, or not far enough. Maybe he was taking the words of the Twenty-third Psalm too literally, and it was only the first phrase he should be concentrating on. ‘Trujillo es mi pastor’ ‘Pastor.’ Shepherd.

Herdsman. A farm? There was the late dictator’s own farm, Fundacion, at San Cristobal, only eighteen miles from Domingo. He supposed he’d better take a look at it, but it seemed unlikely that it hadn’t already been searched to its foundation. Some other farm? Or was ‘pastor’ supposed to be interpreted as clergyman, or parish priest? Church… cathedral… mission house… but Castle? Monastery? Teresa had given him a list. He had shuffled into each one of them with a hard luck story and emerged none the wiser.

‘Green pastures,’ he thought again. ‘Still waters.’ He had seen plenty of both, but not together. Maybe they weren’t supposed to be together. Or maybe he was barking up the wrong tree entirely.

He tramped on determinedly. There was a little farming community in the valley below him, and the spire of a small church showed above the trees. It was to be his last stop of the day before heading back to meet Paula and the jeep, and he hoped fervently that it would pay off in some way. Even a pot shot from the rear as he asked his subtly probing questions would be a welcome sign that he was getting warm.

There were no shots; there was nothing. The little church was dated 1963 and its young pastor told Nick proudly that he and his parishioners had cleared the virgin ground themselves.

Nick drank the proffered glass of water, thanked him and turned away.

Another wasted day.

Dr. Tsing-fu cursed inside himself. Everywhere he went there was some damned Cuban hanging on his heels. He had been so careful with the business of disposing of those mysterious bodies, yet somehow something had leaked out. In any event, there had been a police investigation of his premises — fortunately after he and Mao-Pei had finished their gruesome task — and people on the streets were eyeing him oddly. He had closed the Chinese Dragon, “for repairs,” he told whoever asked him, and was devoting himself to business affairs until re-opening day.

He did not, of course, tell them that his business affairs consisted of tracking down ex-Trujillo supporters and going to work on them with bribery and blackmail. He was also prepared to torture and kill if that would help, and he rather thought it would. In fact, he had already killed one man who had threatened to complain to the authorities about his blackmail threat.

“Mao-Pei.” He leaned over and touched his driver on the shoulder. “Stop at the library. I wish to look at old newspaper files.”

Mao-Pei grunted, and then suddenly remembered his manners.

“Yes, sir,” he said smartly.

Tsing-fu leaned back and peered over his shoulder. Damn! The motorcycle was still following them.

He glowered and took out a cigarillo. The wildest stories were going around town, and he knew there was no truth to half of them. But he was damned sure that it was true that the Cubans were out to bitch up his carefully laid plans. Everything pointed to it, especially this never-ending tailing. Yet he could not understand how the rumors had started, who had dumped the Cuban bodies on him, who had taken the blueprint for Operation Blast. Not the Cubans, surely. They had their own copy. There was a third party in this thing somewhere.

The Terrible Ones. Who in the name of all the Chinese devils were they?

Whoever they were he would beat them at their game. He had lost a few men, including that abominably stupid bodyguard-cook, but he still had a squad of men who were trained in search and interrogation techniques. They were deployed all over town at this very moment, and he had no doubt that there were screams of agony coming out of several throats. If there was the slightest chance that they knew someone who knew someone who knew something, then they were grist for his torture mill.

He smiled grimly and puffed his cigarillo. When the hunt was over there’d be some changes made in Operation Blast.

Damn those Cubans and their pockmarked, treacherous hides! He was getting on very well in spite of them.

His evil mood switched suddenly to chuckling optimism. He was getting on well. His inquiries were yielding fruit. Success was in his grasp.