The Balkan Assignment (10 page)

"Wait a minute, Klaus, if you're talking about narcotics, forget it. I don't want any part of that kind of business. It's too damned ..."

"Wait, Chris, wait," Klaus smiled and said softly. "Who is talking about narcotics? You know me better than that. I want no part of that dirty business either . . . come, relax." I sank back down and sat twisting the coffee cup in my hands. If it wasn't narcotics, then maybe Ley had been right all along. I thought I knew what lengths Klaus had gone to set up this contact in Istanbul. A million dollars in raw, bulk gold isn't the easiest thing in the world to get rid of . . . unless you know how. Klaus did, I was sure. There are three principal gold buying points in the world today . . . not illegal gold exactly, rather that which never sees the inside of an exchange . . . India, Hong Kong, and Macao. One of the smartest moves the United States ever made was dropping the artificial gold price of thirty-five dollars an ounce several years before. The market had fluctuated wildly for a year or so, but then as the speculators began to drop out, the price, which had risen as high as forty-four dollars per ounce at one point, gradually fell back to thirty-five dollars and had held quite steadily since. Thus the U.S. had gotten its cake and eaten it as well. The gold reserves had been freed for industrial and foreign exchange use, and the dollar remained as solid as any currency that could not be backed in metal —

impractical in today's world unless you are the size of Sierra Leone and are willing to settle for their gross national product.

So gold continued to bring in about thirty-five dollars an ounce, give or take a few cents depending on the current market. But that was gold honestly come by, which means you have to explain to a number of authorities, including your own police, exactly where you got it. But in certain markets, India or Hong Kong or Macao, that same ounce of gold was liable to bring as much as sixty dollars an ounce precisely because it did not have to be explained. Everyone automatically assumed that any gold that went through these markets was dishonestly come by, and since the markets were hard to locate . . . protected as they were by graft-taking government officials and/or various criminal syndicates . . . they flourished, ruthlessly excluding all competition. The gold disappeared, some behind the Bamboo Curtain, some to Taiwan, the rest scattered throughout the world to reappear in the hands of whoever had need of raw gold but not the justification or the willingness to risk exposure by coming to it honestly.

"All right," I said, "but I don't think this old aircraft can fly to Hong Kong." Klaus looked startled. "Hong Kong," he repeated, "what do you know about Hong Kong?" I smiled indulgently at him.

"Chris!"

This wasn't a question, it was a command; a different side to Klaus Maher. His face had turned hard as a rock. Not even the night that Mikhail threatened to knife him had I seen his face so hard, so devoid of all of the characteristics that I associated with Klaus Maher. I thought to myself as I stared at him that maybe Ley was right after all. This was the kind of face I had seen in photographs of Nazi soldiers herding prisoners to gas chambers. It was the same kind of face that appeared on Japanese soldiers stamping the earth flat over a mass burial of living people in Shanghai; of Viet Cong propaganda photos; of South Vietnamese soldiers sweeping into a village—their own village—to find the bodies of women and children tortured and beheaded only minutes before. It was the look of a

man who has forgotten humanity; who is on the verge of killing anything, anyone, and it frightened me.

"Easy, Klaus. I was just kidding. If you want a high price for gold you go to India or Hong Kong. What's the big flap about that?"

Slowly Klaus relaxed. What I had said was true. It was common enough knowledge that these were the higherthan-world-market-price markets. The trick was in locating the buyer. Moments later, he was laughing and joking as if the incident had never occurred. The events of the previous night and the long boat trip, extended because of the rough seas, had landed me on Kornat late in the day. As Klaus and I sat and talked, the rain stopped and the skies cleared quickly away to intense blue in the setting sun. Twilight slowly deepened until darkness fell completely. A few lights showed far out in the bay; fishermen returning. The PBY bobbed slowly in the swells sweeping in past the breakwater to die in eddies around the quay. As Klaus talked on, relating how he and Mikhail had performed the preliminary clearing work in the air shaft, I found myself fighting to keep from falling asleep.

"I'm sorry," I interrupted Klaus, "but I'm really beat. I've got to get some sleep." Klaus apologized. "You look tired. Mikhail won't be back until late and I have to go up to the village. So turn in now if you like."

Klaus said good night and climbed out through the hatch to the quay and walked rapidly away in the direction of the stairs leading to the village. I undressed and climbed into the sleeping bag and promptly fell asleep so long and hard that I heard neither Mikhail nor Klaus return later that night.

The following day dawned bright and clear. It was close to midmorning before I could drag myself as far as the cockpit to catch the NATO weather report for the Adriatic region and the Central Med. A high-pressure ridge had pushed in during the night as far as the Dinaric Alps bringing clearing weather and cold. The clear, bright sky of the night before had been the first indication of the front. But the weather forecasters were also predicting a severe bora for the Adriatic coast. I winced at that. The bora is a high-velocity wind that sometimes develops in the wake of short-lived high-pressure ridges along the Adriatic coast. Itself a highpressure wind, it sweeps down from the mountains as the pressure ridge retreats, raking the coastline like an insane cat. The bora can blow for days on end at speeds exceeding sixty miles per hour and then end in a tremendous rainstorm or a heavy fog. It is somewhat akin to the mistral of Mediterranean France or the Santa Ana winds of the southern California coast. In addition to the physical damage these winds do, the mental and moral damage to the people living in their paths can be just as disastrous. Police statistics from areas all over the world show sharp increases in violent crimes that climb higher in direct proportion to the time spans of these winds. The grinding effects of highpressure wind, the constant whistling in tortured ear drums can send strong men over the brink into berserk rages.

The sun had long since cleared the headland to the east and its strong rays slanting down across the water were beginning to provide a measure of warmth when I emerged from the PBY the following morning. Klaus and Mikhail had left before dawn for the air shaft and I had the task of installing the new fuel pump ahead of me. By midafternoon it was installed, sealed and hooked up to the fuel system. I cleaned up, bolted the nacelle back on and climbed down into the cockpit. The starboard engine turned over easily and I ran it up for a few minutes to charge the batteries, then kicked the ignition to the portside engine. It fired easily in a sheet of blue smoke that floated into the bay in the smooth air. The propeller turned over lazily, picking up speed until it became a quicksilver disk in the sunlight. The fuel pump worked like a charm. The aircraft vibrated to the deep crescendo of the two heavy engines and the instruments in their cases jiggled crazily. I idled down, feathered the props and climbed out to cast off the bow and stern lines.

The PBY swung away from the quay and headed eagerly into the bay, the slipstream of water curling back around the boat-shaped bow. The revs were right on the mark and at the entrance to the headlands, I swung her around in a tight circle and ran both engines up to peak RPM and lifted easily into the air, water shedding from the fuselage in sheets. I kept a close watch on the port engine as I climbed up and across the ridge to the southern side of St. Peter's Mountain. Not a miss anywhere.

The landing was completely routine . . . but the reception committee wasn't. As I taxied the aircraft up to the quay, I saw a stiff figure waiting near the mooring. As I drew nearer, the stiff man resolved itself into Major Vishailly, wrapped in his old, dark greatcoat and hat against the wind beginning to blow up. To be on the safe side, I pulled the choke out on the port engine and let it run rough all the way into the quay. Vishailly raised a hand in greeting, and when I had shut down the engines and crawled out onto the nose of the aircraft took the bow and stern lines and helped me warp her to the dock.

"She must be tied securely," he commented. "The bora will begin soon. The islanders will tell you that it often blows strongly enough to destroy houses." I nodded agreement. "I've heard some of the stories they tell about the bora. Back home, they have a similar wind that blows off the desert and down through the mountain passes to the Pacific . . . the Santa Ana winds. They can hit sixty miles per hour on a good day." Vishailly turned his back to the wind until he was half facing away from me and stamped his feet. Obviously, he had been waiting for some time and was chilled through.

"Home? That would be the southern coast of California."

"Ah, been doing your homework I see!"

"Merely routine police work. It was easy enough to obtain, from your passport in fact . . ." I snorted. "My passport gives my home as Oceanside, California. Unless you have a pretty good atlas in your office, you wouldn't know that all four thousand people in Oceanside are located in southern California."

"You will be leaving tomorrow morning, I understand," Vishailly said, abruptly changing the subject.

I grinned at his obvious discomfiture. "That's what we hoped. But the port engine is still running rough and I'm not sure whether it's in the fuel pump or not. Until I know for sure, I don't dare try for Turkey on an engine I can't trust." Vishailly nodded. "So, you are doubtful about leaving tomorrow?"

"Maybe. It could turn out that we might have to stay over another night. Why? What's the problem? The visas you issued are good for three weeks aren't they?" Vishailly nodded. "Yes, they are good for three weeks," he repeated. "And there is no problem about continuing your visit to the island. I am only too happy to be of service. It just seems to me that a man with an airfreight line to run would be more concerned."

"Well, I guess I would be, but Maher is a steady customer; in fact, the steadiest customer I have. If he's happy to stay on this rock for a few days, then I'm happy, too. There are no other charters waiting for me in Italy right now . . . winter isn't the best season for airfreight. Customers in my dollar level get nervous about flying cargoes under winter flying conditions. Most of them can't afford insurance and one loss would wipe them out. My insurance won't cover cargoes and I have a disclaimer in my contracts to that effect. Maher . . . he's big enough to afford both my rates and insurance. As long as he pays his bills on time, if he says we don't fly until that engine is running like a watch, then we don't fly."

At this Vishailly nodded and turned to walk back up the quay. I walked along with him since I didn't have anything else to do at the moment. After a few paces, he stopped and looked at me.

"It is as Captain Ley has said, your record would provide no indication that you are the type of man who would become entangled in the workings of the Neo-Nazi party." He said it quietly, raising his voice only enough to be heard over the wind. Even so, it was as if he had shouted at me with loudspeakers.

"What the hell !" I exploded. "Don't tell me that raving maniac has gotten to you as well?"

"Captain Ley is no maniac," Vishailly replied. "He has told me about your reluctance to believe that your friend is involved in a Neo-Nazi conspiracy, in spite of the murders of Mistako and Bowen."

At that I winced. If Vishailly already knew what happened in the hotel room, then he could have me in the local clink before I could even begin to think up an alibi. Vishailly was perceptive enough to know what and which questions were racing through my mind.

"There is no need to worry," he said, chuckling softly. "While the police do know what has transpired since Herr Ley has arrived, and while we do now know why you and your friends are really here on Kornat . we are willing to

co-operate with Interpol to the extent of letting you recover the gold before we make a decision."

"I see," I said angrily. "So it's co-operate or go to jail?"

"Not at all. I am merely telling you that we know what you are up to. We know about the hotel room and the three bodies . . . you might say that Captain Ley has a certain reputation. Wherever he goes, dead bodies seem to sprout magically . . . on both sides."

"I can certainly believe that," I replied fervently.

"So you see, there is no blackmail intended. But on the other hand, we do know about your plans to seize a national treasure. If you are caught, well then of course, the Yugoslav Government would have to prosecute under existing laws." Vishailly's smile was cold.

"But you won't make a decision about co-operating with Interpol until I decide to cooperate with you, right?" "In a manner of speaking, yes!" Vishailly turned to face me point blank, challenging me for an answer.

"All right." I had no other choice. Co-operate or go to jail. "You obviously know about Ley, what he is and who he is, and have good reason for believing what he tells you . . ."

"The best . . ." Vishailly interrupted, ". . . his reputation. He is well known in police circles, mostly for his work in the narcotics area. Now that European routes are dying out, he has begun taking an interest in the Neo-Nazi party. In fact, I understand that he is now devoting his full energies to that end."

"Okay, okay, so he's not insane. I don't like what the Nazis stand for any better than you do . . ."

"Ah, but that is where you are wrong," Vishailly interrupted a second time and now intense anger in his voice.

"You did not live through the Nazi occupation. You did not fight first with the chetniks, then with the partisans. You did not have your entire family murdered in a public square as a reprisal for your actions. No, you cannot even begin to conceive of how I do not like the Nazis."