The Balkan Assignment (22 page)

"This is it," Klaus said calmly, as if he had ever had any doubts. "The runway is marked out for you,"

Feeling extremely grateful, I lost altitude rapidly and came around on a southerly heading to line up with the runway. As I did so, the first indication of dawn flashed over the eastern horizon; a brilliant ruby-red light that blazed in the still air like a laser. By the time I was lined up with the end of the runway and had the wheels extended, the dawn flush was running swiftly along the horizon flooding the gravel and sand surface of the desert floor beneath us with reddish light. The DC-3 Settled down lightly and touched the packed surface of the makeshift runway as gently as a feather. Burning oil drums flickered past and we trundled down the runway and slowed to a more sedate pace. Klaus indicated the turnoff ramp and I swung the aircraft off into the packed sand and taxied over to stop less than a hundred yards from a canvas and corrugated steel hut. Two men were standing on the steps watching and I saw several others running from the row of tents across the way. All were dressed in khaki work clothes and a few wore the Moslem turban wound round their heads. They were a hardlooking lot, I thought, watching through the cabin window as they clustered around the loading doors of the DC-3. Most seemed to be Arabic and the rest could have been German . . . or some other northern European nationality.

Mikhail shoved open the cabin door and poked his head in with an inquiring look on his face.

"We are in Egypt," Klaus informed him calmly. "I hope that you enjoyed your sleep." The mention of sleep sent Mikhail off into a huge yawn. He stretched to touch the top of the fuselage and wound up shaking himself all over like a dog.

"Egypt!" he shouted, doing a perfect double take. "Why are we in Egypt?" he demanded.

"Refueling for one reason," I said dryly.

Mikhail pushed forward to peer through the windshield. The sight of miles and miles of desert in any direction brought him up short.

"Where in Egypt?" he asked suspiciously.

"We are near the Sudanese border, at an oil exploration camp where I have contacts," Klaus snapped impatiently. "We will refuel, sleep and go on tomorrow morning." Mikhail started to say something but Klaus cut him off. "We are nearly out of petrol, and Chris needs sleep. We have no choice."

He said that curtly and got to his feet, pushing past Mikhail, he swung down the walkway and unlatched the cargo doors and pushed them open. I followed in time to catch the blast of furnace-hot air. The sun was barely above the horizon and already the temperature was above ninety. I glanced helplessly at Mikhail who shrugged and followed Klaus out onto the hard-packed sand. It was clear now that Klaus was totally back in charge and starting to make his move.

Five minutes later, Mikhail and I were sitting in a raging hot canvas hut wondering if this was the way all of their guests were treated. We had no sooner stepped off the aircraft, when four men armed with automatic rifles had rushed up and had us spreadeagled on the sand before we knew what was happening. I lost the Walther P-38 and Mikhail a very small, and very carefully concealed pistol and his pocket knife. Klaus lit up a cigarette and turned to talk with a heavy-set and very unhappy man who appeared to be in charge of the camp. They both spoke German and the conversation was lost to me. I gathered that it had something to do with us, but that was all. As soon as they ,had searched us, they marched us over to the hut at double-quick time. The door was not locked since it is rather difficult to put an effective padlock on a canvas-and-wood-frame door . . . but the presence of an armed guard outside left no question concerning their intent. Since he was Egyptian and at least pretended to speak no English, we had no choice but to sit tight and wait to see how things developed. And they developed fast. Mikhail, a little slow as usual, began to realize what had happened to him. He grunted once, jumped to his feet and was through the door before the poor guard, in turn, realized what was happening. He just had enough time to swing about, rifle held chest high, to take Mikhail's iron fist full in the face. He went down like a log. Mikhail bent to pick up the rifle, but before he could straighten, another of Klaus's playmates materialized out of nowhere and smashed a carbine butt down on his neck. Mikhail slumped down on top of his victim. The newcomer called for help and another guard arrived on the run. Together, the two of them dragged his limp body into the hut and dumped him on the floor. Without moving from the cot from where I had watched the little episode, I spread my hands in a gesture of resignation to indicate that I had nothing to do with Mikhail's impetuousness and lay back on the pillow. They muttered to themselves and went out.

I regarded Mikhail unsympathetically. It was useless to try and pick him up since he weighed well over two hundred pounds. I got up and pushed him into a more comfortable position, checked on the guard outside; a new one was there; lay down on the cot and promptly fell asleep.

It was late afternoon before Klaus came into the hut, followed by the heavy-set man who had met the aircraft. He shook me awake and sat down on the other cot while the big German waited near the door. Klaus tore open a new pack of cigarettes and shook one out for me, and lit it.

"Well . ?" he said quietly.

"Well ... what?"

"I am sorry that we had to treat you as we did. But there was Mikhail. There would have been trouble if not."

"There was anyway," I pointed out dryly. "By the way, where is he?" I asked, noticing that he was gone.

Klaus rubbed his forehead. "Yes, I think there was. Mikhail is being looked after and you need not concern yourself with him."

"So what next? Do you take me out tonight and give me a shovel to dig my own grave?" Klaus smiled. "No, that is not done anymore. The world has become too sophisticated for such crude methods." "I'm glad to hear that."

"By now you must realize that there is more to what we have been doing this past week than . . ." he faltered. "A treasure hunt," I supplied helpfully.

"Yes. There is more involved here than merely the personal greed." Klaus went on. "The gold will be used for other, more salutary purposes than to line the pockets of three useless soldiers of fortune."

"If that's the case, then why did you need the two other soldiers to help you recover it?

Why didn't you just go into Kornat and pull it out with the help of your little organization?" I knew the answer to that one, but was curious to see what Klaus would come up with.

His lip twisted into an unpleasant smile. "For many reasons. This organization to which I belong is well-known to the Yugoslav authorities and, shall we say, not loved?" Yeah, I thought to myself, after five years of occupation and nearly half a million killed, you could well be described as unloved.

"In any event, Yugoslav authorities reacted a bit more quickly than we had anticipated. There were times when I was beginning to doubt that we would escape with our lives."

"You were beginning to doubt!" I snorted.

"But, we are here," he finished, smiling broadly. "Where is here? You can't do much with one million dollars worth of gold in the middle of the desert. And I would be willing to bet that if the Egyptians get wind of that million in gold you won't have it very long."

The fat man broke into a series of rippling chuckles. His voice was amazingly high, but pleasant. It did make a strange contrast though with his corpulent body. Klaus glared at him and he shut up swiftly. "You are very right. We must fly the gold out of here as soon as possible. I can offer you a job . . . with a sizable salary if you will agree to continue as my pilot."

"Quite a comedown . . . a third of a million dollars to a salary."

"Yes, well, bad luck happens to the best of us. In any event, I think that you will find the terms of employment agreeable . . . starting with something even more valuable than two hundred and fifty thousand dollars . . . your life."

"You do have a point there."

Klaus pulled a leg up, planted it squarely across the other, a most unmilitary posture, and settled his back against the wall. Now we were going to get down to business I thought.

"In addition, we will offer you full-time employment as chief pilot and owner, free and clear, of your own charter air line operating through the Middle and Far East. We will supply you with the aircraft, a business already established and located in Cairo, operating expenses until you can get underway and in two years time, subject to satisfactory completion of your charters, the full ownership of the company and its assets including a C-130 cargo aircraft."

My own company, free and clear, no mortgage on the aircraft to cause sleepless nights, enough funds to maintain a decent maintenance schedule, etc., etc. When the full implication sank in, it was a tempting offer.

I finished the cigarette in silence, forcing myself to sit still with great difficulty. Finally, I dropped the butt on the floor and ground it out.

"Who needs killing?"

"Killing?" the fat man asked. "Killing, who?" Klaus glared and waved him to silence. "No one. In fact, there is very little that you have to do. You must accept all and any charters from this company when called upon to do so. You will be paid for each flight by the company and the cargo will be bonded before being loaded aboard your aircraft. You will have only to fly it to its destination and return by whatever route you desire."

"J ust fly cargo?" I asked suspiciously.

"Yes. Exactly as you have been doing for me for the past year or so." I nodded. "Uh . . . what was in those cargoes by the way? Most of them were loaded under bond as I recall."

Klaus smiled to himself and took a final drag on his cigarette and also stubbed it out on the floor. Still bent over, he continued, "Most of those cargoes were legitimate. But the rest were supplies and equipment and other goods being shipped here and farther east."

"And those I take it were illegal shipments?"

Klaus nodded. "So you see, for over a year we have been engaged in shipping bonded, but illegal cargoes through small charter airfreight companies like your own. We have had absolutely no trouble. And as you would continue to co-operate, I foresee no trouble.

"

"Well I'll be damned," I muttered. And I was too, if certain police authorities ever caught up with me.

"How do you propose to set me up with my own air-freight line if every cop in Europe is going to be looking for me?"

"Why should they be?"

I glanced over at the fat man standing near the door. He caught the look and nodded to Klaus and stepped outside. A moment later I heard him speaking to the guard. With a disgusted look, Klaus watched him go then turned to me. "There is no reason why the police of any country should be looking for you."

"Oh? Seems to me there's the little matter of the killing of a Yugoslav policeman, the bombing of a Yugoslav patrol boat, a stolen airplane in Italy not to mention illegal entry .

."

Klaus held up his hand to stop me. "First, there is no evidence of any kind to tie you into the killing of Vishailly. Secondly, who could possibly identify you as one of the two fishermen who bombed the patrol boat . . . the sailors saw only two men at a distance and they themselves attacked that boat in international waters. At the most, we were only defending ourselves. As far as the Italian authorities are concerned, they have no reason to suspect that you entered the country illegally or that you left it in a similar fashion since their records will show that you

filed a proper flight plan and cleared customs formalities in Naples. As for the aircraft, you yourself purchased it from your friend, and right now your agent is waiting for him to return to his office so that he may sign the bill of sale and other necessary papers. So, you see, you have committed no crimes and are, in fact, at this moment, flying a charter for my company."

Outside the hut, the sharp coughing of a gasoline engine began and a moment later was joined by the rapping of an oil-rig drill being lowered into the drill hole. All at once, it seemed as if all of the noise in the world was concentrated in this spot of desert. A large truck started up, the engine whine rising above the other noises. I nodded. "All right, you seem to have everything laid out properly enough. But why me?

You must have your own pilots who would be a hell of a lot more trustworthy?" Klaus nodded and lit a fresh cigarette. "That is true. We do have our own pilots. But there are two reasons why I would like to have you involved: First, you are a very resourceful man. There were several times in the past few days when it could have gone very badly for us but for you. I am too old to be as adaptable as I once was. Secondly, you have established a reputation around the Middle East as an honest pilot and businessman. While the customs people do not trust you—indeed they cannot since it is their job to mistrust everyone—they are very much aware of your reputation and record and are therefore willing to make certain exceptions for you. This is very important to us. We have a good deal of cargo to fly and we must retain a respectable front."

"What about Mikhail?"

Klaus glanced at me distastefully. "About that one, some thought will have to be given."

"What kind of thought?"

"That need not concern you ..."

"Like hell," I interrupted brusquely. "I'm not giving any answers until I find out what you have in mind for Mikhail."

"If you insist." He paused for a moment, then grinned slyly. "We intend to turn Mikhail over to the proper authorities."

I admit I must have looked skeptical . . . and it was on the tip of my tongue to make a sarcastic remark about

nazism and the law when I caught myself just in time. Fortunately, Klaus didn't notice the lapse.

"He did kill the policeman," Klaus pointed out. "Someone must be arrested because the Yugoslav police will not rest until they have found the murderer."

"How do you plan to have them find him? Egypt is a little outside their jurisdiction, isn't it?"

"Mikhail will be found at the proper time and in the proper place. We must be very careful how we handle this situation. You and I both are linked with him in Yugoslavia. We must first arrange to make it seem that we left the island well before the killing took place and that Mikhail was acting alone. I took the opportunity of asking questions of the villagers while you were travelling to Belgrade. It seems that the trouble between Mikhail and Vishailly was widely known. It was an accepted fact, at least on the island, that they would have to fight for honor. In this situation it may not go hard with him."