The Balkan Assignment (28 page)

"Good lord," I muttered and fell back into the chair. "You are a damned cynical devil."

"Perhaps, but for now, you will keep your mouth shut and your opinions to yourself. Also, you will remain within the camp until you receive further instructions. In a few days, you will be on your way back to Italy."

Klaus closed his briefcase, stood up and walked to the door. "Is that understood?" I nodded and he left without another word. Through the window, I watched him go down the walk. At the gate, he stopped and a figure stepped out of the shadows. They talked briefly and Klaus continued on up the road. The other stepped back again into the shadows. Now, I, too, had a guard.

At midnight, I left the bungalow with the heavy Smith

& Wesson .38 in my jacket pocket. Instead of following the route Klaus had taken, I went over the back fence to avoid the guard out front, and worked my way along a narrow service alley to the warehouse area. I stopped at that point to regain my bearings. The rain had started in again just after sunset and now was falling steadily—a light but persistent drizzle that made hardly a sound yet had a queer muffling effect. Lights burned fitfully around the installation and the Christmas-tree lights on the derricks were softened and made remote by the rain. I made my way carefully and quietly through the compound to the last stretch of road between the warehouses and the edge of the airfield. From there, the path was over open ground. I crouched behind a line of hedge and examined the area until I was certain that no one was moving about. As I neared the airfield, I saw the faint outline of the DC-3 . . . certain to be guarded, I thought . . . parked at the far end of the field from the go-downs. That at least was a small break. The aircraft would be distant enough that any noise would be smothered by the rain. I was also counting on the inclination of the guard to spend his watch inside the aircraft where it was at least dry.

The hardest part was to work my way in close to the go-downs. There was no cover of any kind between the hedge and the airstrip, and the one guard on the nearest go-down—

the one in which I was sure Mikhail was being kept—was outside, sheltering from the rain beneath the roof overhang.

I reached the taut cyclone fencing that edged the runway and hastily tucked myself into the meager shelter at its base. A floodlight burned from the roof of each go-down; neither sufficiently powerful to penetrate the misty rain to any great distance. The ground was cold and muddy; damned cold. Colder than I had expected it to be. The wet grass was a foot high; just tall enough to be bothersome without providing cover. I had little choice. I had to approach the guard in such a way that I could watch him the whole time. I did not dare to come at him from behind the cabin since he might take it into his head to throw away his cigarette and make a round or two like a good little guard should.

I moved carefully along the fence, carrying the .38 in my right hand, depending on the rain to blot out any noise. As soon as I had passed the guard, I sprinted for the building, keeping low and as deep into the shadows as possible. The guard was leaning against the wall, apparently asleep. After all my trouble, I had merely to walk up and clip him behind the ear to make sure that he would continue to sleep. The first hurdle was past. The second guard would be inside the hut and as it was close to midnight, both he and Mikhail were probably asleep. I picked up the guard's carbine; a nice M-16, almost new. These boys traveled first-class it seemed. I rifled through his pockets and found a small bag of extra clips inside his jacket. In the faint light from the flood mounted on the roof, I could see that he was the thin German who made such good coffee. It seemed a heck of a long way to come from Egypt just to get whacked behind the ear.

I was half right about the second guard; the Egyptian. He was inside the go-down but not asleep. He was reading a paperback by the light of a flashlight when I eased open the door. Fortunately he was so engrossed in what he was reading that he did not hear or see the door open. I stepped inside and he looked up just in time to catch the butt-end of the carbine in the middle of the forehead. He hit the floor like a sack of wet grain. Mikhail came awake instantly.

I picked up the guard's flashlight and motioned with it for him to turn over. He started to object, but I turned it on my own face and he stopped at once.

"Keep quiet," I ordered. "Roll over so I can cut the ropes."

•

He did as he was told and I sawed through the tough nylon. Mikhail rolled into a sitting position and stretched vigorously but silently. I put my fingers to my lips and backed away from him and peered around the door frame. The guard was slumped against the door in the shadows. The rest of the night was silent but for the rain. Satisfied, I closed the door, picked up the Egyptian's pistol and tossed it to Mikhail. He caught it and sat back on his heels.

"So you have finally come to help me . . ."

"Shut up," I snarled. "Keep your mouth shut, listen to what I have to say, then do exactly what you are told."

Mikhail started, then thought better of it as the M-16 came up to meet him. He sank back down on his heels, glaring.

"At least you remember our bargain . .." I ignored him and motioned for him to keep quiet.

"Maher is mixed up with some kind of organization ... I don't know what," I lied. "But whatever it is, it's a damned powerful group. They plan to ship you back to Yugoslavia to take the rap for Vishailly. I'm betting that they were going to plant your body somewhere on Kornat Island and blame you exclusively for Vishailly's death to take the heat off Klaus."

"What kind of an organization?" he insisted quietly.

"I'm not really sure." I stopped for a moment, considering just how much to tell him. Then I decided that the truth couldn't hurt . . . up to a point, anyway.

"As far as I can tell, they belong to some kind of NeoNazi group that specializes in recovering the gold and other things that the SS Special Detachments left all over Occupied Europe. The cache on Kornat was one of them. I doubt if Klaus was ever really stationed on Kornat, and I'm willing to bet he wasn't in the German Navy either. I suspect he spent most of his war years in the SS, probably one of the Special Detachments."

Even in the meager light from the flashlight, I could see Mikhail's face flush. But he remained silent, hearing me out.

"I also question how much of the gold taken from the Balkans was ever stored in that cavern. Thirty million may have been stolen by the Special Detachments, but how much of that was ever really sent to Kornat, I don't know. Anyway, most of that was probably already in the cistern when your people attacked the base and blew up the cavern. I think Klaus knew this; whether he was there or not. He knew exactly where the gold was. I also think that this is not the first one of these little expeditions that Klaus has conducted. Somehow Vishailly knew about the gold . . . maybe not exactly where it was hidden . . . but he knew that sooner or later someone was going to come for it. But I'm positive that he never told his superiors much about us or what we were up to. He wanted that gold for himself."

"Where is Maher now?" Mikhail asked, getting to his feet.

"Somewhere in the compound, why?"

"Because I am going to kill him."

"Now wait a minute ..."

Mikhail started to push past me. He had no intention

of listening to anything and probably had not heard a word I said. But I needed his help in taking that radio shack . . . I reversed the carbine and drove the butt into Mikhail's midsection. He sat down on the bunk with a grunt of expelled air. I followed, thrusting the barrel into his face and forcing his head back against the metal wall.

"Listen, you bastard . . . I didn't break you out of here to have you run berserk through the camp and get us both killed. You and I are going to take on the radio shack next door. Once we have that, you can do any damned thing you want. Until that time, you stay with me and do what you are told or I'll blow your head off." If Mikhail ever got to Klaus, there was no question but that I would be next on his list. But he understood exactly what I was saying . . . and he could judge for himself what his chances were of living beyond the next few seconds unless he agreed to do exactly as I said. Finally, he nodded.

"All right. Get up!"

Mikhail got heavily to his feet and stood waiting, hands at his sides.

"Pick up that carbine and let's see what kind of guerrilla soldier you are," I flung at him.

"Go ahead of me . . . I don't trust my back to you." Mikhail had bent to pick up the carbine. He stopped and peered up at me. "And you had better not either ..."

Grinning wolfishly, I motioned him to the door. But once outside, he became a different man . . . a professional soldier and all business. I described the installation to him showing how the two go-downs were fairly well isolated on the edge of the airfield. I pointed out the DC-3 at the far end of the field and the third go-down, which we would have to burn to prevent the small aircraft that I suspected it housed from being used. Mikhail nodded to indicate that he understood and then bent to strip the unconscious guard of his wristwatch. We agreed on five minutes to get into position and faded into the rain.

I hated to let him go off on his own. I had no idea of whether he would shoot me in the back, go after Klaus or show up at the radio shack. I also wondered if he knew himself. But, I had no other choice. At the very least, he might provide enough diversion if he did go after Klaus to keep the camp occupied until I could raise Ley and get him in here. The rain was falling harder than ever now; a mad musician drumming the earth. Visibility was less than twenty feet, which could both help and hinder. It took me less than the allotted five minutes to reach the front of the tin-roofed go-down. I could not make out a guard, but then in this rain, he would have to be as foolish as I was to stay outside. I crawled up to a window and peered inside. The room was dimly lit by a kerosene lamp standing in the corner, an incongruous sight among all the sophisticated radio gear. The operator was half lying, half sitting in an old swivel-back chair, sound asleep. There was no sign of a guard anywhere; either no trouble was expected or else the guard had gone off somewhere and would be back shortly. I hoped the latter was not the case and pushed open the door.

I was wrong! There was a guard. He had been dozing against the front wall; peering through the high window I had missed him in the gloom. The opening door alerted him, but as I stepped in a shot blasted out from the back window and caught him square in the chest just as he raised his rifle. He spun around, slammed into the wall and fell to the floor. The operator came awake with a jolt, grabbing for a pistol stuck in a drawer under the radio. I reached him in two steps and brought the carbine butt down on the back of his head, hard. He hit the floorboards with a solid but relaxed thump. Moments later, Mikhail followed me in through the front door and walked over to examine the body of the dead guard.

"Do you suppose anyone heard the shooting?" he asked rhetorically, grinning down at the body.

"I doubt it. The rain is too loud for the sound to have carried far," I answered and sat down at the console and began to study the radio while Mikhail stalked around the room peering through the various windows and examining the contents of a trunk standing against the wall. I warmed up the set and dialed the same frequency that I had used in Egypt, 127.6 kc. hoping that Ley had some kind of radio watch standing by. I transmitted my identification code twice and flipped to receive. And he was on the air.

"Chris ... where are you? Over."

I gave Ley the co-ordinates as best as I could.'"It will be hard to find in the rain," I said dryly. "The camp is near the village of Mong Mei. There's an abandoned airstrip that was used as an emergency landing field for the air lift into China during the war, over."

"I have a map here and I think we have you spotted. The pilot says that the runway must be marked or he won't be able to find you, over."

"All right, I'll see what we can do here. The runway doesn't have landing lights . . . they used torches last night for our landing, over."

"We won't need to have the entire runway lighted since we will be coming in by helicopter. Just mark the landing area."

"Will do. What kind of help are you bringing?"

"The Burmese Army," Ley replied grimly and signed off.

"Twenty minutes to a half an hour and they'll be here," I said swinging around to face Mikhail.

He was standing against the door with the carbine cradled in his arms, a strange look, the beginnings of comprehension and disgust on his face.

"These are very strange friends you have . . . friends who can persuade the army of Burma to aid them . . ."

I waved a hand tiredly. "Mikhail, I haven't got time to answer your questions. I didn't expect it to turn out this way. I got trapped into it just as you did. This is the only way out for you as well as for me. These people that I am involved with . . . the man I just talked to on the radio ... are part of an organization that is trying to break up the Neo-Nazi party. This is the first big break they have had, the first chance they have had to hurt them badly, maybe even close down the financial pipeline that keeps them going."

"Police," Mikhail sneered, "I'm not going to . . ."

"The hell you're not!" I exploded. "If you stop and think for a minute, you really don't have any choice. Go on, walk out of here. Go tell Klaus that the cops are coming. Providing they let you live, you can think about how you helped the Nazis for the rest of your life. If I hadn't cut you loose, hadn't have been able to call the police in, tomorrow you would be on your way back to Yugoslavia. You might start the trip alive, but you would end it very, very dead. So, which is it going to be?" The rain cascaded down in a momentary flood, lending added emphasis to my words. I watched Mikhail make up his mind. I could literally read the struggle in the expressions that flew across his face as he came to the realization that he would have to choose the police. Only with them could he survive.