The Chinese Agenda (19 page)

this thing, I'm going to fix it so that he never leaves a desk again. Dmietriev told me about the trouble you two had up in the pass. Stowe has been around long enough to know better.'

`Seems like we have two troublemakers then . . Ion interrupted.

'If you mean Dmietriev, forget it. He told me because he's worried about his neck, naturally. You were in charge, Stowe should have obeyed without question. I don't know if he lost that rope accidentally or not, but when we get out of this, I'm going to find out.'

Both of them were silent. 'What about Leycock?' Gil-Ion asked after a moment.

'Leycock would normally be my second choice. His record is damned good.'

'If it's that good, then why me?'

'Because without you this mission doesn't stand a prayer. If you aren't along, Liu doesn't hand anything over but trouble. And if you think there is a chance of shooting it out with them, forget it. We wouldn't stand a chance.'

`Glad to see you recognize that. Liu is one of the most careful men I've ever met.'

`So I picked you for that reason and for one other . . .' Jones paused a moment, as if trying to decide whether or not to continue.

'I don't mind telling you,' he said after a moment, `that this damned head of mine is about to split. Look, let's get this over with in a hurry. There's something else we need to talk about and we have to get back before they find out we're missing.'

Gillon heard a rustle of papers and Jones turned the flashlight on again, shielding the bulb with his gloved hand so that only a glimmer of light showed on the map. Using his finger, Jones traced the long route they had followed from the plateau on which they had landed, up and over the pass and down through the forest to their present camp. 'There is a chance that Liu and his people won't make the rendezvous tomorrow. If they don't, we have an alternate setup, here, fifteen miles southeast.'

Jones drew a wavering line across the steep ridge on

the far side of the canyon, then over several more lower ridges northwest to where it met a small valley less than twenty miles from the plateau.

'We make a circle . . . the idea is that from the alternate site, we can go back to the plateau, where the Russians can get an aircraft in to pick us up. Otherwise, if, Liu and his people do make it tomorrow morning, then after we pick up the information he has, we march due east for eight miles' – he indicated the route on the map – 'to this area in the foothills of the Khalik Tau, above the Yakanash River.

'That radio contact with Ala Kul last night indicated that the Russians expect to have no trouble in getting a plane in at Khalik Tau or onto the plateau. So if Liu isn't waiting for us tomorrow, we radio Ala Kul and make tracks for the alternate point.'

'And if Liu isn't at either one?'

'Then the Chinese have got him,' Jones said with finality, 'and we get out as fast as we can . . . to either one of the landing sites. If we find we can't reach either one, then we are on our own and we run for the border as best we can.'

Jones paused. 'There is one other thing you ought to know about as well. The information that Liu has for us is just a little bit more important than just photographs and instrumentation data on the nuclear warhead test series.'

`Well, how about that?' Gillon's tone was sarcastic but Jones ignored him. He was not in the least surprised. Since the trouble at Ala Kul, he had begun to suspect there was more to their mission than he had been told.

`The data actually contain the locations and targets of the nuclear missile hard launching sites which the Chinese have set up in the past year along the Mongolian border.'

Gillon whistled. `Do the Russians know?'

'Let's say they haven't exactly been told that much, but I'd be damned surprised if they didn't know. Incidental to the targeting information is the nuclear test data that the United States wants. It's in our interest to see a power balance maintained between China and

Russia . . . one of the basic reasons behind the SinoAmerican talks, although neither side will ever admit to it. We want the locations of these missile sites in Russian hands. You know the theory behind the balance of power,' Jones stated rather than asked. 'If one side gains a preponderance of power over the other, then they will be tempted to capitalize . .. if you'll pardon the pun . . . on it, which in this case could mean pre-emptive strikes resulting in all-out nuclear war. Nuclear war in Central Asia could be just as destructive to civilization as a nuclear war between the United States and the Soviet Union.'

'So now we're saviors of mankind,' Gillon answered sardonically. 'Look, I agree with you, it would be downright dangerous to let China and Russia sling H-bombs at each other. But except for raising the.radiation levels a bit, they aren't going to really hurt anyone but themselves . . . unless one of the other nuclear powers is stupid enough to take a hand.'

'Or either China or Russia figures they are about to and decides to hit first.'

'Yeah,' Gillon replied after a moment, 'there is that.' He shifted into a more comfortable position on the log, suddenly troubled by what Jones had said. All of a sudden his carefully cultivated and very comfortable cynicism had been cut to pieces. He hadn't thought that far along about the consequences of a nuclear war between Russia and China.

'You started to say that there was another reason you picked me?'

Jones played with the flashlight a moment as if gathering his thoughts, then laid it on the log to illuminate the map. 'Yeah, there is. As far as we know, the Red Chinese have no active interest and no agents involved in that two-bit war you left a few days ago. The decision to contact you was made minutes after Liu's message naming you as the contact. I was at Orly in Paris waiting for a flight to Moscow when the call came through to go and get you and six hours later Phan and I were waiting on that dock for you to come in. Except for an hour or so in the camp and the time in the barracks at Ala Kul you haven't been out of my sight since.'

`Meaning?' Gillon was puzzled.

`Meaning, I think you are the safest . . .' A branch snapped close by and Jones grabbed for the flashlight. A single shot cracked out of the dark forest and the flashlight went spinning into the snow. He had just enough time to see Jones lean forward as if completely exhausted and fall forward into the snow before he instinctively threw himself backward off the log into the underbrush. A moment later, a spray of bullets swept the clearing. He crawled madly into the trees for several feet, jumped to his feet and took four long steps to his right and stopped. He pressed hard against a tree trunk and let the night surround him, straining above the sound of his own convulsive breathing to hear the soft swish of branches or the sharper crunch of snow. After a moment, his mind began to work again. He judged that he was less than twenty yards from where he and Jones had been sitting, but now to the left of the point from where the shots had been fired. Jones had been the first target and that had saved his own life and whether it was because Jones was the leader of the expedition or had been holding the flashlight, Gillon did not know. He had been scared before, scared many times, but never this badly. He had had to fight to hang onto his sanity, fight to prevent himself from being over-_ whelmed by panic and racing away into the forest as every muscle, every nerve in his body was urging him to do.

And he couldn't stay here; already there were sounds of brittle tree branches snapping as if someone were • moving closer to him. If he stayed where he was, they would find him sooner or later. If he tried to run for it, he knew damned well that without his snowshoes, which were still stuck in the snow beside the log, he would only flounder helplessly in the deep snow until run down. And besides, in the dark and confusion, he was no longer certain in which direction to run. Gillon ground his teeth together in an effort to control his ragged breathing and forced himself to think.

What had Jones been carrying? A rifle, maps? Probably nothing more. The maps were not worth going back for . . . he could remember the place names and his own map was a duplicate and there had been nothing on them to indicate their route of march or the two rendezvous points. Anything else that Jones knew about the mission that Gillon did not, was locked away in his mind – a mind that was no longer in existence. Whoever it was, might as well have those maps too, he thought. They seemed to have everything else.

Moving cautiously, careful to stay well back into the shadow of the tree, Gillon peeled back his cuff and looked at his watch. About five minutes had passed since the shots were fired. Whoever had shot Jones was either endowed with superhuman patience or else was gone and Gillon really did not believe that. Would they have heard the shots in the camp? he wondered, and decided not. They were at least two miles away and the trees would have suppressed the sounds over that distance. Also, a new thought occurred to him; if the killer had been one of the team, he would never have risked the shots within hearing of the camp. The killer would have been too readily identifiable by his absence.

His dilemma was compounded by the fact that he had not the slightest idea where he was in relation to the camp. Jones had taken a roundabout way through the forest to confuse anyone following. But it had also thoroughly confounded him. Gillon was not even sure in which direction the camp lay. He could, he knew, find their tracks in short order with his torch, but that would only invite a quick rifle bullet. The soft squeak of snow beneath a boot sole snapped him instantly to full alert; even his breathing was suspended to a shallow draught. Years of fighting in the jungles of Africa and Southeast Asia had taught him to use all his senses in situations like this and, except for the snow, it was no different now than the many jungle ambushes he had led in the past.

He listened with his whole body for the next footfall. Instead he heard a soft voice speaking a high, singsong language . . . Chinese. My God! he thought. Of all the damned luck. Chinese troops. They must have been in

the area and heard them talking or had seen the flashlight. Gillon unslung his carbine, crouched and moved quickly to his right, then as quietly as he possibly could, retraced his steps toward the clearing. A few moments later, he gently pushed aside the underbrush.

What he saw chilled him to the bone. Four Chinese ski troopers were shining flashlights down onto Jones's body while a fifth man, an officer, examined a blood-streaked map. As he watched, a sixth soldier pushed out of the trees and joined them. He said something and pointed to Jones's body. They all laughed appreciatively. Each was wearing a white snowsuit and hood, had skis strapped to his back and was wearing snowshoes. Each carried an AK-47 carbine and one man wore a radio. As Gillon watched, the officer spoke to the man with the radio and he took the handset and pressed a button.

Without seeming to hurry in the least, Gillon edged his carbine through the branches and shot the man with the radio through the chest before he could speak the first words. The others looked up, startled at the sound of the carbine, and Gillon sprayed the area with the carbine set on full automatic. Two other soldiers went down under the onslaught and a third, turning to run into the trees, stumbled as one leg buckled under him. The officer sprinted for the trees and disappeared. The sixth man had flopped down into the snow and Gillon saw him snatch at something inside his jacket. Guessing what it was, he threw himself headlong out of the thicket and rolled beneath the protection of a fallen, snowcovered tree. Something crashed into the brush to his right and exploded, smacking him soundly with the concussion as several pieces of shrapnel thudded into the wood. Gillon thrust himself away from the protection of the tree and scrambled to the edge of the clearing. One of the flashlights had fallen into the snow, providing just enough light for Gillon's night-adapted vision. The soldier who bad thrown the grenade was holding a second in his hand, peering warily around, while the one who had been hit in the leg was staring at the trees, his carbine ready. The one with the grenade was clearly the more dangerous; he sighted in, fired twice and saw

him slump into the snow, the grenade falling from his hand. The wounded soldier swung the carbine around and shot twice in his direction before the hand grenade erupted. The other soldier must have already pulled the pin and was waiting to see in which direction to throw it. Stupid, Gillon thought, viciously. Stupid. He risked another look but both soldiers were dead. Shrapnel had caught the wounded soldier full in the side, spreading a dark patch beneath his body.

Gillon backed carefully out of the brush until he was well away from the clearing, then moved around to the far side in the direction taken by the fleeing officer. He squatted down just inside the trees. The grenade blast had destroyed the flashlight and there was only the faint starlight in the clearing to make the bodies identifiable as something other than forest debris. As he studied the clearing, he knew that he could not allow the Chinese officer to get away. He had to find him and stop him before he found someone to pass his information along to. If he didn't, then all of them were finished including Jack Liu. Without wasting any more time, Gillon en tered the clearing, retrieved his snowshoes and hurried back to the trees.

The dull gleam from the clearing furnished him with a point of reference and he crawled carefully forward. In the almost total blackness, he moved more by touch and instinct than by sight. The mass of heavy-needled branches above now blocked any trace of light from the sky and Gillon was certain that even if the moon were directly overhead, its light could not have penetrated this depth of primeval forest. Gillon felt his way forward, attempting to ward off the low-hanging branches that whipped and bit at his face. After what seemed like hours, but could only have been twenty minutes or so, he pushed out into another clearing. This one seemed to be several hundred feet in diameter and starlight glimmered lightly enough on the snow for him to make out the far side, where the trees began again, as thick and impenetrable as ever. He had hoped for just such a clearing and quickly oriented himself by the constellations. He found that he was moving in a northerly direction opposite to that in which they had been traveling for the past two days. It seemed a safe bet that somehow the Chinese patrol had cut their tracks and followed them toward the campsite. It had been just his and Jones's rotten luck that they had come upon them first. He knelt in the snow for several minutes, trying to think things out. The intense cold, coupled with the long day of snowshoeing over unfamiliar terrain in the high altitude, had left him exhausted and aching in every muscle. Yet he knew that he could not stop now or for hours yet to come. If he did not stop that Chinese officer, they would all be dead or captured before tomorrow was out.