White Cargo (38 page)

He stood, frozen, the gun in his hand, pressed against the side of the house. Then he realized the silencer had not been fitted to the barrel. He fumbled in his pocket for it,
cursing his own stupidity. If he had to use the gun out here without the silencer, he'd bring the whole place down on him. He got the silencer screwed into the barrel; he heard the man yawn, then his footsteps recede. Cat peeped around the corner of the house and saw him walking down the veranda in the opposite direction. Cat waited a few seconds longer to be sure he was gone, then ran to the front door. Locked. Damn. He started back the way he had come, then stopped. There was a window in the men's room, he remembered. He went back past the front door, found the window, and tried it. Locked. He looked around once more, then with his elbow, smashed the glass. There wasn't much noise; most of the glass fell inside the house. He reached inside, unlocked the window, and stepped through. Quickly, he removed the fragments of glass from the window and put them into a wastebasket. Maybe no one would notice the empty pane. The room was dark, but the glow from his Rolex said ten to five. Dell was going to have trouble getting into the house, too. Cat eased open the men's-room door and looked around the large foyer. Empty. A light from the communications room cast a dim glow over Vargas's office. He could hear the sound of big-band jazz coming from a radio in the room. Cat slipped off his tennis shoes to keep the rubber soles from squeaking on the marble floor, then tiptoed to the front door, keeping his eyes on the door to Vargas's office. He reached the front door and started to turn the lock. As he turned his eyes back from the office door, he opened the front door an inch, then jerked back. A man was standing on the other side of the door. Too frightened to move, he stared at the shadowy figure on the veranda. The man motioned for him to open the door. Holding the pistol behind him, he did, and Dell stepped in. Cat motioned him toward the men's room.

“Christ, you scared me,” Cat said when they were safely inside.

“Same here,” Dell said, panting.

They stood there in the dark, composing themselves.

“What now?” Dell asked.

“I was afraid you were going to ask me that,” Cat said, ruefully. “I guess we go in there and take that guy. Did you bring a gun?”

“Yeah.” Dell held up a snub-nosed .38-caliber revolver.

“If there's any shooting to do, let me do it,” Cat said. “I've got a silencer. You can point, but don't shoot; you'll bring the house down on us.”

“Okay, who goes first?”

“I do, I think. The guy who's on duty saw me this afternoon. I fixed his printer. I'll be a familiar face.” He took a deep breath. “Let's go.”

Cat checked the foyer, then stepped through the door. He tiptoed across the floor toward Vargas's office. At the door he motioned for Dell to hang back, then walked into the communications room. He walked hard into the radio operator, who was coming out.

The man leapt back. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded. “What are you doing here?”

The music was coming from a big Zenith Transoceanic radio on the shelf above the other radio equipment.

“Easy,” Cat said, holding the pistol behind him, “you scared me, too.” He had forgotten how big the man was. “I was in here this afternoon. I fixed your printer, remember? I want to place a call to my bank in Switzerland.”

The man relaxed a little but still seemed suspicious. “At five o'clock in the morning?”

“It's eleven o'clock in Switzerland,” Cat said.

“You've got to have an authorization from the Anaconda or Vargas,” the man said. “How the hell did you get into the house?”

“The front door was open,” Cat said. “And I have the Anaconda's permission. I've got to transfer some money to his account in Cali.”

“Nobody said anything to me,” the man said.

“The Anaconda should have,” Cat said. “And I've got to get the money wired before noon Swiss time, or it won't get to Cali today.”

The man looked doubtful. “I don't know.”

“Shall we wake up the Anaconda and ask him?” Cat asked.

“Jesus, no,” the man replied.

“Look, you can place the call and listen in. All I have to do is give them my account number and the Cali account number and the amount, a million dollars.”

“You didn't bring it with you, huh?”

“There was a misunderstanding.”

The man scratched his head. “Well, okay. Who do you want to call?” He turned toward the chair before the single side-band set.

“Credit Suisse, in Zurich. Ask the operator to get you the number. Which marine operator do you use this time of day?”

“New York,” the man said, spinning a knob to set the frequency. “It'll go a lot faster if you can remember the number.”

Cat took the pistol by the barrel, and swung it hard at the base of the man's skull. The man let out a grunt of pain and dropped from the chair to one knee, but he was still conscious. He made another noise, then turned and grabbed Cat's right arm, twisting. Cat, amazed that the
man wasn't out, went down on one knee, too. He grabbed at the pistol with his left hand and tried to hit him again, but the man got an arm up and blocked it, then grabbed at the pistol. They were both on their knees now. It was a test of strength, and Cat was losing. Dell appeared in the door, saw what was happening. He ran up and put his pistol to the radio operator's head. The man ignored him.

“Hit him!” Cat grunted.

Dell drew back and brought his gun down on top of the man's head. He grunted again, but kept fighting. Dell put down the gun, clasped his hands together, and swung hard at the back of the man's neck. His grip on Cat slipped, then he fell forward onto his hands. Dell hit him again, and he collapsed onto the floor.

“Christ,” Cat panted, “it's not like the movies, is it?”

“Let's the him up or something before the bastard comes to.”

Cat rummaged through the room, looking for something to the him with. He opened a drawer and found a thick roll of duct tape. “This ought to do,” he said.

Dell brought the man's hands behind him, and Cat bound them securely with the two-inch-wide, heavy tape. Then he bound the ankles and passed the roll twice around the man's head, taping his mouth shut and covering his eyes and ears. Dell took the roll and passed it completely around the radio operator's body, taping his hands to his back.

“I think that ought to do it,” Dell said. “What do we do with him? He's going to wake up soon.”

Cat went to the bookshelf and found the handle to the closet door. He opened the door, then went and helped Dell drag the man into the closet. The little room was filled with canvas bags, and they placed several on top of
him. “By the time anybody starts looking for him, we'll be gone,” Cat said.

“This is what I want,” Dell said, opening one of the bags. “How much do you think is in here?”

“From the looks of it, I'd say four million, maybe five,” Cat said. “I got two million into a large briefcase.”

Dell slung the bag over his shoulder. “Okay, I'm happy,” he said. “Where's Jinx?”

“Prince is bringing her to the tennis courts at seven, and Meg and I will bring her from there. You get out of here and down to where the helicopter is. I'm going to try and contact somebody on the radio.”

“Can you handle it alone? Is there anything I can do?”

Cat laughed. “You know, this is the first time in a long time we've done anything together.”

Dell laughed, too.

“Come on, I'll go to the door with you.” He led the way out of the communications room, across the foyer to the front door. He opened it and peered out into the darkness, then turned to Dell. “Looks clear. Be careful, I saw a guard on the veranda earlier.”

“Don't worry,” Dell said.

Cat put his hands on the young man's shoulders. “I will worry, until we're all out of here,” he said. “The pilot should be down there by eight. I'll try to be there about then. Stay in the bush and keep a sharp eye out for us.”

“Okay, Dad.”

It had been a long time since Dell had called him that. Cat wanted to say more, but he pushed his son through the door and waved him off. Cat watched him disappear into the darkness, then turned and went back to the communications room. He switched off the music and picked up the microphone of the high-frequency set. The frequency
had been tuned in, but the set was not on. He pushed the power button and waited impatiently for it to warm up. Soon there was a crackle of static. Cat turned down the volume and picked up a headset, switching off the speaker.

“Marine operator, marine operator, marine operator,” he said into the microphone. A distant garble of voices reached his ears, but no one replied. Cat double-checked the frequency. He knew it by heart from calling from
Catbird.
“Marine operator, marine operator, marine operator,” he said again. No voice came back.

Cat sat before the set for half an hour, sweating, calling and calling, with no response. He looked around the room for a list of other marine operators but found none. A hint of light began to show in the sky outside the window. He switched the frequency to 2182, the international emergency channel. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday,” he said into the microphone. “Does anybody read me?”

He released the key and waited. No response. The Atlantic must be full of merchant ships, who are supposed to monitor this frequency, he thought, but it's early morning, and nobody's listening. He tried again and again. Was the whole world asleep? It was getting to be daylight now.

Suddenly, someone walked past the window. Cat didn't see who; it had just been a shape. Then he heard the scrape of a key in a lock and a rattle as the front door of the building opened. There were footsteps on the marble floor of the foyer, then a voice caused Cat to jump. “Yo, there, you alive?”

“Yo,” Cat called back. “All's well.”

“I'll bring you some coffee as soon as it's made.”

“Thanks,” Cat replied.

The footsteps receded across the foyer and another door opened and closed. Cat knew he was all out of time. He had one other shot, he thought. He reached up and switched on the aircraft radio and tuned it to 121.5, the aircraft emergency frequency. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday,” he said into the microphone. He waited thirty seconds, then repeated the call. Suddenly, a voice, amazingly loud, leapt out at him.

“This is Avianca 401 to aircraft calling Mayday,” a voice said in heavily accented English. “What is your position?”

Cat's heart leapt. “I am on the ground approximately one hundred and forty-five nautical miles northeast of Leticia VOR, on approximately the zero one zero radial. Do you read?”

“I read one four five nautical from Leticia, zero one zero radial. Is that correct?”

“Affirmative.”

“What is your trouble? Have you crashed?”

“Yes, I have crashed, but I and my party of three are alive. Can you transmit a message to Bogotá for me?”

“Affirmative. We are en route from Buenos Aires to Bogotá, arriving in one hour fifty minutes.” The voice was growing weaker. It was obviously a jet travelling fast.

“Can you transmit to Bogotá?”

“Affirmative. I will ask for a search.”

“No, listen. I do not need a search. Instead, ask Bogotá to telephone the American Embassy and ask for the duty officer. Do you read?”

“Your transmission is broken now. You say call the American Embassy?”

“Affirmative,” Cat said, speaking as rapidly as he could. “Tell them to contact Barry Hedger, that's Hotel, Echo, Delta, Golf, Echo, Romeo. Do you read?”

“I didn't get that. Spell again, please.”

Cat spelled again, desperate for the man to get it right. “Tell them to contact Hedger wherever he is—repeat, wherever he is, and give him that position. Extreme emergency. My name is Cat. Charlie, Alpha, Tango. Do you read?”

A garbled voice answered. Cat could only get about every fourth word.

“I will leave my key open on 121.5 and 2182,” Cat said, praying the pilot could hear him. “Over and out.”

Cat mopped his brow and looked for the duct tape. He taped down the microphone key on the aircraft radio, then did the same to the high-frequency set. He turned the volume all the way up on both sets, then switched on the Zenith again. An announcer was saying he was listening to the Voice of America. With another strip of tape, he fixed the two open microphones to the back of the Zenith, out of sight. Nobody would be able to use the emergency frequencies for a while, but anybody tuning them in would get a good Count Basie concert, and that would be enough for the Colombian troops to home in on, if they had the right equipment. God, there were so many ifs!

He went to the closet and checked on the radio operator. Still out, apparently. He arranged the bags better to hide him, then went into Vargas's office. He peeped into the foyer, then tiptoed across, his shoes in his hand. In the men's room, he went into the booth, sat down on the toilet lid, and wiped his face with a handkerchief. He checked his watch. Just after six. Less than an hour to wait.

“H
EY!”

Cat jerked upright.

“You in there?”

Cat gulped. “Yeah. Gimme a few minutes.”

“I put your coffee in there. Don't let it get cold. I gotta start breakfast for the morning, shift.”

“Thanks.”

The man went away, but Cat was still nervous. He checked his watch: six-thirty. The sun was well up now; no one would question his being out. He slipped off his blazer and trousers and wrapped the shoulder pouch with his two passports and the holster and pistol in the jacket. He opened the door slightly to check the foyer. A man came in the front door and passed through, then all was quiet. Cat stepped into the foyer and walked to the front door. Then, dressed for tennis, with his other clothes bundled under an arm, he left the house and walked toward the tennis courts. Two guards in a golf cart drove past him and waved. He waved back, smiling.