Thirteen
The strip was little different from the one they had taken off from in France: a wide patch of cleared ground in a fanner's field.
Just before landing, Amani had given instructions to Henry: "Radio Cordoba that you are having engine trouble!"
Henry radioed the message twice, along with the coordinates that Amani gave him. Then the old Italian had leaned forward and ruptured the radio jacks with a screwdriver.
"Now you may land. The coordinates are miles from here, near the Portuguese frontier. That's where they will look for you!"
Henry landed the plane with only a couple of hops on the rutted, hard-packed dirt, and taxied to the end of the makeshift runway.
There was no hangar, just a couple of olive sheds, and between them stood a strutless Cessna 210 with an Arab-looking pilot lounging against the fuselage.
"Our new chauffeur is waiting, Carlotta," Amani chuckled.
Four men with machine pistols surrounded the plane as Henry rolled to a stop and cut the engines. Three of them were Spanish or Arab, dressed similarly in black leather jackets and dark trousers. The fourth was in a baggy dark suit and looked to be Scandinavian or Slavic.
It was Slavic.
Carter detected the Russian accent in the man's English when he embraced Amani and they exchanged greetings.
The Russian gave the same greeting to Carlotta when Amani introduced them. Then, one by one, Amani shook hands with the three leather-jacketed gunmen.
It didn't take a genius to figure out that they were Basques from the north, probably members of the ETA's renegade terrorist arm.
Amani went into a subdued, heads-down conference with all four of them. After a lot of head-shaking and a few smiles, the Italian walked back toward Carter and Henry.
"Signore Kashmir, you have proved invaluable. But as I told you, I cannot let you accompany me on the last leg of my journey."
"So they waste us," Carter growled, nodding his head toward the four men.
"Quite the contrary," Amani replied, chuckling. "They will merely hold you here until I have landed at my destination. It should not be more than four hours at the most."
"And then?" Henry asked between clenched teeth.
"Then you will be released to continue your flight to Cordoba. What both of you do then is your own business. Your money, Signore Kashmir, has already been transferred in Switzerland. You see, I am a man of my word."
"One of those men is Russian, Amani," Carter said. "Is that who you're dealing with now?"
Amani frowned, but only for a second. Then his lips spread in a wide grin. "I have made my peace with my Russian comrades. With their help, I will have Italy. It is what I have always wanted."
The three leather jackets stepped forward and motioned Carter and Henry toward one of the olive sheds with their guns.
Carter grabbed his flight bag, and the Russian started squawking, "Nyet, nyet!"
Carter looked quizzically at Amani. "I'm as wanted as you are. I'll need my disguises and a change of clothes to go through Spanish Customs in Cordoba."
Amani nodded and calmed the Russian's fears. "The lady and myself removed all their arms before we left France. The bags have also been searched."
The KGB man nodded reluctantly, and they were hustled to one of the olive sheds.
When they were inside and the door was locked behind them, Henry whirled on Carter.
"What the hell is going on?"
"No more than I expected," Carter replied. "Did you get a good look at that Russian's eyes while Amani was talking to us?"
"You bet your ass I did."
"And what did you see?"
"He's going to waste us the minute Amani and the woman are gone!"
Carter nodded, watching the activity outside through a crack in the boards that had been nailed over the single window. "My sentiments exactly. And I'll go you one guess further. I'll bet they plan on burying us up here in the mountains somewhere and using your Beechcraft themselves."
There were olive crates scattered around the shed on the hard-packed earth floor. Henry flopped down on one of them and sighed.
"You know, Carter, this is really not the way I figured to go."
"You're not going anywhere but out of here." Carter sat on another crate and began digging in his flight bag. "Get up to the window and tell me how they're moving outside. My guess is they'll come for us as soon as the Cessna is off the ground."
Henry moved toward the window, but he seemed not to hear all of Carter's words. "And that little bitch, Carlotta… I thought you said she was Italian SID!"
"She is," Carter replied, lifting a heavy camera case and tripod from the bag. "And she's a damned fine actress."
"She's a bitch! They're warming up the Cessna."
"We had to play it this way because we didn't know the final place of the meeting… exactly where Amani was going."
"We still don't."
"We will. And when we do, I've already set up a way to contact Carlotta. You see, Henry, Amani now trusts her. With her on the inside, I can get the exact information I need."
"Which is…?"
"Breaking up this little get-together is important, yes. But more important is getting the facts and proof that the KGB plans on aiding and abetting. If we have that, we can tie all their hands!"
Henry turned back from the window to face Carter. A light bulb seemed to flash on behind his eyes.
"And you think Carlotta can get close enough to get that proof?"
Carter smiled. "She's very experienced and very beautiful. Yes, I think she can. And when we find out what the proof is — and where it is — you and I will figure out how to get it."
Henry suddenly realized that Carter was pulling an expensive Rolleiflex camera apart and deftly reassembling the pieces in his lap.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"It's a specially altered 9mm parabellum model 951 Italian Beretta. Its operation has been redesigned from delayed blowback, semiautomatic, to full automatic. The barrel length has been shortened to three inches but beefed up to handle drilled, semimagnum loads. Its muzzle velocity is still better than a thousand feet per second, and the four-load magazines can be chain-locked, end to end, up to five, so they will spring-feed twenty shells. These sections of the tripod are actually loaded magazines."
Carter linked the magazines together, snapped the top one into the butt, and sharply pulled the slide to jack a live shell into the chamber. Then he held it up so Henry could see the final result.
"And voilà! It becomes a minisubmachine gun weighing less than a pound and a half!"
"I'll be damned."
Outside, the Cessna's engine roared and the plane began taxiing. From the alternating sounds, both men could tell when the little plane had lifted off.
"Okay, the goons will be coming soon," Carter hissed. "Stand directly in front of me when they come in. Roll when you feel the barrel of this baby in your back!"
Carter explained the rest in short, biting sentences, with Henry nodding his understanding.
A key in the padlock outside the door brought them quickly together.
"Ready?"
"Ready," Henry whispered.
The door opened. Two of them came in single file and then spread out, one covering with his machine pistol, the other advancing to get behind them.
Carter waited until the advancing man was just in front of Henry, then he grazed Henry's back with the Beretta's short barrel.
Henry dropped like a felled tree and rolled as the Beretta began to chatter. Neither of the men had time to blink before they met their Maker.
Six 9mm slugs caught the first one in the chest. As he reeled back and down. Carter kept firing. One slug took his chin away on the way down, and five more slugs went over his falling body to make a corpse of the second one.