"It does not matter," Sammy said. "I am not afraid."
"Maybe we all ought to be," Winters said.
Wanenko threw him a look of scorn but sat back in Ms seat.
Bart Sands, Winters knew, was dead. Of that he had no doubt. His payoff had been something less than he had expected, even less than he deserved.
What now?
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The shot was a clean one, entering the back of Sands's head and tearing away most of his face as it exited.
Paid in full, thought Lieutenant Jack Mullin, as he bolstered his .45.
He walked to the body, which was lying face down on the beach, tipped his hat to it in thanks and then walked to the plane. His four men followed, spread out in a fan shape behind him.
Mullin used the butt of his .45 to bang on the side of the plane.
"You lads can come out now," he called. When there was no reply from within, he took a chance and stuck his head in the door.
He saw three live Barufaans, a dead one, and a white man.
"Everybody out," he ordered.
"Who are you?" asked Winters.
"All in due time, Mr. Winters. Do any of these gentlemen speak English, do you know?"
Sammy raised Ms head high and said "I speak much English. Best in my country except for Willem."
"Who the devil is Willem?" asked Mullin.
Sammy pointed to the dead man. "He is Willem."
"He was Willem, you mean," Mullin said with a laugh. He waved his .45 at the four survivors and said, "All right, now, all out."
He backed up and allowed the four men to jump out, one at a time. When Winters saw Sands's body, he closed his eyes and shook his head.
Poor Bart. And his poor wife and child.
And poor me, he thought. He looked up at Mullin and said: "Listen, pally, what's the story on this thing, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Not at all," said Mullin. "We are instigating a coup."
"On Baruba?" asked Winters. "A coup?"
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Mullin began laughing. He held the .45 loosely in his hand, but the four blacks had Winters and the Barubans covered with their weapons.
"Wouldn't that be something?" Mullin asked, still laughing. "Seizing power on Baruba? What the hell would we do with the bloody thing? Turn it into an outhouse?"
"Well, then, why are we so important?" Winters asked.
Mullin stopped laughing and his face sobered. He squinted at Winters, as if examining him, then said, "Actually, now that you mention it, you're not really that important."
Damn. Winters cursed inwardly. He knew what was coming now, and he launched himself at Mullin hoping the Barubans would follow his lead. Mullin laughed again and fired a .45 slug into the top of Winters's skull. Winters collapsed in a heap with his legs tangled across those of the dead Bart Sands. The Barubans hadn't moved.
"I challenge you," Sammy said suddenly, taking one step toward Mullin. The lieutenant held up his hand to his men so they would not kill the Baruban.
"What's your name, lad?" Mullin asked.
"Sammy Wanenko."
"You're the big mucky-muck athlete?"
"I arn Baruba's champion."
"And you want to challenge me?"
"Yes."
"To what?"
"To fight."
Mullin laughed.
"All right, Baruba's greatest athlete, we'll fight." He turned toward his men and said, "I can use the exercise. None of you boys have acted up in a while and I might be getting rusty."
He removed his hat, then motioned to Sammy to step forward. As Sammy neared, Mullin removed his
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eyeglasses and reached down to put them on his hat. But Wanenko stayed just beyond the range of Mullin's foot, and Mullin stood up again.
"You free us if I win?" Sammy said.
Mullin shrugged. "But of course, lad. To the victor belongs the spoils."
"I do not know what that means, but I fight."
Sammy put his hands in front of him in a boxing stance and he knew that today he must use his right hand. He could not save it for the Olympic games because it was just as important to him today. Mullin turned his palms toward his face and raised his hands in a karate stance, and when Sammy faked a left jab, then threw an overhand right, Mullin backstepped and delivered a front kick that caught Sammy in the stomach. The blow should have felled him on the spot, but Wanenko's youthful strength pumped adrenalin into his body, and after recoiling slightly from the kick, he charged forward, wrapped his arms around Mullin, and let his weight carry the small Briton to the sand.
He drew his right arm back to smash in Mullin's face, just as Mullin reached alongside his body and drew the .45 from its holster. Just as Sammy let the punch fly, Mullin put a bullet up under his throat that smashed up into his brain. Sammy's last thought was that he would not win a gold medal for Baruba.
Mullin pushed the dead body off him and shook his head, angered with himself. The four Africans with him would tell the story of how the young Baru-ban had challenged him and would have won, had it not been for the gun. And then there would be more and more challenges to Mullin's authority. It wouldn't do, and on the spot, Mullin decided that the four Africans would never again return to the camp of Jimbobwu Mkombu. They would be left behind in Moscow somehow.
He looked at the two remaining Barubans and
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said, "You boys didn't want to go to the Olympics anyway." Then he stepped back, out of the line of fire, and motioned to his men. Tonny and Tomas were drilled through the head by bullets, even before they knew what was happening. There were no last-minute thoughts of Olympic gold for them. Their minds had gone numb with fear long before.
They simply died.
"All right, lads, let's get them undressed before they bleed on your clothes." After his men had changed clothes with the Barubans, he made them hide the bodies in the deep brush that ringed the tropical beach.
Then he watched as his men very carefully loaded bags of equipment onto the DC-3. They handled the bags of explosives, molded into the shape of athletic equipment, as if they were newborn babes, which was just the way he wanted them handled.
Those newborn babes will be our love notes to the Americans, he thought. Love notes from Jim Bob Mkombu, delivered by yours truly, Flight Lieutenant Jack Mullin.
A delivery boy? Is that what I really am? he asked himself, but then put the thought behind him. His day would come, he knew. And not far off either.
The coded message came to Jimbobwu Mkombu soon after he had finished dividing his dinner, half into his mouth and the other half onto his shirtfront.
He laughed aloud when he read it. The message was from Mullin and it read: "The Battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton."
A success. The first phase of the mission had been a success. His assassins were on their way to Moscow.
Mkombu went to the window and looked over the clearing where a few of his soldiers lounged desultorily.
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As he knew they would, the press of the world had jumped upon the story of the threat to the American athletes and had accepted totally the fiction that the threats had been made by some unhappy group of whites in South Africa and Rhodesia. That was the first stick in place. The second was the smuggling of his assassins into Moscow, disguised as Baruban athletes. The third and final stick would be the killing of the Americans.
Nothing the South Africans or the Rhodesians could do would stop the downfall of their regimes after that. And then Jimbobwu Mkombu would be king.
And Mullin?
Mkombu told himself that Flight Lieutenant Jack Mullin's usefulness would some come to an end. He knew that Mullin believed he was just using Mkombu to further his own ends.
In the empty room, Mkombu spoke aloud to himself.
"Soon, he will find who is user and who is used."