"He's lying, Herr General," one of the guards said. "Victor would never talk like that."
"Perhaps… perhaps not," Ziegler said. "Every man has his breaking point."
"I am a reporter with Amalgamated Press. In Washington, D.C.," Carter said. His entire hand and arm throbbed.
Ziegler looked at him thoughtfully.
"You can check on my credentials."
"Shall I break another finger, Herr General?" the guard asked. His breath smelled of onions.
"No," Ziegler said after a hesitation. "Tonight is the last shipment in any event. It'll be on its way north by tomorrow." He smiled. "Dispose of him. Down the elevator shaft." He picked up the Luger and stiletto, and handed them over to the guards. "Put these back on his body."
"Yes, sir," the guard said. He untied Carter while the other guard stood back, the AK-47 raised, and helped him out of the chair.
Outside, the workmen were finishing their meal. They watched as Carter and the guards headed toward the rear of the building. Carter walked slowly, regaining his strength and balance, making the guard crowd him.
A stairway against the back wall led to a second-floor balcony across from which was a freight elevator. One of the guards held the button, sending the car above the landing, but then he stopped it there and pulled the gate open on the gaping square hole.
"It goes down to the second basement. Forty feet, with steel pilings down there. Very unpleasant."
Carter stood at the edge.
"You should have been more careful around this shaft," the guard said. The other one laughed.
At that moment Carter swung around, shoving the barrel of the gun away in one movement and spinning the guard around with the next, dropping him neatly into the elevator shaft.
The second guard was bringing his gun up as Carter leaped on him, smashing the man's throat with a karate chop. The guard went down, his rifle clattering on the balcony floor.
There was no time to waste, Carter thought. He recovered his stiletto and Luger from the unconscious but still breathing guard, then hurried down the stairs, and up the aisles and rows to where the dead dog still lay.
Using his tiny penlight, it took him only a minute or two to find where the camera had slid beneath one of the pallets. Quickly he pulled back the plastic cover on a big piece of machinery, took several more photographs, then pocketed the camera.
He had gotten what he had come for and more. This equipment was bound for Iceland tomorrow. The connection between Ziegler and what was happening up there was very clear now.
There was a commotion up on the balcony. Someone shouted something from above, and a siren sounded. They had discovered the guard.
He pulled out his Luger and raced toward the far corner of the large warehouse, ducking down aisles and up rows, keeping low and moving as fast as he could.
More dogs were barking from behind him now, and he could hear men shouting even over the howl of the siren.
The service door at the rear of the building was latched from inside. It took him a moment or two to fumble with the locking bar, but then he had it open and he was outside.
A half-dozen men, all of them armed, came around the corner from the front, cutting off any chances he had of making it to where he had parked his car.
Instead, he ducked around the back of the building and raced around to the other side, then went back to the front of the building.
At the corner he peered around. There were several men standing in the big doorway, their backs to him. Straight across from where he stood, the dock was only twenty yards wide, dropping off beside the ship to the water.
He holstered his Luger, took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then bolted from the comer of the building and ran directly across the dock.
He was nearly to the water when someone behind him shouted, "It's him!" But he was over the edge as the first shots were fired.
The water was fifteen feet below the dock, and he hit cleanly, feet first, the cold waters of the Rio de la Plata washing over his head.
He came up swimming, just making it around the bow of the ship before a fusillade of shots sounded from above him on the dock.
He dove deeply this time, swimming away from the ship at right angles. When he came up, the firing was still going on, and there were more sirens sounding in the distance, but it was all behind him.
He struck out across the docks, finally coming to a small diesel-powered fishing boat tied to a dilapidated pier. He climbed up over the side, lay on top of the stinking nets for a few moments to catch his breath, then hot-wired the ignition and swung the boat out into the open water, heading northwest, toward Montevideo.
Seven
The economic information officer to the U.S. envoy in Montevideo felt a buzz of excitement as he ran up the stairs from the basement parking lot under the embassy. He hadn't had a thrill like this since the Cuban Revolution.
Just half an hour ago, when he had come home late from work, had parked his car, and had started up the back walk to his apartment, the intelligence officer had leaped like an apparition out of the garbage dumpster brandishing a gun.
"I don't want to hurt you," the man had said.
The information officer, whose name was Putnam, had worked for the CIA some years ago, and he knew better than to argue with an apparently overwrought man with a gun. They went back to Putnam's car, got in, the man on the floor in the back, and Putnam did as he was told.
As they drove back into town, the man explained what he wanted Putnam to do for him. He had a packet of film, he said, that had to be sent out in the diplomatic pouch immediately. There would be some phone calls he would have to make, but they could wait until Putnam was absolutely sure the embassy was essentially cleared for the night.
In the meantime he needed a first-aid kit, and he would wait in the car while Putnam went up and got it from the dispensary.
"Your name is Robert Putnam," the man said. He gave Putnam a number to call in Washington, D.C., and an index. "Before you do anything, Putnam, check that out."
Putnam gained the top landing of the stairs and found the first floor of the embassy deserted, as was usual at this time of night. Upstairs in communications mere would be the duty officers, but nothing moved down here except the guards.
The guard station was at the front of the building, and the marine on duty looked up as Putnam strode by. But he said nothing.
Back in the dispensary, Putnam pulled out a first-aid kit, then picked up the telephone, rang up to communications, and had them place the call to Washington. It only took a minute or two, and the phone rang only once before it was answered with the number by a woman.
Putnam gave the index word and number, and the woman described Carter, got the details of who was calling, from where, and the circumstances, then asked Putnam to help in any way he could. She gave a Washington address for the film.
After the call, he went up to communications, leaving the first-aid kit out in the corridor, and handed the film cartridges to the OD, along with the Washington address. "These get sent in the sack first thing in the morning."
"Yes, sir," the young OD said. "But there is one out tonight at midnight."
"That's even better. Get it in that one then, please."
"Yes, sir."
Back out in the corridor, Putnam grabbed the first-aid kit and hurried back down to the parking garage. The woman on the phone had identified the man as Nick Carter. He was lying in the back seat. Putnam helped him out of the car and to the elevator.
"Nearly everyone is gone, sir." he said. "I can get you up to my office without the marines seeing us."
"I may have to stay awhile," Carter said; his tongue seemed thick. "I'll need something to eat and drink."