"It won't take a very big bullet to blow out your friend's brains," Smith said. The Puerto Rican was sweating profusely. "Let's go up to where you're staying. I want to deal."
"Suppose I don't?" Mikulka said.
Smith shrugged, a small economical gesture. "I've got the money," he said. "And more than one bullet." The young man snorted derisively, but started to back up the hill.
Smith pushed Salmon forward, so that the Puerto Rican was sandwiched between the two guns.
The tin-roofed shack was sweltering and dark. Inside were a rumpled cot, a table and a small kerosene cookstove.
"Where's the money?" Mikulka demanded.
Smith tossed the attache case onto the dirty table, then snapped it open with one hand. The interior of the case was lined, corner to corner and as deep as the case, with United States currency. Old bills in stacks, encircled by rubber bands.
"How much is there?" Mikulka's voice betrayed his astonishment.
"A hundred thousand in unmarked twenties," Smith said.
"Dios," Salmon breathed softly.
Smith placed his weapon on the table. Warily, Mikulka did the same.
"What's the deal?" the young man asked.
"I should think that's obvious," Smith said with some distaste. "You get the money and I get back the book you stole from me."
Mikulka chewed his lip. "Suppose I got other takers?" he taunted. "That ain't no list of call-Florrie-for-a-good-time. I think maybe some foreign countries might be willing to put up more than a hundred grand to find out just what you do all alone in that big office by yourself."
Salmon started to speak but Mikulka silenced him with a violent gesture.
"You haven't had time to make any contacts," Smith said evenly. "You probably haven't even broken the code and when you do, what'll you find? Seventeen-year-old phone numbers."
"I think I've got as much time as I want," Mikulka said. He lit a cigarette, holding it between his teeth.
"You're wrong, Mikulka. The information in that book is old material. No government will want it. It's old material."
"Then why do you want it so bad?" Salmon broke in.
"Sentimental value," Smith said. He turned back to Mikulka. "At any rate, no foreign agent is going to pay you and let it go at that. You're in over your head, son."
"You don't know what you're talking about," Mikulka snapped.
"Sorry, but I do," Smith said. "First thing I know is that you're a cheap, unimportant nobody with a police record."
"Hey, wait a minute-"
Smith waved him down. "No intelligence service in the world is going to let you live for five minutes after they buy that document from you. If they did buy it. Don't you understand? You'll be killed. That's a guarantee."
The cigarette dangled nonchalantly from Mikulka's lips but his Adam's apple wobbled. He was frightened: Good, Smith thought. The young man didn't know anything. It apparently had never occurred to him that the United States government would be as interested in the phone book as any foreign government. He had just stolen without thinking. But Smith had told him one great truth. No agent worth anything would let Mikulka or Salmon live for five minutes after getting the coded address book.
"Decision time," Smith said. "Will you take the money or not? I've got a plane to catch."
Mikulka hesitated, then motioned for Salmon to come closer. They exchanged whispers with their gazes riveted on Smith. -
The CURE director did not have to hear them to know what was being said. They would sell him the book, take the money, then kill him, and resell the document to another buyer. It was the way it was always done in movies and it was the logic of the thief, to take and to take again. Thieves always thought like thieves; trained agents didn't.
"Yes or no?" Smith snapped the attache case shut: As he did, his thumb broke a small piece of black metal off the right-hand clasp.
Five minutes, he thought.
"Suppose we want more time?" Mikulka suggested, his eyes mocking.
"I'm afraid you're out of time."
Mikulka and Salmon exchanged glances. From beneath the cot, Mikulka picked up a battered black leather address book and tossed it to Smith. "When you're out of time, you're out of time," he said with a halfhearted attempt at a grin.
Smith gave a polite nod, then picked his gun up from the table. Mikulka also retrieved his Colt. Another standoff.
"I think I ought to count that money," Mikulka said. "A hundred thousand, you said?"
"Right. Count it," Smith said. "I'm going to wait outside. With the book."
Four minutes.
He tucked the book into his jacket pocket and backed out of the shack. They were cowards, he knew, and would wait for him to turn his back. And he was counting on their trying to hide behind the walls of the shack while they picked him off.
As he moved outside, he saw the two men's eyes following him. Their faces wore the self-satisfied expressions of muggers cornering an old lady on an empty street.
Mikulka sat behind the table, opened the case and began to riffle through the money. - Smith backed away, twenty yards from the shack, standing there, looking at the rickety building. Thirty seconds. He began to count down.
He heard movement from inside. Fifteen seconds.
Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve ... "It's all here," Mikulka called out.
"Good. Good-bye, then," Smith yelled. Three seconds.
He turned his back, offering himself as a target. Then he threw himself on the ground a split second before the report of the gun sounded through the woods. He half-rolled toward the cover of a termiteeaten log.
And then there was another sound.
The explosion tore the roof off the shack, sending ribbons of metal raining over the forest in a light show of orange sparks. A wall of dirt and rotted vegetation shot upward in a circle, then plummeted down. Smith covered his head. A rock fell painfully onto his thigh but he did not move. Overhead, a thousand tropical birds screeched as a stand of bamboos toppled and crashed like toothpicks.
And then it was silent.
Smith dusted himself off and walked back to the ruins of the shack. Mikulka lay faceup in the debris. His features were unrecognizable. He had no eyes and his hands seemed to have been shredded by the blast. He must have been holding the case of money even as he was firing at Smith. Salmon's body was ripped into three fat parts.
In the dust and smoke, a piece of paper drifted. Smith caught it. It was part of a counterfeit twenty-dollar bill, one of five thousand identical bills Smith had carried in the exploding suitcase.
Smith felt the texture of the bill. It was a good copy. Nearby, several small fires smoldered. He kicked one to life and when the flames were high enough, he took the address book from his pocket and threw it into the blaze. He waited until there was nothing left of the book except white ashes.
Then he stomped on the ashes and left.
Back in San Juan, he stopped at the Western Union office and sent a telegram to Mrs. Eileen Mikulka, care of Folcroft Sanitarium, Rye, New York:
DEAR MOTHER SORRY I CAUSED YOU SUCH GRIEF STOP AM SHIPPING OUT TODAY ON MERCHANT SHIP BOUND FOR SOUTH PACIFIC STOP NOT COMING BACK STOP I LOVE YOU STOP KEENAN.
Thirty words exactly. Smith thought about things like that.
Chapter 16
Waldron Perriweather III strode easily into the office of Dara Worthington at IHAEO labs and handed the woman his card.
"I'm here to see Dr. Remo and Dr. Chiun," he said.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Periwinkle, but they are not available right now," Dara said, handing him his card back.
"It's Perriweather, not Periwinkle, you egg-layer," he said acidly. "Surely you've heard of me."
"What did you call me?"
"I called you an egg-layer."
"I know who you are," Dara said suddenly. "You're the lunatic who's always making excuses for violence."