"He must be. They wouldn't have taken off without him. He's obviously too important to the Chinese Reds to be left behind. If he wasn't, why would they have gone to all this trouble to get him out of Karachi?"
“I hope you're right," said Foster. "You know, it's still hard to believe it's the Chinese Reds he's working for. All the leads I had pointed to him working for the Russkys."
“Maybe he's playing footsie with both of them."
“I wouldn't put it past him. You can say what you want, but that Steve Victor is the shrewdest Red agent I've ever come across."
Thanks for the compliment, Foster, I thought to myself wryly. Any further reflections I might have had on their opinion of me were forestalled by the sudden sound of the voice of Vladimir Potemchenko. “Drop your gun," he said from the darkness somewhere near Alan and Vickie. “I have you both covered."
Instead, Alan doused the lighter and the two of them dived to the floor. Fortunately, for once Potemchenko didn't shoot. But he did come up with a small flashlight. The beam searched the blackness for the couple—and came up with me as a substitute.
“Steve Victor!" The three of them spoke my name in chorus.
“And his performing troupe of international seals," I added as the beam from Potemchenko’s flashlight bounced from me to the couple and back. It ended up midway between us, hovering with Potemchenko’s indecision.
The brief glimpse of Vickie and Alan had been enough to show me that they both had their guns drawn. So did Potemchenko. So did I. But none of us dared shoot for fear of alerting the Chinese Reds in the front of the plane to our presence.
It was a predicament, and a frozen one at that. Hours went by and it remained the same. Potemchenko kept bouncing the light from them to me and aiming his gun accordingly. Alan Foster kept his gun leveled just above the source of the beam. Beside him, Vickie aimed at me, realigning her revolver each time Potemchenko’s light hit me. At first, I played the game of aiming first at Potemchenko and then at them, but finally I just sat back and got a little shut-eye. Whatever was going to happen would happen—-but not before the plane landed. Let them cover each other for me. Neither was likely to let the other jump me.
Finally, my stomach dropped with the plane and my eyes opened. Nothing had changed. It was still the same three-way game of cat-and-mouse. As Potemchenko’s beam hit me, I gave them my toothiest smile and was rewarded by a giggle from Vickie. The plane settled in on a glide-path for landing, and I thought to myself that it was a hell of a predicament. The three of them obviously all believed now that I was an agent for the Chinese Reds. Besides the problems that presented, there was also the question of how I was going to avoid the Chinese Reds and get off the plane. The only bright note was that the other three had the same problem.
As the wheels touched the ground, Potemchenko made his move. He must have figured that the crew would be too busy with the landing to check immediately on the sound of a shot. He swung the light-beam directly into my eyes and fired.
Only the lousy judgment of the Chinese pilot saved me. Just as Potemchenko shot, the plane bounced up and then down again hard, jarring his hand just enough so that the bullet whizzed past my ear. He got no chance for a second shot. Alan Foster was on him immediately and the light went spinning from his hand as the butt of Foster's gun crunched in Potemchenko’s skull.
I tried to scurry for a new hiding place, but I couldn't move fast enough. Vickie had grabbed Potemchenko's flashlight and the beam caught me in mid-dash. She had the drop on me also, so there was nothing to do but freeze as she instructed while Alan finished off Potemchenko. She motioned me to drop my gun and I did. Then she indicated that I should join their little group and I obeyed that order as well.
When the muzzle of her gun was pressed securely against my spine, she took the light off me and pointed it down at Potemchenko. Foster's second blow had killed him all right. The top of his skull looked like something inching its way out of a meat-grinder. I looked at his staring dead eyes for a moment with satisfaction. Ben-Kavir. Basra. Dr. Suno Wong. Sheikh Taj-ed el Atassi. And who knew how many more? If ever anybody had it coming to him, it was Potemchenko. He was dead now, and I'd have bet they'd have a hard time finding even one mourner for him.
But even if one of us had been so inclined, we hadn't the time for crocodile tears. “That shot's liable to have them back here before the plane stops moving," Alan pointed out correctly. "We’ve got to get out of here."
"But how?" Vickie asked.
"The bomb-bay is the only way. We'll have to force it open."
“You can't force it," I said. “It's electrically operated."
"And maybe you don't want us to, hey, Victor?" Alan said. “Maybe you'd just like the Reds to catch us."
“No,” I said honestly. “That’s the last thing I want. I'm as anxious to get out of here as you are. The only difference is that I know how we can open those doors."
"All right. How?"
“By short-circuiting the wires leading to it. I can do it for you.”
"Why should we trust you?" .
“Because you have no choice," I told him.
He saw the logic of that. “Go ahead,” he agreed.
They both kept their guns on me as I pried loose the wires and manipulated them. It worked. The plane was just coming to a stop as the bomb-bay doors fell open. And we were just steeling ourselves to jump from it as the door to the front opened and light flooded over us. The two Chinese framed in the door asked no questions. Even as we jumped, they started shooting. Alan's arm was around my neck and his gun was pressed to my ear as we hit the ground and the plane passed over us. Victoria was with us and we all three got to our feet together.
We were on an open field fringed by woods. We started for them at a trot and Alan's gun nuzzled my back as we ran. It stayed there for the next hour or so as we purposely tried to lose ourselves in the jungle-like undergrowth. Finally, we emerged in a sheltered clearing and Alan called a halt.
“Where are we?" Vickie asked. Her blouse was torn, her face smudged with dirt and her breasts straining for air after the exertion of our flight. But, somehow, she still looked as desirable as ever.
“My guess is some place in India,” Alan said. “But I'm not sure just what part."
“Well, I hope we're near some large city so I can notify my people that I've taken Victor prisoner," she said.
"I’m sorry, Vickie," Alan said. “But he's my prisoner, not yours.”
“I'm afraid I'll have to dispute that, A1an," Vickie insisted politely, but firmly. “He is my prisoner. We have proof that he's involved with a white slavery operation that extends into British territory."
“He's an American. And I have proof that he's been working with the Russians. That makes him a defector. A traitor to his country. And his country's the U.S.A. Not England. So you see, it’s logical that we should bring him to justice."
“I don't see it that way, Alan. And neither will British Intelligence. I say he's my prisoner!”
“And I still say he's mine!"
They stared at each other stubbornly, stalemated.
“It's great to be wanted," I said. “I’m all choked up." The guns of both of them swiveled towards me at the sound of my voice. “But this is no time for sentiment," I added, “as flattering as it is. Right now, I'd suggest we find some kind of civilization before those Reds track us down."
“Victor, I can't figure you out," Alan said.
“And neither can I," Vickie concurred.