We went out the back of the lodge. There was about 300 yards of open, scraggly field until the woods started. Then we’d have to circle back toward the hill to reach our car.
We’d made about half the 300 yards when there were shouts telling us we’d been spotted. Now we didn’t even bother trying to conceal ourselves. We sprinted for the edge of the woods as fast as we could. The elderly German had trouble keeping up, and Foster and I half-dragged and half-carried him as we ran.
There were rifle shots and a burst from a tommygun. I sprawled flat with Von Koerner. Foster wheeled around and fired back before hugging the ground. He must have hit something, because there was a long, wailing scream. The firing stopped for a moment and we ran again. This time we reached the edge of the woods before the hail of bullets resumed. Covered by the trees now, we managed to work our way back behind the hill that both we and the Chinese had come down.
We could hear them thrashing about behind us in the woods, but we couldn’t see them. At times they sounded perilously close, but we just kept our fingers crossed and continued our flight. Finally we emerged on the dirt road.
The copse of trees behind which the car was parked was a few hundred yards away from us. Another car was parked farther down the road from it. There were two Chinese standing beside it.
We sprinted for our car. Behind us our pursuers came crashing out of the woods and started chasing after us. The two Reds, seeing them, came charging toward us.
We barely escaped being caught in their crossfire. Just as they opened fire we reached the grove of trees, dodged behind it and got into the car. Foster took the wheel, and I began pumping the tommygun I’d taken from one of the Cubans as our pursuers began shooting at the car. They scattered before us as Foster gunned the car out from behind the trees and onto the road with a wild screeching of tires. Then they were running for their car to take up the pursuit as we shot down the open road.
They were closing the distance as we pulled onto the highway. Their car was a souped-up Caddy, and even though Foster had his foot on the floorboard, he couldn’t outdistance them. That left it up to me.
“Alan,” I said, “when I give the word, hit your brakes hard.”
“Check.”
I waited until they’d closed the distance just a bit more. They were shooting for our tires now, and I couldn’t afford to chance waiting any longer. “Now!” I shouted.
Foster hit the brakes. I was braced for it and just as the Caddy was almost on top of us, I shot their front tires full of holes. I also sprayed their windshield, but it must have been bulletproof. Foster gunned the motor again, and we left them behind us in the dust,
The rest of the trip to the airport was uneventful. Vickie and Mendoza were waiting for us, and we made straight for Mendoza’s plane. It was gassed up and waiting. But trouble was also waiting.
Mendoza and Vickie were aboard the plane and Foster and I were just helping Von Koerner in when it hit. Four men suddenly shot out from behind a nearby hanger and rushed us. They weren’t shooting, and it didn’t occur to me until later that this was because they didn’t want to take a chance on hitting Von Koerner.
They were on us before we knew it, swinging gunbutts and fists. It was obvious that it was Von Koerner they were after. They were savage in trying to overcome Foster and myself, but they made no attempt to harm the German.
Foster practically threw Von Koerner into the plane while I tried to fight them off. He slammed the door behind him and signaled to Mendoza to take off without us. Then he was fighting alongside me just as the superior numbers were forcing me to the ground.
They undoubtedly would have swamped the two of us if Mendoza hadn’t started taxiing down the field at that moment. Two of our assailants grabbed onto the struts and wingtip of the plane and were dragged along with it. That evened up the odds.
One of the two we were fighting with had his gun out now. I chopped his arm just as he fired. The blow deflected his aim, but not enough. Foster took the bullet in the shoulder.
He fell backward, grabbing for his gun as he toppled. He came up with it and plugged one of the hoods straight through the heart. The other one bolted. We didn’t bother chasing him.
“Nice playmates you attract,” I panted. “You hurt bad?”
“It burns like hell, but I’ll survive.”
“Who the hell were they?” I asked. “They didn’t look Chinese or Cuban.”
“Russian,” Foster told me. “Look at this.” He’d taken the wallet from the breast pocket of the man he’d shot. There was a Russian passport in it.
“Tell me,” I remarked, “do you suppose Luxembourg and Monaco have agents chasing Von Koerner? Everybody else seems to.”
“Probably. Probably. It certainly seems like it’s getting to be an international sport.”
“My theory is that Von Koerner doesn’t really have a secret weapon or anything else that anybody really wants,” I told Foster sarcastically. “I think he’s really an agent of the Barranquilla Chamber of Commerce engaged in stirring up some tourist trade.”
“Very funny. Hey, look! What the hell’s going on down there?” He pointed at the far end of the field, where Mendoza’s plane was still slowly taxiing.
The bodies of the two Russkies who’d grabbed for the wings were sprawled a good distance away from it. Obviously they’d been shot by somebody inside the plane while Foster and I were fighting off their buddies. It certainly seemed as if Mendoza had had plenty of time to get the plane into the air. At first we thought maybe he’d decided to wait for us. But that wasn’t it.
Now, as we watched, the door to the plane’s cabin was flung open. Vickie was pushed out and went sprawling on the ground. Behind her, I saw Von Koerner with a gun in his hand. Then the door closed again and the plane shot down the runway, picking up speed until it was in the air. I ran over to where Vickie was picking herself up. Foster, hugging his injured shoulder, followed behind me.
“What happened?” I asked when I reached her.
“Mendoza!” she said breathlessly. “He and Von Koerner threw me oil the plane.”
“But why?’,’ I was confused. “If they were in league with the Cubans, or the Russians, or the Chinese, why did they wait until now to show their hand?”
“They’re not,” Foster said. “They’re playing their own game. And they’re obviously both playing the same game.”
“Check.” Vickie agreed. “Mendoza said something to Von Koerner in German and they seemed to fall right in together. I think Mendoza was exactly the person Von Koerner most wanted to contact.”
“I still don’t get it,” I said.
“I do,” Foster replied. “Or at least I think I do. Back in Santo Domingo our friend Mendoza was a big shot with the military junta. Now, this junta made up mainly of Trujillo’s followers. When Trujillo was in power, they had strong ties with the Peronistas of Argentina. The Peron bunch, in turn, was very much involved with the Nazis. After the war South America generally became a haven for Nazis on the lam. Recently, there have been frequent reports of a strong neo- Nazi movement springing up there. There’s even proof of a headquarters somewhere in the Argentinian, or possibly the Brazilian, interior. My guess is that Mendoza’s a member of this movement. And my further guess is that Von Koerner is a dedicated Nazi and has been trying all along to reach them.”
“And now it looks as if he’s succeeded,” I said, looking up at Mendoza’s plane speeding off into the blue.
“Damn! And just when we had him right in our hands,” Foster groaned.
Vickie summed it up. “Mission a failure,” she said. “Mission a complete and utter flop!”
CHAPTER TEN
OUR DESPAIR proved premature. An unexpected break put us back in the race. I was the one who saw the break for what it was as soon as it rolled into view.