One of the guns had suddenly stopped firing, and the big, quiet-voiced monk was wrestling with the carabineer for possession of the carbine. For a fleeting second the man’s pistol waved silently in the air, and then it swung toward the Brother’s ribs for a close, but-blasting shot that never came. The big monk leapt away with astonishing agility — and he wrenched the carbine with him as he sprang. The other man turned on him with a snarl of animal rage and stuck the pistol almost in his face. Nick snapped off one shot at Tsing-fu’s cautiously emerging figure and fired again literally without stopping to think. Wilhelmina seemed to find her target automatically. The pistol flew from the man’s hand and skidded on the floor. The Chinese stood there for a moment, looking astonished, and then the great butt-end of the carbine landed against his head in a bone-crushing blow. Brother Whatsisname stepped back, satisfied with his killer-blow, and spun the rifle around in his hands so that its nose pointed at Tsing-fu’s covering statue.
“Attababy, Brother!” Nick shouted exultantly. “You cover his rear and I’ll get him from the front. And you’d better give up, you behind the statue. You’re the last one left.”
There was a second of absolute silence. Tsing-fu was out of sight behind the statue of the saint. Nick crawled rapidly toward him on his hands and knees, Wilhelmina ready. From the corner of his eye he saw the big monk quietly stalking the statue from the other side.
Then he heard a dull little click and a howl of rage. Tsing-fu leapt out from behind the statue, tossing aside his empty gun, and with a movement too swift for a gun to follow he was at the foot of the pulpit scooping up the fallen machine-gun.
“We all die, then!” he screamed, dancing a little jig of maniacal fury. “See the brothers on the benches, trussed like pigeons — see how they will die!” He whirled about and made a crouching leap for the pulpit stairway, landing with his body half-turned toward the pews and the machine-gun swinging toward the helpless figures of those few who still lived.
The big monk’s borrowed carbine roared and bit a great chunk out of the pulpit but left Tsing-fu unharmed.
“You first!” Tsing-fu screamed, and swung the gun toward the monk.
Nick dropped to one knee and fired.
Wilhelmina’s last bullet struck Tsing-fu full in the chest and rocked him backwards.
“Get the hell out of his way. Brother!” Nick shouted, and made a flying jump toward the pulpit stairs with one thought in mind — to wrench the murderous machine-gun from Tsing-fu’s hands before it sprayed death throughout the room.
He was a split-second late. Tsing-fu lurched convulsively in his dying agony and his finger tightened on the trigger. Streams of hot lead spat from the pulpit and bit chunks from the statue that had been Tsing-fu’s refuge. The big monk now crouched behind it bellowed angrily and dropped down low so that the rain of death slammed high above his head. Nick halted abruptly on the bottom step. Tsing-fu was crumpling slowly, the gun still cradled under one arm and its hot barrel spewing high, wild shots through the pulpit wall and chewing it to shreds. He was making no attempt to aim, no attempt to rise one last time and turn his fire into the room. He was looking at the statue with a strange, unreadable expression on his face. There was no need, now, to wrench the gun from him.
Nick turned to follow the gaze of those dying eyes.
The head of the statue was gone. Its body was chipped in a dozen places; one arm was off, and there was a great hole in the torso. Something was pouring out of it. The whole thing was tottering and crumbling. And then it fell. Nick caught his breath and felt a shiver running down his spine.
The shattered saint split down the middle and disgorged a stream of glittering objects. Brilliant stones cascaded from the plaster wounds — red ones gleaming with fire, green ones blazing like cats’ eyes in the night, ice-white ones throwing off sparks of suddenly released light. They clinked and clanked onto the floor, mingling with the gold pieces and the pendants, the rings, the chains, the plaster, and the blood.
Tsing-fu screamed once more. His face was twisted into something inhuman as he stared agonizedly at the wealth he had been searching for. The scream was a maniac’s babble that rose to a shriek of insane, sobbing laughter, and then stopped forever. He slumped where he was and lay still in his own blood. The gun went on coughing out its aimless hail of bullets, and then chattered into silence.
Nick made sure that he was dead before checking to see what had become of the big monk. But there was no doubt that he was dead, along with all those who wore the olive drabs and many of those in the torn robes of the Blacks.
He heard a long explosive sigh and turned to see the big monk gazing at his Brothers, at his charnel-house of a chapel, with a look of indescribable pain on his face.
“Forgive me for having come too late.” Nick said quietly. “I would give anything to have avoided this.” He slipped Hugo down his sleeve and started cutting the bound monks loose with swift, decisive strokes. “But you fight well, Brother,” he added. “You and all your Brothers.”
The monk stared at him. “Who are you?” he asked.
“Another treasure-hunter,” Nick said flatly. “And your name, Brother?”
“Francisco. Father. I am abbot here.” The pain deepened on the big man’s face. “Are you telling me that I have had your help only because you want that bloodstained dross for yourself? Because — I cannot let you have it either, my friend, even if I must fight you to the death. For you are not my countryman; it does not belong to you.”
Nick looked up from his task.
“Tell me one thing — did the members of the Trinitaria meet in this place?”
The abbot nodded. “They did. And only to such men will I release this treasure. Those who hid it have gone, I understand, but they were evil too and I would not have given it back to them. I myself moved it from the place they put it and hid it in the statue so that it would be safe for people who will make good use of it. I do not know if you are good or bad, but it must go only to my countrymen. It was stolen from them:’
“How about the wives of the Trinitaria?” Nick asked quietly. “Would you give it to them?”
Father Francisco looked at him with dawning hope. “I would gladly give it to them. To them, rather than to anyone.”
“I will get them, then,” said Nick. “You will need their help in — cleaning up.”
Five able-bodied monks with robes torn to their waists, one seriously wounded, one with blood seeping from his belly, and one disheveled abbot stared at him, astonished.
“I do not understand,” the abbot said.
“You will soon,” Nick promised. “And trust me, will you? Your people are my friends.”
A few minutes later he was out on the valley floor at the foot of the stone steps, emitting a piercing whistle that meant Approach — With Care. The answering whistle came as he looked about him in the early morning light. The dead Cubans were nearby. For the first time he noticed that one of them still held a badly damaged walkie-talkie. And with a sudden chill he wondered how much talking there had been before the fellow had had his head blown off.
Paula appeared on the upper rim of the ravine. He waved her over to the steps. She vanished for a moment and then reappeared directly above him, climbing cautiously at first and then with rapid steps. By the time the others appeared behind her she was running to him.