Two of the bearded men were unloading luggage containers while the third, a big, smelly man with a broad chest and powerful bare forearms, hurried them along with sweeps of his submachine gun. Shayne threw the mail sack into the back of the truck.”
“That you, Nikko?” he said. “We had a little trouble. I think they got off a radio message before I smashed the set.”
“Christ,” Nikko said hoarsely. “Then we hurry, eh?”
Shayne’s men, Ward and the two tranquilized hijackers, jumped in the back of the truck to load the pods as they came out of the plane. One of the guerrillas yelled something in a language Shayne didn’t understand, certainly not Spanish.
“Only two containers?” Nikko said. “There were to be three.”
“I don’t know about that,” Shayne said. “I do know we’d better get the hell out of here.”
Nikko signaled and the men mounted.
“In front, Thompson,” he told Shayne.
CHAPTER 17
Two cars were parked beside a bulk-gas pump in front of a long wooden shed. As the truck careened onto an unpaved road running at right angles to the strip, Shayne saw two bound and gagged figures lying in the dust in front of the shed.
“I’m not Thompson,” he said. “Thompson had an accident in St. Albans and he missed the plane. They brought me in at the last minute and nobody explained anything. What’s this Liberation Front crap?”
Nikko laughed. “To throw pepper in their eyes, you understand? Where does she want us to land you?”
Shayne hesitated a fraction of an instant. “So long as it’s near a commercial airport.”
“That will be easy. Is there something the matter with Moss? He has a strange look.”
“The sauce head-he’s been hitting the booze all morning. We came down just in time. Half an hour more and he wouldn’t be able to navigate.”
“A crazy, that one. He steals gold. Sells it at seventeen dollars an ounce. Then steals it again. For the last time, I hope!”
The driver had been told to hurry, and he was doing sixty on the rough road. Bulldozed through the jungle by an American oil company, it ran as straight as a rule. When they reached the coast they passed rapidly through a fishing village and started west. Minutes later Shayne saw a modern hydrofoil launch drawn up on the sand between the road and the water. The driver swung off the road and kept going until he mired down in the sand.
In a moment the mail bag and the two luggage pods were loaded. Heaving together, they ran the hydrofoil down the hard sand into the water.
Ward pulled at Shayne’s arm as the motor started. “Now!” he said urgently.
Shayne counted heads. Moss and Sanchez, the Brazilian, had dropped onto the padded seats to enjoy the feeling of the wind in their face. They would be neutral. The three make-believe guerrillas still wore their tommy guns. Nikko, on the stern bench smoking a small brown cigarette, held his gun cradled easily in his arms, one hand stroking the trigger assembly.
When Ward gestured again, Shayne shook his head.
They were traveling very fast on their cushion of air. It was a smooth ride but a noisy one. Nikko pointed ahead after a time, and Shayne saw a big yacht, riding easily in the long swell. The gap between the boats closed rapidly. Soon Shayne was able to read the legend on the stern: the yacht was the Paladin, out of Monte Carlo.
Two sailors in striped jerseys waited at the rail, ready to drop the yoke as soon as the hydrofoil coasted alongside. After an exchange of signals, the smaller boat was hoisted aboard.
Nikko leaped down lightly. “It worked like a clock! Smooth. Easy.”
He yelled a command. Shayne ripped off his mask and tossed it overboard. Ward’s came off more slowly. The Greek’s smile faded as he noticed the Negro. He looked indignantly at Shayne.
“Nobody told me I would have a Neg-”
“You’ll have to bear up,” Shayne told him. “It’s in a good cause-money. Let’s have a drink.”
Nikko called to one of the sailors, who ran for a bottle and glasses. The sea anchor had been drawn in smartly and the yacht was heading east. The guerrillas peeled off their beards and jungle camouflage, emerging in the same striped jerseys and white shorts worn by the rest of the crew. Counting the unseen sailor at the wheel, the Paladin carried a crew of six.
Ward edged behind one of the men with the tommy guns and looked at Shayne. Again Shayne shook his head.
Nikko, without the beard and the dark glasses, proved to be a man of about thirty, with bronzed skin and dark, curly hair. In a jovial mood, he filled the glasses with a colorless liquor and handed them around, making a point of skipping Ward. They toasted each other and drank.
While the crewmen began manhandling the luggage containers out of the hydrofoil, Shayne moved to a spot where he wouldn’t be observed and smoothed out the slip of paper Naomi Savage had pressed into his hand.
It said: “Mike, she told Sanchez to kill you.”
Shayne wadded it up and flipped it into the sea. Again there was a swift reshuffling of friends and enemies. Christa had given Sanchez his orders in Portuguese. But could Shayne be sure that Naomi was telling the truth?
Nikko shouted angrily. His men had opened several suitcases pulled at random from each luggage container. Shayne lumbered toward him, loosening his shoulders. “Anything wrong?”
“Indeed something is wrong. Where are the gold bars?”
“How should I know, for Christ’s sake? I thought it was some nutty political thing, the way everybody was shouting and giving away pamphlets. Don’t look at me! I’m getting a thousand bucks and some free transportation. I needed the transportation more than the cash.”
“Moss,” Nikko said.
“Hey? What’s bothering you, buddy?”
“Wait a minute,” Shayne said suddenly. “Where was this gold? In one of these luggage things?”
One of the sailors pulled out another piece of luggage and ripped it open with a knife. Plunging both hands into the gash, he pulled out a double handful of women’s underclothing and scattered it about the deck.
“Nothing.”
Shayne went on, “There was an explosion in one of the luggage compartments right after we left. Remember that, Moss? And then later they did some tricky flying when they came in over the coast. They rocked the plane-back and forth. And I’ll be damned if I don’t think-look out!”
Jaime Sanchez, the Brazilian, snatched up the knife the sailor had put down and took two dancing steps across the deck, screaming in Portuguese. But he was confused about his orders. Instead of going for Shayne, who had his forty-five out and was ready for him, he drove his knife at Ward’s stomach.
Shayne shot him in the head.
The knife passed under the Negro’s arm. Momentum carried Sanchez another step. He struck the rail and went overboard.
The action was over in an instant. Shayne came around with the recoil, but Nikko was equally fast. His tommy gun was already up, covering Shayne. Another tommy gun was pointed at Shayne from behind.
“Goofed up on something,” Shayne said in disgust. “I thought so. Now, is anybody going to tell me what this is all about?”
Nikko stepped closer and took the forty-five. Another sailor disarmed Ward. “Get inside,” Nikko said.
Moss said amiably, “Anything I can do for anybody?”
“Get inside,” Nikko repeated. “All of you.”
Herded by tommy guns, the three men from the plane were driven into the salon.
Ward remarked casually, “Any of those needles left, Mike?”
Nikko snapped, “No talking! I want three separate stories.”
He gave quick orders. Moss was locked in the head. Ward, with an armed sailor, was put in a bedroom. Shayne remained in the main salon with Nikko and another of his men. The room was furnished like a movie set, with a white llama-skin carpet, a Picasso, a well-stocked bar.
Slinging his tommy gun, Nikko touched Shayne in several places until he located his wallet. He flipped through the identification cards. He muttered under his breath and slammed the wallet down on a glass-topped table.