“Twelve hours. Twenty guardas and four jardineros—gardeners. Those not on duty are in what they call the ‘barracks.’ It is a long building north of the main house.”
“Where are the tools?”
“In a metal garage fifty meters south of the generador.”
“The generator?”
“Sí.”
“Good.” Evan removed the mafioso’s wallet and black plastic identification case, then went through the mud-soaked pockets, finding upward of a thousand dollars, undoubtedly not from a federal payroll. Finally, he took out the small electronic “key” that released the bolts and opened the door of the cabin-cell in the woods. “Let’s go,” he repeated, rising with difficulty from the soft, wet earth and the underbrush.
They started down the path of amber ground lamps. “Uno momento!” whispered Emilio. “The lights. Kick them out, señor. The more darkness, the better we are.”
“Good thinking,” agreed Kendrick, heading back with the Mexican to the white barrier, where they proceeded to crush each domed bulb on both sides. They reached the main island path that on the left led down to the boats and the dock, on the right up to the manor house on the top of the hill, with an offshoot leading to the escape-proof rustic cabin. Evan and the Mexican raced from one lamp to another, demolishing each until they came to the cabin path. “That way!” ordered Kendrick, rushing ahead to the right. “Forget the lights. We’ll take them out on our way back.”
“La cabaña?”
“Hurry up!” Once again the startling magnified wash of light from the thick beveled windows illuminated the clearing in front of the small, solid house. Evan approached the door and pressed a green button on the electronic key. He heard the bolts slap back into the frame; he turned the knob and went inside. “Get in here,” he called to Emilio. The Mexican did as he was told and Kendrick closed the door, pressing the red button, locking it.
He ran to the kitchen area, opened drawers and cabinets one after another, selecting items that struck him as useful: a flashlight, a large carving knife and several smaller knives, a meat cleaver, three small cans of Sterno, a box of hunters’ matches—coated with paraffin, strikable on any hard surface—and a stack of folded dish towels. With everything on the oval oak table, he glanced over at Emilio, who was watching him. He picked up one of the knives, the handle extended, and held it out for the Mexican. “I hope you don’t have to use this, but if you do, don’t miss.”
“There are men I could not kill without reasoning with them first, for they are as desperate as myself for employment. But there are others, the ones who have been here longest, I would have no such problems.”
“Goddamn you, you can’t have any problems! If one alarm is raised—”
“No alarms will be raised by my friends, señor, not if they know it is I, Emilio. Besides, most of them are in the barracks asleep. They use the veteranos for the night patrols; they fear the boats at night.”
“You’d better be right.”
“I wish to go home, believe that.”
“Take some towels, a can of Sterno and a handful of matches. Hurry!” Picking up the remaining items and putting them in his pockets, Kendrick left the meat cleaver until last. He gripped it, went to the intercom console on the wall and, standing sideways, sliced the heavy blade into the back of the equipment, prying it off the wall and out of its recess. “Get the two lamps over there,” he said to the Mexican. “Smash them. I’ll get the stove lights and the lamp on the other side of the room.”
Less than a minute later the two desperate men were out on the path, the previously brightly lighted clearing in front of the cabin now eerily dark. “The tools—the gardeners’ tools. Take me to them.”
“Con mucho cuidado! We must be careful going around the big house. We will put out the path lights only up to where I say. From the second level those in the house can see they are not on, and there will be alarms. If there are patrols, let me study them first.”
“Let’s go. They’ve got problems up there, but pretty soon someone’s going to wonder where my executioner is. Hurry up!”
They smashed the amber lamps up to a ridge that preceded the level ground of the huge manor house—great house, thought Evan, thinking of the tropic zone and the great houses of the Caribbean. The Mexican suddenly grabbed Kendrick’s arm and pulled him through the bordering foliage of the path, then pushed his shoulder down, gripping the flesh; the message was clear: Crouch and be still. A guard, his rifle strapped over his shoulder, passed them on the path going in the opposite direction. “Now quickly, señor! There is no one until the back galeria where they drink wine and smoke fish!”
A large patio with a barbecue pit, thought Evan, following Emilio through the thick greenery, wishing he had a machete to cut through the vines but grateful for the strangely ever-present sound of the wind and the crashing waves. They circled down and around the house, when another sound intruded. It was the massive generator, its hum constant, bass-toned, awesome. The engineer in Kendrick tried to calculate the power it produced and the fuel it consumed and the auxiliary input of the necessary field of photovoltaic cells—it was mind-blowing. He had installed generators from Bahrain to the west deserts of Saudi Arabia, but they were temporary, to be used only until electricity could be cabled in; nothing like this.
Again the Mexican gripped Evan’s shoulder, now more fiercely, his hand trembling, and again they crouched in the underbrush behind the long clipped wall of shrubbery. Kendrick looked up and with sudden fear understood. Ahead, to the left, above the hedgelike border of the path, a guard had heard something or seen something. His upper body was clearly visible in the glow of the amber lights; he moved forward rapidly, snapping the rifle off his shoulder and leveling it in front of him. He walked directly toward them, then only feet away he poked the barrel of the weapon into the brush.
“¿Quién es?” shouted the patrol.
Suddenly, lashing out and pouncing like an angry cat, Emilio shot up, grabbing the rifle and pulling the guard through the foliage. There was an abrupt expunging of air that cut off the start of a scream; the man fell into the greenery, the base of his throat a mass of blood. The knife was in Emilio’s right hand.
“Good God!” whispered Evan as he and the Mexican dragged the body farther into the brush.
“I had no problem with this perro!” said Emilio. “This dog smashed the head of a boy, a young gardener who would not accommodate him, if you understand, señor.”
“I understand, and I also understand that you just saved our lives.… Wait a minute! The rifle, his cap. We can save time! There are no uniforms here, just work clothes—the weapon is the uniform. Put on the cap and strap the rifle over your shoulder. Then walk out there and I’ll stay as close to you as I can over here. If it’s quicker for me to go on the path myself, you can make sure it’s clear!”
“Bueno,” said the Mexican, reaching for the cap and the weapon. “If I am stopped I will say that this perro forced me to replace him for an hour or so. They will laugh but no one will doubt it.… I go. Stay close, and when I tell you, come through the bushes and walk at my side. Not in front and not in back, but at my side. Do you speak Spanish?”
“Not well enough to talk to anyone.”
“Then say nothing. Stay close!” Emilio broke through the bordering hedge, the rifle over his shoulder, and started down the path. Thrashing against the dark tangled greenery, Kendrick did his best to keep pace, every now and then whispering to the Mexican to slow down. Once at a particularly thick area, Evan removed the meat cleaver from his belt and hacked at a webbed mass of tropical vines, only to hear Emilio cry out under his breath. “Silencio!” … Then he heard another command: “Now, señor! Come out and walk with me. Quickly!”
Kendrick did so, forcing his way through the bushes to join the Mexican, who suddenly, emphatically, began accelerating his strides down the sloping path. “Is going this fast such a good idea?” asked Evan breathlessly. “If we’re seen, someone might think we were ru
nning while on duty.”
“We have come to the back of the main house,” answered Emilio, rushing forward. “There is no one here at this hour but two guards on different paths who meet at the stone galeria, then go back over the hill and down to the beaches. It takes them many minutes and they have just left. We can run across the galeria and up the far path, then through the woods to the mantenimiento—the tools, señor.”
They reached a sunken brick patio, the same patio Kendrick had studied from the small balcony of the guest room above. He remembered the two guards signaling each other from the bases of the opposing paths. The Mexican, who was now very much in charge, grabbed Evan’s arm and nodded to his left, breaking into a run. They raced down into the sunken patio, which was far larger than Kendrick had realized; it extended the length of the house itself, and white wrought-iron furniture had been placed around the central area in front of a large brick barbecue pit. They ran by the side of the house under the balconies, then sprinted across and up the south path of amber lights to a flat area bordered by tall grass, a knoll overlooking the ocean and two beaches separated by a rock-filled coastline perhaps six hundred feet below. The amber lights were now behind them, nothing in front but a narrow descending dirt road.
From this vantage point, a great deal of the back island could be seen in the sporadic moonlight. Directly on the right, no more than three hundred yards away and washed in floodlights, was the enormous generator. Beyond the fenced enclosure were the blurred outlines of a long, low building, Emilio’s “barracks,” assumed Evan. Then far below, just above the beach on the right, its white concrete standing out like a huge flat beacon was the helipad, with a large military helicopter resting in place—painted in civilian colors and with Mexican identification but unmistakably United States military.
“Come!” whispered Emilio. “And say nothing, for voices are heard on this side of the island.” The Mexican started down a dark, unlighted path cut out of the woods, a forest alleyway used only in daylight. And then, thinking about Emilio’s words, Kendrick realized what was missing. The sound of the wind and the crashing waves had all but vanished—voices would carry across the calm of these acres, and a helicopter could maneuver into its threshold with minimum difficulty.
The metal “garage” Emilio had referred to was an apt description, but it was far larger than any garage Evan had ever seen except for those outsized, sterilized padded structures housing an Arabian royal family’s various limousines. Conversely, this was an ugly mass of corrugated aluminum with several tractors, assorted gas-operated lawn mowers, chain saws and clipping machines, none useful because of the noise they would make. On the side wall and the floor below, however, were more practical objects. They included a row of gasoline cans, and above, on hooks and suspended between nails, axes, hatchets, scythes, long-handled wire cutters, machetes and telescoped rubber-handled tree clippers—all the tools required to hold back the tropical foliage from its incredibly swift takeover.
The decisions were minor, instinctive and simple. The meat cleaver went in favor of a hatchet and a machete—for both himself and Emilio. Added to these were the wire cutters, one full can of gasoline and one ten-foot-extension tree clipper. Everything else from the cabin remained in their pockets.
“The helicopter!” said Kendrick.
“There is a path joining the north and south roads below the generador. Hurry! The guards have reached the beaches by now and will soon start back.” They ran out of the gardeners’ warehouse and over to the first dirt road, their tools precariously held by belts, in their hands and under their clenched arms. With Emilio leading, they darted across into the border of high grass and worked their way down to the narrow path heading across the sloping hill. “Cigarrillo!” whispered the Mexican, shoving Evan back into the still reeds of grass. A bobbing lighted cigarette glowed as the guard trudged up the hill and passed them less than eight feet away. “Come!” cried Emilio softly as the guard reached the knoll above. Crouching, they raced to the north road; there was no sign of the second patrol, so they walked out and began their descent to the concrete helicopter pad.
The huge repainted military aircraft stood like a silent behemoth about to strike out at an enemy only it could see in the night. Taut heavy chains were looped around the landing mounts and anchored in cement; no sudden storms from the sea would move the chopper unless they were strong enough to tear it apart. Kendrick approached the enormous machine as Emilio stayed in the grass by the road watching for the return of the guard, prepared to warn his American companion. Evan studied the aircraft with only one thought in mind: Immobilize it and do so without making a sound loud enough to be carried up the quiet island slope. Neither could he use his flashlight; in the darkness the beam would be spotted.… Cables. On top under the rotor blades and in the tail assembly. Gripping first a door handle, then the frame of a window, he pulled himself up in front of the flight deck, the long-handled wire cutters protruding from his trousers. In seconds he had crawled over the pilot’s curving windshield to the top of the fuselage; unsteadily, cautiously, he made his way on his hands and knees to the base of the rotor machinery. He pulled out the wire cutters, stood up, and three minutes later had severed those cables he could see in the dark night light.
The whistle was sharp and brief! It was Emilio’s signal. The guard had come over the crest of the hill and would reach the helicopter pad above the beach in barely minutes. The engineer in Kendrick was not satisfied. Had he immobilized the aircraft or merely wounded it? He had to reach the tail assembly; it was his backup in this mechanical age where every machine that went airborne had backups after backups in case of in-flight malfunctions. He crawled down the fuselage as rapidly as possible without risking his balance and sliding off, plummeting twenty feet to the white concrete. He reached the sloping tail and could see nothing; everything was encased in metal … no, not everything! Straddling the sleek body while holding on to the rising tail, he leaned over and spotted two thick ropelike cables that branched off into the right aileron. Working furiously, his sweat dripping and rolling down the shiny metal, he could feel the wire cutters doing their work as succeeding strands of the top cable sprang loose. Suddenly there was a loud snap—too loud, a massive crack in the still night—as a whole louvered section of the aileron thumped down into a vertical position. He had done it; his backup was secure.
Running feet! Shouts from below. “¿Qúe cosa? ¡Quédese!” Beneath the tail assembly the guard stood on the concrete, his rifle angled up in his right arm aimed at Evan while his left hand reached for the radio alarm clipped to his belt.
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It could not happen! As if he had suddenly lost all balance, all control, Kendrick raised his arms as he slid off the fuselage, crashing the wire cutters down into the stock of the rifle. The guard started to cry out in pain as the weapon was whipped out of his arm to the ground, but before the scream could reach a crescendo Emilio was on him, crashing the blunt end of his hatchet into the man’s skull.
“Can you move?” the Mexican asked Evan, whispering. “We must leave here! Quickly! The other guard will run over to this side.”
Writhing on the concrete, Evan nodded his head and struggled to his feet, picking up the wire cutters and the rifle as he rose. “Get him out of here,” he said, instantly realizing that he did not have to give the order; Emilio was dragging the unconscious man across the helipad into the tall grass. Limping, his left ankle and his right knee burning with pain, Kendrick followed.
“I have made a mistake,” said the Mexican, shaking his head and still whispering. “We have only one chance.… I watched you as you walked. We can never reach the dock and the boats without being seen before the other guard will understand he has no compañero.” Emilio pointed to his oblivious countryman. “In the darkness I must be him, and get close enough before the other one realizes I am not.”
“He’ll shout first, ask you what happened. What’ll you say?”
“I stepped into the g
rass to relieve myself and struck a large sharp rock in my haste. I will limp as you are limping and offer to show him where I bleed.”
“Can you get away with it?”
“Pray to the Virgin that I can. Otherwise we both die.” The Mexican rose and slung the rifle over his shoulder. “One request, please,” he added. “This guarda is not a bad man, and he has family in El Suazal, where there is no work at all. Bind his legs and his arms and stuff his mouth with his own clothes. I cannot kill him.”
“Do you know who the other guard is?” asked Evan harshly.
“No.”
“Suppose you can’t kill him, either?”
“Why is it a problem? I am a strong fisherman from El Descanso when there are boats that will hire me. I can bind him myself—or bring back another compañero for us.”
The second option was not to be. No sooner had the limping Emilio reached the dirt road at the side of the helipad than the south guard came running down. As they drew closer there was a brief exchange in Spanish, then suddenly a vocal eruption from one of the two men and it was not the fisherman from El Descanso. Silence instantly followed and moments later Emilio returned.
“No compañero,” said Kendrick, not asking a question.
“That snarling rata would claim his mother is a whore if the policía paid him enough!”
“ ‘Would,’ as in the past tense?”
“No comprende.”
“He’s dead?”
“Dead, señor, and in the grass. Also, we have less than thirty minutes before the light comes up in the east.”
“Then let’s go … your friend is bound.”
“To the dock? To the boats?”
“Not yet, amigo. We have something else to do before we get there.”
“I tell you it will be light soon!”
“If I do things right, there’ll be a lot more light sooner than that. Get the gasoline and pick up the tree clippers. I can’t manage much more than what I’ve got.”
The Icarus Agenda Page 74