Hawaii Five-O - 2 - Terror in the Sun

by Michael Avallone

  “I really don’t see why you have come to me, McGarrett. Really—Father’s in danger, I know—but what do you hope to accomplish by talking to me?”

  McGarrett took a beat before answering.

  “Myra Endore. Lovely, woman-about-the-world, irresponsible, spoiled brat, suddenly barges all the way from the latest party in London to cry on Daddy’s shoulder about him being in danger. Or something. Now, if you were me and you knew what I know, wouldn’t it be a better than fifty-fifty guess that Myra Endore has some idea at least of what her father is doing in Hawaii? Or does she just take planes and fly ten thousand miles for kicks?”

  “She could,” Myra Endore said defiantly. “She has.”

  “But she didn’t this time.”

  She tried to glare him down, saw it didn’t work, and sat up on the lounge, putting delectable knees together. Dorkin, had he known she was in town, would never have gone out looking for another woman.

  “No—” she admitted slowly. “I see what you mean.”

  “Miss Endore, anything you may know will help me. You won’t be violating security protocol, either. I promise you. Governors and ambassadors are hamstrung by regulations. Procedures. But I’m not. I do my job best when I’ve got some slight notion what the hell is going on.”

  Suddenly, emotionally, with a return of an easily buried femininity, Rogers Endore’s daughter plunged into the whole yarn about the overheard conversation at Covent Garden. McGarrett listened carefully, a hunch player vindicated once again by a hunch paying off handsomely.

  “I knew it,” he sighed. “It was the only thing that made sense. The next question is what is your father involved in actually and why is he waiting here in Oahu for three days before getting to the mainland?”

  “That I don’t know either,” Myra Endore said huskily, her slender hands locked in a helpless, appealing clasp around those fine knees. “He never tells me anything that might get me hurt. Dear old Dad.”

  “He’s a great man,” McGarrett said. “Don’t knock it.” He rose to his feet and her eyes flickered unhappily.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back to my room. He’s probably home from the University. Time I began protecting him. Five-O has sort of let him down today.”

  “No fault of yours,” she murmured slowly. Her eyes swept up to his face. “You do take your work seriously, don’t you McGarrett?”

  “Is there any other way?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure. What you said about my being irresponsible . . . I’m not bad as all that, you know. Oh, I’m spoiled. Who wouldn’t be with what I’ve had since I was old enough to suck a dummy tit. But really McGarrett—don’t be all that in a hurry to judge me. Or to leave.” She moistened her red lips with the tip of her tongue.

  “I was just stating the apparent fact. Nothing personal.”

  “And are you ever personal?”

  “Don’t toy with me, Miss Endore. If you want me to kiss you, stand up and take it like a woman. I’m not made of stone, you know.”

  She blinked started to laugh, then stopped. McGarrett’s close, compelling look stopped her. Slowly, she rose from the lounge. The long, cool arms went around McGarrett’s neck. Her face only had to tilt upward about an inch or so to meet his mouth. Her eyes, deep stirring sending a woman’s messages, were earnest and thoroughly intoxicating. The scent of her hair and body was potently sweet.

  “McGarrett?” It was a low whisper.

  “Miss Endore?” he whispered back.

  “Call me Myra.”

  “Myra.”

  Swiftly, she pressed her vibrant eagerness against him.

  Her lips closed over his. The promise of the thin peignoir was fulfilled. McGarrett pawed it out of the way, parting it, plastering himself against the tall lovely redhead who was a diplomat’s daughter. A diplomat facing extermination by assassin or assassins unknown.

  What the hell, he thought.

  Outside, along the darkened face of the Kahala Hilton, some ten floors above the plaza below where palm trees danced in the breeze of early morning, Benjamin Bygraves had begun his stroll toward destruction. He wore a dark sweatshirt, black trousers and shoes, and his face was nearly invisible under a layer of ebony shoe polish. The skull head was hard to see. Bygraves maneuvered along a strip of stone coping no wider than the palm of his hand. He was working toward the shadowy recess of an abutment in the building’s façade where he meant to start his fly-climb up to Rogers Endore’s suite of rooms.

  The night sky was moon-bright but even the moon occasional slipped behind a cloud to darken the universe of Honolulu. From the fire-lit beach, the distinctive sounds of electric guitars throbbed upward. The breakers hitting the endless shoreline added a counterpoint of rhythm. But even the last of the beachcombers, picnickers and barbecue fiends were beginning to roll up their blankets, repack their baskets and troop wearily toward their cars and motorbikes. The fortunate ones, registered at the Kahala Hilton, were lingering over the fires, drinking in the eternal wonder of an evening under the stars in Hawaii.

  Benjamin Bygraves did not look down.

  His eyes were on the next foot of coping for his black shoes, the next handhold for his fingers. The leather harness belt was as close to his body as his skin was.

  The time was one fifteen.

  Before midnight that day, the four remaining assassins had had a disturbed conference in the suite of rooms which Benjamin Bygraves was now putting behind him as the suite of Rogers Endore beckoned ahead. A conference which had been necessary. And revealing.

  Two of the assassins were missing. And their absence was a fairly frightening thing.

  “Tornier blew it,” Bellini roared angrily, stamping around the suite. “McGarrett stopped him outside of Five-O. A first-class Donnybrook. The three of us went out for supper and a look at some mountain pass. Everybody downstairs was talking about it. This McGarrett seems to be a local hero.”

  Von Litz and Mark Tillingham were unhappy about Tornier. Bygraves could see it in their faces. Fear of apprehension, fear of their careers ending. Fear of failure, the cardinal sin.

  “Do you think Tornier will talk?” Tillingham pleaded with Bygraves. Von Litz growled an oath in German.

  “No, he will not,” Bygraves said easily. “The code prevents him. If he did, he might as well swallow an L-pill. Don’t worry. Tornier is out of things but the police will learn nothing from him. Tornier is a good man. He understands.”

  Bellini stopped pacing.

  “Hey. Isn’t too bad at that. The split is now five ways. Who gets Tornier’s key?”

  Bygraves looked at him, his death’s-head, patient and fully cognizant of the mafioso type intellect. Bellini had the blood of the Borgias in his veins, all right.

  “Another division for us all, Bellini. Tornier’s share will be divided among us, unless he effects a miracle and escapes the police.”

  “Fat chance.” Bellini grinned. “Either way, his cover is blown. Think they’ll trace him back to us? This hotel?”

  “Only if he talks,” Bygraves said. “In any event, we shall be out of here tomorrow. I think.”

  Tillingham nervously took out his slim, dark pistol and brushed the barrel. Von Litz stalked to the bar set up in one corner of the room to mix himself a drink.

  “Forget Tornier,” he grumbled. “If he failed, he failed. But where is our good friend, Igor Dorkin?”

  “He was with Tornier,” Bellini said, frowning. “Do you suppose? No, Dorkin’s a cool head. Probably out taking in some night life. Or a woman.”

  It was late enough in the evening but still too early for the news of State Trooper William Alanaka’s marksmanship to have reached the hotel grapevine.

  Benjamin Bygraves was unperturbed by it all.

  “Whether or not Dorkin returns tonight is immaterial. You gentlemen have only to implement what Tornier and Dorkin have already accomplished. Five-O is sadly decimated and McGarrett is playing a lone hand. Finish him tomorrow. I
don’t want him underfoot when I make my move for Mr. Rogers Endore.”

  But he had lied to them once again.

  He had planned to exterminate Rogers Endore that very night.

  The time had run out.

  Saigon demanded a quick solution to the problem.

  Benjamin Bygraves meant to provide that solution without the knowledge or assistance of his crew of assassins. In political intrigues, everyone is expendable.

  Especially assassins. Outside professionals, who worked only for money. Nothing else.

  Benjamin Bygraves thoroughly hated the Messrs. Dorkin, Tornier, Von Litz, Tillingham and Bellini.

  If the remaining three men had known that, none of them would have slept very soundly that night.

  But they did.

  And Beniamin Bygraves crept along the face of the Kahala Hilton to finish his promised task.

  On the way back from the University of Hawaii, the Governor’s car had suffered an uncommon flat tire. The motorcycle escort and entourage did not return to the Kahala Hilton until after midnight. The Governor had worried about the flat but instant repair revealed a sharp nail and nothing subversive or intentional. Endore had laughed at the situation. But finally, close on one o’clock in the morning, the Governor had safely deposited the famous Briton in his hotel room. Endore’s talk at the University had been a great success. It had been a moving, dignified address which the huge auditorium had taken to its heart. The Governor could not recall such an ovation for a visitor.

  Completely exhausted and bone-weary, Endore retired for the night. Carraway and Company remained on duty in the hall and foyer, ever on the alert. Rogers Endore had resisted the temptation to call his daughter on the house phone to see if she was over her sulk. He decided to call her first thing in the morning, have breakfast with her and see to Carraway’s finding her a reservation on the next plane out. She was only in the way.

  Poor girl. Probably sleeping. It would have been a crime to disturb her.

  Myra Endore was sleeping all right.

  With a man.

  It was not a beauty sleep.

  Milady was getting her jollies.

  8. THE FALLING STAR

  There was a terrace outside Rogers Endore’s suite. A wide, pillared veranda complete with beach chairs and table. Tall potted palms decorated each corner. The French doors were open, allowing the moonlight to streak into the bedroom. The nearest portico was some twenty feet to either side. As the moon played a racing game of tag with scurrying clouds, the tall shadow of Benjamin Bygraves sprang into view, gaining the floor of the terrace as soundlessly as any cat. There would be no need for glass cutters. Within the bedroom, beyond the refreshing breeze infiltrating on a quiet sleeper, nothing moved. Palms rustled, brushed by the offshore wind. Far off on the waters, a vessel of some kind sent a column of smoke into the starry sky.

  Benjamin Bygraves examined the interior of the bedroom from a corner of the terrace. He was merged with the shadowy outline of the potted palm at that spot. He waited a full five minutes before slipping into the suite proper, crouched, tense, aware as any house cat fearful of betraying himself to the mouse. The furnishings of the room: the chairs, tables, wall decorations and bed assumed a more natural outline as his eyes, accustomed to darkness, penetrated the tableau. On an upright bookcase to the left, the luminous Roman numerals of a traveling clock, glowing in the gloom, seemed eerie and unreal. In the indefinite mass of the bed, a lumped, distorted figure lay, indescribably bulky, indicating the sleeping position of Rogers Endore. The tall shadow of Benjamin Bygraves moved to the bed. He could now make out the faint, scratchy breathing of Endore, define the strong hawk nose of the man, face turned upward toward the ceiling. Bygraves did not have time to think about it.

  Death first and then he could search, at his ease, for the five important slips of paper.

  Now he moved stealthily to the bedroom door, which was open. He merged with the frame of the barrier, peering around it. His eyes swept over the outer room. There was no one present. No agent or guard on duty to mind the great man. It was strange, but not too unusual. With the hallway guarded, Endore safely inside, who would expect danger from a terrace ten floors above the plaza? Nobody would. They would expect a threat when Endore was in the lobby or out on the blazing streets. But here in the very heart of the security setup, who would imagine an attack?

  Bygraves turned back toward the bedroom, facing the place where Endore lay. He might have been a large murky bat ready to pounce. He flexed his gloved hands, walking slowly, silently toward the bed. Endore barely moved. He might have been cut from bronze.

  The moon vanished behind a cloud again and fresh darkness obscured the bed. Bygraves waited. Then he moved once more. He drew no more than a yard away from the sleeping man.

  Swiftly, unerringly, he reached down and his talented, murderous hands closed around the throat of Rogers Endore.

  Endore awakened like a man coming to life with a dash of cold water flung in his face. His eyes popped, shining with terror, alarm and utter shock.

  In that momentous second of Life and Death, he recognized the face of the man called The Undertaker.

  Gloom, shoe polish, black costume and all.

  The death’s head of Benjamin Bygraves was unmistakable at a distance of inches.

  “You—!” Rogers Endore managed to say. It was the only word he was capable of saying as the Undertaker’s great hands proceeded to throttle him.

  “Yes,” Benjamin Bygraves’ hoarse whisper was like the spectral chorus in a graveyard, “this is how it ends, Rogers—”

  The swiftly sequential events of the next few minutes were all of a piece. Headlong, tumultuous and impossible to follow. Something that Rogers Endore would remember for the rest of his natural life, should he ever leave Oahu alive.

  There was a slam of sound from the outside room, running feet, and a sudden thunder of noises. Dimly, in a dream, he felt the cruel fingers at his throat give way; a hullabaloo of shouting and rushing bodies. He pulled himself erect, batting his eyes against the abrupt glare of lights that blindingly flooded the room. Through a combined haze of fear, relief and incomprehension, he saw Carraway and McGarrett flinging out to the terrace, guns drawn, figures flying. It was all too quick and unreal, as if he might have ventured into a nightmare and was coming out of it slowly. Had he really seen Morley or only imagined him? He felt for his throat; no, no mistake. He could scarcely breathe and his flesh was on fire. His Adam’s apple flamed with agony when he touched it, sending a sharp pain arcing diagonally down his left shoulder.

  A close call, all the way.

  Carraway and McGarrett were coming back. Carraway, looking redfaced and sheepish, had fairly attacked the telephone and was barking commands into it. McGarrett, the tall cool man from Five-O, was staring soberly down at him, holstering the shining blue pistol he had carried.

  “You all right, sir?”

  “Fine—I—don’t know what to say—what is all this—?”

  “Can I get you a glass of water?”

  “No, no—” A flood of anger and impatience surged in Rogers Endore. “Carraway, come away from that idiotic instrument and tell me what this is all about!”

  Carraway lowered his voice, said something else into the transmitter and marched away from the phone. His face was contrite and apologetic.

  “Never mind, sir. He can’t get far. Got all the entrances and exits blocked now. That was flaming close. Thanks, Mr. McGarrett. If anything had happened to the Governor while he was under my eye, I’d of gone for the rope, so help me.”

  Rogers Endore lay back against the headboard of the bed, closed his eyes and waited for his heart to stop palpitating. Then he opened his eyes again. McGarrett and Carraway were flanking him. There was bewilderment and wonder in McGarrett’s face. Carraway, his pocked face sympathetic, was almost smiling, so obviously relieved that Endore was alive.

  Endore composed himself.

  “I was asleep—I woke up—hand
s at my throat. He was wearing gloves—how could he have gotten in—?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question, Mr. Endore,” McGarrett said quietly. “The front door was locked when we let ourselves in. It took less than a minute to get in here. We came because we heard your voices whispering in here. I don’t see how our intruder got out. He had only seconds to run out on the terrace. He’s not there now. Not hiding or anything. He’s vanished. The only way he could have gotten off this floor is by jumping to the street below or walking across the sheer face of the building to the next terrace. Up or down. And that’s at least twenty feet either way. Nobody in a circus could manage it.”

  Rogers Endore slowly swallowed.

  “And—”

  “Nobody’s on the street below. No fallen body. No crowds. A well-lighted plaza. Which means, we may have a human fly on our hands. Or somebody with the necessary equipment for it. There are such things.”

  Endore shook his head. “Incredible. And what may I ask brought you here in the nick of time, as they say in the cinemas?” He directed the question mainly to Carraway.

  The big man shifted his feet uncomfortably. “My fault, sir. I’m afraid.”

  “Your fault?”

  “Yes,” Carraway said. “Mr. McGarrett met me in the hall outside, checking up as it were. When I told him you were in here alone, without a bodyguard, he chewed me out proper. So much, sir, that I was going to come in with him for a look-see and then park myself out there in the other room.”

  Endore swung his eyes to McGarrett.

  “And may I ask why you thought it necessary for someone to be in the room with me. Mr. McGarrett? Not that I’m not grateful, mind you. Just curious.”

  McGarrett shrugged.

  “I play hunches, Mr. Endore. Too much has happened today. You’re only going to be in Honolulu a prescribed amount of time. Also, something Miss Endore told me today.” He didn’t think it proper to tell the father that he was but twenty minutes out of Myra Endore’s bed.