Five minutes later he heard the heavy breathing and shuffling footsteps of Tommy Wing off to his right Chant turned, crouched down behind the wall on the opposite side of the path, waited. Thirty seconds later, Hammerhead—dragging his broken foot behind him and using the Uzi as a crutch—came lurching along the path.
As Hammerhead reached the juncture of the corridors, Chant abruptly stepped out in front of him. Hammerhead’s eyes went wide and he opened his mouth to shout as he tried to bring the Uzi up into firing position—a fraction of a second too late, for Chant’s right hand, the fingers stiff and hard as a knife blade, had already come up into his gut Hammerhead’s breath exploded from his lungs and he jackknifed forward. Chant grabbed the Uzi with his left hand, clutched the back of Hammerhead’s shirt with his right, and eased the man quietly to the ground.
Chant casually rolled the doubled-over man onto his back, then reached into his pockets and took out the green capsules of GTN.
“Sweet dreams, Tommy,” Chant murmured as he placed one knee on the other man’s chest and dropped the capsules into the open, gasping mouth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“If it’s Sinclair who comes out of there,” Blake said tensely, “kill him immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” Uwe von Deck said through lips that felt stiff.
Both men started when there was the sound of a burst of automatic-weapon fire from a section of the labyrinth to their left, perhaps two hundred yards away Then there was silence for long minutes, finally broken by a faint shuffling sound, coming closer. There was a pause, then more shuffling. A few moments later, Tommy Wing lurched into sight in a corridor of the labyrinth below. Wing did not look up at them, but continued to stare straight ahead as he reached the end of the labyrinth, then used the Uzi in his hands as a kind of staff to help him climb the embankment to the bridge.
“Well, Tommy,” R. Edgar Blake said, as surprised as von Deck to see who was emerging from the maze, “I see you’ve managed to come up a winner. I’m afraid there’s not much of you left that would be of use to me, but I certainly give you credit for killing Sinclair—even it you did have to fill him full of bullets to do it.”
Uwe von Deck frowned slightly as he watched Wing continue forward on the bridge without speaking Something seemed wrong, von Deck thought, although he did not know what unless it was the curiously vacant expression on the hobbling man’s face.
“Stop him,” von Deck said to his men.
Two guards immediately stepped in front of R. Edgar Blake as Hammerhead shuffled on across the bridge toward the old man. Others leaped for Wing, but they were too late to stop his long arms from swinging up and hitting the two guards in front of Blake in the chest with terrific force, knocking them backward and off their feet. Blake, his eyes wide with horror, flung up his frail arms to ward off his attacker, but Tommy Wing brushed them aside like matchsticks Wing’s long arms wrapped themselves around the old man and drew him closer Then Wing’s mouth opened and he lowered his head.…
Uwe von Deck sprang forward, grabbed an Uzi from one of the fallen guards. He put the muzzle of the gun directly against one of Tommy Wing’s glassy green eyes and pulled the trigger. Hammerhead’s head disappeared in a geyser of blood and his body slumped to the stone bridge.
Blake’s head was back, and he was staring at the blue sky with unseeing eyes as blood pumped from the gaping hole in his throat where his jugular had been. Finally, he crumpled over Tommy Wing’s headless corpse, twitched once, and was dead. Uwe von Deck and the other guards stared in stunned silence at the two bodies in the center of the bridge.
“Gentlemen,” Chant said softly.
With the others, von Deck wheeled around, his gun aimed at the figure who had somehow mysteriously appeared behind them and was casually standing on top of the bridge balustrade. Uwe von Deck’s finger tightened on the trigger of his Uzi, but he did not fire.
“Unless I’m mistaken,” Chant continued matter-of-factly, “you men are now left without gainful employment. I believe many of you will find the Swiss most unsympathetic to unemployed aliens I suspect you’ll be on your way out of the country twenty-four hours after the Swiss learn of this incident—unless, of course, something can be done to make sure you keep working. In fact, I have a proposition.”
Uwe von Deck abruptly lowered his gun and flicked on the safety switch He glanced at the others, who did the same.
“All right, Sinclair,” von Deck said. “We’re listening.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Jan sat beside Duane Insolers in the passenger seat of the Mercedes-Benz that had been placed at their disposal, a smile on her face and her heart singing. The sun was just setting over Lake Geneva; in the distance, coming closer, the castle of R. Edgar Blake was uncharacteristically ablaze with light.
Grim-faced, Insolers drove through the open, unguarded gate of the castle grounds and up the wide drive to the end, where two uniformed guards were waiting for them. Insolers was not searched, which made Jan uneasy; the CIA operative had seemed very tense ever since the car and accompanying message had been delivered, and she was not at all sure what he intended to do. They were ushered into the castle, up a flight of stairs to the library.
“Chant!” Jan cried with joy when she saw the tall man with iron-colored eyes and hair standing across the room, talking with Uwe von Deck and three other guards.
“Hello, Jan,” Chant said quietly, coming to her and taking her in his arms.
Jan rested her head on Chant’s chest, then started and cried out when she heard the rattle of guns being raised and cocked She quickly turned, was startled to see Duane Insolers, feet apart and braced, with both of his hands on a revolver aimed at Chant Around the room, all of the guards stood with their guns aimed at Insolers.
“Put the gun down. Insolers,” Chant said evenly as he pushed Jan away from him.
“I told you the truce was over, Sinclair.”
“And I heard you; I didn’t hear you tell me you were feeling suicidal.”
“You’re putting me into a tight box, Sinclair.”
“No. Consider the fact that if you kill me, a lot of nasty secrets are going to be turned loose into the world.”
Sweat appeared on Duane Insoler’s face, and his jaw muscles clenched “So you somehow managed to get to Blake and kill him,” he said in a tight voice “And now you plan to take over his operations Already, you have these men working for you.”
“Yes,” Chant replied easily. “No, and no.”
“What?”
“Yes, Blake’s dead. No, I don’t intend to have anything to do with R. Edgar Blake’s operations—I have enough problems and interests of my own to keep me busy. And no, Commander von Deck and his men are not working for me.”
“Then wh—?”
“Commander?” Chant said, turning to von Deck. “Who do you work for?”
“Lady Rawlings, sir,” von Deck replied without taking his eyes or gun off Insolers. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“What?” Jan looked from Chant to von Deck, to Insolers. “Lady who?”
“Put the gun away, Insolers,” Chant said. “I certainly didn’t bring you here on this lovely evening so that either of us could die.”
Slowly, the gun came down “What the hell is going on, Sinclair?”
“I have a proposal for you to carry back to your people, and it’s non-negotiable. Blake’s computer and his files are in another wing of the castle; nobody here has checked them out—yet. Experts from the CIA and the other Western intelligence agencies will be given access and permission to destroy compromising information concerning their respective operations, past or present. As insurance, a document will be prepared, and signed by all the respective heads.”
“Insurance for what?”
“The document will be held by the countess here to make sure all of you live up to your end of the bargain.”
“What bargain?”
“You people are going to be doing a
little rewriting of history It seems Lady Rawlings here is R. Edgar Blake’s widow, and the sole beneficiary of his estate—all of it, except for twenty million dollars the estate will be paying me for my time, trouble, and expenses. It will be up to the various intelligence agencies to come up with the necessary documents to prove that the countess now controls all of Blake’s worldwide operations, as well as his fortune. Oh—I’d also appreciate it if all the men who were sent here to kill me were shipped back to wherever they came from. They can look for me some other day.”
Insolers blanched. “Is that all you want?”
“That’s it.”
“Oh, my God,” Jan whispered to no one in particular. “Oh, my God.”
“It’s impossible, Sinclair.”
“Not for you to decide.”
“They’ll never go along with it.”
“You could be right—in which case, newspapers around the world are going to have a field day, aren’t they?”
“You’d release the information in those files?”
“Believe it—and make your superiors believe it. I understand that it will take time to untangle records, forge documents, and so on. However, the intelligence agencies have twenty-four hours to deliver a letter of intent, along with twenty million dollars for me in negotiable Swiss bonds—an advance from the CIA against the estate. If you’re not back here at this time tomorrow with the letter and the bonds, the computer starts whirring and I start making calls to various news organizations to report what I’m finding out. Go, Insolers; tell them what I’ve told you.”
“I’ll deliver the message,” Insolers said with a shrug, then turned and headed for the door.
“Insolers,” Chant said. “Hold on; there’s one more thing.”
Insolers stopped, turned “Another demand?”
Chant walked to the man, removed a manila envelope from his pocket, and handed it to the CIA operative “Your three-grade promotion.”
Insolers tore open the envelope, removed the papers from inside and read them with increasing bewilderment showing on his face “What the hell is this, Sinclair?”
“It’s a scenario of everything that’s happened between you and me from our first meeting in New York until now. Memorize it Jan will back up everything it says Do you think that will impress your superiors?”
“But this isn’t the way it happened at all The Count—Jan was never your hostage, and I didn’t rescue her. I never blocked anything you planned to do in New York or Houston, and I certainly didn’t stop you here. This puts you in a terrible light.”
Chant laughed. “Remember that I have a reputation to uphold.”
Insolers slowly tore up the papers, dropped the pieces on the floor. “I don’t need to slander you or consent to lies to get promoted, Sinclair.”
“Suit yourself,” Chant said with a shrug “The Company could use men like you at the top.”
“I’ll put you in a prison cell, Sinclair That would get me a promotion.”
“It certainly would.”
Insolers suddenly grinned. “But some other day.”
“Some other day.”
“Oh, my God,” Jan said.
“So, Countess,” Chant said, turning to Jan when Insolers had left the room. “You once told me how frustrated you were at not being able to help people as much as you wanted to. In a very few days, if I’m not mistaken, you’ll control billions of dollars and a global industrial empire I assume you’ll find a few good works to do with your money and power.”
Jan swallowed hard, shook her head. When she spoke, her voice squeaked. “Chant, I can’t run this … thing. I don’t have enough business knowledge—and probably not enough business sense—to run a newsstand.”
“I’ll send you some good advisors. Oh, by the way, I took the liberty of assuring Commander von Deck and all his men that you’d be giving them hefty raises.”
“Chant, you really think the CIA and the others will agree to all this?”
“Yep—especially when they find out I’m involved. They’ll try to pull a few stunts in the next twenty-four hours; when the stunts don’t work, Insolers will show up with the letter and my money.”
“I don’t believe you would release those secrets.”
“It depends what they are. In any case, sometimes what people believe you are, or will do, is far more important than what you actually are, or what you will actually do. They’ll make the deal.”
“But you won’t be part of the deal,” Jan said softly, her eyes misting. “Will I ever see you again?”
Chant smiled, squeezed her hand. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. Incidentally, I have a wheelchair-bound man I’d like you to hire. For openers, I think you’ll find him very useful in defusing the land mines in the labyrinth, and any other booby traps Blake has planted around this place. He can work with von Deck.”
“Of course Oh, my God.”
Chant turned to von Deck. “Commander, is there anything to eat in this place?”
Uwe von Deck grinned. “There certainly is, Mr. Sinclair. In fact, I believe you and Lady Rawlings will be most impressed with the castle’s food larder and wine cellar I’ll call over to the kitchen staff now and make arrangements for dinner.”
“Make that dinner in two hours, Uwe,” Jan said, then leaned close to Chant and whispered, “Do you suppose we can find a bedroom?”
Turn the page to continue reading from the Chant Series
ONE
Something dead and rotting that once might have been human, a loser in Amsterdam’s extensive lottery in international crime, floated past him in the canal. The man others called Chant ducked away from the balloon-bloated corpse, then treaded water while he adjusted the straps of the waterproof backpack he wore over his black rubber wet suit. Then he resumed swimming across the wide canal, using a powerful breaststroke that propelled him through the garbage-strewn, midnight water as silently as a tidal ripple from the open sea a half mile away.
When he reached the grease-slick waterline on the stone base of the four-story, wood-frame warehouse that was his target, the man with the iron-colored eyes and hair again treaded water while he unlooped a length of thin nylon rope from around his neck; attached to one end of the rope was a lightweight but strong carbon-alloy steel grappling hook. Supporting himself in the water with a lazy but very powerful scissors kick, he leaned back and began to swing the grappling hook over his head, gradually letting out rope and increasing velocity until the hook whistled just above the surface of the water in a circle that was almost seven feet in diamater. A powerful kick and pull with his left arm raised his body out of the water almost to his waist as he changed the angle of his swing slightly and released the rope. The hook soared up into the night, arced across the face of the full moon, and landed on the roof, clearing a three-foot-high cement cornice.
Chant gently tugged on the rope until the hook caught, then tested the rope with a series of increasingly strong pulls. Finally, satisfied that the hook was securely anchored, he gripped the rope with both his gloved hands, planted his feet against the side of the building, and hauled his six-foot, six-inch body out of the water. Then, with considerable speed and little apparent effort, he “walked” up the side of the building, dropped over the cornice, and pulled the rope up after him.
He stripped off the wet suit and threw it aside, then opened the backpack and took out a set of neatly folded clothes. Within less than a minute he was dressed in a warm black turtleneck sweater, black seaman’s cap, black, loose-fitting slacks, and black sneakers. Again he looped the rope and grappling hook around his neck, picked up the backpack, and moved silently across the tarred pebbles of the rooftop, keeping low so as not to be silhouetted against the moon or the garish, neon glow of Amsterdam’s night sky. He reached a skylight with dirt-encrusted windows, knelt to examine the ancient, rusted padlock that held the cover in place. Within moments he had picked the lock, opened the cover just wide enough to let his body through, then swung down onto a n
arrow, railed catwalk that ran around the perimeter of the huge warehouse, just beneath the ceiling. He squatted in the darkness, bracing himself against a steel railing, and studied the activity in the cavernous space below him.
A tractor trailer had been pulled up to the open bay doors of the warehouse, and three of Hugo VanderKlaven’s thugs were sweating and cursing as they loaded crates of adulterated antibiotics into the truck. VanderKlaven himself was not there, although he should have been in order to deliver a final payment of a million pounds sterling in exchange for falsified shipping documents, Customs seals and bills of lading, to be delivered by a man VanderKlaven believed to be a corrupt South African official in charge of health services in the black “homelands.” In the pharmaceutical mogul’s place was a thin, balding man known as Acid because of his propensity for killing his victims—VanderKlaven’s enemies—by pouring muriatic acid into their eyes and ears, and down their throats. Acid was standing by himself in an aisle between stacks of crates, sipping dark, Dutch coffee from a ceramic mug. A man dressed in stained workman’s clothes whom Chant had never seen before and who Chant assumed was the driver of the truck stood off to one side, smoking a cigarette and looking bored.
So Rolf Bakker, an identity Chant had created for himself with painstaking care, a fictional Afrikaaner he performed in a halting manner with a slight lisp, was to have been killed off instead of paid off this evening, Chant thought with a grim smile. It was a hell of a way for VanderKlaven to do business, and was going to cause Chant some inconvenience—but not a great deal. This operation had been relatively easy and, once it had been set up, not even very time-consuming; the two months he had spent in South Africa researching those strands of VanderKlaven’s web of death and corruption, stalking and finally killing the Dutchman’s original Afrikaaner contact and establishing himself as “Rolf Bakker” had been more like a welcome and much-needed vacation than work. Chant, as “Rolf Bakker,” had already collected a million pounds sterling as his down payment, and he would visit VanderKlaven at his leisure, at a later date, to collect the rest of his money along with interest that would be the last the obese man with three-piece suits, diamond rings, and death for sale would ever pay.
Code of Blood Page 19