Code of Blood

by George C. Chesbro

  Chant straightened up and, silent as a great, stalking jungle cat, moved around the catwalk until he was in a position directly over Acid. He draped the straps of the backpack over his left shoulder, took the rope from around his neck, and fashioned the free end into a lasso. Then he leaned out over the railing in the darkness near the ceiling and slowly began to lower the rope, twirling it slightly to keep the lasso loop extended. Finally he let it drop; the loop dropped cleanly over the thin man’s balding head, landing with a light slap on the concrete floor. Instantly, Chant yanked on the rope, tightening the loop around the man’s ankles, snatching him off his feet and pulling him up into the air Chant anchored the rope by twirling the end with the grappling hook around a girder, then rolled over the railing and dropped toward the bright lights four stones below him.

  Startled by Acid’s panicked shriek, the three thugs dropped their handcarts and, along with the driver, glanced first at Acid dangling and struggling in the air upside down, then into the darkness over his head.

  What they saw was a huge man, dressed all in black and with cold, iron-colored eyes, dropping down the rope toward them as smoke rose from the leather gloves on his hands.

  The three men grabbed for their guns, but Chant had already reached the bottom, braking his descent on Acid’s up-turned soles, dropping off the rope and rolling on the floor. Bullets kicked up chips of stone near his head and spine, but then he was on his feet and spinning, smashing his backpack into the face of one gunman, disabling the second man with a powerful side kick to the solar plexus, knocking the third unconscious with a forearm strike across the jaw.

  Acid had managed to pull his revolver from the shoulder holster inside his jacket, but he was unable to aim properly from his upside-down position; he was firing wildly, the recoil from the large handgun making him spin and sway as he hung by his ankles from the rope. Bullets whined in the air, richocheting off the floor and steel support girders of the warehouse, smashing crates and the bottles inside. Amber-colored fluid splashed over Chant, the driver, and the three unconscious gunmen. Chant shrugged his right shoulder, and a shining, star-shaped blade fell into his palm. He flicked his wrist, and the shuriken whistled through the air, embedding itself in the thin man’s right wrist. Acid screamed in pain, and his gun dropped from his hand to clatter on the concrete floor.

  “Stay!” Chant commanded unnecessarily to the ashen-faced driver, who was crouched down between two stacks of crates, his arms over his head.

  Chant walked over to Acid, who was still swaying and gripping his injured wrist as he stared at Chant, his muddy brown eyes wide with astonishment and terror. Blood flowed from his wrist and dripped off his fingertips, forming an intricate pattern of dots and splashes on the floor below his head. Without speaking, Chant reached out and casually plucked the shuriken from the man’s wristbone, where it had stuck. As Acid shrieked again, Chant wiped the blade on the man’s jacket, then put it into his pocket. He picked Acid’s gun off the floor, patted the man’s clothing until he felt the round, hard shape of what he was looking for, then used the stock of the revolver to smash the glass vial inside the man’s pants pocket.

  Acid’s screaming grew in pitch and volume as the muriatic acid that had been in the vial ate through his clothes and flesh, smoking as it oozed down from his groin, across his belly, through the curve of his throat and onto his face. He died soon after the acid entered his eyes.

  “Who’re you?” Chant asked in Dutch as he strolled back to where the driver was still crouched on the floor.

  “Holy shit,” the man replied in a hoarse voice.

  Chant suppressed a smile. “That’s your name?”

  The man gave his name, then slowly straightened up and swallowed hard. “Who are you?”

  “You the driver of this truck?”

  The man nodded nervously.

  “You work for VanderKlaven?”

  “No. The truck is mine. I was hired to transport this stuff to the docks and see that it was loaded. We were waiting for some guy who was supposed to show up with papers that would get the load through Customs.”

  “Does that sound like normal procedure to you?”

  “Money isn’t that easy to come by, mister. I wasn’t asking questions. Look, I ain’t no part of—”

  “You know what’s in those crates?”

  The man wrinkled his nose. “It smells like medicine.”

  “You know where it was supposed to be shipped?”

  “South Africa, I think.”

  “What else do you know about this shipment and what was supposed to happen here tonight? Don’t try to lie to me.”

  “I don’t know nothin’ more than what I told you, mister. That’s God’s honest truth. I don’t want to die here tonight, mister—not for the few lousy bucks I was supposed to make.”

  Chant studied the other man’s face, decided that he was telling the truth; he would not have profited from the sale and distribution of the adulterated antibiotics, and he had not known that a man was to be killed. “You can go,” Chant said curtly. “Leave the truck here. Wait exactly one half hour, then call the local office of Interpol. Ask to speak to Inspector Bo Wahlstrom. Tell the inspector that John Sinclair sends his compliments, and there’ll be something for him in the cab of your truck, which I’ll park down the street. Do as you’re told, and you’ll get your truck back.”

  “You want me to call the police?”

  Chant smiled thinly. “No; just Interpol. Hugo VanderKlaven’s operations aren’t exactly news to the Amsterdam Police.”

  “You John Sinclair?”

  “Go! Remember: a half hour.”

  The man bolted away, squeezing through the narrow space between the truck bay and the warehouse doors and running off down the deserted street.

  Chant waited until the echo of the driver’s footsteps had died away, then turned back to examine the three gunmen. The one he had hit in the face with his backpack was just beginning to stir, and Chant clipped him on the jaw, knocking him unconscious again. From his backpack Chant removed a long, thin, glass pipette in a cushioned case. Taking the pipette in his hand, he snapped off the end, watching as a clear, viscous fluid began to ooze out of the open jagged end. Then he knelt down beside the man closest to him, turned the man’s head, and slowly carved a wound just behind the man’s earlobe, carefully working the thick fluid into the open cut with the broken end of the glass pipette. He repeated the procedure with the other two men, then threw the unconscious men into the back of the truck and locked the doors.

  He took a packet of documents from his backpack and carried them with him to the cab of the truck, where he taped the manila envelope beneath the dashboard. He drove the truck fifty yards down the street, parked it at the curb. He locked the doors when he got out, then threw the keys into the gutter.

  Back inside the warehouse, he walked down the aisle between two stacks of crates, then knelt and set the timer on the last of the items left in his backpack—a compact but very powerful satchel charge, plastique with the explosive force of a dozen sticks of dynamite. This done, he walked out of the warehouse, closing the doors behind him, then disappeared silently into the Amsterdam night.

  Ten minutes later a thunderous explosion shook the ground in the warehouse district, and a ball of orange fire lit up the sky as Hugo VanderKlaven’s warehouse and twenty million dollars worth of medically useless antibiotics disappeared in a storm of smoke and flame.

  TWO

  For more than two decades, since walking away from the war and out of the jungles of Southeast Asia, Chant had been hunted as an international criminal; for ten years he had been the world’s most wanted international criminal, and the hunt for him had been conducted with mounting frenzy and intensity. He was wanted by the police of a hundred cities, the governments of dozens of countries; he was wanted by Interpol, and he was wanted by the Americans. Especially the Americans.

  There was no doubt in Chant’s mind that the CIA and Interpol, separately
and in cooperation, spent an enormous amount of man hours and computer time gathering information at the sites of his operations, such as the one against Hugo VanderKlaven, even as they constantly monitored international telephone traffic with the help of America’s ubiquitous, enormously powerful National Security Administration with its global web of satellites and dish antennae.

  Chant knew better than to underestimate the danger posed by the worldwide, electronic net that had been cast for him, and so he took security measures of his own. Years before, he had learned that the most efficient security measures were usually the simplest, and one precaution he took was never, except under the most extraordinary circumstances, to make international telephone calls to, or from, his homes. He had three principal residences—a castle in Northern Ireland, a country estate in England, and a chalet in Zermatt, Switzerland, looking out over the face of the Matterhorn. Each of the residences was listed under a different, carefully constructed identity, and staffed by personnel who owed their lives to Chant and would gladly have sacrificed themselves to protect him. Whenever Chant was away, engaged in an operation, important mail that arrived at any of his residences would be repacked and sent to him in care of a cover name at a local American Express office.

  On the morning after he had blown up Hugo VanderKlaven’s warehouse, Chant went to check “Rolf Bakker’s” mail at the American Express office. There had been nothing for him during the time he had been in Amsterdam, but this morning there were two items inside the same packet—a small, battered package wrapped in brown manila paper, and what appeared to be a letter from Gerard Patreaux, the head of the Amnesty, Inc. office in Geneva, and Chant’s friend.

  Chant examined the outside of the package, noting from its various postmarks that it had originally been mailed from Lima, Peru, and that it had been in the mails for more than a month. Chant recognized the handwriting as belonging to Harry Gray, an American investigator for Amnesty, Inc. and a friend of Chant’s dating back to the war in Southeast Asia. Gray, along with Gerard Patreaux, was one of perhaps two dozen completely trusted men and women who knew all of Chant’s residences, and could reach him on very short notice.

  Chant tore off the wrapping paper to find a small, white cardboard box. Inside the box, nestled in a soft bed of packing material, was what appeared to be an almost perfect black pearl—the largest Chant had ever seen. Chant turned the pearl in his fingers, examining its ebony surface and mysterious, milky depths under the fluorescent light above his head, then grunted softly and put the pearl in his pocket.

  There was a note—water-stained and barely legible.

  A lot more where this little sucker

  came from. Interested? Will be back

  in GN in a couple of days. Call me

  when you’re in town.

  H

  Chant tore up the note, threw it and the box into a wastebasket as he felt a sense of foreboding well in his heart. Then he opened the letter from Gerard Patreaux. The message inside was abrupt and to the point.

  Out mutual friend HG is dead. Call

  me in GN if you want details.

  G

  Chant closed out Rolf Bakker’s account with American Express, then caught a taxi to the airport where he bought a ticket for the first available flight to Geneva.

  THREE

  Patreaux had seen the disguise before, and he immediately rose to his feet as the tall man with long, blond hair and dark aviator glasses walked into his office. “Hello, Chant,” the slight, elegantly dressed Swiss said in French-accented English, extending his hand across the desk. “You got my message?”

  “Yes,” Chant replied, grasping the other man’s hand as he looked into sensitive, pale blue eyes. He sat down in a leather swivel chair across the desk from the other man, removed his dark glasses, and placed them on the edge of the desk. “I was in Amsterdam. I got here as soon as I could, Gerard.”

  The chief administrator of Amnesty, Inc. shrugged sadly. “There wasn’t any need for you to interrupt your business, my friend. There’s nothing to be done. I just thought you’d want to know.”

  “How did Harry die, Gerard?” Chant asked quietly.

  Patreaux swallowed hard and ran thin, trembling fingers through his thick, dark hair. “Very badly,” he said in a barely audible whisper.

  “Gerard?”

  Patreaux opened a desk drawer and removed a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He looked inquiringly at Chant, who shook his head and waited quietly as the other man poured himself a stiff drink, drank it down, and grimaced.

  “His remains arrived five days ago, packed in a vacuum container,” the Swiss said at last, his voice breathy and unsteady. “The package came … here.”

  “Do the police have the body in the morgue? I’d like to see it.”

  Patreaux shook his head. “Once the vacuum seal was broken, the remains began to decompose very rapidly. We were just barely able to perform an autopsy.”

  “And? What did the autopsy show?”

  Patreaux again reached into his desk drawer. He removed a thin sheaf of papers that had been stapled together and handed them across the desk to Chant.

  John Sinclair was truly a man of mystery, Patreaux thought as he watched the other man read the autopsy report. Many mysteries. He wondered if anyone, other than Chant himself, knew all the man’s secrets—including how he had acquired his strange nickname.

  At the moment, Patreaux thought, Chant was reading the almost unbelievably grisly details of the death of a man Patreaux took to be Chant’s oldest and closest friend; the friend had died in a manner more horrible and terrifying than anything Patreaux had ever heard of or thought possible, and yet the other man’s iron-colored eyes revealed nothing; if anything, they grew colder as they ran down the lines that described crushed bones, charred flesh, punctured organs, unnatural surgery.… Through it all, John Sinclair’s face remained impassive; from all outward appearances, he might have been reading a stock market report.

  Yet Patreaux knew, from considerable experience, that this was one of John Sinclair’s greatest strengths; he did not waste emotion. Liquor, as Patreaux well knew, could not erase the nightmare images conjured up by the words on the pages, and no amount of moaning would bring Harry Gray back to life or erase the terrible suffering he had undergone. Chant not only knew these things, Patreaux thought, but he behaved accordingly, with no futile emotion or wasted effort. Patreaux had come to consider this strange man who had become his friend as a kind of ultimate warrior; things he had been told, rumors he had heard about his friend’s activities, had only served to confirm this opinion.

  For some years, Patreaux had been friendly with a genial but somewhat dull-witted Baron Hoffer, a wealthy German who was a patron of the arts, a heavy financial supporter of Amnesty, Inc., and a giver of legendary parties at his huge chalet in Zermatt, looking out over the face of the Matterhorn.…

  Harry Gray, Patreaux eventually learned, had been his “sponsor,” the man who had suggested to Chant that the head of Amnesty, Inc. could be trusted with the knowledge that Baron Hoffer was in actuality not only a man who supported the organization with money, but the source, over the years, of anonymously sent packets of incredibly sensitive documents and reports that had allowed it to severely embarrass any number of governments, East and West, and organizations that sought to present one face to the world while, with their long arms flailing in dark, cold places, they broke innocent people, maimed lives.

  And so Gerard Patreaux had been admitted into the inner sanctum of the life of John Sinclair—Chant—American deserter and traitor, two-time winner of the Congressional Medal of Honor before, for reasons nobody seemed to know, he had, one day, literally walked away from the war.

  And emerged an infamous legend, an international fugitive Interpol described as unbelievably dangerous and savage, a terrorizer of terrorists, but a criminal nonetheless; a victimizer of victimizers; a consummate master of disguise and accents, a linguist; the ultimate confidence man.
A warrior who took no prisoners. Mercenary. Vigilante.

  Patreaux knew that there were thousands of people all over the world that the “criminal” John Sinclair had helped, and who would gladly, without hesitation, sacrifice their lives for him. Patreaux, without really understanding how such intense loyalty had grown within him in such a relatively short time, was proud to consider himself a member of this group.

  But the mysteries about the man persisted, and Patreaux doubted that even Harry Gray knew everything there was to know about this man Gray had once described, only half-jokingly, as a “badass Robin Hood who steals from people who steal and gives to the people who deserve it—after taking a hefty cut for himself.”

  Mysteries within mysteries, Patreaux thought. The persistent rumor that Interpol was under constant and relentless pressure from the CIA; the question of who had taught him his incredible martial arts skills … But the Swiss would never ask. What John Sinclair wanted people to know, he told them, and his friends understood this above all else.

  “So,” Chant said evenly, tossing the report on the desk, “Harry was tortured to death.”

  Patreaux swallowed hard, nodded.

  “Also, somebody was snacking on him during, or between, formal sessions.”

  “Yes,” Patreaux whispered. “The teeth marks are human. Eight of his fingers were gone, and there were chunks missing from his stomach, thighs, buttocks, and his left calf.”