by Donn Taylor
****
Houston, Texas
In the afternoon two days after his dinner with Kristin, Sledge still brooded over that evening’s unsettling close. Except for the unpleasant conclusion, the evening had been more delightful than any he’d known since he lost Alita.
Kristin’s conduct at the end seemed starkly at odds with the rest of her character. In spite of her brattiness during the rescue, she’d proved a first-rate soldier after they found the factory. She hadn’t even complained about Novak’s insistence on temporary censorship. Sledge admired her for those responses, and he liked her company. Over dinner they’d found they agreed about a lot of things. If only she hadn’t pulled that idiotic stunt at the end.
The causes of his brooding ran deeper than that, though. He was supposed to be starting his life as New Sledge. He’d spent the day reviewing college catalogs for law-enforcement programs. But his heart wasn’t in it.
A sense of unfinished business gave a bitter taste to all he thought and did. Seizing the factory hadn’t ended the threat of deadly chemical weapons. Several shipments had already been sent by air. They had to have gone somewhere. Brinkman and Novak had scattered agents all over the Caribbean to find out where. But would they find the right place?
His mind told him to drop it, that he’d done his part. But his instincts rebelled. And his old nemesis, the world’s emptiness, had closed in again. No matter how many risks he took, no matter how noble the causes for which he labored, the emptiness came back as soon as he finished. There must be some level of truth or reality he hadn’t yet discovered.
Where could he find it? The name Glenn Vickers leaped into his mind. Vickers ought to be back from Colombia by now. That meant the kind of church talk Sledge had avoided for years. Ever since those hypocrites had shunned his father, claiming his disabilities from Vietnam were a judgment on him for the crimes they assumed he’d committed there. He wanted none of their kind of religion.
But Vickers seemed different. Sledge reached for the telephone.
Before he could dial, the doorbell rang. Reluctantly, he answered.
A worried Roger Brinkman stood on his doorstep. “Jeb, a problem has come up, and I don’t have anyone to cover it.”
Sledge’s caution waved red flags. “I can name several private investigation firms in Houston.” Grudgingly, he invited Brinkman in and guided him to a chair. “I thought you’d gone back to Denver.”
“Some business kept me in town, but that’s not what brought me here.” The older man’s voice held unaccustomed tension. “One of my men in the Caribbean has been murdered.”
Sledge suppressed his interest. “I’ve heard they have police in most places down there. Besides, I don’t have my license yet.”
“The police can handle the murder investigation. I need someone to complete the man’s assignment.”
“What was that?” Sledge felt his reluctance fading.
“We’re trying to find the place that received shipments of weapons from that factory. My man’s assignment was a small island near Saint Kitts.”
Sledge’s interest quickened. That was near the place where Kristin had gone. “Suppose you tell me what you know.”
Brinkman hesitated as if making a difficult decision. “All right. Brian Novak told me what tech intel said about that weapons factory. The blister agent was a variant of mustard gas, and the nerve gas did turn out to be sarin. They also found organic material from a class known as tricothecene mycotoxins.”
“That sounds like a Turkish sermon,” Sledge said.
“You don’t have to be a chemist to understand the essentials. They’re organic toxins formed by molds on wheat, corn, and other grains. About thirty-five milligrams on the skin will kill you. The least important symptoms are hard blisters, but these things also tear up the stomach and intestines. Bleeding from bodily orifices follows, along with subcutaneous hemorrhage.”
“Does that explain what we saw in Kristin’s photographs?”
“That and more. Have you been briefed on Soviet chemical warfare in Laos?”
“And in Yemen and Afghanistan. A lot of what we heard was conjectural. Is this the same stuff?”
“It’s far worse. The chemical agents used in those countries had to be delivered separately—one aircraft, one agent. But now somebody has added a way to put all the agents into the same mortar shell. I can’t think of a more deadly additive.”
The familiar cannonball returned to Sledge’s stomach. “And several production runs of this are loose somewhere in the Caribbean?”
“Either at an island transshipment point or, we think, on a ship called the Preening Peacock. The ship’s destination is North Korea—with Steve Spinner’s philanthropic shipment of food and medicine.”
“Surely Novak can have the ship stopped and searched at the Panama Canal.”
“Maybe, if it goes that way. The United States doesn’t control the canal any more, and there’s a lot of bribe money in those parts. Besides, the ship may take the long way around—through the Indian Ocean.”
“Do you have your own people watching the canal?”
Brinkman grimaced. “I have a few contacts, but they’re outsiders with their own affairs to look after. Right now I’m interested in covering one island.”
“Even if you stop that shipment, though, that’s not the end. Someone had to design those weapons, and someone provided financial backing for the factory. This show isn’t over until the whole organization is put out of business.”
“You’re right, but we don’t have a clue who those people are. Spinner may be their client and still know nothing about the organization. We hope tracking the shipment will open up some leads.”
Sledge once again felt responsibility settle onto his shoulders. He’d wanted for years to break that habit, but he couldn’t seem to manage it. “Tell me about that island.”
“It’s called the Isle of Saint Mark, a bit west of Saint Kitts. Someone fished our man out of the water there yesterday. He’d been tied hand and foot, and shot five times in the chest.”
“You’d think with all that water around they’d weight him down.”
“The police think they tried and botched the job.”
Sledge thought for a moment. “Was he killed because of his assignment?”
“We don’t know. He might have stumbled onto drug smuggling or some other racket. That’s why I need a special kind of guy to take over the job.”
Responsibility shifted into a comfortable position and took up residence. “What do you want me to do?”
“Look for any evidence that the Isle of Saint Mark received the weapons shipments. Find out what ships, if any, took on cargo there in the last two weeks. Leave the murder investigation to the police. And don’t get yourself killed.”
“What do I do for a weapon? I can’t carry one on the flight.”
“You’ll be met on Saint Kitts. They don’t frisk passengers on the boat to Saint Mark.” Brinkman rose and headed for the door. “When you finish the job, you might look up Kristin on Mary’s Garden. The two of you could enjoy a few days’ vacation before her story breaks.”
Sledge gritted his teeth. “I didn’t realize you ran a dating service.” Secretly, he thought a vacation with Kristin was a great idea.
“Good luck!” Brinkman handed Sledge an airline ticket and was gone.
The rascal knew all the time I’d take the job.
As Sledge stared at the ticket, the full weight of his mission bore down on him. On a tiny island, one man had been murdered for reasons unknown. Sledge had to walk into that hostile environment armed with an unfamiliar weapon someone would hand to him on Saint Kitts. Knowing no one on the Isle of Saint Mark, he was supposed to find what the first man had not: a lead to the evil genius who designed the deadly weapons.
He looked at the telephone. His call to Vickers would have to wait until he came back. If he came back.
He’d tried to break out of these hazardous operations and le
ad a quiet life, yet he always got dragged back in. He had finished the rescue, only to get involved in finding the factory. He’d told the authorities about the factory, only to get involved in seizing it. Now he’d become involved in tracing the factory’s shipments.
It seemed as if an unseen force had selected him for a mission he was helpless to avoid. Well, if he couldn’t avoid it, he best get on with it, no matter the cost.
25
Mary’s Garden, Leeward Islands
On the morning of her third day on the island, Kristin woke to the lingering taste of failure. For two days she had searched the island for any sign of suspicious activity but found none. All the islanders she talked to said no cargo ship had approached the island within living memory. Nor could anyone remember when the last airplane had landed on the island’s dinky airstrip.
The lack of results disappointed her. In recent weeks, through what she termed dumb luck, she’d stumbled onto the second massacre and the weapons factory, but she shouldn’t expect her luck to continue. If it did, she’d get a reputation like Typhoid Mary. She should be glad for the people of Mary’s Garden that she’d found no evidence of crime. But she wasn’t glad.
Her feeling of failure persisted at mid-morning when she called her report to Roger Brinkman’s office in Denver. The assistant who took the call made no comment, but added instructions: “Mr. Brinkman wants you to stay there another day or two. Relax and enjoy the sights. You will be contacted.”
That was fine by her. She hadn’t taken time to relish the graceful palms or the multi-colored blaze of tropical flowers that made the island a natural beauty spot. She’d sampled the characteristic dinner of stewed saltfish and coconut dumplings, but she hadn’t taken time to savor it. So a day of sightseeing would be welcome.
She dressed in tan slacks and a long-sleeved white blouse, ever conscious of how easily she sunburned. To these she added a wide-brimmed straw hat and sunshades, and strolled along the seashore. The beaches of white sand and the blue Caribbean should have gladdened her heart, but the bitter taste of failure remained as she approached the diminutive harbor.
The small passenger boat from Saint Kitts was docking as she arrived. Listlessly, she watched the varied tourists debark. A middle-aged couple wearing floppy straw hats and dressed in shorts, their arms and legs white as grub worms. A thirty-something man, traveling alone, dressed much like the couple but seeming more comfortable with it. No doubt about his plans, for his eyes searched out everything female within range. As his gaze reached Kristin, she turned her back and examined the boat as it cast off. A single passenger stood on the rear deck.
Recognition raced through Kristin like an electric shock. It was one of the two blond muscle men she had seen at the weapons factory—the one she’d seen again in the Bogotá air terminal. He was taller and broader than Sledge, but his manner was different. Sledge carried his bulk with a confidence that stopped short of this man’s blatant arrogance. And the deep-seated hatred that blazed from this man’s eyes was foreign to Sledge.
The boat pulled farther from the dock with each moment. Kristin’s spirits fell. She’d made the sighting too late.
“Where does that boat go?” she asked one of the dock workers.
He met her gaze with eyes like small black beads in chocolate-colored sand. He answered with the patience of one who’d answered a thousand dumb questions from tourists. “To the Isle of Saint Mark, mum. Then it returns here and goes on to Saint Kitts.”
“When is the next boat?”
“It comes in two hours, mum. There is not much to see on Saint Mark. You will find more to do here.”
“Thank you, but I think I will look at Saint Mark.”
She spent the next two hours in turmoil, vainly checking her slow-moving watch every few minutes. Should she call Brinkman and report the sighting? No, best to wait for more substantive information. She had the who, where, and when, but she still needed the what and why.
When the boat finally came, she paid her fare and found a seat inside away from the sun. The backs of her hands were already burning in spite of sunscreen, and she didn’t want them to peel. She was glad she’d worn sunglasses against the glare.
Then a fast powerboat overtook hers and cruised easily past. On board were seven or eight uniformed policemen too full of themselves to return the friendly waves of Kristin’s fellow passengers. The police boat pulled steadily away and soon was lost to view.
On the Isle of Saint Mark, the glare was even worse—more white beach and open water with a scorching midday sun reflecting hotly from the deck of the empty police boat tied up at the dock. Kristin wondered what she should do next. The blond brute might be anywhere, and she didn’t know where to begin. Public places first, she decided.
Near the dock she found a few shabby shops populated by sleepy owners and desultory shoppers. Farther up the island’s main road stood a shabby two-story hotel. Inside were a restaurant and bar, both almost empty in the early afternoon. That exhausted the island’s public facilities. So what was left?
She exited the hotel and looked both east and west. To the east lay a straggle of private homes on a side street leading to a beach. To the north lay an unpaved airfield with no control tower or hangars. That might bear looking at later, but its open expanse obviously did not contain the blond heavy she was looking for. The western end of the island looked more fruitful. Close beside that end of the airfield stood a large prefab building that looked like a warehouse. Kristin’s pulse quickened. Building and airfield met the physical requirements for the transshipment point Brinkman was hunting. If she spotted the blond hulk there, she’d have something worth reporting.
She followed a side street leading in that direction. Soon the drab residences gave way to an open space. After that came a group of abandoned one-story buildings, and beyond them a three-foot-high boundary wall with unpainted sheds at either end. Beyond the wall, some fifty yards of open field led to the warehouse. But she had seen no people. The land lay empty, the sea breeze making gentle ripples in the knee-high grass. And over all, a silence so deep she could hear waves caressing the distant beach of the southern shore.
The hair at the back of her neck prickled. This was getting risky. She had no business here, and there was no help if she got into trouble. On the other hand, no one on the island knew what she was doing here. She could talk her way out of complications by claiming to be a tourist who got lost. So she advanced to the low wall and surveyed the warehouse, wondering how to proceed.
Suddenly, six yellow flashes blazed at different windows of the warehouse. Something hard as rocks slammed into the buildings behind her, and the unmistakable sound of gunshots assaulted her ears. People in the warehouse were shooting. At her?
“Get down, mum,” shouted a voice behind her.
She dropped at once, shielded from the warehouse by the low wall, but totally exposed toward the buildings. A burst of automatic fire from the warehouse raked the wall above her. An answering volley of single shots came from the buildings behind her. They weren’t well aimed, for one ricocheted off the wall near her head. She looked back toward the buildings and saw a few police uniforms. She’d walked into the middle of a police raid.
The volume of fire on both sides increased, growing as fierce as the firefight she’d endured with Sledge in Colombia. Stretched flat on the ground, she felt as helpless as an earthworm on a concrete sidewalk. More bullets struck the wall, and fear rose in her throat until she thought she would choke.
I’ve gotten myself into a fine mess, she thought. Now, how on earth am I going to get out of it?
26
Denver, Colorado
Brinkman’s underground offices were quiet except for the subdued hum of fans from the computer room. Seated at his desk, the elderly spymaster glanced through the latest reports on former KGB members now believed to be active in international crime syndicates. He’d give a lot to put them behind bars, but that couldn’t happen in his lifetime. That task
would fall to his successor, and it was high time he picked someone for the job.
The telephone interrupted his thoughts. Brian Novak’s voice came through.
“Something new you might want to know. Do you remember our talk about the South African special weapons program?”
“Project Coast?” Brinkman replied. “You said something about someone dying under suspicious circumstances.”
“His name was Wevers Koenraad. He’s supposed to have been killed along with a lab assistant and secretary in a terrorist raid on his lab. But they couldn’t make a positive identification. The body was burned and the head missing, so they couldn’t check dental records. DNA wasn’t a factor then.”
“You’re telling me he’s turned up somewhere?”
“A South African traveler who knew him told the FBI he saw Koenraad in Miami International Airport the day before we debriefed Sledge and that female journalist with the wrong name. He said Koenraad had dyed his hair black—its natural color was red—but the witness claimed positive identification.”
“You’re hoping you can tie him into the factory operation?”
“We have no other leads.”
“Any other information?”
“The same man said Koenraad was traveling with a tough-looking, blond-headed guy that looked German or Norwegian.”
“You’re thinking that may be the second Northern European that Sledge and Kristin saw at the factory?”
“I’m hoping so. And that might mean the black-haired man they saw could be Koenraad.”
Brinkman drummed his fingers on the desk. “That would be convenient. I have a list of bad guys capable of masterminding an operation like that factory, but they’re all occupied somewhere else. Maybe Koenraad is the answer.”
“It’s a little too neat, but we’ll try to develop it,” Novak said. “And speaking of blond bruisers, the State Department has no record of Erich Staab.”