Deadly Additive

by Donn Taylor

  Brinkman sighed. “So we’re out of luck there.”

  “Not quite.” Novak chuckled. “I ran the name by the FBI. Erich and Dietrich Staab are brothers. They’re listed as ‘persons of interest’ by Interpol and the German police, suspected of involvement with the old Baader-Meinhof terrorist gang. They haven’t been heard from for eight or ten years. But it looks like the black-haired man—Williams, according to the paratroopers’ debriefing—left Erich behind to take care of one detail or another, and he took Dietrich with him to Miami. That could be the pair your Colombian saw in New Orleans with Steve Spinner.”

  “So now we know Erich Staab flew from Bogotá to Seattle, but we don’t know where he went afterwards.”

  “That’s right. North to Vancouver, south to Portland, or east to Spokane. We don’t have a clue. Or he might have stayed in Seattle. I’ve had both Staabs added to the watch lists, but it will take a while to get the word out.”

  “I’ll put them on my lists, too.”

  Brinkman hung up the phone. With his pencil he drew small circles on a note pad. Koenraad and the Staab brothers were worth keeping in mind, but he put more stock in finding the transshipment point and the Preening Peacock. His people had better find something soon or, somewhere on this planet, innocent people would die.

  ****

  Isle of Saint Mark, Leeward Islands

  Sledge arrived on Saint Kitts, and as arranged, he checked in with the police to see if they’d made any progress on DeWitt Jernigan’s murder. They had not. Or if they had, they weren’t talking about it. Brinkman had authorized him to say he was looking into a possible gun-smuggling operation, but not to mention chemical weapons. He assured the police he was there to develop information and not to take action against anyone.

  “That’s all right with us,” the dark-skinned police sergeant said, “but you should avoid the west end of the island. We have indications of a possible drug operation there.”

  Sledge said he’d be careful. He had an impression the sergeant wasn’t telling all he knew, but he couldn’t do anything about that. As usual, he’d have to tough things through on his own.

  At the small passenger terminal on the waterfront, he surveyed the crowd waiting for passage. It seemed just a collection of native citizens and ordinary tourists. So he followed Brinkman’s instructions and carried his light travel bag into the men’s restroom. Soon a man wearing a light-colored business suit entered. He had receding gray hair above a tan-skinned face highlighted by a pair of alert dark eyes. He did not speak but removed his coat to reveal a shoulder holster filled with a .357 Magnum. He handed the shoulder holster and pistol to Sledge and turned to leave.

  “Wait a minute.” Sledge stood looking at the weapon in his hand. “I’m not wearing a coat. How am I supposed to carry this weapon without getting caught?”

  The man’s smile revealed perfect teeth. “Sir, I have no instructions about that. I presume it is to remain your problem. In the holster you will find a card with my phone number on it. Use it when you wish to return the weapon.” Then he was gone.

  Brinkman’s solutions have a habit of creating more problems, Sledge thought.

  He crammed the pistol into his bag and hid it under a couple of T-shirts. He wanted it closer at hand since he was going into a place where a murder had been committed. He’d have to figure out something after he reached the island.

  The Isle of Saint Mark was a disappointment, a place where prosperity had chosen not to linger. When he viewed his room in the one hotel, he half-wished he was back sleeping on the ground in Colombia. The bedsprings squeaked, and the mattress and linens seemed vintage World War I. But when he remembered the Andean cold, the island’s heat and the grubby hotel seemed tolerable.

  The bedsprings woke him often during the night, and he entertained visions of staging an airborne assault on the hotel. The establishment’s half-hearted breakfast did nothing to sweeten his foul mood, so he was glad to move outside and get on with business. He solved the pistol problem by tucking it into his belt and letting his shirttail hang out to cover it. Back home he never wore a hat, but in this environment he was grateful for the straw boater that kept the sun off his head.

  At the docks he found no one willing to admit seeing an aircraft landing on the airstrip or a cargo ship anywhere near the island. He thought he saw fear in their eyes.

  For the rest of the morning he worked the east side of the island with negative results, then checked the airstrip across the northern shore. Bare spots and tire markings there evidenced recent usage, so people were lying when they said they’d seen no aircraft. That meant some untoward activity was being covered up, and people had probably been threatened in order to keep it covered.

  He decided to check out the warehouse at the western end of the airstrip in the afternoon. Lunch at the hotel proved marginally edible, and he got it down without too much of a battle. By then it was after one o’clock. If he intended to finish his mission today, he’d better get going.

  The houses along the road to the west showed nothing of interest, and at length, only a few abandoned buildings stood between him and the warehouse. Here caution took over. Advancing over open ground didn’t appeal to him, so he detoured to the south. That placed a shed between him and the warehouse, and he could at least get that far without being observed.

  Once or twice, he thought he saw movement at one of the windows of those supposedly empty buildings, but he reached the shed without incident. The door faced his side and was unlocked. He opened it and stepped inside. His luck continued, for the shed had windows on the other three sides. He could observe the warehouse without being seen, and he could also observe to either side through the other windows.

  Everything seemed to be going well, so why did he feel that cannonball in his stomach again? He’d felt the same way when he jumped into Colombia for the raid on the factory. And why was his adrenaline flowing in the familiar fight-or-flight response?

  Seeing no movement at the warehouse, he looked out the window to his right. There, standing by the wall that ran from this shed to another like it, stood a slender woman wearing a floppy hat. She seemed to be staring at the warehouse. And she looked like.... Was he seeing things? No, it was Kristin.

  His heart leaped in pleasure. But what was she doing here? She was supposed to be back at Mary’s Garden, and he was supposed to contact her there tomorrow.

  Then shots rang out. Flashes came from the warehouse windows and bullets struck the buildings behind Kristin. A voice from the abandoned buildings shouted something, and Kristin dropped to the ground by the wall. People in the buildings began firing at the warehouse. Some of the shots fell short and struck the wall near Kristin. She was caught in the middle of a deadly cross fire.

  Suddenly, Sledge knew his world would be shaken if anything happened to her. Without thought, he bolted through the door and threw himself down behind the wall. He crawled along it toward Kristin, oblivious to the bullets singing above his head and striking the other side of the wall. Kristin lay with her face pressed into the earth and hands covering her head as if they had strength to protect it from the flying bullets. Sledge’s crawl reached her feet, her waist, and finally her head. Still without conscious thought, he lay on his side and shielded her body with his own, his hand on her shoulder.

  She turned her head and looked into his face, only inches away. At the sight of him, the tension in her face relaxed into surprise and then pleasure.

  “Hello, brat,” Sledge said. “You sure have talent for getting in trouble.”

  A forced smile graced her lips. “You dumb gorilla, what are you doing here?” Her hand squeezed his arm. “I’m glad to see you.”

  They both flinched as bullets struck the wall nearby. Her grip on his arm grew tighter as the firefight raged above them.

  “Sledge, you don’t have any sense at all.” Her eyes grew earnest. “Why didn’t you stay where you were safe?”

  For a few moments he wondered about it,
the gunfire receding into the back of his consciousness. Then he met her gaze, her eyes so very close to his. Deliberately, he touched his forefinger to his lips then gently pressed it to hers. “Well, brat,” he said, “that ought to tell you something.”

  Her eyes sparkled.

  If this was his time to die, at least he’d die happy.

  27

  For what seemed like hours, Sledge and Kristin lay hugging the wall and each other while the fierce battle raged above them. Bursts of automatic fire impacted the other side of the wall, and an occasional round from the buildings behind them struck on their side.

  The firing finally dwindled away and stopped. Three uniformed policemen carrying rifles emerged from the buildings, leaped over the wall, and ran toward the warehouse. Sledge heard footsteps and rolled over to see who was coming.

  The police sergeant he’d talked to on Saint Kitts stood over him, grim-faced. “I suggested that you avoid the west end of the island, Mr. Sledge. I see you do not respond well to suggestions.”

  Sledge sat up. “I have a bad habit that way.” He pointed to nearby bullet holes in the wall. “Some of your men are lousy marksmen. Were any of them hurt?”

  The sergeant’s eyes burned. “One is dead, one lightly wounded. Thank you for asking.”

  Sledge stood and helped Kristin to her feet. They looked toward the warehouse where policemen were searching four men spread-eagled against the building’s wall.

  “I saw six weapons firing,” Sledge said. “What happened to the other two?”

  “We think we hit both of them. My men will confirm.”

  “I’d like to get a look inside that place. It might be what I was looking for.”

  “We suspected drug smuggling, but it seemed the most likely place for your man’s murder.” The sergeant looked thoughtful. “You may come with me, but leave the searching to my men.”

  He seemed to notice Kristin for the first time. “Madame,” he said, instantly formal, “I suggest you continue your sightseeing on another part of the island.”

  Kristin bristled. “I’m no tourist. I have the same business that he does, and I’m staying right with him until we finish it.”

  The sergeant turned to Sledge with a wink. “Shall we take her with us?”

  “We’d better,” Sledge said. “She has us outnumbered.”

  They paused outside the warehouse while the sergeant conferred with his men holding four sullen prisoners. Four AK-47s lay on the ground, their magazines removed. Inside, two bodies lay beside AK-47s that had also been cleared. Otherwise, the warehouse floor was bare.

  Sledge and Kristin exchanged glances of disappointment and followed the sergeant toward the offices along the far wall. A policeman reported to the sergeant, “All the offices but one are empty.”

  That office contained only a battered desk with a swivel chair, two hardwood straight chairs, a filing cabinet and an electric fan. The concrete floor had no covering. The drawers of the filing cabinet and desk stood open and empty.

  Another dead end.

  Kristin knelt and studied the floor in front of the desk.

  “This part of the floor has been cleaned recently,” she said, “but the rest hasn’t even been swept in a week or two.”

  The sergeant signaled a policeman, who produced a kit and took samples from the floor.

  Another policeman led the sergeant out the back door of the warehouse. Sledge and Kristin followed. A motor launch was tied up to a short, wooden pier. Sandy beaches stretched away on either side of the pier.

  “There is nothing on the boat,” the patrolman said. He led them a few steps along the beach to a place where the white sand was mixed with flakes of something dark. He sifted a handful of contaminated sand through his fingers. “Ashes. They burned their documents here.”

  Whatever had gone on in the warehouse, no evidence was left to prove it. Sledge saw his own disappointment reflected in Kristin’s face.

  “Very well,” the sergeant said. “We will charge the four men with attempted murder. We may be able to change it to murder.” He faced Sledge. “We will question them about your man’s death. The lab work from the floor may help.”

  “My boss will appreciate it,” Sledge said, “and thanks for helping us.” He turned to Kristin. “I think we’d better go.”

  They left the sergeant with his men and walked back toward the hotel.

  “What’s this about a murder?” Kristin asked.

  “I’m the replacement for a guy who got knocked off,” Sledge said. “Mr. Brinkman said I’m to contact you when we’ve finished our job, and we’re supposed to take a couple of days’ vacation.”

  Her lips tightened. “Yesterday I would have said, ‘No thanks.’ Now it looks like we have things to talk about.”

  “We do, but not on this island,” he said. “But hey, I thought your assignment was Mary’s Garden.”

  Kristin told him about the man she’d followed. “He’s simply disappeared. I know he came here, but I never found him.”

  “That’s another indication this may be the transshipment point Brinkman was looking for. The devil of it is that we’ve found no leads to anywhere else.” He kicked at a rock and sent it spinning.

  After he checked out of the hotel, they learned at the dock that the next boat was not due for an hour. The sergeant and about half of his men arrived, the rest having been left to take care of clean-up details. He offered to take Sledge and Kristin to Saint Kitts on the police boat, but was persuaded to drop them at Mary’s Garden. Kristin could collect her luggage there and check out, and they could catch a later boat to Saint Kitts. That seemed a better vacation spot than either of the two other islands.

  Once on the water, Sledge brooded over his lack of accomplishment. Raiding the factory had led to a dead end, and this transshipment point—if indeed it was one—had led only to another. Today Sledge had struggled up another hill only to learn that still another lay ahead. He knew that hill existed and that he had to climb it. But this time he had no idea where it was.

  Kristin had seated herself several feet away on the bench. Uncharacteristically silent, she stared out across the gently moving water. Perhaps she found their new relationship as puzzling as he did.

  She’d said they had things to talk about. Soon enough, he’d find out what they were.

  ****

  Saint Kitts, Leeward Islands

  At seven that evening, Sledge escorted Kristin into the dining room of their hotel. Their voyage to Mary’s Garden and subsequently to Saint Kitts had gone smoothly. In his room on a different floor than Kristin’s, he’d made a report to Roger Brinkman. He assumed Kristin had done the same.

  Brinkman thanked Sledge and wished him a happy vacation. Sledge then called his local contact and gave back the pistol he’d carried on Saint Mark.

  A shower and a change into fresh slacks left him still impatient, but one glance at Kristin forced his impatience into full retreat.

  “I apologize for wearing the same outfit I wore in Houston,” Kristin said as they were seated at a table. “Traveling light didn’t leave me much choice.”

  “You look fine to me,” Sledge said.

  After they ordered, he looked up to see worry lines on Kristin’s forehead. “What’s bothering you?”

  She made a face. “I’ve been wondering about my story.”

  “I thought Brinkman took care of that.”

  “He arranged for it to be printed in National Events. I’ve been worrying about what happens afterwards.”

  “You’ll be famous. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  She frowned. “That’s not the problem. For years I’ve put every atom of energy I had into getting this far, but now I’m wondering if I’ll find it satisfying. And there’s the question of what I do for an encore.”

  Sledge laughed. “If I’m any judge of character, the encore will come to you. It will probably ambush you.” He studied the intensity in her face, and his newfound love rose up inside him. I
t must have showed, for her face crimsoned. He’d thought her too confident to blush. Yet suddenly he, too, lacked self-confidence.

  “This is going to take some getting used to,” he said. Then, reading the question in her eyes, he added, “I mean…us.”

  Light replaced the uncertainty in her eyes. “Yes, it will. I didn’t plan it this way.”

  “Is it as bad as being kidnapped?”

  The light in her eyes became mischief. “Actually, it’s much worse. It reminds me of the time I had the measles.”

  Sledge shrugged one shoulder. “Like I said, maybe we’ll get used to it.”

  She laughed. “The measles or being in love?”

  “Do you journalists treat every conversation like an interview?”

  Their dinner’s arrival saved her from answering. They’d chosen the island standard of stewed saltfish, spicy plantains, coconut dumplings, and seasoned breadfruit. Like good tourists, they gave it their full attention.

  Later, over coffee, Kristin said, “I do have another question. Would you tell me about Alita? Losing her must have hurt you terribly.”

  “It did.” Even as he spoke, Sledge realized the canker of his grief was gone. Always before, talking about her had opened old wounds, but now he could speak without passion.

  “She came from a good family,” he said, “well above any social circle I could merit. Her father was a prosecutor. He questioned me about guerrilla tactics and what I was teaching to counter them. He wanted to be sure I wasn’t creating a rogue private army. Alita listened while we talked, and I guess she’d never met anyone like me. I’d certainly never met anyone like her.”

  He felt embarrassed until he read acceptance in Kristin’s face. “I should tell you…Well, all my other dealings with women were”—he searched for a word—“a kind of mutual exploitation. I’d never met one who didn’t have an angle, and I guess I wasn’t any better. It eventually palled, and I stayed away from all of them. But Alita didn’t want anything except to be with me, and she was completely gentle.”