The Inca Death Squad

by The Inca Death Squad (fb2)

  "Pablo. They know who."

  "Bien." He pressed the button and spoke into a receiver. "Hay un caballero aqui que se llama Pablo. Dice que le esperan." He listened while a question was asked and then he answered, "Es mucho hombre pero boracho. Cubano, yo creo. Está bien."

  He hung up the receiver and turned to me.

  "You were right, they are expecting you. Push number ten in the elevator. Good luck."

  I got in the elevator and did as he said. He had told me they were expecting a drunken Cuban upstairs. I doubted it. I pushed number nine.

  The hallway on the ninth floor was empty and silent but the sounds of samba music filtered down from above. I went into the stairwell and took the steps two at a time.

  I pushed the door open gently. Two men were standing in front of the elevator, peering into the empty car, their hands in their jackets as if they had just put something away. Before I stepped into the hall, I opened my jacket so I could make an unobstructed move for my gun. Then I walked toward them. Startled, they regarded me with scowls and suspicion. Then one of them spread his arms wide in welcome.

  "Pablo, we thought you'd never get here. The professor and his wife have been asking about you all night."

  Okay, I told myself, they don't want any gunplay in the hall if they can avoid it. That means Belkev might still be breathing.

  "Well, the party can begin because I'm here now," I laughed. "Just show me the way."

  "That's what we're here for," he grinned.

  They separated, one at each side of me as we all walked together toward the last door in the hall. One of them rang the doorbell.

  "It'll really get lively with you here, Pablo," he informed me with a pat on the back.

  A miniature eye surveyed us through the peephole and then I heard the sound of a chain being unlatched. The door opened and we went in.

  The living room lay just off the foyer and the sounds of the party reached my ears. The way was barred by an exotic woman in a silk robe with an Inca pattern. She had pitch black hair and the throaty voice of an actress. When she spoke, she gestured with a gold cigarette holder.

  "Pablo, dear."

  She went on tiptoe to kiss me and put her arm around my neck.

  "I'm sorry I'm late," I murmured.

  "Don't worry, dear man. We just had to begin without you. Well, you know the procedure. You can take your clothes off in the maid's room."

  For a second I didn't understand. I didn't understand, that is, until one of the voices I heard in the other room happened to materialize into flesh by wandering close to the foyer's archway. It belonged to a blonde girl who was giggling and holding a drink — and absolutely naked.

  "Sure, I'll be out in a second," I said.

  "You don't want any help?" my hostess asked hopefully.

  "Thanks, I'll manage."

  The maid's room was right off the foyer. I staggered into it and closed the door, noticing that there was no lock on it. These people were cute all right. Belkev might or might not be on the premises. I wouldn't know until I joined the fun and games, and I couldn't do that unless I was stripped to the buff — which meant leaving my gun, knife and gas bomb behind. Well, there was no choice. I took my clothes off and folded them neatly across the bed. The weapons I placed under the mattress. I took a last look at myself in the mirror, saluted my image with a weak "peace" sign and went in to join the party.

  I can only say that it wasn't a party, it was an orgy. No wonder it had been so easy to sucker Belkev into it. Some of the couples were standing and talking together but most of them were entangled on the luxurious sofa and chairs and a few were unabashedly making love on the floor. The pungent aroma of marijuana filled the air.

  My hostess, even more attractive without her robe, nonchalantly stepped over an ardent couple and handed me a drink.

  "A toast to victory," she proposed.

  "Victory for the masses," I answered and took a cautious sip. White rum, nothing else.

  She ran her fingers down my chest and over the fresh stitches.

  "Pablo, have you been in a fight or something?"

  "I've been a bad boy. You know me."

  "Maybe tonight I will," she said pointedly and followed the statement with a nod toward a heavy-set, mustachioed man who was talking with some people who were seated on a couch. He looked like Neptune set amid a sea of writhing backs and twisting legs. "My husband is so jealous that it's difficult for me to have any fun at these parties. About all I can do is to watch everybody else have a good time."

  "I can see that they are doing just that."

  I glanced at her and caught her slyly taking mental notes on me.

  "Have another drink, Pablo."

  The lights were lowered before she returned. I had settled down with my back to a wall and was trying to look around the place without feeling like a damn voyeur.

  "Is this everybody?" I asked as she handed me a glass.

  A girl was walking toward us, her healthy breasts moving in the pale light. Someone tackled her from behind and she fell on her back with her arms flung open. A male body converged upon her.

  "Oh, there are some modest types off in the bedrooms," she said airily. "Tell me, Pablo, do you think I'm attractive?"

  She leaned forward so that her breast brushed against me.

  "Very attractive. I've always said that."

  She reached around to a lamp and turned it off. Now the living room was in total darkness.

  "Then what's holding you back?" she whispered into my ear. "It's dark. My husband can't see anything."

  She found my hand, drew it toward her.

  "It's just that I'm a little modest," I told her.

  "But you have nothing to be modest about, Pablo."

  "Maybe. Do you think anyone's in your bedroom?"

  "Let's go see."

  Again she took me by the hand and we wended our way through the tangle of people on the floor to a hall on the far side of the living room. I heard her open a door and we went in. Turning, she kissed me ardently and then turned on the lights.

  "Just like the Russian," a fully clothed man with a .38 aimed at my chest said with satisfaction.

  He stood in front of the bed with two other men, also holding revolvers aimed at me. There were two more men on each side of the door — the Garcia brothers promoted to submachine guns. One of them wore a sandal on his left foot. Belkev was crouched in the corner of the bedroom, naked and gross, a stocking stuffed in his mouth.

  "You did very well, Maria," the leader told our hostess. "Was it difficult?"

  "No, he is a lecherous pig like the other, just better equipped."

  "Thank you," I acknowledged.

  "That's enough from you, assassin." The leader jerked his gun angrily at me. "You almost ruined everything. Even tonight you tried to stop the revolution. You fool, nobody can stop it. Tonight the armies of the MIRistas will rise on the signal of the revisionist's death. Do you know what this is, this party? It is a celebration, the celebration of his death and yours. Even while you were on your way, we were setting the trap for you in the same way we set it for the Russian. And you walked into it. Don't you feel a little embarrassed now, standing there like that?"

  "It's been so long since I blushed. I do admit, however, that the situation looks bad, if that's what you want me to say."

  "MIRistas backed with the splendid nuclear might of the Chinese People's Republic. Three magnificent nations molded into one revolutionary army that will control the whole of South America," he went on fanatically. I don't think he even heard what I'd said. "And as a bonus, the one hundred thousand dollars the Chinese will pay for your death."

  While lie ranted I did some calculating and no matter whether I used new math or old, it looked as though he were going to fall into the reward. He was the closest to me; I could take him and one more besides, which left three men pumping bullets into me. Another move worth considering would be toward the lame Garcia brother. I had no doubt but that I cou
ld reach him alive and grab his machine gun. I also had no doubt but that I'd be dead before I had time to sweep the room. I glanced around for other possible weapons. It was the usual boudoir of a rich woman, filled with stuffed chair, a closet full of clothes, bed, night table, bureau and a vanity table crowded with night creams, hair spray, makeup and sleeping pills. Nothing that stood out as a weapon.

  "Someone is bound to hear the gunshots above the music. What if the police get here before the revolution does?" I parried.

  "We will shoot if necessary but we have a better plan. Do you see that balcony? In a minute two drunken foreigners who came to the party for an orgy will start a fight on it. Unfortunately both of them will fall to their death. We are the witnesses."

  The hostess stepped out of the way. A MIRista yanked Belkev to his feet and took the gag out of his mouth. At once the Russian began to blubber and sank to his knees like dough.

  "Get him up," the leader ordered.

  Two of his cohorts dragged Belkev to the door of the balcony and opened it. A cool breeze entered the bedroom, inviting us out to ten floors of darkness. I could see the lights of the university in the distance, some of them the victory beacons of MIRista students. Would there be some sort of signal sent to them from the balcony when we fell?

  Belkev was clutching a leg of the bed. One of our captors swung a gun butt on Belkev's fingers and the Russian released his grip with a cry of terror.

  "If nothing else, you at least know how to die," the leader told me.

  "That's what I keep telling people — 'practice makes perfect,' you know. While we're waiting for your men to get Belkev off the floor, would you mind if I had a last cigarette? It's a tradition with me.

  The MIRista considered the request and then shrugged. It would be his cigarettes and his matches I would use. How could they be dangerous?

  By this time Belkev was on his feet, looking around wildly and groveling for mercy. The barrel of a revolver sank into the tire of fat that quivered around his middle.

  "Hurry up," the leader told me.

  "Thanks, I'll light it myself."

  Now Belkev was in the balcony doorway, grudgingly inching backward to the railing. He looked down and, seeing the drop to the sidewalk, tears came to his eyes. I was standing next to the doorway, beside the vanity table, taking one long, last drag on a cheap cigarette.

  "You're a man, Belkev. Don't act like that," I told him.

  While their eyes were diverted to the half-insane Belkev, my hand moved — not too quickly, just curiously — and picked up an aerosol can of the hostess's hairspray. A Garcia brother was next to me. My movement meant nothing to him but a look of understanding was spreading over the leader's face. His gun was turning and his mouth was opening when I pressed the nozzle of the can and took the still-lit match to it.

  A five-foot tongue of flame shot out of the can and licked up the front of his shirt. The tongue arced to the Garcia brother who was standing even closer to me than the leader. He was pressing down on the submachine gun's trigger when his cotton suit erupted into fiery bloom. His finger, traumatized with shock, clamped down hard on the trigger as he collapsed in a spin. Even his brilliantined hair was on fire by the time he hit the floor.

  His brother, the one with the limp, was getting off the floor where he'd ducked when the shots were riddling the room. I ripped the spread off the bed and threw it over him, blinding him while I set the material into a curling field of flames. Some random shots spewed out from under the burning bedspread but were effective only in keeping the other MIRistas pinned to the floor. Frantically he tried to tear the burning fabric away; it clung to him all the tighter with tenacious red arms. A scream of agony that froze the blood burst out of the flames and the whole mass ran for what it must have supposed to be the door. It wasn't. He passed through the balcony doors like a banshee and hurtled out into the open air, a twisting meteor fed by the onrushing air.

  There were still two MIRistas who had guns while all I had was a quickly emptying can. In spite of the fact, they made a break for the door. I got a running start as the first one was just turning the knob and landed him on his back with a two-legged lack. His head smashed clear through the panel to the other side and there he hung, unconscious. I straightened up the last gunman's pistol and let him empty the .38 into the ceiling since nobody lived above. Then I came down on his shoulders with my hands stiff, breaking his collarbones. After that, just to be sure, I came up under his falling jaw and smashed it out of conjunction with the skull. I picked him up and threw him in what I considered to be the general direction of the balcony. My aim was better than I thought. He sailed out into the blue and disappeared.

  "Come on, Belkev. Somebody's got to start wondering where those bodies are coming from."

  "Not so fast."

  I spun around. The voice belonged to the black-haired hostess. She clenched a charred machine gun to her naked belly. As she told me that she was going to empty the last bullet into my body, she deliberately stepped around the bed and cut off my only escape route. The gun seemed particularly ugly in contrast to her fine, pale skin. It was the conjunction of death and eroticism — a fitting enough finale for any man.

  "I win," she said and braced her legs, ready for the bucking of the gun.

  Then her black hair suddenly turned red. Her eyebrows caught on fire and she dropped the gun and screamed. With inhuman strength she pulled open the broken door and ran down the hall trailing a great flag of fire, flames from her hair lighting up the whole corridor.

  In the bedroom the fire flickered and died in the mouth of the can that Belkev was holding.

  "Come on, comrade," I urged. "I think we've really worn out our welcome this time."

  Nothing will break up an orgy faster than a woman running through it like a Roman torch. Belkev and I fought our way out of the mass of terrified partygoers — all milling around and trying to get their clothes out of the maid's room — and went into the hall. There all we had to do was to stop the first two men who emerged from the apartment and take their clothes from them. Everything is so simple if you're organized.

  Downstairs the doorman was goggle-eyed in the crowd that was huddled around the bodies of the dead MIRistas. Belkev and I ran — if you could call Belkev's waddle a run — for a couple of blocks and caught a cab.

  For once he was full of camraderie and gratitude but I was remembering what I'd seen in the apartment. It was the sight of the aerosol can pointing directly at me right after he'd set the hostess on fire. If the can hadn't gone dry at that instant, Belkev would have killed me.

  Chapter Thirteen

  "Confirm CPR G-Class sub," the sonar man told us.

  We were in an old Super Constellation, five thousand feet up and a hundred miles west of the Chilean coast. It's a funny thing about the old Connies — they can stay in the air forever and then the U. S. Navy deguts a bunch of them and turns them into flying computer centers. The captain in charge of the operation explained it to me.

  "If the G-Class subs were nuclear powered, we could track them by satellite because they leave a seam of heat through the ocean that we can pick up with infra-red scanners. But in a case like this, we have to go to the computers. We drop a pattern of sonar buoys on the ocean surface and then we sit back and let them do the work. They triangulate the position and depth of our target all by themselves, but that's just the start of it. Some pretty sophisticated forms of sonar are being developed now and one of them is holographic sonar, which means that these buoys send back a three-dimensional reading of the enemy so that we can make an exact determination of the submarine's origin and class. It gives us clues that tell us whether to attack and how." He smiled. "Of course I never thought I'd be sending out a human torpedo."

  "At least I didn't volunteer," I said, glancing at the tanksuit I wore.

  The Navy frogmen, also in tanksuits, laughed and at that moment a radioman came into our section of the plane and handed us a report.

  "Raids in Sa
ntiago, Antofagasta in Chile, La Paz and Sucre in Bolivia and Lima and Trujillo in Peru all carried out successfully," the captain read out loud. "Radio silence for one hour guaranteed."

  "Silence or not," he went on, "the Chinese are going to know things have fallen apart a lot sooner than that. We'd better get rolling."

  The three frogmen, the captain and I moved toward the rear of the droning plane. The bomb bay was open when we got there and suspended over it were three objects that looked as much like manhole covers as anything else.

  "Chrome steel with vacuum locks. They'll freefall the same way you do, to a thousand feet, and then the drogue chutes will open. The chutes will release at contact and these inflatable rings will expand. Over here is the gauge that will let you regulate the amount of air in the rings so that you can maneuver them under the water. The main thing is to work fast, before the Chinese can send out any men."

  "Approaching drop zone," the intercom relayed.

  "Good luck, whoever you are." The captain shook my hand and then the hand of each frogman.

  The Connie made two passes. On the first one the metal shields spilled out one by one, plummeting to the blue Pacific nearly a mile below. As the Connie turned, the rack that had held the shields was lifted out of the way and the four of us who would drop on the next pass stood by the gaping bay.

  "Over zone," the intercom blared again.

  I lifted my arm and stepped out into the rushing air. Spread-eagled, I fell in a controlled dive. The sea curved away on all sides. I spotted the shields ahead and below and angled my hands until I achieved a fifteen-degree deviation. The wind tugged at my wet suit and whistled around the air tanks strapped on my back. Staying in formation, the other divers followed.

  At a thousand feet I yanked the cord and bounced upright as the chute opened. Now it was a matter of pulling the red lead cords to direct me to the bullseye. I hit the water twenty feet from the nearest bobbing shield. The frogmen did even better, landing almost within arm's length. We disengaged our chutes and swam to the shields.

  "Jesus, look below," someone said.