by Nick Carter
In noting the assorted aircraft, as I walked through the interior of the hanger, I noted no moving bodies. It was after quitting time, that was for sure. Along the back of the hanger there was a glassed in office section. Through its windows I saw a light and headed for it.
Hans Gueyer had a puckish face with foxy, shoe-button eyes. His bald dome was the color of cured leather. He was short and stocky, with hefty forearms and big, grease-pitted hands. He had a way of cocking his head, like a robin listening for a worm. He had it cocked at me as I came through the door.
"Mr. Gueyer?"
"That's me." His voice had been rubbed with sandpaper.
As I put out my hand he wiped his on his dirty white coverall before extending it. "You wanted to see Mr. Sutton?"
He looked through the glass partition suddenly on guard and then back at me. "You're not Sutton."
"That's right. My name is Cole. Mr. Sutton and I know each other."
"Hmmm." I could hear the wheels clicking behind his heavily furrowed brow. "How did you get in here? They've got this place buttoned up tighter 'n a cow's arse at milkin' time."
"I didn't come to be milked."
He stared at me a second and then let out a burst of laughter. "Pretty good. Sit down, Mr. Cole." He gestured toward the chair on the otherside of his cluttered desk. "I don't think anybody'll bother us."
We sat and he opened up a desk drawer and brought out a bottle of bonded bourbon and some paper cups. "Feel like a snort? Don't have any ice?"
"You do all right," I said, nodding at the bottle.
"Oh, I travel a bit. Say when."
I said, and after we got past the cheers and lighting up our own brands, Hans cocked his head at me and got to it. "What can I do for you, Mr. Cole?"
"I think it goes the other way around. You wanted to see us."
"What's your job at the embassy, Mr. Cole? I thought I knew everyone there."
"I arrived this afternoon. Henry asked me to fill in. The people for whom I work gave me instructions — don't waste time. Shall we get down to it?"
He took a slug of his drink and tilted his head back. "I have some information. But I've found that nothing comes easy or cheap in this world."
"No argument. What's the information? What's the price?"
He let out a bark of laughter. "Jesus, you're no Arab, that's for sure! And yeah, I know, you don't have time to waste." He leaned forward, putting his arms on his desk. The overhead light made the sweat shine on his dome. "Okay, because I'm a patriot at heart, I'll give you this for peanuts. A thousand bucks of U.S. peanuts on account and five thousand if I can produce the evidence."
"What good is the first part if you can't produce the second?"
"Oh, but I can. It just may take a little time because everything is so buggared up here right now. You want a refill?"
"No, thanks. Let's put it this way. I'll give you three hundred on deposit. If part one is good, you'll get the other seven and a guarantee of the five thousand if you produce."
He toasted me with the last of his drink, gulped it down and poured himself another. "I'm reasonable," he said. "Let's see the three hundred."
"There's only one thing." I pulled my wallet out. "If I don't think what you have is worth the deposit, I'll have to take it back."
"Sure, no sweat, you'll see."
"Also I want some answers to a few questions of my own."
"Whatever I can do to help." He beamed as he counted the six fifties and tucked them in the breast pocket of his coverall. "Okay," he checked through the partition, cocked his head and lowered his voice. "Mendanike's plane crash was no accident. I know how it was done. The evidence is in the wreckage at Budan."
"Do you know who did it?"
"No, but any damn fool could make a pretty good guess. Tasahmed's number one now."
"My people don't pay for guesses. Where's the DC-7?"
"DC-7! It was a six that Mendanike and his gang were flying." His voice rose. "And they damned well should have been flying the Gulfstream. That was the first thing that tipped me off. But it was the landing…"
"Hans," I held up my hand. "The seven, where is the DC-7 that is the property of NAA?"
He had been pulled up short. He was hurt. "At Rufa, the military base. What the hell has that got to do…"
"Why is it at Rufa? Is it usually based there?"
"It's on loan to the Army, has been for a couple of months."
"What about its crew?"
"Strictly military. Look, aren't you interested in how they got Mendanike? This is a helluva story. It's happened before. The pattern was the same, the approach was the same. It was a perfect set up. It…"
"Were you on duty when Mendanike took off?"
"Hell, no! If I had been he'd be alive today… or maybe I'd be dead, too. Kahlid was on duty. He was night chief. Only he isn't around any more, night or day. Very sick, I'm told. So I'm tryin' to tell you somethin' before I get sick, only you wanna talk about that goddamned DC-7. When they took it out of here I said, good riddance!"
As he rattled on I made a routine check through the glass partition. There were no lights on in the hanger, but there was enough fading twilight to see the new arrivals in silhouette. There were five of them. They were moving across the hangar spread out in extended order. The switch for the overhead fight was on the wall behind Hans.
"Turn off that light, fast!" I cut in.
He got the message from my tone and the fact that he'd been around long enough to know when to shut up and do as he was told.
There was a nasty bronchial cough, mixed with the tinkle of shattered glass as I went over backward in the chair and came up on my knees. Wilhelmina in hand. In the darkness I could hear Hans breathing heavily.
"Is there a back door?"
"In the connecting office." His voice was shaking.
"Crawl in there and wait. I'll take care of things here."
My words were punctuated by several more coughs and a couple of ricochets. I was not anxious to open up with the 9mm and summon the infantry. The attack was thoroughly half-assed. There had been no need to ruin the glass windows so that five heros could take one unarmed mechanic. Silencers meant they didn't belong to the company guarding the airport. Maybe their idea was to scare Hans to death.
I heard Hans slither into the adjoining office. I crouched by the door and waited. Not for long. With a clatter of feet, the first of the attackers came barreling in. I tripped him low, and, as he stumbled forward, I gave him the butt of Wilhelmina. He'd hardly hit the floor before number two followed. I took him in a half crouch and he took Hugo up to the hilt. He let out a gibbering scream and collapsed over my shoulder. I drove forward, using him as a shield, and we ran into number three.
As contact was made I flung the jack-knifed body off my shoulder into him. He was quicker and smarter. He slipped free of the dead weight and came at me gun up ready to shoot. I dove just before he fired, going in under his arm, and we went down on the hanger floor. He was big and strong and stank of desert sweat. I had hold of his gun wrist. He avoided my knee to the crotch, left hand trying to fasten on my throat. With two more of his pals around I had no time to waste on the art of Grecco-Roman wrestling. I let his free hand find my throat and drove Hugo in under his arm pit. He convulsed and began to thrash, and I came up off him fast, ready for the other two. I heard someone running. I thought it was a good idea and went back through the office door in a crouch.
"Hans!" I hissed.
"Cole!"
"Get that door open but stay down."
"Don't worry!"
The door exited off the back of the hangar. The running feet could have meant that our visitors had decided to meet us there. What with the airport lights, the lights at the guard post, and the clarity of the early evening darkness, there was no problem in seeing if we had unwelcome company. We didn't, for the moment.
"My car is around the side," I said. "You follow me. Watch our backside. Let's go."
It was a pretty naked jaunt from the rear of the hangar around to the vacant parking lot. The Fiat stood out like the Washington Monument.
"Where's your car, Hans?" I asked.
"On the other side of the hangar." He had to trot to keep up with me, and he was out of breath from more than being out of breath. "I park it there because there's more shade, and…"
"Good. You get in the back and get on the floor and don't move an inch."
He didn't argue. I started the Fiat, doing my sums on two counts. If the visitors had been after me, they would have known where my car was parked. If they weren't a part of the command guarding the airport, they were infiltrators, no big deal for guerrilla types. In any case, they had come to get Hans, not me.
When I approached the guard point I brought the car to a stop, dimmed the headlights to show my thoughtfulness, and got out. If the lieutenant and his boys had been clued in on the assassination squad, I'd find out now.
The original four led by the sergeant came at me. "Vive la NAPR, Sergeant," I sang out, moving toward them.
"Ahh, you," the sergeant said.
"I'll be back in the morning. You want to stamp my passport?"
"Tomorrow is a day of prayer and mourning," he growled. "Do not come here."
"Ah, yes. I understand."
"Get out of here," the sergeant gestured with a snap of his arm.
I moved slowly back to the car, my eyes on the arching silhouette of the hangar. So far, so good. I smiled, waved to the guards, and began to drive away.
Chapter 7
Once clear of the airport and sure we were not being followed, I turned back to my hidden passenger.
"Okay, chum. Come up and join me."
He came over the back seat and thunked down, hauling his bottle of bourbon out of his coverall. "Jesus!" he said and treated himself to a long swig. "You want one?" he gasped, holding out the bottle.
"Never touch it when I'm driving."
"My God, you are some kind of somethin', pal. Here…" he reached for his breast pocket, "you take this back. You just saved my life. Anything I got that you want is for free."
"Easy, Hans." I couldn't help laughing. "All in the line of duty. Keep the money. You'll earn it."
"But hell! Where did you ever learn to operate like that!"
"Huh? Why, all my life. Twenty years in Africa and "How long have you been around planes?"
"Huh? Why, all my life. Twenty years in Africa and before that…"
"I guess you know a pilot tube from a turbine. You're a pro in your business." I'm one in mine. Where can I take you where you'll be safe?"
"My place. It's got a high wall and strong gate and old Thor will bite the arse out of a tin goose if I tell him."
"You're the navigator. Any idea who those unfriendlies were?"
"Jesus, no! I never got a look at 'em anyway."
"Does Tashamed's army have any commando units?"
"Beats me. Only thing I know is they all wear that blue checked head gear."
It was a point. One of the attackers had been wearing a beret, the other two were bareheaded.
"You sure you don't want some of this? I'm apt to drink the whole thing, and then I'll catch hell."
"Just don't get so lost in it that you can't pay attention to what I'm saying. You know Mendanike's death was no accident. Who else have you told that to?"
"Nobody. Just you.'-'
"Is there some other reason someone wants your scalp?"
"Beats me."
I hit the brakes and brought the Fiat to a stop. Hans was thrown forward against the dash, his bottle clanging dangerously. I grabbed him by his coverall and hauled him around to face me. "I want some answers right now or you'll walk home with that jug between your teeth. Understand?"
He stared at me, speechless for once, eyes wide, mouth open, nodding dumbly. I released him and we got going again. I waited a moment for him to recover, then silently offered him a cigarette. He took it just as silently.
"Now, who did you tell about your theory on the crash?"
"Khalid… He was at the hangar when I came on duty. Word of the crash had already come in. When I asked him why they had taken the DC-6 instead of the Gulfstream, he said a generator was out on the jet. I knew he was lying. I'd checked out everything on the Gulfstream the day before. I also knew he was scared shitless. To scare him even more and to get him to talk, I told him I knew how the DC-6 had been sabotaged."
"And did he talk?"
"Nah."
"How did you know it was sabotage?"
"Like I said, it was just like another crash that happened in Africa. Same exact thing. Everybody knew that one was sabotage, too, only nobody could prove it. Then I proved it. If I can get to Budan I can prove it on this one, too."
A siren wailing in the distance offered an ambiguous answer. "It could be an ambulance. We'll see what kind of a dune buggy we've got." I shifted down to second and eased the Fiat off the road on to what I hoped was hardpan.
"We'll get stuck for sure." Hans bounced around, looking back and forth.
The wheels found some traction as I moved on an angle toward the cover of a low bluff.
"They're comin' awful fast!"
I was hoping to get far enough off the road to be out of range of the approaching headlights, that or behind the bluff. The wheels began to dig in and churn. There was no good fighting it. "Leg it," I said, killing the engine and going out my side.
The Fiat's off-white color was a nice blend in the desert. Enough so that when the big command car went charging past, followed by an ambulance, we weren't spotted. The siren sounded, wailing in the cold night air. Then they were gone, and we got up and moved back to the car, Hans muttering, "Whatta way to finish a day."
"You can thank Allah you didn't finish it permanently."
"Yeah. Now how are we gonna get out of here?"
"We'll rub your bottle and maybe a geni will come along. If not, I'm sure you're good at pushing."
With only a couple of minor halts, we were back on the road in ten minutes and at Hans' villa in another twenty.
The foreign quarter of Lamana was a section of white-walled Moorish styled houses centered around a park, Lafeyette by name. We did some recon before entering Hans' domain. His place was on a side street off the park. We circled it twice. There were no cars on the street and no street lights.
"And you told Khalid all that?"
"Yeah."
"Did you tell anyone else?"
"Erica, my daughter, but she wouldn't say anything."
"Now tell me what else you've been up to that would make someone sore enough to want to kill you?"
"I'm damned if I know. Honest!" He held out his hand to keep me off. "I do a bit of smuggling, everybody does. But that's no reason to kill a guy."
"No, they'll only take your right hand. I suppose the log books for that DC-7 are on the plane."
"Yeah. Might have some old engine logs if that would help. You couldn't get into Rufa."
"Security tighter than around here?"
"Hell, yes."
"You say the plane was on loan to the military. Know what for?"
"Sure. Paratroop training. Would you tell me why you…"
"Where did you do your maintenance on it, major overhaul and that sort of thing?"
"We did everything but the major right here. For that, I used Olympic in Athens."
"When did it have its last major?"
"Oh, it was due when they took it. They said they'd handle it."
"One other question," I said, shutting off the headlights, "is there a turn-off on this road?"
He jerked up straight and then swiveled his head around, getting the message. "Not a goddamned one! Jesus, you think they're after us."
I pulled up, and he got out and went to the door in the wall that had a judas window. I heard Thor give a low growl of welcome. Hans rang the bell with two shorts and a long. An overhead light went on.
"She musta been worryin' about m
e," he chuckled. "Erica, it's me, honey," he called. "I got a friend, so hold Thor."
The bar was pulled. The door swung open, and I followed him into the courtyard. In the poor light I got the impression that she was tall. She had on something white and was holding the growling dog. "Thor, stop it!" she said, her voice deep and throaty.
Hans knelt, putting his hand on Thor's head. "Thor, this is my friend. You treat him like a friend!"
I squatted down by the dog and let him sniff my hand. "Hi, Thor," I said, "you're the kind of guy to have around when the silver's been polished."
He sniffed and began to wag his tail. I stood up and saw Erica looking me over. "My name is Ned Cole. I gave your father a lift home."
"From the smell of him, I'm sure he needed it." There was a touch of humor in the gruffness.
"That's a fine thing to say." Hans thrust out the bottle. "Look, I hardly broke the surface of it."
We all laughed, and I liked the sound of hers, uninhibited. "Come on in, Mr. Cole. What happened to your car, Dad?"
"It… ahh… broke down. I didn't want to take the time to fix it, mostly because Mr. Cole here…"
"Are you in the aviation business?" She opened the door and held it for us to pass. In the light I got a better look at her.
She had a miniature of her father's ski-jump nose. Beyond that she must have favored her mother. Aphrodite in a pair of white shorts. Against the chill she had on a blue turtle neck sweater that looked hard put to hold everything in. The rest of her measurements measured up, and when she closed the door and walked past she looked as good going away as she did head on. In fact, barefoot or on horse back, Erica Gueyer, her dark hair long and natural, her blue eyes direct and perceptive, was a most welcome sight for anybody's 20/10 vision.
"Can I get you something?" The faint smile was teasing.