The Terrible Ones

by Nick Carter

  “My name is Evita Messina. I am born and bred in Santo Domingo. My husband was a political enemy of Trujillo and he died in prison. Afterwards they came and took—”

  “Yes, yes, I know all that is true,” Tsing-fu said with gentle patience. “We are agreed that there is, somewhere, a hidden cache of precious stones and gold somewhere on the island. And both of us know that many people would like to get their hands on it. But we have not found it yet, have we? No, Trujillo hid it well. Yes! All that is agreed. Tell me again about Padilla and yourself.”

  The woman sighed. “I met him casually and discovered quite by accident that he had been a member of Trujillo’s special staff. He was drunk and bragging a little. He said something about having one of the keys to the treasure trove. I was determined to find out more. And so . . . I . . . played upon him . . . and we . . .”

  “Became lovers. Yes.” Tsing-fu’s lips were wet. He had heard the tapes of Herman Padilla’s sexual excursions with Evita Messina and enjoyed them enormously. The cries, the sighs, the creaking of the bed, the little sounds of pain, the slap of flesh against flesh, had given him pleasure amounting to ecstasy. A thousand curses upon the fools who had broken in too soon, during that last night!

  “And in the course of your love-making,” he said thickly, through a mouthful of saliva, “what did you find out about this so-called key?”

  “I told you,” she said lifelessly. “It is not a real key but a sort of clue. Padilla said there were several such clues. It was Trujillo’s idea of a game. To each of several men he gave only one part of the puzzle. Padilla was one of them. Only Trujillo himself knew all of them. Or so Padilla said.”

  “And Padilla’s clue?”

  “You know that also. Only an unconnected phrase— ‘the Castle of the Blacks.’ I always thought he knew more. But I was unable to find out. We were interrupted, as you may recall.” She said it bitterly.

  He recalled, all right. The two listeners manning the tape machine had pounced upon the lovers in their unguarded state; quite certain that they could capture both alive and extort the full truth from them. They had been wrong. Won Lung had been obliged to stop Padilla’s flight with a bullet in the back. And the girl insisted she knew nothing more than they had overheard.

  For the hundredth time Tsing-fu mulled the phrase over in his mind. “The Castle of the Blacks.” Was it code? Was it anagram? He thought not. It had to be a place. And of all places, this vast Citadelle, built by King Henri Christophe of Haiti to defend his black kingdom against French attack, fitted the name—the clue—to perfection. True, it was not in the Dominican Republic . . . but it was not very far away. And to hide part of his stolen millions in the very midst of his hated enemies, the Haitians, would have been a typically cunning, Trujillo-like move. Yet where in all this vast complex of stonework could the treasure lie? And who could hold the other clues? Padilla must have known.

  “He told you something else,” Tsing-fu said sharply.

  “No!”

  “Of course he did. Do not forget that I now have information from Alonzo.”

  “Then use it,” she spat at him, with a return of her old life. “If he knows so much, make use of him!”

  “Ah! So you do know him, then?”

  “No, I do not.” She sank back again upon the hard stone cot, exhausted. “It was you who used his name, not I.”

  “But he mentioned yours,” Tsing-fu said, watching her. It was not true, of course. In the early days of their “cooperation” Alonzo had warned him about a band of Dominican outlaws called The Terrible Ones who were also after the Trujillo Treasure, but that was all Alonzo had ever told him. “He mentioned yours,” Tsing-fu repeated. “This is your last chance to make things easy for yourself. Now tell me in your own words— What is your connection with The Terrible Ones?”

  “I know nothing about them.” Her voice was toneless again.

  “Oh, yes, you do. It is for them that you seek this treasure, is it not?”

  “It is for myself!”

  “Why?” The word lashed out at her.

  “I told you! Because Trujillo took everything we had and killed my husband I want it! I want it for myself!”

  “You lie! You will tell me about The Terrible Ones before I leave this room today!”

  Her face turned to the wall. “I do not know them,” she said lifelessly.

  Dr. Tsing-fu sighed. “What a pity,” he said. But his pulse was racing. It had been a long time since he had last satisfied his own peculiar passions. “Perhaps my assistant will be able to jog your memory,” he murmured pleasantly.

  He turned his head toward the door and called out. “Shang!”

  The door swung inward.

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Come in,” Tsing-fu said genially. “Look at her. And you, my little Evita, look at my friend Shang. He has been longing to come in here to make your acquaintance. It is only with the utmost patience that he has been able to restrain himself, for which he is now about to be rewarded. Go closer to her, Shang. And look at him, woman!”

  A huge figure shambled into the lantern light and lumbered toward the cot. Tsing-fu watched the girl’s head turn and enjoyed her little involuntary gasp.

  “Shang may not look like a man,” he said conversationally, “but he has a man’s desires. I must warn you, though, that he is a trifle unconventional in his approach. I have even heard it said that he is brutal. We will see. He is free to do whatever he pleases with you. Touch her, Shang. See how she likes it.”

  The girl shrank back against the wall and whimpered. For the first time she clearly saw the creature who had guarded her cell door, and her whole being churned with terror and revulsion.

  Shang was a gorilla without hair, a human gorilla with the enormous body of a sumo wrestler and the fang-like teeth of some vast carnivorous animal. He towered over her, growling, saliva dripping from his open mouth, sweat gleaming like oil over his bare upper body. Fat blended with muscle and muscle with fat, and both bulged and flexed together as he reached out one massive arm and ripped her thin blouse down to her waist. A hand the size of a bunch of bananas clamped down over Evita’s breasts.

  “Ah, no!” she moaned.

  “Ah, yes!” said Tsing-fu, trembling deliciously in anticipation of the sexual bout. “Unless you wish to change your mind and tell me what I ask?”

  “I know nothing,” she gasped. “Get him away from me. Oh, God!”

  “God helps those who help themselves,” Tsing-fu murmured sanctimoniously. “You will speak?”

  “No!”

  Shang growled and ripped again.

  “That’s right, Shang,” Tsing-fu approved. He leaned back comfortably against the wall that offered him the best view and lit a cigarillo with shaking fingers. Ah, this was worth waiting for! To watch, to hear, was so much more stimulating than the clumsy crudity of the act.

  “You are sure you would not rather talk?” he suggested, almost hoping now that she would not—yet.

  “I know nothing!” she screamed. “Nothing!”

  “So. Well, then. Gently at first, my Shang. We may need to save her for a repeat performance.”

  He caught his breath with sheer delight as Shang rumbled in his throat and mounted the cot. The girl was kicking wildly. Good! Good!

  Shang’s monstrous body enveloped the slim, weak figure on the cot.

  Open House at the Castle

  “You are now standing at a height of 3140 feet,” the voice of the guide sing-songed, “on the ramparts of King Henri Christophe’s defense against the French invaders. Two hundred thousand men who had been slaves dragged the iron, the stone, the cannon up the trail to build this edifice. Twenty thousand of them died. The stone floor of this citadel—the only castle garrison ever built by black men—lies at 3000 feet above sea level. The dungeons of course are at a lower depth, and the walls are 140 feet high. At the base they measure twelve feet thick and even here on the parapet where we stand, looking out over the Atlant
ic, their thickness is six feet. One hundred and forty feet below us lie the storehouses, the sleeping quarters, and the ammunition rooms—enough to supply a force of 15,000 men . . . .”

  The sun was low over the sea. It was the last tour of the afternoon.

  Nick stared out over the parapet. He and the girl stood slightly apart from the rest of the group, and both had changed their costumes of the night before. She wore tourist slacks and a brightly colored blouse that fitted her to perfection, and he wore a casual, elderly man’s suit borrowed for him by Paula’s friend Jacques LeClerq. His dark skin of the night before was now the mottled pink of a man accustomed to good living and his beard was grizzled and trim. He could have been an aging Latin-American touring Haiti with his niece. But he wasn’t. He was Killmaster, on an impossible mission.

  “All right, let’s go over this once more,” he said quietly. In the background the guide’s voice sang on. “I don’t like it at all, but it seems to be the only thing to do so I guess we’ll have to do it.”

  She turned to him in a lithe, quick movement, graceful as a cat and completely feminine in every curve and gesture.

  “I don’t like it either. It was stupid to send one man! I told you in the beginning—”

  “Yes, you did. Once or twice too often,” Nick said tightly. “Should I send for a company of Marines and storm the battlements?”

  She clicked impatiently and turned away to gaze down into the thick mahogany grove far below beyond the outer western wall.

  “And don’t stare down there as though you’re looking for something,” Nick said sharply. “You might just get someone interested. Now. You can trust Jacques to have the horses there?”

  “Of course I can trust Jacques! Didn’t he give us shelter, clothes, the map?”

  “Don’t bite. I’m with you, not against you. And you’re sure the guide won’t count heads as we leave?”

  Paula shook her head. Her honey-colored hair swung gently in the breeze.

  She’s beautiful, in her hard way, Nick thought reluctantly.

  “They never bother to count,” she said. “Least of all on the last trip of the day. Jacques said so, and he knows them.”

  Yes. The ever-helping Jacques, thought Nick. But he had to trust the man. Jacques and his wife Marie had been friends of Paula’s for many years. It was Jacques who had sent the message to Paula that Chinese strangers had been seen near Cap Haitien, and Jacques who had spied and seen them burrowing through the bushes near the Citadelle for several dark nights in a row, dragging odd-shaped boxes with them. Jacques would bear closer inquiry when he had time.

  “Okay, if Jacques says so. Now I want this clearly understood. You will stay with the horses. You are not coming with me.”

  “Let’s understand it my way,” she said coldly. “I’ve seen you in action only once—against a dog. Until I know what you’re worth I’m giving the orders. You are not I am coming with you.”

  The guide’s voice sang out briskly. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, we will take the staircase to the lower cannon gallery. You will follow me, please, and quickly if you do not mind, for it is getting late.”

  There was a flurry of sound and the party drifted away from the battlement. Nick watched the last man go downstairs out of sight, waited for a minute, and then turned to Paula.

  “Paula, use your head,” he said softly. “You’ll only be in the way. It’s going to be hard enough groping around in the dark alone; it’s going to be impossible if I have to drag you with me. Do you want to force me to put you out of action?” He glanced around swiftly to make sure they were alone. They were. “It’s easy enough. Like this!”

  His hands shot out in a lightning move. One caught both of hers and pinned them together at the wrists. The other went to her throat and found the sensitive pressure point. And squeezed.

  He let go just as suddenly: “See how easy?”

  She touched her throat and swallowed. “I see. You have made your point. But as you say you will be alone in there. You may need help. Like this!”

  Her hands shot out in a move that matched his own for speed. With a swift, skillful jerk she had him off his feet and over her shoulder. He slammed against the parapet wall and bounded back like a ball, landing lightly beside her as she turned to view her handiwork.

  “Shame on you for treating an old man like that,” he said reproachfully. “What if I’d gone over the parapet?”

  “I would have waved goodbye,” she answered crisply. “But you land well, I’m glad to see.”

  Nick stared at her. “You’re a hard case, aren’t you? Okay, you’ve made your point, too. But I think I’m kind of sorry for you. Come on, let’s go.”

  He slapped her derriere briskly and propelled her toward the stone staircase. His pride was ruffled. But he was thinking that she might be useful, after all.

  “Shang! You devil’s bastard! Did I not tell you that we might need her yet?” Tsing-fu Shu’s tall body quivered with rage. It had all been too quick, much too quick! “You pig, you will be punished for this!”

  The hairless man-ape turned to him. Shang’s face was a study in animal bewilderment.

  “I did nothing. Master. I touched her only, and she fought me. You saw—you must have seen. I did nothing to her, Master.”

  Tsing-fu pulled furiously at his cigarillo and strode over to the silent figure on its bed of stone. He reached for the thin shoulders and shook them angrily. The girl’s body was limp and unresisting; she was like a rag doll with half the stuffing gone. Her head flopped back and forth as though her neck had snapped.

  He felt for her pulse. It was faint, but it was beating.

  “Get out, Shang,” he grated. “Get back to your place.”

  Tsing-fu heard the low growl behind him as he reached into his pocket for the small case with the vials and hypodermic. His flesh crawled. He knew the brute strength of his pet monster and respected it. He knew Shang’s rages, too, far more violent than his own, and had seen the beast in action with his crushing holds and deadly karate blows. Shang was practically his own creation . . . but one never knew when a half-tamed beast would turn.

  He made his voice gentle as he filled the needle.

  “You will have your chance, my Shang,” he said. “It will be later, that is all. Now go.”

  He heard Shang’s padding footsteps retreat while he sought the vein and found it.

  She would be good for at least another round, this girl. And next time he would be more careful.

  None of the tourists noticed Nick and Paula hanging back from the rest of the group and stealing into the grove. Jacques had been right; there was no way of reaching the heavily barred inner recesses of the castle from within, so they would have to re-enter from outside. But at least they had a good idea of the general layout, which matched the old pictures and the chart.

  The horses were waiting in the grove, as Jacques had promised. In the deep shade offered by the mahogany trees Nick changed quickly into his dark green fatigues of the night before and dusted the gray powder from his beard. The thin evening air carried back to him the sounds of the tour party clattering homeward down the trail a half mile or so away. It was a long descent and the last rays of the sun would be dying by the time they reached Milot at the bottom of the slope.

  Paula was still changing behind the cover of a low-hanging branch.

  There was time to kill before it got dark enough to go to work; too much time for a man of Nick’s impatience. And Paula, withdrawn and angry by turns, was not the sort of woman to help him while away the twilight hours in the manner of his choice.

  Nick sighed. It was a pity about her. So cold, so uncommunicative about herself, so beautiful in her lean and catlike way, so unapproachable. . . .

  He padded quietly to the edge of the mahogany grove and looked about him, visualizing the old chart shown to him by Jacques and fitting the scene to the pictures he had seen. The Citadelle loomed above him, vast and impregnable. To his left, beyond the edge of
the mahogany stand, lay a grove of palms. To his right, pomegranates, and beyond them the trail leading into town. Almost directly ahead of him, between him and the tall iron-studded outer walls, was a mound of rock topped by thick bush. He stood and listened for a moment, still and silent as a mahogany trunk, watching for anything that might betray another presence. Then he moved, slowly and stealthily like a panther on the prowl.

  It took him some minutes to find the opening of the conduit and clear it of the overgrowth, but he was pleased with what he saw when he had uncovered it. They would have to crawl, but unless there was fallen masonry or some other blockage within there would be room enough for anyone moving at a crouch.

  Nick glided back to the shelter of the mahoganies and sat down on a fallen log. Through the trees he glimpsed the vague outlines of the horses and the woman, standing motionless and waiting.

  He chirruped twice into the tiny microphones beneath his shirt and heard the answering chirp.

  “AXE J-20,” a small voice whispered from his armpit. “Where are you, N?”

  “Outside La Citadelle,” Nick murmured. “With the woman, Paula.”

  He heard a tiny chuckle. “But naturally,” said Jean Pierre. “Carter lands as usual with his bottom in the butter. So The Terrible Ones are all women, yes? Hawk is livid! I believe he thinks you planned it just that way. But how do you progress?”

  “In a strange and devious way,” Nick muttered, keeping his eyes peeled for any movement in or near the woods. “Shut up and listen, and spare me your sly cracks. I met the woman, as you heard. I still don’t know anything about the Cuban character but I think Paula’s holding out on me. Anyway, we had a little incident with a Haitian Dog Patrol and left the cave in something of a hurry. She took me to a village called Bambara where she has friends, name of Jacques and Marie LeCIerq. Check them, if you can. We spent the night with them and most of the day. Seems that Jacques is a local rebel leader—plans an uprising against Papa Doc Duvalier some day. Nothing to do with this mission, except that he keeps in contact with Paula and exchanges information.”