Dangerous Games td-40

by Warren Murphy

  "I'm not interested in his goddamn threads," Mullin said, and the African clamped his mouth shut in midsentence. "They will have to be taken care of. Both of them."

  In a way, Mullin was glad that some pressure was building on his terrorist cadre. He was a man of action and the subterfuge and sneaking around was

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  making him edgy. He could feel his blood beginning to pulse inside his temples.

  He had another idea.

  "The two security men. That big Russian and the German. If that American could find out something, perhaps they could too. I think we're going to leave our mark on these games, starting right now."

  "What do you have in mind, Lieutenant?" asked one of the Africans.

  "We are going to kill the security men. That should let the world know we mean business here."

  He looked around the room at the four black faces. They all grinned back at him.

  "This bomb was just the first step," Sorkofsky said. "We will have to act fast."

  "What do you suggest?" Bechenbauer said.

  "I think we will bring in this American." He lifted up the report with Remo's picture on it. "This Remo Black. He was at the scene; and yesterday he breached the village's security."

  "You don't think he had anything to do with the bombing, do you? I can't believe a CIA man could be involved with this terrorist group."

  "But he's not a CIA man," Sorkofsky said. "I just received a report from our central headquarters. They have means of checking personnel. He is not CIA. He is not FBI. He is not with any government agency."

  "But still ... an American going to bomb American athletes? I find that hard to believe," said the German.

  "Listen," Sorkofsky said. "You know America is strange. They seem to delight in attacking their own country. Who knows what kind of a fishhead this one may be?"

  He looked at Bechenbauer, who thought for a few long seconds, before nodding his agreement.

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  "I am going to have him picked up," Sorkofsky said.

  As Sorkofsky reached for the phone, he was struck by the thought that he had promised to take his two daughters out for dinner that night in the city and then to the ballet. They would be bitterly disappointed, but once he had picked up this Remo Black, he would have to interrogate him to find out who he was working for. He would take the girls out to dinner tomorrow.

  Bechenbauer found himself wishing that Remo Black was the head of the terrorists. He missed his wife and children, and he would be very happy to get home and see his family again.

  Soon, he thought. Perhaps very soon,

  Outside the security office, Mullin and his men had taken out the two Russian guards at the front door very smoothly and quietly, killing them with their knives. The door faced away from the heart of the Olympic village so there was little chance of their being spotted. Mullin posted one man as a lookout, while he worked on the locked door.

  He felt the lock give and he turned to his men and whispered final instructions. "Remember. Quickly and quietly. I want no shooting, so hit them fast because as soon as they see us, they'll go for their guns. Understood?"

  All of the men nodded. Then they heard the click of the lock as it opened.

  Mullin could hear the blood pounding in his ears. This was what he lived for-action-and if action had to mean killing, so be it. He called to the lookout to join them. He held his knife in one hand and caressed the sharp blade with the other.

  "All right, lads," he whispered. "In we go."

  Sorkorfsky had just dialed the telephone when he saw the door fly open. Stunned, he watched as four

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  black men and one white man flooded into the room and spread out in a fan shape. They were all armed with knives.

  Bechenbauer saw the look on Sorkofsky's face and heard the door open behind him. He jumped out of his chair and turned to face whatever was coming. He did not have time to count the men who had entered the room and were charging them. He grabbed the chair he had been sitting in and threw it at one man, who ducked away from it. The chair struck him on the forearm and he heard the man cry out in pain or in anger.

  With one hand frantically grabbing for his revolver, the West German felt the blade of the first knife cut into his flesh, below his belt, slicing his navel neatly in half. As that knife was pulled to the left, cutting him open at the belly, he felt a second blade rip into his throat and his cry of pain died there. He became very numb, very sleepy. His legs suddenly felt boneless and would not hold him. I should be falling, he thought, but instead he felt himself fading.

  Soon, he thought, soon. Soon ...I... will . . . be . . . home . . .

  Sorkofsky could see Bechenbauer's back, but could not see what happened to him. Yet as the German slumped to the floor, he recognized what he had seen so many times before: the look of death. Pushing back his chair, the Russian put his feet against the edge of his desk and with all the power of his massive legs behind it, pushed out. The flimsy desk slid across the room, striking the already dead Bechenbauer in the back as he fell, but also sweeping one of the terrorists off his feet. That left four to deal with.

  With the desk no longer protecting him, Sorkofsky jumped from his chair, his hand grabbing for the gun in the holster at his side. He was surprised at how calm he felt and how calculated his moves were. He

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  knew exactly what he wanted to do and knew that if he could execute what he was planning, he had a chance to stay alive.

  He had his gun in his hand and was raising it when the first knife found its mark.

  One of the black men slashed at his gun arm, slicing it open just below the elbow. The hand went numb and he dropped the gun to the floor. At the same time, he grabbed the terrorist by the throat with his other hand and lifted him, like a toy, and threw him across the room where he crashed into another one of the Africans. Both went down in a tangled heap.

  He looked down for his gun, but he saw a booted foot kick it away, then looked up and saw the small white man standing in front of him.

  "You are a big lummox, aren't you?" said Mullin.

  Sorkofsky did not understand the language, but the sneer on the white man's face and his sudden glimpse of poor Bechenbauer's body, bleeding on the floor, touched some deep nerve inside the Russian and he roared, a holler of anguish and pain from deep hi his throat, and with his left hand he lashed out and grabbed the small Englishman's chin. He lifted him from the floor, with a strength born of pain and desperation, and charged across the floor, ready to slam the man's head into a wall. I might die, Sorkofsky thought but this bastard will go with me.

  Mullin screamed and before Sorkofsky reached the far wall, two of the blacks tackled bom. As he fell to the floor, he released Mullin. When he shook his head and cleared it, he saw the Englishman standing in front of him.

  "On your feet, ox," the Englishman said. "I won't even need a knife for you."

  His one arm useless, Sorkofsky rose to his feet. As he did, Mullin reached out and kicked the hard toe of a pointed boot into the Russian's solar plexus.

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  Sorkofsky, instead of going down, roared and charged at Mullin, but as he reached the small Englishman, Mullin twisted his knife upward into the Russian's stomach, and Dimitri Sorkofsky fell to the floor, his eyes already glazing over.

  The room was as quiet as death.

  "Well done, lads," Mullin said, although it was not as easy as he had anticipated or would have liked. The big Russian was a bloody bull and had made things more difficult than they should have been. Still, the terrorists' point had been made. The security officers for the Olympic Games were dead. The world would know the terrorists were not joking.

  The telephone rang on the small phone ledge behind the spot where Sorkofsky's desk had stood.

  Mullin said quickly, "All right, lads, let's go." As they went out the door, he added: "The American is next. This Remo Black."

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  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

 
Josie Littlefeather approached the balance beam for her third performance in the preliminaries and the crowd in the big gymnasium hushed.

  Already she had done something no other American gymnast had ever done before: she had scored two perfect scores of ten in the preliminary competitions.

  Remo nodded to himself with satisfaction as he saw her mount the bar with obvious assurance, and then with a physical happiness that bordered on lust, he watched her go through the turns and jumps and twists and somersaults of her routine, before leaving the bar with a twisting one-and-a-half-somersault dismount, that brought the crowd to its feet, roaring cheers of approval for the little-known American gymnast.

  Josie ran to Remo and hugged him tightly.

  "You were great," he said.

  "Thanks to you," she said. As he looked over her shoulder, he saw the scores posted on the far side of the gymnasium. The audience erupted into more applause and cheering.

  "Another ten?" she asked.

  "Better believe it," Remo said. "Get out there and take a bow. Your audience is calling you."

  Josie ran out onto one of the mats in the center of the floor and waved to the crowd, turning a slow circle, smiling honestly and brightly at the audience,

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  and then she ran back over to join Remo on a bench near the spectators' seats.

  "When do you compete?" she asked him.

  He had not even thought about it. His first run was today too. In fact, they might even be looking for him. Missing the race now and disappointing Chiun would mean he would never hear the end of it.

  Then he looked up and saw Chiun walking toward them, a grim look on his wizened face.

  "Today," he said. "But don't come and watch. You'll only make me nervous."

  She hugged him again and said, "Good luck, even though you don't need it. I have to go talk to somebody."

  As she walked away, Remo rose to meet Chiun.

  "It's okay, Chiun. It's okay. I won't miss the race."

  "Did you find the bombers?" Chiun asked.

  "Yeah. It's the Baruban team," Remo said.

  "And you told the security chief of these games?"

  "Not exactly."

  "What not exactly?" asked Chiun.

  "I told the guy who was tailing us. I told him to tell his boss."

  "And then you came here so that you could watch that woman perform?"

  "You've known about her," Remo said.

  "How could I not know about her?" Chiun demanded. "The turmoil in your heart and head has made such a racket that I have not slept a wink since you met that woman. But she does not matter now."

  "What does?"

  "The security chiefs have been killed. I have just heard," Chiun said. "I guess your message about the terrorists was not delivered."

  "Damn," snapped Remo. He felt responsible and he felt bad. He had been responsible for the death of

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  many men, but this was from negligence, not by design.

  He looked up at Chiun. "Let's go get those damned terrorists and put them out of action for good."

  Chiun raised his hand. "No. I will go and find them. You will do what you came here to do. Get over to the sports field and win your race. Put all else out of your mind until you win."

  "Chiun-"

  "Shhh. This is important. You go win. This is not for the gold medal yet. It is just a preliminary. But you win it. And set a new world's record while you're doing it. Not a big world's record, but just a little one. Save the good stuff for later. But remember. Don't go on television until I get back. That is important, because you will probably say all the wrong things. Do what I tell you."

  "Yes, Chiun," Remo said, and the two men walked off in separate directions, Chiun to hunt, and Remo to run.

  The event was the 800-meter run.

  Remo arrived barely in time to avoid being disqualified and was glared at malevolently by three other American runners.

  Remo debated whether or not he should wave at Dr. Harold W. Smith, who was probably watching at home, but decided against it. Smith probably already had apoplexy from seeing Josie Littlefeather run over after her balance beam performance and hug Remo.

  Remo was still wearing chinos and loafers. One of the field judges said to him, "Where is your uniform?"

  "This is it," Remo said. "I'm representing the Tool and Die Makers Athletic Club of Secaucus, New Jersey."

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  The judge shook his head in disbelief and stepped away from the starting line.

  Remo was in lane four, next to the east German runner, Hans Schlichter, who had seen Remo in the gymnasium showing Josie how to master the balance beam. The East German leaned over to him and said, "It is nothing personal, you understand."

  "Of course," said Remo. "Just in the spirit of Olympic competition."

  "That is right," said Schlichter.

  The runners took their place in the starting blocks, except for Remo who chose to stand at the start line.

  When the gun sounded, Schlichter, instead of exploding from the blocks, swerved out to the right. This made room for another East German runner to move inside, past Schlichter and alongside Remo, pinching the American between himself and another East German runner on Remo's left.

  Remo started slowly down the track, and the two East German runners kept swerving in and out of their lines, bumping him, pinching him between them. One tried on a forward stride to dig his running spikes into Remo's right calf, but Remo dodged.

  Up ahead, he saw Hans Schlichter racing into a large lead, and as Schlichter cut over toward the rail, he glanced back at Remo and the look on his face said clearly, "Sorry, pal, but that's the way it is."

  And Remo got angry.

  He started running in an exaggerated motion, swinging his arms up and forward, and then he brought his left elbow back into the midsection of one East German runner who gasped out his air. Remo's right fist slapped downward and hit into the left thigh of the runner on Ms right, and the runner shouted his pain, slowed up, and then tried to run off the pain. But it was too late. Remo was past them, chasing Schlichter and the three Americans who held

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  second, third and fourth places behind the East German star.

  As he ran, Remo shook his head. What ever happened to sportsmanship? he asked himself, and he put out of his mind the necessity of winning the race and gave himself just one goal: get rid of that East German sucker.

  Running easily now, Remo came up behind the three American runners halfway through the second and last lap of the race.

  The crowd began to roar as Remo moved past the three Americans. Schlichter thought it was for him, until he saw Remo pull up alongside him. His eyes widened and he tried to turn on some extra energy to leave Remo behind him, but Remo stayed right with him effortlessly.

  "Communists suck," Remo said.

  Schlichter kept running.

  "You look like Hitler. You related?" Remo said.

  Schlichter glanced angrily to his right, his face beaming hatred at Remo.

  They were near the backstretch now and the smooth stride of Schlichter started to get choppy. Remo felt the three American runners closing behind them.

  "Your mother still turning tricks at the Berlin Wall?" Remo asked Schlichter as he matched him, easy stride for tortured stride.

  Schlichter turned to Remo and hissed, "You are a Yankee bastard."

  "Crap," Remo said. "Ich bin ein Berliner. You're a schmuck."

  Schlichter tried to concentrate on his running, but the three Americans now were running alongside them.

  "A running dog of the Communist butchers," Remo said. "Remember Hungary. Remember Czechoslovakia. Free Poland."

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  And incredibly, Schlichter stopped running and jumped toward Remo, flailing punches at him. Remo ducked and trotted off from the East German, watching the three Americans cross the finish line ahead of him almost shoulder to shoulder, and it was only when the roar from the crowd signalled that th
e race was over that he realized he had blown it and would have to face Chiun.

  Behind him, Schlichter did not even bother to finish the race. He stopped and walked off the track, joined by the other two East Germans, all eliminated in the competition's first heat. They looked toward Remo and he tossed them a salute.

  He congratulated the three successful Americans, and one of them threw his arms around Remo.

  "You cooked him good, pal. You could have won this thing, don't think we don't know that. But why?"

  "Ah, you guys deserve it." Remo said. "Besides, you're getting old. This is your last shot. I'll be back in four years and maybe I'll even buy a pair of sneakers and blow everybody out." The three runners, all fifteen years younger than Remo, laughed.

  "Yeah, but we'll get medals this year. What'll you get?"

  "Satisfaction," Remo said. "That's all I wanted."

  He turned and saw Josie Littlefeather standing in the crowd of people who had spilled onto the track. He could see hurt in her eyes, and he was sad that he had disappointed her by losing, but even that could not make him regret what he had done.

  He walked toward her, calling her name: "Josie." She turned away, blindly plunging through the crowd and quickly becoming lost.

  "Josie," he called again, but she did not stop.

  His first thought was that she would get over it. His second thought was to hell with her if she didn't.

  Then he remembered that while he was standing

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  there, thinking about his running antics, Chiun was out hunting killers.

  And damn him, Remo thought, he'd better save me something.

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  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The center of the Olympic village was filled with tourists and athletes, strolling from arena to arena, gymnasium to gymnasium, but Jack Mullin did not see them. What he saw instead was hundreds of policemen and soldiers, moving through the crowd, scanning faces, as if looking for someone.

  He became nervous. He pulled his four men close to him and said, "I think, lads, it's tune to plant our little packages and get out. Agreed?"

  He scanned their impassive faces. Not a muscle moved in any of them.