by Gar Wilson
"He's already got a lot of innocent blood on his hands," James said. "Son of a bitch isn't gonna get away with that."
"We'll have to find him first," Bristol commented. "De Madrid's party guests may not be much help. Aren't your people working on other sources, Gray?"
"Sanchez is trying to contact Kevinson," Katz answered. "The black marketeer seems to have gone into hiding. No doubt he's afraid Perm will be after him, having vouched for the three 'bankers' from Martinique. I just hope we find him before Penn does."
"Do you think he'll cooperate with us?" Wells asked.
"Does he have a choice?" James replied with a shrug. "Kevinson can play ball with us and stay alive and outta prison or he can take his chances alone against Penn. That ain't much of a choice."
"According to the Kingston police records, Penn has a mistress... or at least she used to be his regular girlfriend," James said. "A former airline stewardess from Sweden. Can't remember her name. Sounded phony anyway."
"Inger Blomgren," Katz supplied, tapping into his near-photographic memory. "Apparently she got mixed up with Penn a couple years ago, quit the airline and set up house here. The police have no evidence linking her to any criminal activity except her close association with Penn. There's a possibility she might know some of the places where Penn might go to keep a low profile when the authorities are looking for him."
"Penn wouldn't be stupid enough to share any real secrets about his business with this Swedish whore," Bristol declared, shaking his head. "Your people are grasping for straws, Gray."
"Perhaps," the Phoenix Force commander said. "But you'd be surprised how many men reveal secrets to girlfriends, mistresses and other lovers. Men will sometimes get quite careless with a woman, especially after a few drinks. That's why the Soviet KGB trains female agents called 'swallows' who seduce men to get information."
"Hopefully, one of your ideas will work," Wells said, with much doubt evident in his tone. "This entire affair has become bloodier and potentially far more volatile than anyone could have realized. So far, we don't have much reason to be pleased with your results, Mr. Gray. You'd better succeed in your mission, and quickly."
"I agree," Katz said, expressing little concern about Wells's thinly veiled threat. "Not for the reasons that seem to worry you, but because Cercueil isn't going to sit around waiting for us to find him. If we don't locate him soon, he'll escape and we might never get him then. At least not until it's too late."
"Too late for whom?" Wells inquired.
"For all of us," the Israeli replied. "If, God forbid, he should succeed, the ultimate results could only be catastrophic, not only for Haiti and her neighbors, but for every country in the Western hemisphere."
13
Kingston, Jamaica, is a modern city with towering skyscrapers and office buildings, flashy discos and glitzy night clubs. After driving through the city, Gary Manning and Lieutenant Smith arrived at a great square structure of concrete and glass known as the Brentwood Apartments. The high rise was located among an assortment of shops, restaurants and traditional English pubs.
"This place looks expensive," Manning remarked as he gazed up at the building.
"Quite," Smith agreed stiffly. The stuffed shirt cop did not seem to care for his current task of chauffeuring Manning around the city. "Penn can afford to give his sluts the very best. You notice the shrubbery on the roof?"
"Yeah, I can see a bit of it, along the edge. Looks like dwarf trees and rosebushes," the Canadian commando answered, shielding his eyes with the palm of a hand. The midday sun burned brightly above the apartment house. "Rooftop garden?"
"Probably a restaurant as well," Smith stated as they walked to the entrance. "Rooftop restaurants are popular in Kingston. They are something of a status symbol for hotels and sky-rises here. Many of the more expensive places feature such restaurants."
"Maybe we'll get lucky and find Inger Blomgren having lunch with Montgomery Penn up there," Manning remarked, although he did not sound very hopeful that would happen.
They found the manager's office in the lobby. Smith flashed his badge, told the manager he was there on official business, and confided he needed to speak to Inger Blomgren. The manager immediately gave him the apartment number and a passkey. Manning noticed the manager seemed very nervous but not very surprised by their visit. He guessed the manager had always suspected Ms. Blomgren was associated with unsavory characters and that the guy was probably afraid he might catch some of the hell when they lowered the boom on his tenant.
Smith headed for the elevator, but Manning insisted they use the stairs instead. The Kingston cop was annoyed by this and considered Manning downright paranoid. The Canadian demolitions expert did not give a damn what Smith thought. He knew how easily an elevator could be booby-trapped or sabotaged at a moment's notice. If the manager or someone else in the lobby was working for the enemy, a phone call could warn the Blomgren woman and whoever might be with her.
If that happened, the woman might try to flee or contact Penn. Bodyguards or even Penn himself might be up in her apartment. They could arrange an ambush at the stairs. That would be bad enough, but at least Manning and Smith would be able to see their attackers and fight back. There is no way to fight back if one is inside an elevator and the enemy severs the cables or drops grenades down the shaft. Manning always felt vulnerable in an elevator, and he rarely used one if he could use stairs instead.
The Phoenix pro and the disgruntled police lieutenant climbed the stairs to the third floor. They encountered no ambushers or booby traps. Smith glanced at Manning with an expression that seemed to say: Now don't you feel foolish? The Canadian ignored him, well aware that following the rules of caution and survival was never foolish even when it proved to be unnecessary.
"Do you want to check the door for trip wires and electrical traps rigged to the doorknob?" Smith snorted as they approached Inger's apartment. "Or do you think we can insert the key and unlock the door without being blown to bits or electrocuted?"
"You've got the key, pal," Manning said as he stepped to the side of the door near the hinges. He opened his jacket and slid his hand to the grips of the Walther P-5 semiautomatic pistol under his arm. "You might want to stand clear of the door after you knock... just in case."
"I think you blokes..." Smith began, but a scream from within the apartment interrupted him.
A woman shrieked from the opposite side of the door. Smith fumbled with the passkey in the lock. His fingers trembled slightly as he turned the knob and shoved the door open. Almost as an afterthought, he decided to take Manning's advice and ducked back to the doorway.
Manning entered the apartment, the Walther P-5 held in a two-handed grip, arms extended. The Canadian rapidly scanned the spacious front room of Inger's quarters. The decor was impressive. The white shag carpet was three inches thick and matched the long white sofa and armchairs. A glass-topped coffee table stood in front of the furniture, a black marble ashtray and a black-and-gold cigarette lighter on its polished surface. Modernistic paintings — also black-and-white — hung from the cream-colored walls. Inger had an expensive stereo system, a Sylvania color television set and a VCR built into an entertainment center. An ebony bar with a black leather counter stood between the front room and the dining table beyond.
However, Manning did not have much time to admire the setting. His attention quickly zeroed in on two struggling figures at one end of the sofa. The woman was a beautiful blonde with full breasts, a lean belly and long, shapely legs. The lovely limbs kicked wildly as a man dressed in a dirt-smeared white suit pinned the female to the floor. Her golden robe was open and the man straddled her chest, thighs jammed under her breasts. The beauty of her Nordic features was distorted by pain and terror. She no longer screamed as her assailant's dark fingers encircled her neck, his thumbs digging into her windpipe.
"My God!" Smith exclaimed, awkwardly drawing his snubnose Colt revolver from a belt holster.
Manning had already a
scertained that the strangler appeared to be the only aggressor in the apartment. Manning reached the struggling pair in two strides. The male did not seem to notice. He remained fully absorbed in the task of throttling the woman. Manning heard an ugly liquid growl from the man as a strand of saliva dangled from his mouth onto the woman's naked breasts.
The Canadian warrior swung a hard kick to the ribs of the strangler. The powerful blow knocked the man from the woman, but he didn't relinquish his stranglehold on the woman. Her head bobbed limply with the motion, eyes open, tongue dangling loosely from her gaping mouth. She did not appear to be breathing.
Manning stomped a heel into the strangler's arm. The attacker's fingers mercifully loosened from around the woman's neck. The assailant looked up at Manning. No pain was evident in the mulatto's features; the eyes seemed glazed and immobile. With a start, Manning realized he had seen this man before.
It was Montgomery Penn.
Snarling like a beast, the gangster glared at Manning. He did not seem to recognize the Phoenix fighter, but he acknowledged the Canadian as an enemy. Manning pointed the muzzle of his Walther pistol directly at the hoodlum's face. Penn did not seem to care or even realize the gun presented a threat. Manning's stomach felt as if a cat had suddenly crawled inside it with its claws bared. He recognized the blank, emotionless expression on his opponent's face.
Penn had been transformed into a zombie.
As the gangster started to rise from the floor, Manning kicked the zombie in the jaw. Penn hurtled backward, crashed into the bar. His head struck the ebony base and bounced. Blood oozed from his mouth down his bruised chin and onto his filthy torn shirt.
Smith trained his revolver on the semiconscious man as Manning knelt by Inger's still form and touched the woman's neck. Her neck was marred by black-and-purple marks. Manning placed two fingers to her carotid artery. He found no pulse.
"Oh, God," Smith said, his breath ragged with tension as he held his revolver in both fists, aimed at Penn. "I don't believe this is really happening."
"You damn well better believe it," Manning snapped, risking a quick glimpse up at Smith. The cop was shaking so badly Manning thought he might rattle some bones loose. "The woman seems dead, but I'm gonna try to revive her with CPR. You keep Penn covered."
"That's Montgomery Penn?" Smith glared at the wild-eyed, gurgling beast clad in dirt-caked, tattered clothing.
"He was last night," Manning replied as he shoved his pistol into his belt and propped open Inger's mouth. "Not real sure what he is now."
Manning sealed his lips around the woman's mouth. Under different circumstances that would have appealed to the Canadian, but there was no life in Inger Blomgren. There was nothing appealing about kissing a corpse. Tilting her head back to keep the neck straight, he pinched her nostrils shut and exhaled into her mouth. He took a breath and repeated the procedure, pressing an ear between her soft breasts, listening for a heartbeat.
He didn't hear one. Manning located her sternum and placed a palm on it. He locked the fingers of his other hand with it and pumped his arms. He was counting mentally, pressing hard with each count.
Penn started to get up; his jawbone was broken, so he moved sluggishly. He was not in pain, but he was tremendously dazed. The gangster-turned-zombie stared at Smith and Manning, his expression blank with a trace of confusion.
"You know CPR?" Manning asked Smith. "If you take over, I'll handle Penn..."
"That thing is coming at us!" Smith exclaimed, his revolver pointed at Penn's chest.
"Smith!" Manning shouted. "Hold your fire..."
The cop ignored the order and triggered his snub-nose revolver. The gun roared in the confined area. A slug smashed into Penn's chest; the zombie staggered along the bar. The cop fired two more rounds into Penn's shoulder blades.
"No!" Manning yelled, his voice lost amid the roar of more gunshots.
Smith emptied his weapon into Penn, who had slumped across a barstool. Staring at the bloodied body, the cop pulled the trigger twice more; the revolver clicked in his fist. The corpse collapsed to the floor, the chest ripped open by numerous wounds.
"I... I had to do it," Smith said, looking at the gun in his hand as if surprised to see it. "You saw. I had to..."
"It's done now," Manning replied, shaking his head as he climbed to his feet. "Can't change it."
"The woman?" Smith asked, gesturing toward the motionless female form with the revolver, which trembled in his shaky grasp.
"She's dead," Manning answered. "Really dead. Thyroid cartilage is crushed, so CPR won't do any good. She isn't breathing, there's no heartbeat, and she's probably brain-dead by now."
"God," Smith muttered, slowly returning his revolver to its holster. "What do we do now?"
"I don't know," the Phoenix commando said. "This sure looks like a dead end, and I don't have any idea of what's left for us to try."
14
"This looks like a charming place," David McCarter remarked as he glanced up at the legend above the tavern door. The Pirates' Lair was printed beneath a skull and crossbones with a fanged serpent slithering from a black eye socket. "Sure they'll let us in without reservations?"
"Just remember what I told you about this place," Rafael Encizo warned. "Just about everybody who comes here is involved in smuggling, drug trafficking, fencing stolen goods or some other criminal activity. They'll cut your throat and dump your corpse in the bay just to see what you've got in your pockets."
St Ann's Bay did not seem a likely spot for hoodlums to choose for disposing of victims, but one would not expect to find a place like the Pirates' Lair near Ocho Rios, one of the most popular resort areas in Jamaica. As to the name, many tourists mistakenly think it is Spanish for "eight rivers," but it is actually a distortion of chorreras — which means "spouts." The reason for this is obvious at a glance. Several mountains are located in the region, and rivers flow through the limestone to form cascades of blue-and-white water. The coast by Ocho Rios features a series of waterfalls, most notably the magnificent Dunn's River Falls.
Ocho Rios also offers several restaurants and hotels, including a couple that are remarkably inexpensive — less than thirty dollars a night. Even the surrounding villages of Oracabessa and Firefly are popular with tourists because they were formerly the respective vacation residences of Ian Fleming and Noel Coward.
However, the Pirates' Lair was located in a small fishing village that had never been a hangout for famous novelists or playwrights. Little more than a collection of shabby buildings and sheds, it was the sort of place tour guides warn tourists to avoid. Yet it was also the sort of place Todd Kevinson might flee to if he was running from a crime syndicate in Kingston.
Encizo, familiar with the Pirates' Lair from his previous visit to Jamaica, had been mildly surprised to learn the tavern still existed. Encizo had half expected it to have been blown to bits by rival gangs or shut down by the cops, but the Lair was still in business and apparently still frequented by underworld figures big and small.
After what had happened at the Palace of Madrid, Todd Kevinson realized his ass was on the line. The veteran black marketeer and smuggler would not stay in Kingston, and Spanish Town was out of the question. Encizo did not know all of Kevinson's haunts, but he figured that the Pirates' Lair was a likely spot for Kevinson to head. Perhaps they would find him there, perhaps not. If they did, there was a strong possibility the smuggler would want nothing to do with them.
"They dump many bodies in the bay?" McCarter inquired, speaking softly as they approached the Pirates' Lair.
"More than you'd guess," Encizo replied, tugging on the lapels of his navy peacoat, which concealed the H&K pistol in shoulder leather and the Cold Steel Tanto on his belt.
"Charming," McCarter muttered, swinging a knapsack over his shoulder. The Briton also wore a peacoat with his trusty Browning autoloader holstered under his arm.
"Just stay alert," Encizo warned. "A fella can get killed here, David."
&nbs
p; "Sounds like my kind of place," the British ace said with a wolfish smile.
They entered the Pirates' Lair. A dense fog of cigar and pipe smoke filled the barroom. At one table, two Asian mulattoes were drinking a pitcher of beer. A large black man, dressed in cutoff jeans and a fishnet undershirt that displayed lots of muscular tattooed flesh, leaned against the bar, deliberating upon which beer-bottle cap to move on a checkerboard. The tattooed man was playing checkers with a heavyset mulatto behind the bar. Three black Jamaicans were talking in hushed whispers at another table.
Everyone in the barroom seemed to glance suspiciously at the two newcomers. Encizo stepped to the counter and nodded to the bartender, who exchanged glances with his tattooed friend. Mr. Tattoo jerked his head toward Encizo and McCarter. The bartender nodded and approached the new arrivals.
"What d'ya want?" he asked curtly, scratching his fat belly. The butt of a pistol protruded from his belt.
"Got any Myers rum?" Encizo asked, addressing the entire room in general and the bartender in particular.
"We got it, mon," the barman answered.
"Hey, paleface!" one of the black dudes across the room shouted at McCarter. "This ain't the kinda place you wants to be. Gets a little too dark for your kind in here."
"My heart's blacker than your skin, mate," McCarter growled as he placed his knapsack on the bar. "Just leave me be. We'll both be better off."
"Fuckin' Brit bastard..." the surly man began as he and his comrades started to rise from their chairs.
"Let it drop," the tattooed man said in a sharp tone without raising his voice. The men remained in their seats.
"I'll pour your drinks. Gulp them down fast and then get out," the bartender announced, reaching for a bottle of rum.