Get Off At Babylon

by Marvin H. Albert

  Traikov was in motion before I could twist around to cover him with my gun. His move was sure and swift. It brought him to his feet with the knapsack hanging from one hand, his other hand yanking Odile upright between us to shield him from my gun. He dropped the knapsack on the ledge, and that hand shot up to grip Odile’s neck.

  I raised my gun to take aim at Traikov’s head. He ducked, getting his head behind hers. At the same instant he shifted his grip on her. One hand caught hold of her chin, the other fastened on the back of her skull.

  “One little twist,” he said flatly, “and she’s a dead girl.”

  Odile stared at me, frozen in the grasp of his huge hands. I lowered my aim to the side of his left hip. “You’re too big to hide all of you behind someone that small.”

  “Go ahead and shoot,” he said. “And I snap her neck and toss her at you.”

  “Then you’ll both be dead,” I told him thinly.

  “Not sure.” From his tone we might have been discussing the best way to cut a cake. “Small caliber bullets like you’ve got there, the first shot won’t hurt me much. You might even get in a second shot before I’m on top of you. But unless you get very lucky, I’ll still kill you barehanded before you can take the third shot. Do we try it—or do you throw your gun away?”

  I hesitated. Because he could be right, on every point. “Your choice,” Traikov said evenly. “You got three seconds. Then I break her neck, and we find out who dies next, you or me. I’m ready if you are.”

  I believed him. I threw the gun away, out over the lake. Traikov dropped his hands to grasp Odile’s arms and automatically turned his head to watch it splash into the water. In that instant I launched myself at him and Odile, ramming them with a low driving tackle.

  It caught him by surprise. He hadn’t expected to have any problem with me once I was unarmed. And holding Odile made him a fraction too slow in spreading his feet to regain his balance.

  The three of us toppled off the edge and fell to the deep water below.

  Chapter 31

  I hoped three things in the split second before we hit the surface of the lake:

  That Traikov couldn’t swim as well as I could. That he hadn’t filled his lungs with air in the last instant, like I had. And that he wasn’t prepared for the freezing temperature of mountain water at that altitude.

  It was like plunging deep down into solid ice.

  Even though I was expecting it, I had to use all my willpower not to gasp at the shock of it, which would fill my lungs with water. And I had to keep my eyes open.

  Traikov let go of Odile as we sank. I saw her drift away from us. Traikov, momentarily disoriented by the shock of the plunge, flailed his arms and legs in a wild attempt to get his head above water. I didn’t let him.

  Grabbing one of his arms with both hands, I spun him deeper with me and swung myself behind him. Continuing to drag him down, I locked my legs around his so he couldn’t use them properly and seized two fistfuls of his hair. I yanked his head back sharply. The force of it snapped his mouth wide open. If he hadn’t been breathing water before that, he did then.

  His elbows struck back at me. It hurt, but not as much as it would have out in the air. Up there my ribs would have cracked under those blows. But the density of the water slowed and cushioned them.

  Traikov stopped trying that—or anything else to break my grip on him. He became too occupied with trying to pull us both up to where he could breathe air. I fought against it, twisting us underneath a wide spur of partly submerged rock. And lowered my head just in time.

  Traikov, increasingly disoriented, didn’t see it. With his next spasm of effort to reach the surface the top of his skull struck the underside of the projecting rock. The flailing of his arms became weaker and less coordinated. His head was clouding from the blow and from lack of oxygen. I shoved him further under the rock, using the push to drive myself away from him and out from under it.

  My head broke the surface. I sucked in the air greedily, sending relief to my tortured lungs.

  Odile had climbed out of the lake. She was scrambling back up to the ledge, water streaming from her hair and clothing. I stroked to the same point. My blood was racing, too heated by battle for me to feel how cold I was yet. But when I tried to get a grip on the shore rocks my hands fumbled. They were going numb.

  The only cure for that was movement. I concentrated on closing my fingers around a couple of handholds, and I hauled myself out. I slapped my hands against my thighs. Wet against wet. My soaked clothes were pasted to my skin. The air was hitting me like more ice. No time to give that any attention. The priority was to get to Tony Callega’s gun before he come to. And before Traikov, if he made it to the surface, came after me.

  I began to climb after Odile. Then Traikov surfaced, noisily. I twisted around to check his distance from me. He wasn’t far. But he was entirely occupied, for the moment, with staying afloat while he coughed out water and gasped in air.

  A gunshot sounded behind me.

  * * * *

  I turned, knowing the worst before I saw it.

  Odile stood over Tony Callega’s sprawled figure, holding his revolver in both hands. While I watched she fired a second time. I saw his head bounce on the ledge as the shot slammed into it.

  Quickly, I looked back to Boyan Traikov. He was treading water, looking up toward Odile. Worse and worse.

  I scrambled the rest of the way to the ledge. Odile hadn’t moved. She was staring down at Tony Callega’s body. Her face was empty of expression, and she was beginning to shake—not just from cold.

  I held out my hand to her. “Let me have the gun, Odile.”

  She turned her head, looking at me without comprehension for a moment. Then her eyes focused. She put Tony’s revolver in my hand and raced away, running back toward where they’d left Gilbert.

  I turned and took dead aim at Boyan Traikov. He had shucked his waterlogged jacket. Probably kicked off his shoes, too. When he saw me train the gun on him he began swimming away as fast as he could. But he was still in easy range. I drew a bead on the back of his head.

  And couldn’t do it.

  There was reason to. Traikov had seen Odile kill Tony. That was going to put her in worse danger than she’d been in before—if he lived to report it to Fulvio Callega.

  But I couldn’t make myself shoot an unarmed man who was floundering in the middle of a lake and posed no immediate threat to me.

  The crazy bastard hadn’t even been carrying a gun. He did carry men with him who had guns. But none of his own. Some quirky private brand of pride. Proof to himself, perhaps, that he’d risen above acting as somebody else’s gun-toter. Crazy.

  When seconds passed without my shooting, Boyan Traikov twisted to look back at me. If there was surprise in his expression, I couldn’t make it out. I looked down the sights of the revolver at his face and shouted, “Keep going! The other side of the lake!”

  Traikov continued to gaze at me for a long moment. Then he nodded and began to swim again—toward the other side of the lake.

  He wasn’t a bad swimmer, but he wasn’t great, either. And he had a long way to go. Maybe he would drown before he could get there. Or freeze to death after he climbed out. I hoped so. But I doubted it.

  I stuck the revolver in my belt and looked down at Tony Callega again. The first shot had gotten him in the chest. The second had smashed through his mouth and come out his ear. Not pretty. Chantal Jacquier wasn’t going to have him for her bridegroom after all. Odile had accomplished that, at least. Whoever Chantal eventually married, he would have to be better for her than a Tony Callega.

  I suddenly realized I was trembling with cold. I stripped off my wet jacket, sweater, and shirt. Tony’s fleece-lined jacket and cashmere cardigan had his blood on them. At that point I didn’t give a damn. I stripped them off him and put them on.

 
The cardigan was too small for me. I had to stretch it out of shape to get it buttoned. It was impossible to close and button his lined jacket, and the sleeves were too short. But the combination did give me some dry warmth.

  Boyan Traikov was still swimming off in the direction I’d ordered, awkwardly but steadily. I jogged in place to stir my blood and body heat while I watched him go. When he was almost halfway across the lake I looked to where he’d dropped the knapsack with its load of heroin. It was still there. Not far from it Odile’s shoulder bag lay on the ledge against the base of the cliff. I left them there and jogged off to get Odile and Gilbert.

  I was still sore at myself for not having the guts to shoot Traikov. A failure that saddled me with an enormous new problem. While I ran I tried to work it out. What was I going to do about Tony Callega’s big brother?

  * * * *

  Odile was kneeling beside Gilbert, tightening the belt tourniquet around his thigh. He had put his sheepskin jacket on her small, trembling form and was buttoning it.

  I crouched and pulled his right arm across my shoulders, then I straightened up until I had him standing, balanced on his good leg. Odile took the other side, with his left arm braced over her slim shoulders, grasping his wrist with both hands. Between us we helped him take that long, painful walk, one-legged, back toward the cabin.

  It was heavy work, but the exertion worked against the cold. By the time we reached the place where Tony Callega lay we were sweating. We stopped, and I looked across the lake. Boyan Traikov was still afloat and swimming and almost at the other side.

  Picking up the knapsack, I checked on whether it still held the heroin. It did: almost a full load. I gathered my wet jacket, sweater, and shirt, tied them to one strap of the knapsack, and hung it over my right shoulder.

  I let Odile take her shoulder bag. She would need what was left in it to keep functioning until I got her where I wanted her.

  Traikov crawled out of the other side of the lake. I watched him stand up, take a couple steps, and fall down. Maybe he was going to die after all. No such luck—not with a powerhouse like Traikov. He forced himself up and began a stumbling run along the lake shore. Just to fight his numbing cold; not with any expectation of reaching the two vehicles ahead of us. From that side of the lake it would take a couple hours to get around to there. We would be gone long before he could make it.

  Odile and I got Gilbert up out of the cirque, and then down to the cabin. It was still blessedly warm inside. Odile brought in her suitcase. While she toweled herself dry and changed into other clothes I got my bag from the Peugeot. Then it was my turn with a dry towel and a change of clothing.

  I stuffed my wet things in my bag. I put it back in my car, along with Tony’s jacket and cardigan—to be thrown on the fire of a public dump halfway down to the coast.

  Then we got Gilbert down to the Peugeot. I laid him on the back seat and put Odile up in front. After which I used the revolver’s last three bullets to shoot out three of the Jeep’s tires. Give Boyan Traikov a little more warm-up exercise.

  I wiped the revolver clean of prints and buried it under some thorn-bushes. Then I tied the motorbike to the back of my car, to be given back in St. Dalmas, and drove us away from Val des Merveilles.

  On the way I began giving more thought to what I was going to do about Fulvio Callega.

  Chapter 32

  In St. Dalmas I phoned Egon Mulhausser. When we reached his house in Eze he was there waiting for us—together with Libby Arlen and a doctor I’d asked him to call.

  When Odile got out of my car she and her father stood there looking at each other uncertainly, not speaking. It was obvious that Mulhausser wanted to take her in his arms, but he was afraid to make the first move. Odile made it for both of them, hugging him tightly. Her father awkwardly patted her back. She nestled her face against his shoulder—and then pulled away, suddenly embarrassed.

  Mulhausser brushed a hand across his eerie, lashless eyes and then helped me get Gilbert into the house. Libby Arlen put her arm around Odile’s waist, and they followed us inside, together with the doctor.

  His name was Henri Pinel, and I’d known him a very long time. Long enough to ask a couple of favors. The first being that he treat Gilbert’s leg as an accident caused by a fall onto a sharp stake—and not report it as a gun wound. We put Gilbert on the bed in the guest room. Dr. Pinel shooed us out so he could tend to Gilbert alone. I had a quiet word with Dr. Pinel before following the others. He gave me a frowning nod and shut the door behind me.

  Odile was beginning to shiver again. I suggested she’d better take a long hot bath to ward off fever. Libby Arlen went upstairs with her to draw the bath and get some towels. As I’d expected, Odile took her shoulder bag up there with her.

  I could have used a soak in a hot tub myself. But I settled for having Mulhausser get me a large glass of brandy. Odile and Libby Arlen were back in the living room with us when Dr. Pinel finally emerged from the guest room.

  “The boy is young and healthy,” he told us. “He’ll heal quickly, but I don’t want him moved for the next few days. And please don’t disturb him tonight. I’ve given him a sedative, and he should sleep until morning. I’ll come back to see him then.”

  I walked him out to his car. He paused beside it and looked at me suspiciously. “What was the other favor you wanted to ask?”

  I told him.

  He sighed. “Having you for a friend, Pierre-Ange, is not always a comfortable relationship.” But he opened his bag and gave me two capsules. “Only one at a time,” he warned me sternly. “And not less than five hours apart.”

  I put the capsules in my pocket and went back into the house. Odile had gone inside the guest room to look at Gilbert. I asked Libby Arlen if she would make us all some strong coffee, and I went into the kitchen with her to help. When the coffee was ready she carried two of the cups into the living room. I followed with the other two, after taking a second to drop one of the capsules in the cup in my left hand.

  Odile and her father were sitting together on the sofa, still a little stiff with each other, not talking. I gave her the left-hand cup.

  Five minutes after we’d had our coffee Odile said she was feeling sleepy but didn’t want to go to bed yet. Mulhausser stood up and let her stretch out on the sofa. A couple minutes later she was sound asleep—and nothing was likely to wake her for hours.

  Then I told Mulhausser that his daughter was a heroin addict.

  He regarded me with horrified disbelief. I unbuttoned Odile’s long sleeves and peeled them up—to let them see all the ugly needle tracks on the insides of both her arms. That convinced Mulhausser. For a moment I thought he was going to throw up. I waited until he had himself under control. Then I told him what I had in mind.

  He didn’t like it. His wife took his hand in hers and told him the facts of life. “I’ve known a lot more junkies than you, Egon. If Odile is that badly hooked, it’s the only hope of curing her.”

  He knew she was right. But he said miserably, “She’ll never forgive me, if I do that to her against her will.”

  “You have to take that chance,” I told him. “Or let her go on living on that junk. It’s not a pleasant life. And it won’t be a long one. But that’s up to you.”

  After that I didn’t say any more, leaving it to Libby Arlen. She talked to her husband for almost half an hour. And finally he agreed to do what he knew had to be done.

  I made a long-distance call to the director of the sanitorium I knew. We’d had dealings in the past. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d taken a young adult into their therapy program as a virtual prisoner—after the parents signed the necessary documents of commitment.

  Mulhausser and I carried Odile to his Jaguar and drove off with her. Libby Arlen was left to mind Gilbert. In the morning she was to tell him that Odile had decided to commit herself to the sanitorium—and that she did
n’t want Gilbert to try seeing her again until she could come back to him fully cured. However he reacted to that, he was going to find it impossible to get in to see Odile. Nobody outside the sanitorium staff would be able to see her again until they released her.

  Not nice—but, as Libby Arlen had said, it was the only way. Odile wasn’t another André Marchine; she would never be able to kick it on her own.

  The sanitorium was outside Aix-en-Provence, up above Marseilles. It took us three hours to get there. Odile was still out when we arrived—and when we left after Mulhausser had committed her.

  I had Mulhausser drop me off at a hotel in Aix. I spent the rest of the night there. I’d brought two pieces of luggage with me. One was my own bag. The other was the knapsack I’d first seen when Odile carried it past me while I was having my crepe one evening on Place Rossetti, in the Old Town of Nice.

  Early in the morning I rented a car, put the two pieces of luggage in, and drove up to Paris. The drive took seven hours. By plane I could have made it in one hour.

  But some things I don’t have nerve for. One of them is attempting to carry three million dollars’ worth of heroin through airport controls.

  * * * *

  At five that afternoon I was sharing a glass of Beaujolais and a snack at a tiny bistro with a deserved reputation for the quality of the assorted charcuterie it imports from every region of France. The bistro faces the green bronze equestrian statue of King Henry IV, out of the middle of Pont-Neuf, the oldest bridge over the Seine. I was sharing the snack with Commissaire Jean-Claude Gojon, a slim, cultured man with black-rimmed glasses, expensive tailoring, and a somewhat prissy expression.

  He was part of the toughest group of police detectives in France: the Brigade de Recherches et d’Intervention.

  We weren’t exactly friends. On occasion we had been close to being enemies. But out of those occasions we had developed a certain amount of mutually wary respect.