Finally the last of the rum was out of him. He dry-heaved for a minute or two, and then the spasms stopped. He washed down the sink, stripped off his clothes, and stepped into a stinging cold shower that slapped his nerves with the force of an electric shock. His body shuddered in protest and he groaned in agony, but he stayed under the flaying, needle-sharp spray, fighting the cold with his will, enjoying the challenge.
After a few minutes he adjusted the water to body temperature, then crouched down in the tub and let the warm, soothing curtain of water cascade over his body, relaxing his muscles. He tried gingerly lifting his left arm over his head, but the pain in his left side was too great; he quickly lowered the arm and cradled his cracked ribs. It would be all over that night, he thought, and the pain was a small price to pay for his impending triumph.
It helped to know that at that very moment his own suffering was being repaid a thousandfold in the currency of agony and terror, if Finway were not already dead. Peters hoped he was not.
The end of that hunt had been sweet, he thought, and for a few minutes he used the anesthetic of memory to dull the pain in his side.
He remembered the jolt of surprise and anticipation he’d experienced when, stalking Finway in the darkness shrouding Tamara Castle, he’d heard the rattle of a heavy chain and then footsteps descending stone steps. According to the floor plans he’d seen and the research he had done on the castle, there was only one stone stairway leading off the balcony; Finway had chosen the best of all places to trap himself. The narrow, spiral staircase had been closed off inasmuch as it led to nothing more than an unusable artesian well sunk when the castle was built in a futile attempt to tap the freshwater table in the stone formation on which the castle sat. In less than ten years the lower walls of the well had collapsed, victim to the inexorable force of the corrosive sea water that swelled and ebbed in mysterious, not always synchronous, tidal flows through the labyrinth of caves that veined the limestone. The pit at the end of the stairway was a natural tomb. Anyone falling down it would be lost forever, flushed back and forth by the tides in the endless matrix of caverns, perhaps one day to be expelled in white calcium pieces into the harbor sea. By then, Peters thought, it would long ago have ceased to matter. Even the sharks would not be interested in Finway’s bones.
He hadn’t expected Finway to have a second weapon; the lack of anticipation had been a lapse that could have killed him. But it hadn’t; it had been Finway who had ended up unconscious at the foot of the stairway. He’d considered killing the lawyer immediately, but had decided not to. The fall down the well would probably kill Finway anyway, he’d reasoned, and if it didn’t it pleased him to think of the other man trapped in caverns filling with water, helplessly waiting in total darkness to drown.
He’d dragged Finway fifteen yards to the slightly raised mouth of the well and unceremoniously dumped the body over the edge. He’d waited to hear the distant splash, then hurried back up the stairs to retrieve his boots. Within seven minutes he’d been back in the stolen car, heading for the hotel.
It had remained for him to think of an excuse to cover his absence, and that had come to him soon after he’d abandoned the car three blocks from the hotel. He had not seen any bars in Angeles Blanca except for those in hotels or official entertainment centers, and consequently he’d gone directly to the Angeles Blanca Libre. He’d let himself in through a rear service entrance and walked up a flight of stairs to the mezzanine. He’d found it deserted, as he’d expected, and he had quickly picked the lock on the sliding glass door leading to the pool and bar area.
He’d sat down behind the bar and drunk three-quarters of a bottle of rum. He’d taken his time, consuming the liquor over a period of an hour and a half in order to avoid alcohol poisoning, knowing that the length of his absence no longer made any difference, while the quality of his performance and his appearance would. He could not risk trying to fake it. When he’d felt suitably drunk, he’d splashed some rum on his clothes, then gone up to the fourth floor and snapped on the radio.
He’d fully expected to find Raul waiting for him.
Now it was almost finished, he thought. There was one more small detail to take care of, but then he could almost coast through the evening. The rest was technique and precision timing.
There were no more unknowns.
He turned off the shower and stood in the tub for a few moments, lazily blinking away water while he assessed his mental condition. He decided that he was still very drunk, but he knew what he was doing; he could control his movements, and he could think clearly enough to take care of the business at hand. That was important, he thought; although the next detail was small, it was crucial.
“Rick?” Alexandra called anxiously. “They brought the tape. Are you okay? You want some help?”
“I’m all right. Be out in a minute.”
He toweled himself off, then slipped into a terrycloth robe. He’d rearmed the recovered plastique barrette with a spare detonator from inside the radio, and now he put the barrette into one of the robe’s large pockets, took a deep breath to steady himself, than went back into the other room.
“Christ,” he sighed wearily, “that feels better.”
Alexandra was standing across the room, staring out the window. The bright morning sunlight pouring in through the clear glass glowed in the thick crown of her hair, highlighting the strands of gray. She turned quickly at the sound of his voice.
“Rick, you took so long in there! Tell me what happened! Where’s John?”
“I knew I had to find him before the Sierrans did,” Peters said easily. He strolled casually around a bed and stopped in front of the nightstand where Alexandra had placed a wide roll of adhesive tape next to her barrette. “I had to find out what was on his mind and what the hell he thought he was doing pulling a stunt like that with the boxing matches coming up.” He laughed tightly. “Also-just in passing, of course—I didn’t want the silly bastard shot.”
“How did you find him?!” Alexandra asked impatiently.
“First, I checked out the grounds around the Coconut Club,” he said, turning his back and beginning to toy absently with the barrette on the stand in front of him. “When I couldn’t find him there, I figured he might be waiting somewhere around the hotel.”
“You came here?”
“I stole a car.” Peters twisted his body slightly to the right, picked up Alexandra’s barrette and dropped it into his left pocket, then shifted the other way and put the plastique barrette down on the wooden surface. “I knew it was a big risk, but I figured I had to take it,” he continued after a pause that had lasted no more than two or three seconds. “Your husband could have blown everything.”
Now he slowly turned back to face Alexandra. Her features were very tense, but Peters could tell that her concern was for her husband. She gave no indication that his slight swaying motion had aroused any curiosity at all; if it had, she’d apparently attributed the movement to his drunkenness.
It was done, Peters thought as a languorous calm settled over him like a warm, weightless cloak. Everything was in place. A decade and a half of resentment and hatred had meshed with more than two years of planning to bring him to this moment. A thousand hurdles, tangible and intangible, had been overcome. That evening fate and fortune would fuse and explode in one final, blissful instant of destruction.
As soon as Alexandra put her hair up, his weapon would be triggered. It would remain only to maneuver Alexandra, his delivery system, into position.
“I just kept walking the streets around the hotel,” Peters continued. “I finally found him—or, rather, he found me. He was waiting for the buses to come back.”
Alexandra shook her head nervously. “Why did he run away from Raul at the airport?”
Peters shrugged. He went to his dresser, opened the top drawer, and made a show of searching through the disheveled clothing until he finally came up with a bottle of aspirin. “He simply panicked. He started thinking abou
t you, worrying about tonight, and he just flipped out. He was afraid he’d never see you again. Your husband’s devotion to you is rather touching.”
Alexandra stared out the window for a few more moments, then turned and walked slowly across the room. She sat down on the edge of her bed, then glanced up at Peters. “I can’t understand it,” she said absently, her eyes reflecting her confusion. “It’s like you’re describing a stranger. John knows what’s at stake, and how critical it is for us not to attract any more attention. If he were so worried about me, why do something that would put me in even more danger? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“What can I tell you?” Peters replied sharply, tossing the aspirin bottle in his hand as he walked past Alexandra, and paused in the bathroom door. “He did do it, Alexandra. And after fucking around with the stupid son-of-a-bitch all night, I don’t feel like standing here trying to psychoanalyze him with you. If that rotgut I had to drink eats a hole in my stomach, I’m going to take it out of your husband’s hide when we get back to New York.”
He stepped into the bathroom, out of Alexandra’s line of sight, and turned on the cold water in the wash basin full force. He put three aspirin tablets in his mouth, then took a plastic cup from a holder over the sink and put it under the open tap. He glanced behind him to make sure Alexandra was not in the doorway, then took Alexandra’s barrette from his pocket, squatted down, and shoved it into a space where the molding had cracked and the plasterboard had separated slightly from the tile floor. He pushed the molding back into place, rose, and swallowed the aspirin. He turned off the water and went back into the other room. Less than thirty seconds had passed.
Alexandra was still sitting stiffly on the edge of the bed. She looked up and stared at him. Peters stared back, thinking that it might have been better if he had come up with another story. But he wanted her to believe that her husband was safe; he wanted her mind at peace so that she would be thinking of nothing but what he wanted her to do.
“He intended to go to the Sierrans,” Peters said at last, casually tossing the bottle of aspirin onto his bed. “Thank God he wanted to see you first so that he could tell you he was going to do it. It took me most of the night to talk him down, and another hour after that to get myself properly drunk so I’d have some story to tell Raul. Anyway, the important thing is that I convinced him that the best way to get you home safely is to go through with things the way we planned. If we’re lucky, there’s no assassin left to worry about.”
Alexandra frowned and passed a hand over her eyes. “Where’s John now?” she asked quietly.
“Taking a very long, lazy walk around the Plaza de Revolucion. The place is always full of Third World and Russian tourists, so nobody is going to bother him there. He’s going to stay lost until tomorrow morning. He’s coming to the hotel around eleven, and then we’re all going to have a gloriously emotional reunion. He’s going to make up with the Sierrans, and we’ll all leave together on Sunday.”
“If the Sierrans let him go,” Alexandra said tightly.
Peters snorted contemptuously. “They’ll let him go. Raul will be at the airport watching us leave and cheering himself hoarse.”
Alexandra smiled thinly. “That I can believe.”
Peters picked up the roll of adhesive tape from the night stand and handed it to Alexandra. Alexandra watched, puzzled, as Peters shrugged off the top of the terrycloth robe and tentatively lifted his arm to reveal a very large, ugly, purple and black bruise.
“Patch-up time,” Peters said wryly, allowing himself to grimace with pain. “I think I can use some tape on these ribs.”
“For God’s sake, Rick!” Alexandra said, rising, taking his right arm and gently maneuvering him onto the bed. “What happened to you?!”
“Your husband got a little excited when he first saw me. As a matter of fact, he pushed me into a concrete railing. I think I’ve got a couple of cracked ribs, but I’ll survive with a little tender loving care.”
“Damn. I’m sorry, Rick.”
Peters raised his right arm above his head, and his left arm as far as it would go. Alexandra knelt on the floor in front of him and began to slowly and gently wrap the tape around his rib cage.
“I think it’s time we talked about tonight,” Peters said carefully, watching Alexandra’s face.
“All right,” Alexandra said distantly. She paused, shook her head slightly, then resumed speaking in a stronger voice. “How do you think we should handle it?”
“Let’s play it loose and easy,” Peters said through clenched teeth, wincing. “After all, we won’t know what kind of a set-up they’ve got until we get there.”
“But we do know the other people from our group who are going.”
“Right. There aren’t many, and we shouldn’t have much trouble keeping an eye on all of them. Let’s use a funnel zone. When Salva shows up, you position yourself in front of him as close as possible. Salva likes good-looking women; you’ll be able to get closer to him than I will, and that will cut down the angles. I’ll get as high up as I can and try to keep moving; you’ve got the point, and I’ll sweep the rest of the funnel. We’ll try to keep watch on everyone in our group, and also maintain eye contact with each other. If either of us sees anyone acting strange, we’ll signal. Hell, it may be enough just to call attention to the target. Salva will be surrounded by security men, and they may as well earn their paychecks.”
“You know it may not go down that way, Rick. An assassin will certainly have taken security into account in his planning. It may come down to you and me. Salva’s security personnel will have the whole arena to watch; we only have a dozen people.”
“Right. We move if we have to. Whoever’s closest takes the man out and gets the damn thing over with. We can always claim we saw a person acting suspiciously, reacted instinctively, and got lucky. I doubt whether the Sierrans are going to be thinking too much about anything but the fact that one of us saved their glorious leader’s life.”
Alexandra shook her head. “If you want my opinion, I don’t think there is anybody else.”
Peters nodded, watching her face. “Let’s hope you’re right. We still have to go through the motions.”
“I know.”
Peters sighed. “When these boxing matches are over, I’m going to get very drunk all over again.”
“And I’ll keep you company, drink for drink. We’ll let the Sierrans carry us both back to the hotel.” Alexandra finished taping Peters’ rib cage, then patted him gently on the shoulder. “All done. How does it feel?”
Peters cautiously lifted his left arm, grunted. “Almost as good as new. But if there’s any really heavy action tonight, I’m afraid you’re going to have to take care of it.”
“I can handle it, Rick,” Alexandra said evenly. “You know I can.”
Peters smiled. “That’s for sure.” He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. “Thank you. I’m going to get some sleep. Talk to you later.”
Peters lay back on the bed, pulled the covers up over his chest, and closed his eyes. He fell asleep almost immediately.
John
John absorbed the greatest part of the force of impact on his left hip and thigh. With his knees pulled up to his chest, the shock was dissipated throughout his body and no bones were broken. However, the wind was knocked out of him and there was a sharp, electric, stinging pain along his left side as he plunged down through the black, cold water like a stone snapped from a slingshot.
With the air exploded from his lungs, knowing that he was in imminent danger of drowning, John immediately uncoiled his body in order to halt his downward motion. With lungs that felt crushed and with hot lights flashing behind his eyes, he clawed and kicked his way to the surface. Just as he thought he would pass out, his head broke the surface and he desperately sucked air into his outraged lungs.
The left side of his body still throbbed with pain from the impact, but he immediately recalled the fight with Peters and felt a rush o
f exhilaration at the realization that, incredibly, he was still alive.
“Not yet, you little fucker,” he gasped aloud, and then released a wheezy, aspirated whoop of joy. His voice echoed loudly in the darkness around him.
He was alive, yes, John thought, but for how long? The darkness around him was absolute, and aside from the all too obvious fact that he was in water, he was completely disoriented.
He allowed himself to sink below the surface, peeled off his socks, and let them drop. He surfaced and used a lazy breaststroke to ease his body forward until his fingertips collided painfully with rough, slimy rock. Treading water, he worked his way to his left and discovered that he was inside a cylinder of rock perhaps eight or nine feet in diameter. He knew he was fortunate not to have smashed his skull against the walls on his way down.
He could not remember what had happened after Peters kicked him in the head, but he assumed that the assassin had dropped him into a well inside the castle. However, he could not understand what kind of well would be filled with salt water. Also, thick, splashing streams of water were cascading down the rock wall from at least two different sources somewhere in the darkness above his head.
John shouted in sudden blind terror as something very large and long with grit-rough skin lazily scraped across his belly, spinning him completely around in the water.
Shark! his mind screamed as he lunged for the wall, clawing at the rock face in a frantic, panicked search for a hand grip. The thick, waterlogged bandages around his palms made it difficult to hold onto the slippery stone, but he finally found a crevice above his head into which he could jam his fingers. He hauled himself partly out of the water, scrabbling at the rock below him with his feet, pushing with his toes, finding another small coign that would accept his fingers with their broken nails, pulling with all his strength. He finally managed to lift his body out of the water, and clung desperately to the rock face. The muscles in his chest and belly spasmodically twitched and writhed in autonomic cellular reponse to the need to fasten to the wall. Minutes that seemed like hours passed. His mind howled with primal terror as his fingers and toes went numb under the torture of his body weight, began to ache, then flamed with the strain of holding his body on the wall.
Turn Loose the Dragons Page 29