No, the trip itself had been a major disappointment. He earned very little money, and it had not been easy to save enough for even a charter flight. He’d been so tired of New York City, tired of the sour air, plastic people, and culture reserved, for the most part, only for those who could afford it. He had looked forward desperately to this trip to La Costa Del Sol, the “Sun Coast” of Spain. It had sounded so beautiful, so fresh and clean.
He had ended by finding himself sequestered, along with the others, in a Deluxe hotel in Torremelinos, an almost perfect Spanish imitation of Miami Beach.
He had signed up for all the excursions, and found each one just as dreary as another, principally because he was always in the company of others who seemed to delight in behaving like cardboard characters plucked from the pages of The Ugly American; and the Spaniards endeavored to do everything possible to surround the turistos with all the “comforts” and “atmosphere” of the United States. This included, in the homeland of Andres Segovia and Manitos Del Plata, piping into every hotel suite the music of Lawrence Welk.
He had gone to a bullfight, and vomited at the sight of people waving white handkerchiefs while the bull coughed up its lungs.
Finally, he had, against his better judgment, hired a four-cylinder Seat and started out across the Mountains De Malaga toward Granada, only to break down and wait eleven hours for some kind of help.
The last three days in Torremelinos had been spent in his room fighting the dysentery brought on by drinking unbottled water.
Now, it was back to New York and a job he hated. There was nothing to show for this trip, no experiences, nothing to feed his mind.
An innate, sense of dignity, Augie thought, is a fragile foundation on which to live a life. Yet, that was all he had; it was all he had ever had. Dignity. A man becomes tired, and he must float on whatever raft is available to him.
“Flight eighty-three to New York, now boarding!’
Augie rose from his chair and fumbled in his pocket for his boarding pass. He looked up to find a large man in a gabardine coat blocking his way. Augie moved to his left. The man moved with him.
“Excuse me, sir,” Augie said, throwing back his shoulders and flaunting his small stature like a weapon. “I have to board my plane.”
“Please, mister,” the man said, “I’ve got to talk to you.”
For the first time, Augie noticed that the man was grimacing as if in pain, and held his left arm in close to his body. As Augie watched, the man reached across with his right arm and opened his coat. A red stain had grown on his shirt and coat like an obscene flower.
“You’re hurt!” Augie said, grabbing the man’s arm. “I’ll get you to somebody who can help you.”
“No,” the man said, pulling out of Augie’s grip with a strength that was surprising in a wounded man. “There isn’t time. They’re after me.”
“Flight eighty-three to New York, now boarding. Flight eighty-three”
“I don’t understand,” Augie said, glancing back and forth between the man and the rest of the group now lining up on the boarding platform. “You need a doctor.”
“No time,” the man repeated, shaking his head. “There are men after me. I need your help.”
“Well, I don’t really see how I can—”
“C.I.A.,” the man said. “I have to talk to you privately. I think the men’s room would be best.”
Augie suddenly felt a ringing in his ears, numbness, as if someone had attached electrodes to opposite sides of his skull. The man was already shuffling toward the men’s room. Augie hurried after him.
The moment the door swung shut behind them, the man once again reached under his coat and withdrew a large, steel, quart Thermos. He shoved it into Augie’s hands.
“You must get this back to the United States,” the man said. “It contains microfilm that is vital to our nation’s security.”
“But I, ah—”
“Don’t open it, and don’t let anybody else open it. Never let it out of your sight. There’s no reason anyone should question your carrying a Thermos. Remember, you’re carrying many lives in your hands.”
Augie swallowed hard. “Whom will I give it to?”
“It will be picked up at Kennedy Airport. Someone will be there waiting for you.”
“But how will they know me?”
“By this,” the man said thickly, pinning a small, metal American flag into Augie’s lapel. “Remember, your country’s counting on you.”
“But you need a—”
The man had already turned and headed back toward the door, leaving Augie standing alone clutching the Thermos bottle.
Suddenly the door swung open and an equally large man, wearing a black leather topcoat and black beret, blocked the second man’s way. The man who had spoken to Augie reacted first, lifting his knee up into the other man’s stomach and, as black beret doubled over, driving his fist into the side of the man’s head.
Black beret staggered against a long row of sinks, and the other man pushed out the door and was gone.
Black beret’s eyes rolled in his head, but he didn’t go down. He gripped a sink with one hand and reached out for Augie with the other.
There are men after me. Your country is depending on you.
“Flight eighty-three to New York, now boarded.”
The voice with the thick Spanish accent hesitated, and Augie imagined someone handing the announcer a slip of paper. “Would Mister August Manson please report to the Information Desk? Mister August Man-son.”
Black beret was staggering toward him now, blocking his escape.
Augie made an instant decision. He brought the end of the steel Thermos crashing down on top of black beret’s head. The man’s knees buckled, and he sank to the floor.
Time seemed suspended as Augie stared down at the still figure on the shiny tiles, then at the Thermos he held in his hand like a club. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it, and then glanced in the direction of the door. He knew that door could swing open at any moment. Then it would be all over. Or black beret might have a partner waiting for him outside. Even now he might be glancing at his watch, wondering.
Augie set the Thermos on the floor, then bent down and grasped black beret under the armpits. He strained; the body did not move. Augie sucked in his breath, planted his feet under him, and pulled with all his might. It seemed to Augie that he could feel the muscles popping in his stomach and back, but black beret was moving. Pulling, resting, and then pulling again, Augie finally managed to move black beret into one of the stalls. He quickly shut the door behind him.
He could not tell whether black beret was alive or dead, but he knew he could take no chances. If the man should gain consciousness before the plane was aloft, there was always the possibility that he, and the microfilm, would be captured. Perhaps the plane had taken off already.
Augie fought against the panic that arose in him when he imagined himself trapped alone in Spain with a Thermos full of microfilm, and nobody he could trust.
Augie ripped off his necktie and stuffed it into black beret’s mouth. Next, he removed the belt from black beret’s coat and used it to strap the man’s hands to the plumbing pipes.
Augie rose to his feet, and his eyes traveled down to where black beret’s coat had fallen open; the thick, black butt of a pistol showed above the waistband of black beret’s trousers. Augie wiped his sweating palms on the side of his jacket, and then impulsively bent down and grabbed the pistol, stuffing it into the front of his own pants.
He pushed out of the stall at the same time as another man entered the room. Augie stood very still, gnawing at his lower lip. The other man gave Augie a cursory glance, and then went to one of the washbasins. Augie grabbed the Thermos and hurried out through the door.
Clutching his coat over the gun, Augie scurried across the vast expanse of marble floor toward the loading platform—and was halted.
“Just a moment, sir!”
Augie glanced
up to find a determined-looking stewardess blocking his way. He resisted the impulse to try to hide the Thermos behind his back.
“My name is Manson,” Augie said, holding the Thermos in front of him, knowing he must not do anything to arouse suspicion.
“Oh, Mister Manson” the stewardess said, making no attempt to hide the irritation in her voice. “We have people looking all over the airport for you. Your plane is ready to leave.”
“I’m sorry,” Augie said evenly. “I’m afraid I fell asleep.”
“Please hurry.”
Augie hurried down the ramp, then paused for a moment at the entrance to the plane. He took a deep breath, and then walked slowly and deliberately into the interior. He almost bumped into a livid Olga Helmut standing in the center of the aisle, her thick hands on her hips.
“Well,” Olga Helmut said, her outrage distorting her voice, giving it a high, nasal quality, “look who’s decided to join us! Of all the nerve!”
“I had business,” Augie said, raising himself up to his full height. “I apologize to all of you.”
Augie blinked rapidly, remembering too late that he had told the stewardess he had fallen asleep.
“I suppose it was absolutely necessary for you to hold up the entire plane just so you could buy a Thermos bottle you could have bought in your own country!”
Augie felt as if someone had hit him in the stomach. He looked around at the staring faces, then down at Olga’s trembling finger, which was pointing at the Thermos.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Augie said quietly. It took all of his energy just to keep his voice from trembling. Already, he was exhausted. “You’re not very observant. I’ve had this Thermos with me throughout the trip. I was alone, and I didn’t hear the announcement.”
“I thought you said you had business.”
“I did have business. I—”
“And you can’t tell me you’ve had that Thermos all along. I see what’s going on around me!”
“Now look,” Augie said, astonished to find that the rage in his voice was real, “I’m not one of your giggling teacher friends. You have no right to question me! Get out of my way!”
The physical education teacher’s mouth dropped open, and Augie brushed past her and dropped down into an empty seat near the middle of the plane. He sat very straight, looking straight ahead. He heard Olga mumble something, and then the plane was quiet. Augie felt his stomach churn. He looked for the airsickness bag, but the spell passed. Augie smiled and sat up even straighter as he felt a twinge of pride race through him, stiffening his muscles.
It seemed an eternity before the loading ramp was finally pulled back, and the engines started. Finally the plane began to taxi down the runway.
Augie fixed his eyes on the telephone in the stewardess’ alcove, half expecting it to ring at any moment; they had found black beret, and were stopping the plane so as to question and search the passengers. Black beret had friends; it was the Spanish government itself from which the secrets had been stolen. They would catch him and execute him.
There was a sudden surge of power, a slight bump, and the airplane leapt into the air. Augie laid his head back and quietly passed out.
The unrelieved tension caused Augie to doze frequently throughout the trip. Each time he felt the drowsiness coming on, he would curl up around the gun and Thermos and wait for the nervous, restless sleep to put him out again.
The seconds ticked away in his head. How much longer? How much longer? Tick. Tick.
Finally he was aware of people whispering, far away, as at the end of a long tunnel. The whispering grew louder as he strained upward to consciousness. He could feel the pressure building in his ears, and he barely managed to muffle a small cry of delight as he realized that the plane was descending; they were over New York, the end of the journey. His fingers were numb and bloodless where they gripped the Thermos.
The whispering was growing even louder.
Augie turned his head sideways and found himself looking into the faces of two of Olga Helmut’s teachers. They were staring at his midsection. Augie glanced down and his stomach leaped as he saw that his own coat had fallen open, exposing the butt of the pistol.
Augie flung his coat across the gun and looked up at the women; they stopped talking, and avoided his eyes.
The seconds were ticking in Augie’s head again, their sound mingling with the pounding of the blood in his ears. Would the women ring for the stewardess? And what would I do if they did? Pull my gun? Force them to land? And then what, Manson…?
“Please fasten your seat belt, sir.”
The stewardess was leaning over him, handing him one of the straps. Augie slowly buckled his belt and held his breath, not daring to look across the aisle.
The women remained silent, and the stewardess walked away. Augie suddenly realized that the two women were afraid of him. It was an odd sensation, having someone actually afraid of him.
Augie gripped the Thermos even tighter. The plane bumped to a landing and taxied down the runway. Augie unbuckled his seat belt and stood up. The whoosh of the reversing engines almost knocked him off his feet.
“Please remain in your seats until the plane has come to a complete stop. Please remain in your—”
Augie sat back down, but leaned forward in his seat, waiting for the plane to come to a stop. He suddenly realized that, for the first time in his life, he felt truly alive, every nerve ending taut, every sense tingling. He imagined he could smell the upholstery and see every pore in the faces of the passengers. Their expressions were so dull. What did they know of living in the shadow of danger? What did they know of how this could make a man come alive? It was as if the Thermos he was holding was a battery pack, filling him with energy for living life as he had always wanted to live it.
The plane rolled to a stop. Augie felt supremely confident now. He slowly rose and headed for the forward exit. The two women headed for the rear. Augie smiled and squeezed the Thermos as he headed down the ramp; the New York air had never smelled so good. He turned and headed for the baggage area.
“Would you open your suitcases, please?”
Augie reached over and unlocked his twin pieces of luggage. The customs inspector riffled through his clothing, then closed the cases and marked the sides with chalk.
“What’s in there?”
“Where?”
“The Thermos bottle. What do you have in it?”
“Uh, tea.”
“Open it, please.”
“Really, sir!” Augie said, dancing at the edge of desperation. “I don’t see how—”
“Give it to me!”
Augie handed the Thermos to the customs agent. At the same time, he began going over his story in his mind.
The customs agent unscrewed the red plastic top and passed the mouth of the Thermos under his nose. Augie tensed.
“This is coffee,” the agent said, glancing up at Augie.
Augie looked down at his feet, concentrating on keeping every muscle in his face frozen. “Of course,” he mumbled. “Coffee, yes. I’m afraid I’m a little absent-minded.”
The customs inspector stared at him for a few moments then screwed the top back on the Thermos and handed it to him.
“May I go now?”
The customs inspector nodded. Augie turned and walked off.
“Sir, your suitcases!”
Augie summoned up as much dignity as was possible, and then turned around and went back for his suitcases. He tucked the Thermos securely under his arm and picked up the suitcases. Walking very slowly, virtually defying the customs inspector to call him back a second time, Augie finally made his way to the main visitors’ lobby. He paused and looked straight ahead. At the same time he pushed his chest forward so that the tiny medallion in his lapel would be visible to whoever it was that was supposed to meet him. He vaguely wondered if he would receive some kind of recognition for the job he had done; perhaps even a letter from the
President. He hoped so. It was worth all of that.
He was conscious of movement to his left and turned to find a red-capped porter staring at him. The man’s eyes were dark and murky.
“Take your luggage, sir?”
“No,” Augie said tersely, clamping his arm down on the Thermos. He could feel the hairs rising on the back of his neck; there was something about this man that was just not right.
The porter glanced quickly over his shoulder, and then made a grab for the Thermos, but Augie was ready for him. He dropped the suitcases and spun around, ripping the Thermos from the man’s uncertain grasp.
“Hold it right there!”
The voice came from behind him. So there was more than one, and they certainly didn’t represent the people who were supposed to meet him. They had merely to come up and identify themselves.
Augie closed his eyes, lowered his shoulder and rammed it into the wild-eyed porter. The man went down. Augie made a futile grab for his glasses, then stepped over the man and raced toward an empty corridor leading back toward the planes. Colors swam in a blur around him.
“Hold it!”
It was too far, Augie realized. He would never make it to the door at the end. Already, he could hear the footsteps of two men closing in on him. He groped in his waistband for the pistol grip, found it, and took the gun into his hand. It felt cold and heavy in his palm.
Augie braced his feet and slid to a stop. At the same time, he whirled and pointed the gun at the two figures now almost upon him. He had hardly touched the trigger, and yet he felt the gun explode in his hand, jerking his shoulder and wrist painfully, spinning him around.
There was a sharp crack behind him, then a sharp, needle-pain in his right knee. Pieces of Augie’s kneecap were suddenly strewn out on the floor around him. He fell, squeezing the trigger again and again. There was the sound of breaking glass, then two more explosions, very close to him.
Augie was only vaguely conscious of the white-hot pieces of metal tearing into and through his chest. His fingers clutched at the empty air, searching for the Thermos. A sob formed deep in his throat, then he was still.
Strange Prey Page 15