The Liquidator

by Nick Carter

  The field was in a long, narrow valley below us; it had been built by the Germans during the War and kept in more or less serviceable condition by the cropping of sheep and goats. At the far end from us was a steep drop-off; close to the edge was a large natural cave whose entrance we could see plainly.

  "The sailors go in there," Alex explained. "Our people, the defenders of our shores." He spat on the dirt floor of the hut. "We Greeks have so many shores to defend; look at any map, Nick. And to think that scum like those defile their profession…" He spat again.

  Alex, I realized, was an idealist. That worried me; even then I preferred to work with cynics, because they're much more reliable.

  The nights were the hardest, because we couldn't use any lights. Alex didn't talk much and neither did I. Occasionally I'd wander outside to marvel at the pale brightness of the ground under a dazzling moon. And it was on the third of those nights I saw figures moving at the end of the airstrip, hauling themselves up over the lip of the drop like mountain climbers reaching the peak of Mount Everest.

  I ran back inside the hut and shook Alex awake. "They're here," I whispered. "Your boys, I'm pretty sure."

  Alex waved a hand and rolled over inside his blanket. "Okay, okay, young fellow." He was maybe ten years older than I was. "They wait, like us. American plane don't show up till daylight. Can't land here at night."

  I wouldn't swear to it, but it seemed to me that Alex was snoring as soon as he said his last word.

  Maybe I got a total of half an hour's sleep the rest of that night; I know I was awake and moving around the hut before dawn, waiting impatiently for the sun to start giving us some light. The moon was long gone, and I could barely see to the valley floor.

  "We start now." Alex's calm voice in the silent hut was so startling I nearly jumped out of my skin. "Half hour to daylight." He was on his feet, shrugging into a heavy, black leather jacket whose pockets were stuffed with ammunition. Under it he carried a Colt .45 automatic, but the weapon he relied most on was the M-1 rifle he had slung over one shoulder.

  I had one too. I also had Wilhelmina, the Luger I'd recently acquired in Germany and which, in a sense, was becoming an intimate part of my family.

  We moved cautiously along the near rim of the Valley, circling toward the heights above the cave entrance. We stayed far enough back from the edge so no one below could see us even if there had been light, and it was purely Alex's judgment and instinct that told us where to stop.

  "There," he whispered, pointing toward the rim.

  We crept over the rough ground, as much rock as foliage, until we could see the field below. We were maybe sixty feet above it, and from what I could see there was no way down.

  "How do we…?" I began, but Alex put a finger to his lips, and teeth gleamed in the darkness.

  From one of his many pockets he pulled out a thin length of nylon rope. Attached to one end was a grenade, and he placed a couple of others on the ground beside him.

  "The airplane comes from there," he said, pointing off to our right into the black void beyond the edge of the field. "Only way. When it touches down it must taxi to the far end and turn, yes? So at touchdown… no, they cannot get away."

  He began letting the slender line down the rocky cliff face, very slowly, until the end with the grenade attached was just above the top of the cave entrance. Then he paused, wiggling sausage fingers while he did some mental calculations, and drew the line up again. He made a mark on the nylon and slashed it with a knife. "Just right," he announced, and took the rest of the line to secure it to a little bush a few feet back from the rim.

  "Now what?" I asked. Nobody had told us who was to be in charge on this operation, but Alex seemed to know what he was doing, and I was willing to learn.

  "This bad stuff for rock work, but I can rappel down." He pulled on thick gloves, wrapped a length of the secured line around a thigh and looped it over his shoulder. "Now you go back to far end of field. Little path, used by goats, takes you down. When you hear grenade go off in the cave, you go down and persuade those fellows in the airplane that they got no place to go. See?"

  I thought so. Obediently I trotted back in the direction we had come. It wasn't hard to find the path Alex had mentioned, though as I looked down it in the gray light of false dawn I wished I was a goat. Unslinging my M-l, I lay on the rim of the cliff and waited.

  At first it seemed like the persistent buzzing of a fly, and I was fighting off the temptation to swat at it when I realized I had dozed off. My eyes snapped open and I was looking into a piece of burning orange sun rising out of the distant sea. In the middle of the half-disc was a dark speck that kept growing larger as it headed straight for where I lay. I felt a quick clutch at my belly, forced myself to stay where I was as the twin-engined plane came into clear view, heading for a landing at the far end of the field.

  I looked along the rim of the cliff toward the place where I'd left Alex. There was no sign of him at all until the plane's wheels touched the grass, but then I saw a bulky figure rise and fling out a long, thin line of white. It snaked through the air, dropped quickly under the sputtering weight attached to its end, and finally whipped into the cave opening.

  There was a long pause, too long, and I was beginning to think. Four seconds doesn't seem like much time, but once I had an instructor pull the pin on a grenade and then toss it to me casually. I fielded it cleanly, and fired it over the concrete parapet into the practice pit as though I were the middle man on a double play. My elbow ached for days afterward — grenades are heavy, don't forget — but I was mostly concerned about the cackling son of a bitch who had started the whole thing and figuring what was the best way to kill the bastard. Fortunately for him, and probably for me, I never laid eyes on him again after that day.

  The cave mouth erupted in a shockingly loud blast, great streams of smoke and showers of fragmented rock bursting out on to the green field. Before I could move I saw Alex hurl himself over the cliff edge, banging against the rock outcroppings as he rappelled swiftly down to the ground.

  I scrambled down the steep path, clinging to scrubby bushes as I went, and hit the valley floor at a run. The twin-engined American aircraft was taxiing toward me, engines roaring, but for the moment I wasn't worried about being spotted; that explosion behind them had to be occupying all their attention.

  As the plane slowed, I flattened myself inside a little cleft in the wall of the cliff, waited for the turn to begin, then stepped out and fired a couple of quick shots close to the plane's nose. I saw a startled, pale face through the windshield, then a scurry of movement. A side door began to open as the pilot continued his turn, already revving up his motors for a takeoff.

  The orders were not to shoot up the plane if we could help it; after all, it was US Government property. So I stepped behind its tail, out of range of the probable gunman at the side door. A sudden blast from the twin props nearly knocked me down, kicking up dust and blinding me for a moment. When I could see again, the aircraft was moving rapidly away from me; I had the M-1 at my shoulder, ready to shoot as a last resort, when Alex bolted from the ruined cave right into the path of the speeding plane.

  In the early light he looked like a small mountain, all in black with his arms upraised like some ancient warrior trying to stay the fury of the gods. As the plane sped toward him it looked as though a collision was inevitable, but at the last instant it swerved aside, cutting engines and jamming on the brakes. Alex dove under a spinning prop, rolling away from the wheels.

  I was running down the field toward the big Greek and the plane, and I saw the gun poke out of the side door before Alex did. I stopped, knelt and raised my M-l as the aircraft came to a bumpy halt close to the edge of the drop-off. A man stuck his head out, pistol aimed at my partner.

  It wasn't much of a target, and the plane was still rocking from its violent turn and abrupt stop, but there was no time to take careful aim. I squeezed off a shot, then another. The man in the doorway looked at me,
and even at that distance I could see the look of blank surprise on his face as the blood began to spout from his neck. He started to swing the pistol in my direction, but suddenly it must have become as heavy as an anvil. His arm dropped, the gun fell from his hand and he slowly toppled out of the door to the ground.

  Alex stepped on the man as he jumped up and into the cabin. There was a high, muffled cry, then a guttural laugh; a few seconds later another man came flying out to land face down on the rocky ground. Alex stood behind him in the doorway, holding his nine-pound M-l as easily as a policeman's nightstick. Then he beckoned to me, but I was already up and moving toward the plane.

  "That good shooting," he said. "You damned near got the pilot, too."

  "How do you mean?" We were both watching the man writhing on the ground; the one I'd shot wasn't moving.

  "Hah! Your bullet goes through his neck and into plane, nicks this pilot fellow's ear and smashes the window up front. Too bad."

  "Yeah. Any other damage?"

  "None I could see. I guess your other shot got him in chest. Didn't go through, anyway."

  "Or maybe I missed completely."

  Alex shook his head. "No, you don't miss, Nick Carter. And I never forget that, you know?" He looked down at the pilot, who was trying to sit up. "You want this fellow alive?"

  "As long as he's not badly hurt, I guess we can use him back at headquarters." I bent over, grabbed the man. He wore an Army uniform with sergeant's stripes, and I knew his face as well as my own after studying his file. "Ragan," I growled. "You want to live or die right here? It's your choice."

  "Cheesus, yes!" He wasn't much more than a kid, I recalled, and he looked younger than his picture. He stared up at Alex and shook his head wonderingly. "Crazy!" he murmured. "This guy is crazy."

  Alex laughed and knelt beside him, the barrel of his rifle touching the side of the young sergeant's face. "You smart boy," he said. "You know if you hit me, your plane get busted up same as me. And down you go." He made an eloquent gesture with his hand, looking over his shoulder toward the lip of the drop-off. "So you stay alive, eh? Good boy." He clapped him on the back, not gently, then grabbed a shoulder and hauled the sergeant to his feet.

  "What about the cave?" I asked.

  "All dead." He patted the rifle butt. "After you go I will use other grenades to seal up cave. Make nice tomb. How about this one?" He nudged the dead man with his toe.

  "No. I'd better take him with me. But how are you going to get away from here?"

  "This is part of my country, Nick Carter. You don't worry about me, eh? Now I help you tie up this boy so he don't give you no trouble during flight."

  We decided to leave the thoroughly trussed Ragan just behind the pilot's seat, where I could keep an eye on him. The body of the other man Alex slung in the back, like so much cargo. Before I got in, he fished in his pockets and brought out a couple of smallish packages.

  "You take both; you Americans, you need the evidence. Us, we don't know nothing about dope smuggling, eh?" He clapped me on the back. "Have a good trip, Nick Carter. If you as good a pilot as you shoot, you will have no problems, eh?"

  The last I saw of him, he was trudging back toward the cave, the rifle carried carelessly over his shoulder; he looked like a hunter heading home after a successful day. He didn't even turn to wave as I made my take-off run.

  Six

  When night falls along the shores of Greece it turns dark with great suddenness. I found a fairish hotel close to the docks, recommended by me to the captain of a charter boat I'd been talking to earlier. He offered to show me some of the nightlife, but I turned him down as graciously as possible; I was still in the process of psyching myself up for the assignment that still hadn't really begun, and I didn't want any friendly distractions.

  My room was clean and neat. No television, for which I was mildly grateful. It had been a long day, and I wasn't accustomed to the intense sunlight that can drain the strength from a man before he's aware of it. In the morning I would travel across to Pirgos to make my rendezvous with the girl, and I was anxious to get moving.

  I took dinner in a little tavern not far away. A party of Americans sat close by, and one of the women in the crowd kept glancing over at me. She wasn't bad-looking in a sort of leathery way, as though she spent every daylight hour baking her hide and had left the oven on a little too long. But I ignored her, studying a cruising guide I'd picked up at the tourist office in Athens.

  The woman wouldn't stay ignored. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her get up and totter over on those high-heeled wooden clogs that women go for these days. She stopped across the table from me, staring and frowning as though I were some kind of odd specimen she'd come across in the jungle.

  "Can I help you?" I asked politely. I didn't rise.

  She shook her sun-streaked brown-blonde hair. "I don't know." She pointed an accusing finger at me. "Galveston. Three, four years ago. You were a friend of Sue-Ellen's, weren't you?"

  I froze, trying not to show it. "I'm afraid you must be thinking of someone else."

  Her frown deepened. "I swear I never forget a face. And certainly not one like yours." Quick smile, to show she was appreciating me. "Come on, now. The name is… Nick? Yes. That was it, and give me a minute; I'll come up with the last one."

  "I'm sorry, my name is Daniel McKee."

  She nodded knowingly. "Uh-huh. And mine is Jackie Onassis. What's the matter? You here with your wife or something?"

  "No, but…"

  "Funny thing, we were just with Sue-Ellen today. On her yacht?" As she spoke, the woman's accent seemed to become more and more southern. I wasn't surprised; just thinking about Sue-Ellen was enough to put a little corn pone in my mouth.

  "I really don't…"

  She went on as though she hadn't heard me. "You know she finally got her divorce after that time, but I guess you know about that since you and Sue-Ellen were such close friends. Married again, of course, but her old Greek husband don't spend hardly any time with her at all these days. I guess Sue-Ellen'll be real glad to hear you're around these parts."

  I was acutely aware of other eyes on me now, not only the rest of the talkative woman's party but people at several nearby tables as well. I got to my feet. "Believe me, ma'am, I'm Daniel McKee." I took a card from my wallet. "As a matter of fact, I happen to be a yacht broker. Maybe your friend Sue-Ellen would be interested in talking to me. Where is her boat, exactly?"

  She looked at the crisp white card scornfully. Then she peered at my face, her eyes not quite focused. Finally she shook her head and backed a step away. "I could have sworn it was you, Nick Somebody. Only Sue-Ellen wouldn't have any truck with any boat salesman. Not even for just a weekend."

  "Well…" I managed to look embarrassed, finally returning the disdained card to my wallet.

  The woman shook a finger at me. "But maybe you're not what you say, right? I remember that Nick, he was a crafty one, wouldn't hardly give anybody the time of day. You stick around, Mister yacht broker; Sue-Ellen said she might drop in here later on. Then we'll know for sure, huh?" She wobbled away back to her table.

  I wanted to get away from here quick, but forced myself to finish my meal, ignoring the stares of the other men and women in the party. They were a prosperous looking crew, mostly in their late thirties and forties I judged, the sort who turn up at just about any tourist spot in the world. The sort who would be casual friends of someone like Sue-Ellen Baylor, or whatever her last name was these days, and make sure all their friends knew it.

  But this was no evening to be thinking of Sue-Ellen or of her buddies, so I put her out of my mind as soon as I left the taverna after a smile and a nod to the woman in the American party. I could feel her appraising eyes on my back as I stepped out into the clear night air.

  It was cool, a steady breeze blowing in off the water. Out in the harbor a big cruise ship was anchored, every light blazing, and even at that distance I could hear the thump and twang of an amplified rock band.
Crazy, I thought; people come from all over the world to see Greece, and they stay aboard their ship to listen to American music.

  I walked slowly, outwardly casual but jangling inside. The Sue-Ellen business was bugging me, and I caught myself checking dark side streets as I passed them. The dock area itself was well lit, with enough activity even at this time of the night to give me a sense of comfort. Still, I appreciated the presence of Hugo, snug now in his forearm sheath. Just the fact that there was someone nearby who knew who I really was, and especially my name, was all I needed to tune my senses up to that pitch I knew so well.

  Not a soul approached by the time I got back to the hotel, and as I stood in its doorway for a last, leisurely look around the quiet little square, I saw no movement that looked remotely suspicious. Finally I shrugged, walked inside and up the single flight of wide stairs to my room.

  They were waiting for me when I unlocked the door, and they were damned good. No threats, hardly any words; one of them slammed the door shut as I entered, the other turned on a light across the room. Both men were heavy set, wearing ordinary dark suits, and the automatics they carried were small but deadly.

  I waited for one of them to talk, noting that my luggage was open on the bed closest to the window. I hadn't bothered to unpack, and from what I could see my two visitors had been very neat in their search. So far.

  "Mr. Daniel McKee?" The man furthest from me spoke; he was slightly taller than the other, his dark hair clipped short but sporting a glorious drooping mustache.

  "Yes," I replied evenly, slightly relieved that they hadn't used my real name.

  "You are back early."

  I could have sworn the man smiled, but with that mustache it was hard to be sure.