Peacekeepers (1988)

by Ben Bova

  But not a thing came into his head.

  He heard himself say, "Sooner or later Pavel's either going to be called back to Moscow or he's going to try to nail me."

  Kelly pulled free of his arm. "You don't think he's still ..."

  "He's still on the KGB payroll, kid. We've been helping him to play them along, but once this Shamar business is finished, he's going to have to make his decision: us or them."

  "If he chooses them/' Kelly murmured, "you think they'll order him to assassinate you?"

  With a nod, Alexander replied, "Especially if I get the Plutonium Shamar's holding."

  "But if he chooses us, then Moscow will send somebody to kill him!"

  Alexander made his crooked smile. "Not necessarily. I might be able to work out a deal—maybe."

  Kelly fell silent and leaned back against her father once more. The boat purred quietly along the river, to the accompaniment of raucous shrieks and chattering from the colorful birds that lived among the thickly leafed trees. The sun climbed higher and the heat became like a steam bath that turned solid flesh to streams of perspiration, a scalding towel that muffled the face so that it became difficult even to breathe.

  "What you're saying," Kelly spoke at last, "is that if I'm nice to Pavel he'll decide in our favor, instead of trying to kill you."

  Alexander shook his head, making the wide brim of his hat wobble. "What I'm saying, little lady, is that I can deal with Pavel one way or the other. He'll decide what he wants to do based mainly on you. But I don't want you to make up to him when you really are in love with Jay. That'd be worse than stupid—it'd be immoral."

  She actually laughed. "You? Old-fashioned morality from you?"

  "And why not?" Alexander suddenly felt distinctly uncomfortable.

  "Have I been such an immoral monster all these years?"

  "Not exactly. But you sure haven't been a perfect model of Christian virtues either."

  "Who the hell has? One of St. Peter's first miracles was to strike some poor sucker dead."

  "No!"

  "And his wife."

  "I don't believe you!"

  "Look it up. Acts of the Apostles."

  Kelly lauded, and Alexander enjoyed the sight and sound of it. But she sobered quickly.

  "If only there was some way I could reach Jay and make him stop being afraid of letting somebody love him."

  Choosing his words carefully, Alexander said, "I presume you have offered him the delights of your flesh."

  Without a hint of hostility she replied, "He's too straight-arrow for that. He doesn't think people who work together ought to get themselves into romantic entanglements."

  Alexander grinned his widest grin. "Well that's easily fixed! After this Shamar business is over, I'll fire the bastard."

  "You do, and I'll quit!"

  "Suits me."

  "Really?" She seemed surprised, almost shocked.

  Alexander said, "Damned right. What I've got to do next is something you won't want to be mixed up with anyway. Red Eagle calls it vigilante justice."

  "You're going to be a one-man crusade, is that it?"

  "It won't be just one man," Alexander countered.

  "There are plenty of people willing to fight against the drug trade. And terrorism. Plenty. And others who are willing to pay the bills, too."

  "But the Peacekeepers will be against you."

  "I doubt it." The river was widening now. Other boats were chuffing along on ancient diesel engines. "They won't be^or me, of course. Ol' Red Eagle will fuss and fume, but the IPF won't actively oppose what I do."

  Kelly looked altogether unconvinced.

  Alexander nosed the little dark gray Zodiac through the growing river traffic, always remaining as much under the shade of the trees on the bank as possible. Abruptly the foliage ended and stark cinder-block and concrete buildings rose along the river's edge. Docks poked their fingers out into the water. Construction cranes swung high overhead.

  The city of Valledupar was growing.

  "This is what the fight is all about," Alexander said to his daughter over the noise of machinery and motors. "The country's getting rich on narcotics. The Castanada family wants to keep control of the trade."

  "And you want to end it altogether."

  "That," he said firmly, "is exactly what I'm going to do."

  Alexander found the pier he was looking for, a busy commercial wharf where work gangs were unloading boats laden with tropical fruits from upriver. He tied his inflatable boat to a stanchion set into the new-looking concrete.

  An unmarked four-door sedan was waiting for them at the end of the pier, its rooftop photovoltaic cells glittering in the sun.

  Kelly shivered slightly as they ducked into the airconditioned interior and the driver wordlessly started the engine and headed out into the city. He was a thickset unsmiling man, swarthy and grim, with a black Pancho Villa mustache that drooped over his heavy lips. Through a tangle of crowded narrow streets they drove, the driver blatting his horn at the people milling around the sidewalk stalls.

  "Must be market day," Alexander muttered.

  The driver said nothing.

  "Where are we going?" asked Kelly.

  "Final meeting with Castanada. He's supposed to fork over the cash for the meres."

  She caught the note of skepticism in his voice. "You don't think he ..."

  "Remember how the good burghers of Hamelin paid off the Pied Piper? They offered him a thousand guilders before he drove out the rats."

  "And once he'd done the job ..."

  Alexander made a crooked grin. " 'Besides, our losses have made us thrifty,' " he quoted. " 'A thousand guilders? Come, take fifty!'"

  Despite herself, Kelly giggled.

  "We get the money for the meres now," her father said.

  "Those guys don't work for promises; they want to see cash. Our own payment can come later. Castanada can keep our money in his Swiss account for another week; earn more interest on it."

  The car left the narrow streets and headed into the broader avenues that climbed up the hills that overlooked the city. Wide green lawns and large whitewashed houses with graceful colonnaded facades and red tile roofs were spaced generously along the quiet, treelined thoroughfare.

  "This is definitely the high-rent district," Alexander said.

  "The Castanadas must live here," Kelly guessed.

  "Nope. The whole family lives down in the presidential palace, where the army surrounds 'em. I don't know what the hell we're doing up here."

  He leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder.

  "Where are we going?"

  The driver grunted.

  "Dónde vamos?" Kelly asked.

  Raising a heavy, blunt-fingered hand, the driver pointed, "Allí"

  The street ended in a cul-de-sac with a little park of carefully clipped bushes and a few tall trees. A second car was sitting along the curve: a long gray limousine with mirrored windows.

  "I don't like this," Kelly whispered.

  Alexander looked at the driver, who turned off the ignition, folded his arms across his chest, and sat stoically unmoving. A rear door of the limousine opened and a slightly built man wearing a dapper double-breasted suit got out. His gray hair was brushed sleekly back and his mustache was neatly trimmed.

  "It's okay," said Alexander, with relief in his voice. "I know him; he's one of Castanada's flunkies."

  Both of them got out of their car and walked over to the limousine.

  "Señor . . ." Alexander groped for the name.

  "Rodríguez?"

  "Ah, good morning, Señor Alexander!" Rodríguez smiled broadly, obviously pleased that his name had been remembered.

  "It's good to see you again."

  "And you, my dear sir. But please tell me, who is this charming young lady with you?"

  "An assistant of mine," Alexander said curtly. No one outside the immediate "family" of his organization knew of Kelly's relation to him.

 
"Ah," said Rodríguez, his smile starting to look a bit forced. "I see."

  Alexander said, "I believe you have a package for me."

  "Sí, sí. A rather heavy one, in fact. It is here in the car."

  He opened the limousine's door and ducked inside it.

  Alexander had just enough time to wonder why the chauffeur wasn't doing his usual job of opening doors. Rodríguez wasn't the kind of man who allowed a servant to sit inside the limo while he . . .

  "Look out!" Kelly yelled.

  Six men with snub-nosed submachine guns sprang out of the bushes. A roar of motorcycles made Alexander whirl; another half dozen on bikes were coming up the street, blocking them off.

  The heavy-set driver of their car pushed his way out from behind the wheel, yanking a pistol from his shoulder holster. Kelly was already on one knee, an automatic in one hand while she slid a second one across the asphalt toward her father.

  A burst of gunfire slammed the driver back against the sedan, his chest spouting blood. Kelly fired back, then ducked behind the car. Alexander froze where he stood crouched beside the limousine. Machine-gun fire raked the limo, making it jounce on its springs as the slugs hit it.

  Something smashed into Alexander's head and he pitched face-first onto the asphalt paving. He heard more gunfire and a scream. He tried to push himself up, but everything turned black and silent.

  When he came to, Rodríguez was bending over him, wild-eyed, babbling about the money being stolen. The limo was riddled with bullet scars, but its armor and bulletproof glass had saved Rodríguez and his chauffeur.

  Not so the other driver. He lay dead in a pool of his own blood.

  And Kelly was gone.

  If we had known that Shamar was going to

  strike at Alexander before he could get his

  own attack started, we would have certainly

  warned the man. But we did not know.

  Even with the intelligence-gathering services

  of the International Peacekeeping Force, we

  did not know what Shamar had planned.

  Cynics claim that we set Alexander up;

  some even lay the blame for what happened

  next at Red Eagle's doorstep. But I was

  there at Geneva. I was serving with IPF

  intelligence at the time. We did not know.

  How could we?

  And we certainly had no part in what

  came afterward.

  MONTESOL

  Year 8

  AS he lay prone in the high grass, studying the ancient stone city that clustered in the hollow just below the mountain's crest through electronically boosted binoculars, Jay Hazard sensed that he was no longer alone.

  The morning air was crisply cool this high above the forest. The Cesar River was nothing more than a glinting gray ribbon snaking through the thick greenery that stretched as far as the eye could see. Up here the trees were smaller, sparser, and tall fronds of grass waved in the moaning mountain wind.

  Somewhere in the grass a man was crawling toward him.

  Jay could feel it in the back of his neck.

  Damned fool! he raged at himself. Dashing off like a one-man army without taking more than a handgun and canteen of water. What are you going to accomplish except getting yourself killed?

  He went absolutely still. Except for his left hand, which snaked down to the holster at his hip and slowly pulled the heavy blue-black automatic pistol.

  He lay the electro-optical binoculars on the ground before him and cocked the gun as quietly as he could, pulling the action back carefully and holding it as it slid forward again so that it did not make too much noise.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, he turned over onto his back so that he could see who was approaching. The city and the men in it would have to wait. Kelly was there; Shamar had made the ancient ruin his headquarters. But whoever was sneaking up on him had a more immediate priority.

  He lay there in the grass, gun cocked and ready, wishing he had a silencer for it. Or a knife. The morning sun was hot despite the altitude. His shirt was already soaked with sweat from the long climb up here.

  "Jay, is that you?" A whisper carried by the wind.

  He said nothing.

  "It's me, Pavel. I'm going to stand up so you can see me. Don't shoot."

  Sure enough, the small slim Russian rose amidst the waving fronds of grass. Jay felt the breath he had been holding back puff out of his lungs.

  Half annoyed, half relieved, he waved Pavel to him. The young Russian bent forward and crawled to his side, staggering under a backpack almost the size of his own torso. He flopped on the grass next to Jay with a grunt.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" Jay growled.

  "Same as you: trying to find Kelly."

  "Who gave you permission to try a stunt like this?"

  "Same as you: nobody."

  Jay looked into the Russian's dark eyes, thinking. He's here, nothing you can do about it. And you're going to need all the help you can get.

  "How's Alexander?"

  "Still under sedation. Steiner says he has a concussion, probably from a ricocheting bullet."

  "And the meres?"

  Pavel started to struggle the pack off his shoulders. "It will still be two days before they arrive, even with our emergency call."

  "We can't wait two days."

  "I agree. We must get Kelly out of there now."

  Jay felt his jaw tighten. "Moscow order you to come and rescue her?"

  "Moscow knows nothing of this," Pavel snapped.

  "Then why are you here?"

  "I could ask you the same question."

  "She saved my life," Jay said immediately. "When I thought it was over, when I was exiled at Moonbase, Kelly had faith in me. She brought me back to Earth, back to life."

  "So you love her." Pavel's voice trembled slightly.

  "Love her? No! I owe her."

  Shaking his head, the Russian said, "But she loves you."

  "That's crazy!"

  "She does."

  His voice was so low, his face suddenly so miserable, that Jay finally recognized what he had not understood before.

  "And you love her."

  "Yes." The faintest of whispers.

  Jay made a coughing noise that might have been a laugh.

  Not even he could tell for sure. "Fine mess."

  "You're certain she's there?" Pavel cocked his head slightly in the direction of the ancient city.

  "Haven't seen her, but that's Shamar's base of operations, all right. Must be a couple hundred men there. Women, too."

  "He sent a message to Alexander, after you left."

  "Message?"

  "Last night. By radio, over the civilian band frequency."

  "What the hell did he say?"

  "That Kelly was alive and unhurt and that he would exchange her for Alexander himself."

  Jay felt a surge of emotions blaze along his veins. "So that's his game. He wants Alexander."

  "Shamar will kill Alexander if he gets his hands on him."

  "He'll kill Kelly if Alexander doesn't agree."

  "That is why we must get her out of there," Pavel said.

  "Right" Jay rolled back onto his stomach, then asked, "What answer did you make to Shamar?"

  "Barker took the message. He told them that Alexander was under sedation and would be unable to reply for twenty-four hours."

  "And what'd Shamar say?"

  "He said that in exactly twenty-four hours Kelly would be killed, unless Alexander agreed to surrender himself."

  "How long . . . ?"

  "Seven hours ago. That is when I decided to come up here after you."

  Jay's thoughts were tumbling wildly through his mind.

  "Kelly ... did they let Kelly speak?"

  "No."

  "Then how do we know she's still alive?"

  "We only have Shamar's word for it"

  "Those bastards could do anything to her," Jay said.

  "We mu
st act quickly."

  "Yeah. But there's a couple hundred of them and only two of us."

  Pavel took the binoculars that lay before them and focused them on the stone structures in the hollow. It was an ancient city that must have been magnificent in its day.

  But now it was abandoned, crumbling with age, half tumbled down. Massive stone statues had toppled over and rested on their sides. On some of the buildings entire wails were gone, leaving their interiors gaping. Grass and shrubs had invaded those broken buildings, making them look as if they were rotting, covering them with a green slimy decay. Pavel observed that the stones were not blackened by fire; earthquakes must have done the damage.

  The city had been built around a large central plaza paved with gray stones. Now it was weed-grown and cracked, but it served as a helicopter landing pad. A chopper stood oflf at one end of the square, covered with a camouflage net. At the head of the square was an impressive temple raised on a tiered platform. A steep flight of stairs led to its colonnaded front entrance; most of the massive pillars were still standing, but much of the roof was gone. Several other old buildings were still intact, their roofs whole, although sprouting grass and flowers and even a few small trees here and there. Ideal camouflage, Pavel realized. Even satellite sensors would detect nothing much except natural vegetation.

  Focusing tighter, he could see dozens of men in the plaza, most of them in military fatigues, assault rifles slung over their shoulders. Some Kalishnikovs, he noted, but mostly American Colts and Springfields.

  Some of the ancient buildings had new additions of corrugated metal and even cinder block. Always the roofs were covered with dirt and greenery. Men in jeans and T-shirts lounged around the largest one. Pavel saw another man in a white laboratory smock come out of a door, followed by three others—one of them a woman.

  "Their processing factory is here," he muttered.

  "Yeah," Jay replied. "But where're they keeping Kelly?"

  All through the morning, as the sun climbed higher into a pale blue sky dotted with wisps of cirrus clouds, they took turns studying the city through the binoculars.

  Slowly, by a process of elimination, they tried to determine where Shamar might be holding Kelly. Not in the factory, of course. Across the square was a smaller building where all the windows had been boarded up and a half dozen armed guards lounged by the only door.