He stood up and walked into the gloom of the lighthouse ruin, taking the rifle with him. She remained seated, facing the opening, watching the sea and the arc of beach where Julian Wilde might appear.
The base of the lighthouse was a large circular room filled with the tidal debris of many years. Barnacles, mussels and seaweed covered the stone floor and walls, waiting for the tide to return and nourish them again. The air was rank with the smells of iodine and brine. Rain filtered through the steel beams and abutments overhead that had supported the vanished light tower. He circled the base wall slowly. The diameter of the ruin was about fifty feet. He went halfway around and saw the trap door.
It was revealed by the shell-encrusted ring set in the stone floor. The wooden hatch was long disintegrated, and silt had partially filled in the steps going into the dark hole below. He had no idea where the passage led.
“Sam?”
He turned, rifle ready, and saw Trinka staring north. He walked back and she looked at him with impassive eyes.
“Could we make a run for the boats now?” she asked.
“If Wilde lets us. He’s got a gun, too.”
“If we got to the boats first, we’d be saved from the tide. I’ve been expecting to die here; I’d made up my mind to it; and now like a miracle he’s come back with the boat—”
“Or by prearrangement,” he said thinly.
“You don’t trust me at all, do you?”
“I want to,” he said. “I wish I could.”
“Can’t we have a truce, at least, and save ourselves?” she demanded angrily. “Must you be so blinded by your professional training that you lose all human values? Are you a machine, or what?”
“I want to live as much as you, Trinka,” he said quietly. “That’s why I’m trying to be careful.”
She spread her hands. “I am unarmed. How can I hurt you? Did you suspect me an hour ago, when we made love?”
“Wilde hadn’t come back then,” he said. “He wasn’t sitting somewhere out there waiting to knock me off. It was just luck, poor aim, and the wind that saved me,” he finished grimly.
“And you think I arranged—” She paused, hand to her mouth. “Oh. Oh, I see. I understand now. You think I’ve been waiting for Wilde to pick me up and that I talked to him and told him to kill you when you came up out of the bunker a few minutes ago.”
“Did you?”
“No, I did not. Believe me. I am everything I said I was. And if we don’t trust each other, we won’t get off the island alive.”
“So you suggest we make a run for the boats?”
“Wilde has gone into the bunker,” she said. “The way is clear.”
She was right. When he stepped carefully from their shelter, he could not see Julian Wilde. The Suzanne, with Wilde’s launch tied astern, swung in the wind and rain not more than a hundred yards down the shrinking shore of the island.
“All right. Let’s try it,” he said.
If Trinka was lying, he decided, then he had to expect to find Wilde lying in ambush somewhere along the route. He scanned the terrain with care. The island was relatively featureless except for the lighthouse ruin and the long, artificially straight ridge facing west. Tall grasses and reeds rippled in the rising wind. The crash of the surf shivered in the air, and the cold rain pelted their faces.
He pointed to the sandy beach that curved north to the former lagoon where the boats were moored. The rain cut off their view as they started out. In the gloom, very little could be seen. But he consoled himself with the thought that Wilde was equally handicapped.
They sprinted quickly, digging their toes into the wet sand, then dropped flat in the reeds. No shots greeted them.
Nothing was to be seen. The rain lightened, and he made out the boats, nearer now. They represented rescue from the encroaching tide. Two more sprints would bring them to the beach opposite the sloop. Then they would have to swim for it. That would be the bad time, he thought, when his rifle would be useless. Maybe Wilde was waiting for that.
They got up and ran in a zigzag course across the reedy dune toward the boats. It was like a nightmare in which your feet bogged in glue while terror snapped at your heels. Trinka fell sprawling in the sand. He dropped to his knees beside her. They were only halfway. Ahead was an open stretch of sand, dimpled by the rain. They sheltered for the moment in the last clump of reeds.
“Did you hurt yourself?” he asked.
“No. I’m sorry, I’m just clumsy.”
“We can’t stop next time until we hit the water and swim for it” he said. “Are you sure you can make it?”
“I’ve got to try. I’ve got to do it,” she said.
“Good.”
“Do you honestly care?” she whispered bitterly.
To her astonishment, he kissed her. “Of course. Let’s go.”
On their feet, they ran down the slope toward the Suzanne. As if to confound them, the rain suddenly came down with cloudburst intensity, hammering them with a cold fury that filled the world with driving spray and blinding wind. They could see nothing. Durell shouted to Trinka to stop, but she plunged on, and suddenly they were in water that surged hungrily about their ankles and then leaped at their knees. Trinka reeled in confusion. Their wet clothes were plastered tightly to their bodies. She shouted something above the hissing rage of the storm, but the wind tore the words from her lips. He caught her hand as the tidal current abruptly eroded the sand from underfoot.
They turned blindly, searching for dry land. Durell felt the strain of the tide on his legs; his thigh muscles trembled. The girl’s wet hand began to slide from his grip. She could not stand on her feet. A comber smashed at them suddenly, rearing out of the wind and driving rain. Trinka coughed and gave a little cry and suddenly went under. He clung to her hand with all his strength. If his left arm were free, he could have hauled her up easily; but he did not want to let go of the rifle.
For an agonizing moment it was in balance. The tide, pouring through a channel sluiced across the island, smashed them out into the lagoon. The water lifted to Durell’s waist. The girl had struggled up, coughing and strangling, until her arms were around him. She clung to him then and he knew her feet were not touching bottom.
Thunder crashed. Lightning flared. The surge of tide pushed once more, then abruptly yielded with a sudden release of pressure that made him stagger. In a momentary pause in the rain, he saw the island shore. It had changed radically. Little more than the bunker ridge was left, running about two hundred yards northerly.
He looked for the boats, but could not see them through the rain. There was nothing to do but regain the fast-dissolving land.
It took moments of desperate struggle. Trinka simply lacked the strength to do more than cling to him as he fought his way out of the tidal current.
But even then they had no chance to rest.
Trinka screamed when he dropped to his knees with her in the sand, and he turned to look in the direction she was staring. He saw a motor dinghy pulled high on the beach. It hadn’t been there before. And beyond, offshore, was the dimly visible hull of the Valkyron.
Closer at hand, on a low ridge above them, was a trio of black-rubber-suited figures, their skin-diving outfits and skull-tight helmets glistening in the rain. There was Erich, and Cassandra von Uittal, and the pimply-faced crew member who tagged along with the fat mate.
Erich had a Schmeisser machine pistol in his hand and a hard grin on his face. As Durell turned, Erich raised the gun and squeezed the trigger.
Twenty-two
The Schmeisser’s hammering seemed muted by the thunder of the storm. At that moment Durell could not have saved himself. Later, Durell remembered how they had looked in their glistening frogmen’s outfits. And it was Cassandra who prevented Erich from finishing him off in that instant of incredulity.
She gave a sharp cry and knocked the muzzle of the Schmeisser aside. The racketing slugs whined high overhead. Erich cursed and stepped back, and the blonde wo
man, whose black rubber suit effectively emphasized the fullness of her voluptuous body, stepped between the sailor and Durell.
“Be patient, Erich. Please.” Then she turned to Durell. “You will drop your rifle, please.”
“What do you want here?” Durell countered.
“We would have come sooner, but we had to wait for the tide to rise high enough to bring the yacht in close. And of course you know what I want. I intend to get the rest of the general’s treasure-trove of paintings and objets d’art.”
“I thought they were all gone.”
“No, no. There are storage rooms—secret places in the bunker. The general told me about it. Be kind enough to drop your rifle. You can help us load. Afterward, we will let you go to your boat.”
Durell kept his rifle in hand. “How can I trust you?” He watched her tightly. “You and I are not allies or friends now.”
“No. I offered you more than friendship, and you rejected me.” Cassandra’s voice was thin, but it cut through the sound of wind and surf. “But I am not inhuman. You and this girl can go safely from here, if you cooperate and help us now.”
Durell shrugged. “All right.”
“Now, then. Drop your gun.”
He looked at the three unearthly, rubber-suited figures and decided the time had come to cut the cards for Erich. He owed Erich a lot. The fat man was holding the machine pistol a little laxly as Cassandra spoke. Perhaps he was winded from his climb out of the sea. Or perhaps Trinka’s scanty wet costume intrigued him to much.
Instead of dropping the rifle, Durell let his hand slide down to the trigger and he shot Erich in the stomach, rapidly, twice.
The fat man’s pistol yammered as he fell. Durell did not watch him die. He swung the rifle fast as Cassandra moved, and she froze when he covered her. But he missed the other sailor. The third rubber-suited figure showed unexpected imagination and daring. Until now, he had been a shadowy hanger-on to the fat Erich. But now he dived forward suddenly, a knife in his hand, and grabbed for Trinka. But his first effort was a mistake, and his first mistake was a lethal one.
Trinka disarmed him quickly, efficiently, professionally. As the sailor lunged for her with the knife uplifted, she stepped under it and toward him instead of retreating instinctively. This threw him off stride and her hand shot up, caught the rubber-clad wrist, and twisted sharply. The man was stronger, but her knowledge of leverage and neural centers was better. He screamed suddenly and tried to twist away and Trinka caught his knife as it fell. Before the sailor could recover she made a quick, ripping gesture. The sailor screamed again, a bubbling sound of shock and incredulity.
The knife hilt glistened in his chest.
Trinka fell to hands and knees, gasping, her head bowed. She was violently sick. Durell walked over the dune toward Cassandra, who stood frozen by the sudden turn of events.
“I should have known,” she said bitterly. “The general and his men bungled everything, always. In one moment, I am stripped of my men and my weapons.” She looked at Trinka. “Such a sweet little killer. So petite and so deadly. It makes me sick, too.”
“She had to do it,” Durell said. “She doesn’t have to like doing it.”
“You surprised Erich. He looked forward to killing you.”
“It was a mutual ambition. I meant to kill him.”
“And me? What will you do with me?”
“We’ll save you for the police. Come along. Trinka?” The small girl lifted her head. Her face was very white. She looked at the dead men and shuddered again, but she got to her feet.
“Take Erich’s pistol, will you?” he asked.
She said thinly, “Oh, do you trust me now?”
“I have to. We’ll use Cassandra’s dinghy.”
“And leave Wilde here?”
Cassandra sucked in a shocked breath. “He is here?”
“In the bunker, right now,” Durell said.
“No. No! He will destroy everything!”
Cassandra started to run, disregarding Durell’s gun. Durell, turning to warn her away from the ridge with a shout, saw Julian Wilde emerge from the bunker door at that instant.
Julian Wilde was no Erich. He shot first. Durell felt a shock go through his arm as the slug, by a fluke, hit the rifle in his hand. The gun was torn from his grip. He fell to the sand with it, shouting a warning to Trinka and Cassandra. A second bullet spanked the sand. He twisted desperately. The two girls were flat in the reeds to avoid the fire. He raised his head again and saw Wilde’s figure against the dark sky. Durell was helpless. His rifle was smashed; the Schmeisser machine pistol of Erich’s was about twenty feet away near the water’s edge. Wilde had disarmed him effectively.
He called the man’s name, but the wind and rain tore the words away from him. “Wilde, listen to me!”
Wilde seemed not to hear. Durell gathered himself for a dive at the machine pistol, and Trinka called urgently, “Sam, don’t. Please. He is only waiting for you to try it. What good will it do any of us if he kills you?”
“We’ll drown here, otherwise,” he said. “We can’t reach the boats without crossing his field of fire.”
“He is still unloading the loot from the bunker,” she said quickly. “There is yet a little time.”
“Then he’ll come down after us.”
“He is not sure you are unarmed now. Perhaps if we go back to the lighthouse . . .”
He looked at the two women. Cassandra, in her black skin-diver’s suit with its tight helmet, looked strangely
detached. Trinka seemed only concerned for himself. He looked at her again.
“Are you all right now?” he asked.
“I’m sorry I was so foolish as to get sick.”
“Was it the first time you killed?”
She nodded, swallowed.
“You were well trained,” he said.
“Perhaps. But never again—if we get away from here.” He tried for the Schmeisser anyway. He got two steps from the covering reeds when Wilde’s gun cracked and the pistol jumped in the sand. Wilde fired again and Durell felt the fan of air as the slug slammed past him and he dived back for the reeds. Trinka reached for him and caught his arm, her face angry.
“Why must you try to kill yourself like that?”
“It’s all right. He could have killed me,” Durell said, “but he didn’t. He wants to keep us here. It pleases him more, I think, to have us drown slowly than to be shot mercifully. He’s a sharpshooter. If he could hit the Schmeisser, he could have put the same slug through my head. But he didn’t. So he wants us to die in the sea.”
“It is horrible,” Trinka whispered.
Cassandra said, “One can expect nothing else, I think.” They retreated to the lighthouse. The rain had slackened, but the thick clouds brought on a premature evening gloom. The sea was covered with whitecaps, and most of the sand bars and labyrinthine channels had been swallowed by the tide. Durell estimated that less than half an hour would finish this island, too. And judging by the terrific tidal pressures when they had stumbled into the channel a few minutes ago, he knew they couldn’t survive more than a few minutes, once the sea reached them.
From the entrance to the lighthouse they could see the approaches to this end of the island, and Julian Wilde could not surprise them. Durell turned to Cassandra.
“You might as well tell me the truth now,” he said. “Surely, if you came back for more of the general’s looted paintings, you knew you had no chance to get away with them.”
“I have nothing left.” Her pale brown eyes were cool. “You showed me the truth about myself on the beach last night. I’ll never have anything unless I get what I need here and now.”
“Are you sure there are more paintings?”
“The general often talked about them. They are located in a small storage room off the biological laboratory. They were stacked in crates. I thought I could sell them in America or France—or anywhere. I could have been rich.”
“The general’s
friends wouldn’t let you get away with them, would they?”
“Oh. that’s all finished for now, I think. Inspector Flaas will send all that data to West Germany, for prosecution.” She smiled cynically. “Perhaps von Uittal’s friends will escape, even then. Perhaps they are right about Germany’s future. But I don’t care. I have my chance to be safe and happy now. with all the money I’ll ever need, if I can get those paintings.”
“When did you see Inspector Flaas?”
“He questioned me this morning about Marius Wilde and the general. I heard him say to a subordinate that Julian’s visa to Switzerland had been revoked. The Swiss will not let him in. Someone in the Dutch government leaked the truth about the virus to the Swiss. So they decided in the Hague to move against Wilde once and for all. No more deals, Flaas said. Better to risk the plague than to go on dealing with Wilde.”
“Why do you think Julian Wilde came back here?” Durell asked.
She shrugged. “Where can he go? Who will let him in? He is like a leper, doomed to have every door shut in his face.” The girl shivered. “I would not change places with him for anything. I could not live alone like that, hated and shunned by everyone—just because he wants revenge on the whole world because of an injury that took place long ago and was overcome. He had a decent life in England, did he not? Well, I don’t envy him.”
“I do,” Durell said drily. “He has a gun.”
“Perhaps he started to sail for England,” Cassandra suggested, “and the storm forced him this way, and he decided to stop once more and clean out the bunker of the paintings and the virus vials completely.”
Durell nodded. “And possibly to pick up his hostage.” He stood up. “Trinka?”
The dark-haired Dutch girl turned. “Yes?”
“Watch Cassandra. Take no chances with her. I’m going after Wilde.”
“With your bare hands?”
Assignment - Lowlands Page 17
