Khang did not answer, but his face came around. Tyreen said, “Get into the car.”
Khang said, “Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” His mouth worked. “Listen—about him.” His head turned on bulging neck tendons.
Tyreen saw the frenzied glitter of his eyes. “All right. Don’t talk about it. It’s all been said.”
“It has?” When Khang was not laughing, he had a sad face. His eyes were fierce black against the skin.
Tyreen said angrily, “The cards are dealt. Play your hand, Sergeant, or throw it in.”
“I want it clear,” Khang said. “Or do you vote like Hooker?”
Khang was asking for trust. Tyreen watched, his face like a blue-steel hatchet, slightly rusty. He said, “Nobody’s going to sell you into Egypt, Sergeant.”
The pistol lay cocked on the running board. Tyreen reached for it. Khang’s eyes watched, cynical and distrusting. Tyreen handed the pistol to him, butt first. When Khang took the weapon, Tyreen said, “He was just obeying orders, Sergeant. Just like you and me.”
Khang climbed into the back of the car, moving arthritically. “You got to be kidding, Colonel.”
“Why?”
Dismally, Tyreen turned the key in the ignition. The engine popped and began to hum. Theodore Saville climbed in and slammed the door more loudly than he had to.
The car began to roll forward. Tyreen’s hands slipped on the wheel. The phenomenon of death made its impact once, and the impact stayed locked in forever. He thought, you could only witness a single death in a lifetime. A man only became a killer once. See one, and you’d seen them all.
Tyreen stopped the car in front of headquarters at fourteen minutes past twelve. He said, “We’ve got six minutes, and then all hell breaks lose.”
“Got you, Skipper,” said Nguyen Khang under his breath. He stepped out of the car brandishing his pistol. A sergeant came out of the building and stopped, arrested by shock. Flustered, the man made a belated salute and opened his mouth to speak. Nguyen Khang barked at him:
“These prisoners are to be handed over to Colonel Trung. Take me to him.”
The sergeant saluted again and almost tripped himself when he turned to hold the building door open. Khang opened the car door and waved his pistol. Saville climbed out and murmured, “Don’t overdo it,” and walked up onto the porch. Tyreen went past Khang’s gun and said loudly in English, “You’re making a bad mistake about this whole thing, Captain.”
Khang yelled at him in Vietnamese and prodded him in the back. Tyreen followed Theodore Saville into the building. The big corridor was active with soldiers hurrying about on errands. The North Vietnamese sergeant walked past Tyreen and led the way down the hall. Khang marched right behind them. Tyreen felt sick to his stomach. Feverhaze clouded his vision. A Vietnamese lieutenant strutted out of an office and halted the sergeant in his tracks, staring at Tyreen and Saville and asking questions harshly. Nguyen Khang spoke curtly and the lieutenant drew himself up and backed out of the way, staring straight ahead.
Soldiers halted and watched the procession move past. Tyreen felt the dig of Khang’s gun against his kidneys. The corridor seemed a hundred yards long. Two officers, a major and a subaltern, appeared in a doorway. The major’s eyes narrowed down, and his index finger stroked one end of his mustache. He wore a leather flying jacket and tennis shoes. His attention flicked from Saville to Tyreen and then settled on Nguyen Khang; his frown was thoughtful and suspicious. Khang made a flat-palmed salute when he passed the major. Tyreen could feel the major’s eyes boring into his back, but there was no outcry and, abruptly, the Vietnamese sergeant stopped by a door and knocked timidly.
There was no answer to his knock. The sergeant looked inquiringly at Khang. Khang nodded. The sergeant opened the door and went in. Saville and Tyreen were right behind him. Tyreen heard Khang close the door.
No one occupied the office, but Tyreen heard a muffled voice through a side door. The sergeant was headed toward that door with his fist upraised when Nguyen Khang said, “Wait.” The sergeant turned obediently. “That is Colonel Trung’s private office?”
The sergeant shook his head. “The room for interrogation, Dai-uy.”
“Perhaps we should not disturb the Colonel.”
The sergeant looked relieved. Khang said, “I shall wait here with the prisoners. You may return to your duties.”
“Thank you, Dai-uy. You wish Chinese tea or food?”
“No. Nothing. Return to your post, Sergeant.”
The sergeant left the room, and when he was gone, Saville reached around and turned the bolt. “That was too easy.”
Khang tipped himself against the wall. “You think that was easy, Captain? My God.”
Tyreen moved soundlessly toward the side door. He put his ear against it. When he came away from the door, Saville said, “Well?”
“I couldn’t make out the talk. But it’s only one voice.”
Khang said, “I get the funny feeling the whole place is booby-trapped or something.”
“We’re wasting time,” Tyreen said. He took his pistol back from Khang and walked again to the side door. His hand reached the knob and slowly turned it.
The door was not locked. Saville ranged himself beside the jamb, and Nguyen Khang straightened his uniform. Tyreen rapped sharply with his knuckles and swung the door open without waiting for a reply. He wheeled through the doorway with his gun up.
The Vietnamese Colonel was thin and small; his features were delicate. He was in the act of turning away from his prisoner to answer the knock at the door. He saw Tyreen, saw the guns and the other two men entering the room; but if any of it took him by surprise, it did not show on his face.
Tyreen said, “Cut him loose, Colonel.”
The Colonel’s eyebrows lifted politely. Tyreen said, “Come on, move. You wouldn’t be an interrogation officer if you didn’t speak good English.”
Khang and Saville had walked past him; Khang lifted the Colonel’s pistol and swagger stick from the man, and the Colonel neither stirred nor gave any sign of annoyance. Theodore Saville bent over the prisoner.
Kreizler lolled back in a spidery chair. He was naked. His eyelids fluttered open, but he stared at them all without recognition. He seemed to want to speak; his throat only made a vague guttural sound.
Saville said, “Easy. Take it easy, Eddie. It’s all finished now. You’re okay now.” Saville’s voice broke.
Tyreen took two long strides and drove his fist into Colonel Trung’s stomach. The Colonel coughed and bent over. Tyreen pulled him upright and rammed his knee into the man’s groin. Colonel Trung gagged and clutched himself. Tyreen said wickedly, “I wish I could mark you up, Colonel, but we’re going to need you for just a little while.”
Saville was holding back one of Eddie Kreizler’s eyelids, looking closely into the eye. “He’s in pretty bad shape, David.”
Nguyen Khang had gone back to the door to keep watch. Tyreen yanked Colonel Trung upright by the lapels. “Straighten yourself out, Colonel.”
Saville said, “It takes a lot of talent to hurt a man as bad as he hurt Eddie and still not knock him out or maybe kill him.”
Tyreen unloaded Colonel Trung’s pistol and jammed it back into the man’s holster. Trung’s hand absently buckled the holster flap down over the handle. All the while he had not spoken a word.
Tyreen said, “Give Eddie a shot of morphine and get out that other syringe.”
Saville took out his first-aid pouch. Tyreen snapped at him: “Hurry it up, Theodore. Let’s get out of here.”
“Yes, sir,” Saville said. It was hard to tell what his tone meant. He had two syringes; he handed one to Tyreen and turned around, searching for the vein in the crook of Eddie Kreizler’s bare arm.
Tyreen said, “Sergeant.”
Khang came away from the door. “I’m getting the jitters.”
“Hold him still,” Tyreen said.
Khang’s eyes glittered momentarily. “That’ll be a pleasu
re, Skipper.”
Colonel Trung drew himself up. Tyreen said, “Behave yourself, or you’re dead, Colonel.”
Behind Colonel Trung, Nguyen Khang gripped the man’s arms and drew them around behind his back. Tyreen walked around and plunged his syringe into the vein in Trung’s wrist. Trung did not make a sound. Tyreen emptied the syringe into the vein and tossed it on the table. Colonel Trung said, “How long will I be conscious?”
“Until you die,” Tyreen answered. “About an hour.”
“I trust,” said Colonel Trung, “it will be suitably painful?”
Tyreen said, “Agony is an occupational hazard for you and me, Colonel.”
“Just so.” Trung massaged his punctured wrist. “Which poison have you used?”
“You realize I can’t tell you that.”
“Of course. If I knew the poison, I might secure an antidote. There is an antidote, of course?”
“Yes.”
“But you do not have it with you.”
“That’s right,” Tyreen said. “You know the rest of it.”
Colonel Trung smoothed his sleeve down. “The price of the antidote is my cooperation. If I raise the alarm, I will not find the antidote, and I will die within the hour.” A slight smile touched the feminine lips. “Very clever. But you take two risks, I believe. First, I might be prepared to take the chance that you are bluffing. The liquid in that syringe looked very much like a harmless saline solution. And second, I might be prepared to sacrifice my life in order to prevent your escape—especially since you will most likely kill me once you’ve got away.”
“I gave you enough poison to wipe out a squad, Colonel. Your only chance to stay alive is to come with us and see to it that we reach the place where I left the antidote. If you cooperate, you’ll get the antidote. We’ll knock you out with a sedative, and be on our way. That’s all the talk I’ve got time for. What’s your answer?”
“Oh, I’ll cooperate,” Colonel Trung said easily. “I’ve already sent out my report on the information I extracted from your Captain.” He smiled gently. “Shall we be on our way, gentlemen?”
Saville had wrapped Eddie Kreizler in the Vietnamese Colonel’s raincoat. “He’s out cold,” Saville said. He picked up Kreizler as if the stocky man were a small stack of firewood. Tyreen nodded to Nguyen Khang; Khang drew his pistol and got behind them. Tyreen put his hands on top of his head. With a sardonic flourish, Colonel Trung held the door open. Nguyen Khang said, “Skipper, it’s nineteen minutes after.”
“Move fast,” Tyreen said out of the side of his mouth.
They marched into the corridor two abreast. Saville walked at Tyreen’s shoulder, carrying Eddie Kreizler like an infant. Bemusedly, Colonel Trung took out his empty pistol and held it against Tyreen’s back. The murmur of his voice reached Tyreen’s ears: “If this were loaded, I wonder if I would pull the trigger. What do you think?”
Trung nodded politely to officers they passed in the hall. Nguyen Khang was speaking in Vietnamese: “It is good of you, Colonel, to accompany us. The Lao Dong will be most pleased when we deliver these prisoners to Hanoi. Comrade Ho himself has expressed his interest.”
“That is most kind of the honorable Comrade Ho,” Trung said. “One only hopes that Comrade Ho’s confidence is justified.”
Grinding tensions set Tyreen’s nerves afire. He licked the false, poison-filled tooth; he almost tripped on a crack in the floor. When they passed the sour-faced major in his doorway, the major gave a reluctant salute, and Colonel Trung transferred his automatic to his left hand to answer it. Tyreen’s arms began to ache. He laced his fingers together on top of his head. Their boots raised a pounding racket in the long hallway.
The sergeant of the guard saluted quickly and yanked the main door open. Tyreen braced himself for an explosion. It was time for the gasoline storage tanks to go up. As he passed through the door onto the porch, he could see the squat cylinders of steel half a mile up the mountain, above the motor pool. He heard the drone of an airplane, hidden somewhere in the clouds.
The Moskvitch stood empty, parked by the building. A big staff car, an East German Wartburg, was drawn up by the porch. Nguyen Khang spoke to the driver:
“My compliments to the transportation officer. You are very prompt. We shall not need your services.”
The driver saluted and trotted away down the row. Colonel Trung hesitated on the steps. Tyreen turned and saw a brash light in Trung’s eyes; Trung was smiling. He said in English, “I’m afraid my cowardice fails me,” and wheeled, shouting in Vietnamese:
“Sergeant! Sergeant!”
Tyreen’s hand whipped out. Nguyen Khang stood half turned, startled and uncertain. Tyreen took the pistol out of Khang’s loose grip, reversed it, and deliberately shot Colonel Trung point-blank in the face.
The sound of the shot was lost in the tremendous shock-wave and blasting noise of the exploding gasoline depot on the mountain.
The blast almost knocked Tyreen down. Colonel Trung fell off the porch at Tyreen’s feet. Before the man struck the pavement, Tyreen shoved Nguyen Khang toward the car and sprinted around the hood toward the driver’s seat. Saville tossed Eddie Kreizler like a loose sack into the back seat and dived in, slamming the door. Echoes of the gasoline explosion pounded around the parade ground. Voices began to shout within the building and across the compound. Khang slewed into the right-hand seat, and Tyreen gunned the idling engine; with a squeal of tires the staff car careened around in a wild turn. The guard sergeant appeared on the porch, baffled. “Get your heads down,” Tyreen said. In the side of his vision he saw the enormous pyre of the burning storage tanks on the mountain. A flood of liquid flame ran down the slope. Somewhere on the garrison, sirens and bells started up. Tyreen took the staff car around the end of the building on two wheels and roared toward the wooden barrier at the main gate. He crashed the barrier at one hundred kilometers an hour and almost spun out of control; he leveled the car into a city boulevard and roared up the hill.
Chapter Thirty-four
1225 Hours
CORPORAL Luther Smith crawled to his feet and touched his head. He had cut his temple. The explosion had thrown him halfway across the tower landing. Shards of glass littered the wooden platform but, strangely, the stained rear window by Smith’s post was unscratched. A shattered porcelain figurine lay scattered across the platform. J. D. Hooker was resetting his machine gun in the tower opening. Smith heard the great roaring of flames; from his post he could not see the fire, but the platform was awash with red brilliance, and he felt the heat of it against his cheeks. Hooker was talking, complimenting himself on the expert job of demolition. Smith heard a shout, and when he saw Hooker’s swift glance, touching him and moving on, he knew it had been his own voice. His white hand would not relax its grip on the submachine gun. For a moment he fought a grim, quiet contest with his hand, but it was useless—his hand would not obey. And so when Hooker said a second time, “Open that damned window, kid,” he held the gun up in both hands and smashed the butt through the window.
Flame glanced off glass shreds, tumbling and dancing through a three-story drop to the overgrown garden beneath. And Smith saw two men down there in khaki with brown-black rifles, staring up at him from under the brims of their helmets: two men in the crimson garden with one side of their bodies made bloody by the rage of the great blaze.
Smith stared back at them. No one made a hostile move; everything was frozen. He started and moved like a slow machine, raking blades and bits of glass from the edges of the casement with the butt of the gun. He backed away from the window, and just before he lost sight of them, he saw one of the soldiers raise his rifle and aim.
Smith spoke incoherently across the high platform. He did not follow what his lips said. Hooker’s back was to him; Hooker did not turn. The upcoming bullet smashed a harmless course through the empty window, cut a splinter from the ornate ceiling, and left a hole through which Smith saw a spot of red light. Smoke crept into the place, thi
n but lung-tickling. Hooker was hunched over the machine gun, training it on the road.
Smith shrank back. The eye in the ceiling, put there by the bullet, stared at him. A voice came up from the garden, demanding surrender. Hooker’s gun began to bang, driving soldiers back down the road.
A long brown rat came out of a corner and blinked at Smith and scuttled back into the shadows. A small sound came out of Smith’s throat.
“Shut up,” Hooker said, in a mild abstracted tone. He fired a burst into the road.
The rat’s red eyes glowed. Smith turned his gun on the rat. The concentrated fire smashed the rat to pulp against the corner.
“You Goddamn stupid idiot! What the hell you shooting at?”
Smith’s fingers loosened. “I guess I spooked.” His voice was even and controlled. He set the gun down, leaning the muzzle against the wall. The dead rat was splashed over a square yard of wood. Smith wiped his face with his handkerchief. He watched the fur and flesh of the mangled rat until a gunshot drove a path up through the window and put a second eye in the ceiling. Smith picked up the gun and went back to the window, standing beside it and moving his face cautiously until he could see down into the garden.
Now there were four of them, standing foolishly in a group talking among themselves. “Why don’t they take cover?”
Hooker said, “They would, if you took a shot at them.”
“Come over here a minute. Let’s finish them off.”
“Why not?”
Hooker came over, taking his submachine gun down off his back. He put his back to the wall immediately across from the window. For a moment Smith heard his own breathing above the noise of the flames. Dry, hot smoke scraped his face. Hooker said, “A Goddamn shooting gallery.”
“I wonder why they don’t take cover?”
Smith put the gun to his shoulder, cheek to stock—no, the recoil would bruise his cheek; he lifted his head. Barrel up, now, and allow for shooting downhill. The targets were large and motionless, talking. All his muscles were relaxed; he felt good. “Now, Hooker?”
The Last Bridge Page 18
