by Joe Poyer
It had happened so quickly that I barely had time to move from where I had been resting against the original rockfall. My hand was shaking so badly as I struck a match that it went out immediately. The second stayed lit somehow and its uneven light helped me find the flashlight that Klaus had propped on a rock to illuminate Mikhail's working area.
In its strong, yellowish beam I could see where the tunnel roof had torn away between two supporting crossbeams. Water poured steadily out of the gash; water from the winter rains that had filtered down through the rock overlapping the western flank of the mountain and loosened the soft, sandstone like shale . . . literally rotting it away. The new cave-in left us sealed into a pocket no more than twenty feet long by the width of the tunnel . . . five feet.
Mikhail stirred against the rockfall where he had fallen and in a moment more, he was struggling to sit up.
"What . . . what . . ." was all that he could manage coherently. The rest was gibberish in Serbo-Croatian. A small piece of rock had ricocheted back, glancing off his head. It left a nasty but not serious cut.
The cold terror of our predicament now took hold of me with the clutching, squeezing fingers of nausea and
shock. In a daze, I watched Mikhail struggle into a sitting position and stare stupidly at the blood smeared on his hand where he had wiped his forehead. I sat down beside him and forced my head between my knees, breathing deeply to shake off the nausea. After a few minutes, the nausea and heat flush began to pass and I lay back gasping for breath.
Mikhail stared as if seeing me for the first time. He blinked and rubbed his eyes and forehead again, starting the blood afresh.
"What in the name of God happened?" he mumbled.
For a moment, my throat would not work. Finally, I managed to force out in a hoarse voice: "The roof has collapsed . . . we're damned lucky . . . we weren't caught under . .."
"Where is Maher?" he demanded.
"Maher?" I repeated stupidly. "Outside on the beach ... I think. He was watching the beach until we finished."
Mikhail's laugh was harsh but agreeable. "Yes, he is standing guard on the beach . . .
because he caused the roof to collapse. He tried to kill us!" Mikhail spoke with such certainty that for a moment I almost believed him.
"Why the devil would he do . . .?" I crawled forward to where the water was pouring down from the roof and splashed handfuls over my face and neck.
"Why not?" Mikhail interrupted. "The gold, you fool. If he can kill us, he will have the gold for himself .. . there would be no need to share it. That is why he no longer wants to go to Turkey as we planned. And why he does not want to tell where he now plans to go.
"
"Nuts!" I muttered. "Klaus can't fly an airplane. At the least, he would need me for that."
Mikhail's head jerked around again and he glowered at me, his face working intently.
"Of course," he said slowly, to himself. "You are right. He cannot fly an aircraft. You must have been caught in here by accident ... poor planning for his part. That means he will be digging through to you and then you will both kill me . ."
Mikhail did not finish the sentence—instead he launched himself at me. The suddenness of his attack took me by surprise and he caught me solidly in the chest with one hammerlike fist. I went down, gasping for breath. Mikhail was a big man, nearly six-foot-three inches and well over
two hundred pounds. Against that, my six-foot-one and 180 pounds were barely a match.
Against the cunning and combat techniques he had learned as a partisan and guerrilla instructor, it was no match at all.
Mikhail followed the first blow with a kick that came up fast, catching me in the ribs.
The yellowish light cast by the flashlight spiraled and did not stop until I felt the hard surface of the tunnel floor against my back. Mikhail reached down and grabbed my jacket with both hands and yanked me to my feet and hit me twice with teeth-rattling, back-handed blows that dumped me on the far side of the tunnel. Mikhail came in low for the kill .. . and I don't doubt that he meant to kill me. In the past three days I had almost convinced myself that he was a homicidal, manic depressive. He now confirmed that theory for me.
Mikhail lunged across the tunnel. As he reached for me, I kicked him in the shin, dragged my foot back again and kicked hard against the side of his knee. He went down like a rock and the pistol butt with which I hit him on the head was harder . . . though not by much . . . than the fist with which he clipped me. But he went down and I stayed up, and it was easy enough to hit him again on the head. This time he stayed down and stayed still.
I backed slowly across the tunnel, keeping an eye on his inert form all the while, and sank down next to the flashlight. I was too weary and disgusted to examine my bruises. I leaned my head against the wall for a moment . . . and more exhausted than I had realized, promptly passed out.
Several moments of panic passed before I remembered where I was and what had happened to place me half sitting, half lying in a widening pool of freezing water. The tunnel was silent except for the receding buzz in my head. As it died away, I became aware of a strange and intermittent scraping noise. I picked up the torch from the edge of the puddle and flashed it around the cavern. The water leaking through the ceiling in a steady freshet was already several inches deep over the rough-cut floor.
Mikhail still lay on his back, half across a pile of rocks where I had knocked him unconscious hours, minutes, days before? His chest rose and fell evenly so I knew at least he was still alive; although then I couldn't have cared less. Except for the rising water, everything was as it had been. The scraping noise was louder against the entombing rockslide. Suddenly, it was punctuated with a grinding roar as a large boulder shifted position and thudded to the tunnel floor . . . on the other side.
Klaus was digging through to us; at least I hoped to God it was Klaus.
I dragged a shovel and pick to the slide and went to work. As I did so, the scraping noises stopped on the other side. I banged the shovel against a rock and immeditely the noise began again with renewed vigor.
I worked steadily for twenty minutes and ran out of wind; I had managed to make only a small dent in the debris. Disgusted, I waded over to Mikhail and shoveled water into his face until he woke up sputtering.
It took several minutes for him to regain consciousness enough to get to his feet. When he did, his face converted itself into one single snarl of hatred and he jumped me.
Knowing his one-track mind, I had been expecting this reaction and was ready for him.
The flat of a shovel in the face may not be pleasant, but it does have definite sobering tendencies, and between us we started to make progress on our side of the rockslide.
The slide was deeper than I had anticipated. Not only had the tunnel roof collapsed, but everything above it as well seemed to have settled downward, compacting and twisting the mass of boulders and timbers. It began to look as if we would have to dig through half the mountain to get out. I had considered using the blasting powder to clear some of the debris, but that was thoroughly impractical as the concussion in the confined space would have flattened us like eggs.
Mikhail gave out first and stumbled over to the shelving slope of the original slide and sank down breathing heavily, his head thrown back and hands resting on his knees. After a minute, I followed him. He had picked up the flashlight and was aimlessly examining the slowly dimming bulb.
"That bastard Nazi has done this to us," he finally choked out.
Suddenly Mikhail jumped to his feet and attacked the slide in a frenzy, realizing as well as I what was happening. For several minutes he worked like a man possessed, flinging dirt and rock in a steady stream until eventually
the lack of oxygen began to tell and the shovel dropped from his hands, and all he had left was a steady stream of curses.
I remember watching Mikhail slowly crumple into himself and wondering how he had ever managed to sustain a four-year guerrilla effort if he cra
cked that easily. He huddled down against the slide, mouth pressed against the rock, seeking the faintest trace of air.
His curses gave way to mumblings that were either prayers or gibberish. The last thing I remembered was a dull and persistent ache in my chest.
Water dribbling into my face brought me awake again. Klaus was kneeling over me, face anxious as he poured water from a canteen. I coughed and choked and waved him away.
When he was sure I was awake, he started to work on Mikhail. I climbed dizzily to my feet and staggered across the cavern to the spot where Klaus had cleared a way through the slide. The fresh air blowing through the opening was the sweetest I have ever tasted.
My legs gave way and I sat down suddenly, smack into a puddle of water. For the longest time I just sat in that puddle, breathing deeply, waiting for the blackness to go away.
Behind me, Mikhail began to cough; deep racking spasms which finally died away to intermittent groans. I leaned back against the rock and turned my head to watch him. He had shrugged off Klaus's supporting arm and was trying to stand. Klaus moved in again to help, but Mikhail tore his arm free and shoved Klaus away. Then he staggered past me and up the tunnel.
Klaus made as if to follow him, but stopped beside me when I held up a restraining hand and watched Mikhail weave up the tunnel and out of sight.
"If I were you, I'd stay out of his way for a while," I muttered.
"What . . . I don't understand what you mean . . ." "The hell with understanding, just stay out of the way for now."
Whether or not he realized exactly what had happened, the bruises on my face were fresh enough. He nodded and followed Mikhail slowly up the tunnel. After a few minutes I felt strong enough to follow them both.
As I emerged from the tunnel, I found the wind blowing stronger than ever. From the vantage point of the sloping beach, I could make out the silhouette of the PBY riding nervously at anchor in the cove. The moon was just disappearing over the western flanks of St. Peter's, its hard light filling the clear sky. Down on the edge of the beach near the calque, Mikhail and Klaus were standing with their backs to me. The wind carried away any trace of their voices, but the tenseness of their postures and their gesticulations left no doubt that they were arguing. After a moment, Klaus swung around and stormed angrily back up the beach. He passed me without a word and disappeared into the black tunnel. Mikhail turned and climbed into the boat and went into the tiny wheelhouse. He was safe enough there I decided. No one in his right—or wrong—mind brought up along the shores of the Adriatic would chance a small boat in a bora wind.
I followed Maher into the tunnel and found him at the site of the original rockslide.
Maher gave me a searching glance. "Mikhail thinks that I arranged the rockslide to kill him," he said slowly.
"He's a damned fool. I think he's gone over the brink. Klaus, why in the name of all that's holy you brought him in, I'll . . ."
Klaus cut me off with a sharp wave. "Never mind that now. He has been useful and will be again before we are finished."
I snorted. "Providing he doesn't kill you first."
"That is my problem."
"That's easy enough for you to say with that cannon in your pocket. Suppose he takes it into his head again that I'm the cause of all his problems. What then? Maybe I'm supposed to beat him off with my bare hands?"
For the first time in days, Klaus grinned. "From the condition of your face, I would say that you have already done so."
"There happened to be a big rock handy. Look, Klaus, you better get rid of that bastard before he kills both of us. That guy is trouble . . . pay him off or something and send him packing . . ."
"No!" Even in the dim light of the dying flashlight, I could see the sheet of blood that gushed beneath his skin, suffusing his face with red. "Mikhail is my problem. I Will take care of him."
I decided that further talk was useless and spun on my heel and went back up the tunnel.
As I left the tunnel for the second time that night, the vividness of the pink sky to the east startled me. My watch showed ten minutes to seven; we had been trapped in that damned tunnel for nearly five hours. In some ways it seemed like days, but in others, like minutes. The sky however, left no doubt that we had lost an entire night. I clambered aboard the calque and pushed open the hatch to the wheelhouse. Mikhail was huddled inside with his back to the far wall, staring balefully through the shutters at the deck.
"Dobro Yutro," I said politely.
"Zdravo."
I pushed inside and leaned against the other wall.
"When Vishailly sees that our -aircraft is gone and finds that we haven't cleared customs, he will be out looking for us."
Mikhail remained silent for a long moment. "Are you foolish enough to think that the Nazi will let us live after we have loaded the gold aboard your airplane?"
I nodded.
"Why?" His question was sharp and challenging. "He needs a pilot."
Mikhail snorted. ."So you live until he can find another pilot, until he no longer has a use for you, yes?"
"No! I don't trust him any more than you do. And to be honest, I trust you less than I trust Maher."
Mikhail nodded at this, accepting the truth of the statement. "I, too, trust you as much as you trust me."
"Okay. Now that we have that settled, let's make a deal."
"What kind of a deal?"
"Klaus is a dangerous man, and I think we both agree that he wouldn't hesitate to kill either one of us if he thinks it's necessary."
Mikhail nodded.
"Now, you may be right that he will let me live only as long as it takes to find another pilot. If so, then he has to get rid of you before then . . . and that means he will need my help. He wouldn't dare try it alone considering who you are."
Mikhail nodded again. A little flattery never hurts, no matter what the situation.
"So, the two of us have only one chance to come out of this alive . . . and with our share of the gold. One chance, but only if we stick together."
Mikhail had followed every word intently, nodding his shaggy head from time to time.
Now he paused in mid-nod, waiting expectantly for my proposal.
"It's simple. You watch my back and I'll watch yours. That way he won't be able to take either of us."
Mikhail sat quite still for a long time. I could almost hear the rusty wheels turning.
"What guarantee do I have that you will not turn against me . . . that already this is not some kind of a trick?"
I shrugged. "You don't have any guarantee. And neither do I. But neither one of us will get out of this mess alive unless we stick together."
Another long period of silence followed while he thought that over. Finally, he nodded.
"Yes. We must stick together then."
I sighed deeply.
Our brave affiance was just so much hot air when the chips went down, and Mikhail knew that as well as I did. Whether or not we would in turn co-operate would depend on the situation and how the other stood to gain from it. I consoled myself with the thought that my motives were loftier than his . . . but I didn't believe it then, or now.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The hours that followed the long night trapped in the tunnel were an oasis of peace, sandwiched as they were between the events of the coming days and the insanity behind.
The cabin of the PBY had already begun to warm with the early morning sun, dispelling the bora's chill. Both engines turned over easily and I swung the ponderous bulk of the PBY out of the cove and into the bay. The wind had dropped with the coming of dawn until it was now only a mild head wind. She rose easily from the water and climbed for altitude in one long, easy spiral. I settled back with a cigarette and relaxed for the first time
in days as the tension began to drain away. The PBY settled easily onto a course heading due west and I let her go, enjoying the peace and serenity of the morning over the rythmic beat of the engines. The abrupt transition from an atmosphere of
paranoia and hate to peace and contentment was startling at first, but after the initial shock, very enjoyable.
An hour later I brought the Catalina down onto the glassily smooth surface of the bay.
The fishing boats were gone from the quay to take advantage of the unexpected break in the weather. By nine a.m. I had eaten a quick breakfast, taken a swim in the icy bay and fallen into my sleeping bag for some badly needed rest. The gentle rocking of the aircraft knocked me out as effectively as a club and it was late afternoon before a loud banging on the canopy woke me. Vishailly, who else. I swore to myself as I caught sight of his long face peering back at me from the cockpit.
"Good day to you," he said, smiling. "I am sorry to wake you. If I had known you were sleeping, I would have waited."
Since it has been my experience that people enjoy waking others out of a sound sleep and then apologizing afterward, I kept silent and pointed to the nearest crate.
"You were gone last night?" said Vishailly sitting down. Although he had meant it as a question to be polite, it had come out as a command to be answered, and since they don't construe civil rights in Yugoslavia the same way as back in the States, I described the storm, the location of the cove, the cave-in, the nearing disintegration of our little band of intrepid treasure hunters, and the reason I had returned, in minute detail.
"Good," was his only, slightly bored, comment. "I wish them to think they are being watched. You must make up a story. Tell them that you are being watched, but that you think you managed to get away without being seen."
"Will I?"
"Will you what?" Vishailly was not as puzzled as he tried to appear. He knew what I meant, but I explained it to him anyway; all part of the game we were playing.
"I mean, am I going to get away without being seen? To put it even more bluntly, have you decided to play along with Interpol? Or are you going to grandstand on your own?"
"What do you mean, grandstand?"
"Are you going to work with Interpol or are you going to act on your own," I rephrased the question impatiently.
