by Joe Poyer
About fifty yards from where I stood was one of the go-downs which I had seen the night before. I thought it was the one to which Mikhail had been taken and a moment later I was certain it was. A shotgun carrying guard, my friend the Egyptian, wandered around the corner, stopped and leaned against the wall to light a cigarette. He never took his eyes off me the entire time I was in view. The second go-down, beyond the one against which the Egyptian was leaning, sprouted two wooden poles strung with wire . . . the radio I was after.
There was no evidence of any other aircraft, but I was sure that there had to be. If my guess about the border escape route was right, an aircraft would have been the only way since roads would be almost non-existent and certainly impassable during the monsoon.
At the far end of the field was a third, larger go-down; just about big enough to shelter a small Cessna. I studied it carefully noting the enclosed and probably locked door extending the full length of the building. The go-down was built of corrugated metal rather than wood and looked to be a lot more solid . . . and weatherproof.
My preliminary reconnaissance took nearly an hour; the installation twisted and turned so that it was difficult to derive a mental picture of the layout. There was no way that I could sketch a map unnoticed, so I continued to wander about. Finally, certain that I knew the layout well enough, and since I had nothing else to do until dark, I decided to test my apparent freedom by walking out the main gate. There was a ridge to the north of the installation from where I could look down on the camp.
I had been surprised to find that this area of Burma was not heavily jungled but rather like the forested uplands of the midwestern United States. Even the vegetation, while different, was not alien. Fir trees were abundant, deciduous trees that resembled oaks were scattered about and the undergrowth was lush grass beginning to grow again in the monsoon rains. I continued on down the road past my bungalow, stopping only long enough to pick up a fresh pack of cigarettes and the revolver from beneath the couch where I had hidden it the night before. There were evidences that the bungalow had been searched in my absence, but it did not look as if they had discovered the .38 where I had hidden it between the springs of the couch. It must have been a hurried search, either that or the searcher had not really expected to find anything.
The main part of the compound was enclosed by a cyclone fence rimmed with barbed wire. Floodlights were mounted at intervals along the fence and freshly plowed areas extended several hundred feet on both sides. I found out later that the hills to the north were home to several bands of Communist guerrillas . . . considered by the government and local populations alike to be nothing more than bandits. On their periodic swoops down from the hills the oil installation was a favorite target. The fence had been installed to keep them out of the camp by night. They • rarely operated by day, since they were thoroughly hated by the local peasantry, and the Burmese Army maintained helicopter-borne anti-guerrilla units at Lashio, twenty minutes south. By day, the gate was open and a lackadaisical Burmese guard kept watch on whoever came and went. But at night, come within sight of the gate and you were liable to be shot at. No one paid any attention to me and I walked out as if I were heading for one of the drilling sites beyond the fence.
After all, just where could I go?
The rain had let up for the moment, but the sky remained as overcast as ever, threatening at any moment to resume drizzling. A narrow muddy road angled away from the gate and headed off through wide fields that surrounded the compound. A mile away, the road ducked into some rather heavy fir forest and began to climb the slope to the summit of the ridge. Avoiding the road itself, I stayed on the verge and walked along at a leisurely pace. It turned out to be farther than I thought to the top of the ridge. In some spots the road disappeared altogether into
muddy ponds, and in others, large sections had been washed away by the rains. A tiny village lay at the foot of the ridge, invisible from the camp, neatly hidden in a shallow valley.
From the ridge, the compound spread out before me, almost lost in the mist of the low cloud. It was easy to see now that the main road through the camp did not travel directly between the airfield and the gate but, in fact, formed a vee that had its apex at the administrative complex with the airfield and gate on either ends of the arms. The oil storage tanks squatted in the middle near the north fence, between the two arms and were served by secondary paths. The oil pumps sprouted here and there throughout the camp, but clustered most heavily around the tanks. An occasional lone derrick was still to, be seen around the administrative area but were thickest, almost a forest, half a mile away beyond the south fence, where they formed a second and smaller compound. From what estimates I could make in the confusing haze and drizzle, the camp appeared close to two miles wide by one and a half long. The fence surrounded the main camp entirely. On the eastern side, the land was cleared for several hundred yards, but immediately after that became heavy fir forest. Beyond the camp, and almost hidden by the mist, were the Shan Mountains forming the easternmost side of the valley.
On the northern side of my ridge, the slope was gentle; large jumbled masses of stone eaten away by uncounted centuries of monsoon rain tumbled down into a devil's playground of rock. Beyond, the slope rushed down another terrace to a small, tumbling stream swollen with winter rains and gathering power for its two hundred mile dash to the Irrawaddy River. On the far side of the stream the dense fir forest began again and the features of the land were concealed under the soft blanket of black trees.
The radio shack was going to be a real problem I thought. It was sure to be guarded and the go-down in which Mikhail was being held was less than fifty yards away . . . unless .
. . why not? I certainly didn't have much to lose at this point. If I could convince Mikhail to swing in with me, providing I could break him out first, the two of us at least would stand a better chance than I would alone.
I pondered the idea for a while, weighing all the pros
and cons. Unfortunately, there were many more cons than pros. It could not be done alone that was certain. So long as I watched my back every second .. .
Wishing heartily for a pair of binoculars, I spent the rest of the afternoon studying every inch of the ground around the go-downs and the airfield.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Klaus accompanied my dinner that evening bringing his along as well. I had heard the DC-3 returning earlier and had been expecting his visit. He was dressed in a heavy woollen business suit and looked so much like a typical European businessman that I almost burst into laughter. After nearly two weeks of dirty, sweaty levis, he appeared very strange to say the least in clean, civilized clothing.
We ate dinner over small talk. I told him about my walk to the ridge and he cracked a heavy-handed joke about running away. Be careful he warned mockingly, or the bandits would get me. He responded with a quick summary of his trip to Mandalay to straighten out a contractual dispute between the sponsoring firm and the Burmese Government concerning the pay of Burmese nationals. All very interesting I was sure, to someone who specialized in negotiating labor disputes between two distinctly different cultures. I listened politely, but sensing my lack of interest, Klaus mercifully cut it short.
After we finished, Klaus stretched, removed his jacket and opened his briefcase. I expected him to produce a contract or some other kind of business papers, but he came out with a bottle of cognac instead. I fetched two glasses from the kitchen, expecting to get down to serious drinking and talking.
"What do you think of our installation in Burma and of our operation in general?" Klaus asked as an opener.
I snorted. "I'd certainly feel a lot better if I knew who the hell you really worked for and what your objectives are?'
Klaus smiled into his glass. "I'm afraid I cannot answer those questions yet," he said softly. "Maybe after you have proven that you can carry out instructions without deviation and without questions."
Be careful, I thought to myself. He is try
ing to mousetrap you into something better left unsaid.
"Well, if that's the way you want to run your show, that's up to you. What I really want to know is where do we go from here. When and where do I set up shop for the airfreight line?"
Klaus leaned over and pulled his briefcase closer. From it he extracted a wad of bills and tossed it to me. I picked the packet up and looked at him questioningly.
"That is one hundred thousand American dollars. Consider it a down payment on the airfreight line . . ."
I felt that here some honest indignation was called for and it was not hard to feign. "
Down payment . . . like hell," I roared. "This is $230,000 short of the third of a million that I have coming to me!"
"Shut up, you fool," Klaus snapped back. "You will take what we give you, do you understand, and be grateful that you are still alive. If I had not convinced others that you could be very useful to us because of your reputation with the police and customs officials of certain countries, you would be as dead as Mikhail will soon be."
"So, you intend to murder Mikhail after all!" I hissed at him, half rising out of my chair.
Klaus sat imperturbably. "Shut your mouth, fool. We certainly do not intend to murder Korstlov. We will turn him over to the Yugoslav authorities for the murder of the policeman, Vishailly, at the proper time. After all, he did shoot him."
"Good lord," I muttered and fell back into the chair. "You are a damned cynical devil."
"Perhaps, but for now, you will keep your mouth shut and your opinions to yourself.
Also, you will remain within the camp until you receive further instructions. In a few days, you will be on your way back to Italy."
Klaus closed his briefcase, stood up and walked to the door. "Is that understood?"
I nodded and he left without another word. Through the window, I watched him go down the walk. At the gate, he stopped and a figure stepped out of the shadows. They talked briefly and Klaus continued on up the road. The other stepped back again into the shadows. Now, I, too, had a guard.
At midnight, I left the bungalow with the heavy Smith
& Wesson .38 in my jacket pocket. Instead of following the route Klaus had taken, I went over the back fence to avoid the guard out front, and worked my way along a narrow service alley to the warehouse area. I stopped at that point to regain my bearings.
The rain had started in again just after sunset and now was falling steadily—a light but persistent drizzle that made hardly a sound yet had a queer muffling effect. Lights burned fitfully around the installation and the Christmas-tree lights on the derricks were softened and made remote by the rain. I made my way carefully and quietly through the compound to the last stretch of road between the warehouses and the edge of the airfield.
From there, the path was over open ground. I crouched behind a line of hedge and examined the area until I was certain that no one was moving about.
As I neared the airfield, I saw the faint outline of the DC-3 . . . certain to be guarded, I thought . . . parked at the far end of the field from the go-downs. That at least was a small break. The aircraft would be distant enough that any noise would be smothered by the rain. I was also counting on the inclination of the guard to spend his watch inside the aircraft where it was at least dry.
The hardest part was to work my way in close to the go-downs. There was no cover of any kind between the hedge and the airstrip, and the one guard on the nearest go-down—the one in which I was sure Mikhail was being kept—was outside, sheltering from the rain beneath the roof overhang.
I reached the taut cyclone fencing that edged the runway and hastily tucked myself into the meager shelter at its base. A floodlight burned from the roof of each go-down; neither sufficiently powerful to penetrate the misty rain to any great distance.
The ground was cold and muddy; damned cold. Colder than I had expected it to be. The wet grass was a foot high; just tall enough to be bothersome without providing cover. I had little choice. I had to approach the guard in such a way that I could watch him the whole time. I did not dare to come at him from behind the cabin since he might take it into his head to throw away his cigarette and make a round or two like a good little guard should.
I moved carefully along the fence, carrying the .38 in my right hand, depending on the rain to blot out any noise. As soon as I had passed the guard, I sprinted for the building, keeping low and as deep into the shadows as possible. The guard was leaning against the wall, apparently asleep. After all my trouble, I had merely to walk up and clip him behind the ear to make sure that he would continue to sleep.
The first hurdle was past. The second guard would be inside the hut and as it was close to midnight, both he and Mikhail were probably asleep. I picked up the guard's carbine; a nice M-16, almost new. These boys traveled first-class it seemed. I rifled through his pockets and found a small bag of extra clips inside his jacket. In the faint light from the flood mounted on the roof, I could see that he was the thin German who made such good coffee. It seemed a heck of a long way to come from Egypt just to get whacked behind the ear.
I was half right about the second guard; the Egyptian. He was inside the go-down but not asleep. He was reading a paperback by the light of a flashlight when I eased open the door. Fortunately he was so engrossed in what he was reading that he did not hear or see the door open. I stepped inside and he looked up just in time to catch the butt-end of the carbine in the middle of the forehead. He hit the floor like a sack of wet grain. Mikhail came awake instantly.
I picked up the guard's flashlight and motioned with it for him to turn over. He started to object, but I turned it on my own face and he stopped at once.
"Keep quiet," I ordered. "Roll over so I can cut the ropes."
•
He did as he was told and I sawed through the tough nylon. Mikhail rolled into a sitting position and stretched vigorously but silently. I put my fingers to my lips and backed away from him and peered around the door frame. The guard was slumped against the door in the shadows. The rest of the night was silent but for the rain. Satisfied, I closed the door, picked up the Egyptian's pistol and tossed it to Mikhail. He caught it and sat back on his heels.
"So you have finally come to help me . . ."
"Shut up," I snarled. "Keep your mouth shut, listen to what I have to say, then do exactly what you are told."
Mikhail started, then thought better of it as the M-16 came up to meet him. He sank back down on his heels, glaring.
"At least you remember our bargain . .." I ignored him and motioned for him to keep quiet.
"Maher is mixed up with some kind of organization ... I don't know what," I lied. "But whatever it is, it's a damned powerful group. They plan to ship you back to Yugoslavia to take the rap for Vishailly. I'm betting that they were going to plant your body somewhere on Kornat Island and blame you exclusively for Vishailly's death to take the heat off Klaus."
"What kind of an organization?" he insisted quietly.
"I'm not really sure." I stopped for a moment, considering just how much to tell him.
Then I decided that the truth couldn't hurt . . . up to a point, anyway.
"As far as I can tell, they belong to some kind of NeoNazi group that specializes in recovering the gold and other things that the SS Special Detachments left all over Occupied Europe. The cache on Kornat was one of them. I doubt if Klaus was ever really stationed on Kornat, and I'm willing to bet he wasn't in the German Navy either. I suspect he spent most of his war years in the SS, probably one of the Special Detachments."
Even in the meager light from the flashlight, I could see Mikhail's face flush. But he remained silent, hearing me out.
"I also question how much of the gold taken from the Balkans was ever stored in that cavern. Thirty million may have been stolen by the Special Detachments, but how much of that was ever really sent to Kornat, I don't know. Anyway, most of that was probably already in the cistern when your people attacked the base and blew up the ca
vern. I think Klaus knew this; whether he was there or not. He knew exactly where the gold was. I also think that this is not the first one of these little expeditions that Klaus has conducted.
Somehow Vishailly knew about the gold . . . maybe not exactly where it was hidden . . .
but he knew that sooner or later someone was going to come for it. But I'm positive that he never told his superiors much about us or what we were up to. He wanted that gold for himself."
"Where is Maher now?" Mikhail asked, getting to his feet.
"Somewhere in the compound, why?"
"Because I am going to kill him."
"Now wait a minute ..."
Mikhail started to push past me. He had no intention
of listening to anything and probably had not heard a word I said. But I needed his help in taking that radio shack . . . I reversed the carbine and drove the butt into Mikhail's midsection. He sat down on the bunk with a grunt of expelled air. I followed, thrusting the barrel into his face and forcing his head back against the metal wall.
"Listen, you bastard . . . I didn't break you out of here to have you run berserk through the camp and get us both killed. You and I are going to take on the radio shack next door.
Once we have that, you can do any damned thing you want. Until that time, you stay with me and do what you are told or I'll blow your head off."
If Mikhail ever got to Klaus, there was no question but that I would be next on his list.
But he understood exactly what I was saying . . . and he could judge for himself what his chances were of living beyond the next few seconds unless he agreed to do exactly as I said. Finally, he nodded.
"All right. Get up!"
Mikhail got heavily to his feet and stood waiting, hands at his sides.
"Pick up that carbine and let's see what kind of guerrilla soldier you are," I flung at him.
