One clean hit with one of the bola's weights could stave in a chest and a successful throw could garrot a neck. There was no choice of weapons and no Dr. Thompson at hand to invent a bola-proof coller. I had to beat the Inca on his ground with his weapon; it was the way he had planned it.
When our chains linked, he dashed me up against the wall. Our legs lashed out at each other's bodies, searching out openings for disabling blows to the groin or knee. It was my turn, then, to slam him into the wall, stringing the bola across his throat. Before I was able to cut off his wind, he delivered his weapon into my kidney, doubling me up. He followed through at once, swinging the bola on an uppercut to my face. I deflected it but my whole left arm was numbed by the blow.
We were moving away from the pyramid now, entering a courtyard that was populated with grotesque statues that were half-man, half beast. These were the old Inca gods, awaiting deliverance of a dead enemy. With one arm limp, I was no longer able to use my bola as a shield and the Indian attacked me with renewed frenzy. The time had come for the killing blow. I was crippled and winded. We were both bleeding, our footprints daubed the ground red, but the killer could taste my death. As I clumsily dove away from the bola the weapon caught my thigh, deadening it. I rolled back to my feet and almost toppled over. There was no sensation whatsoever on the whole right side of my body.
I waited, my back pressed against one of the statues. Close enough that I could feel his breath, the Indian wound up to throw the bola at his leisure. He knew that I wasn't going anyplace. Then, before I was set, the balls were rushing at me like deadly, twirling planets. They wound around my head and the bronze chain cut deep into my throat, cinching it shut. The Indian drew his sacrificial knife and leaped at me, prepared to carve my heart out while it was still pumping.
He was in the air, unable to stop himself, when I was able to swing my bola, one-handedly, up toward his head. The heavy metal ball crashed into his jaw and traveled on into the middle of his face, driving the broken bones into his brain. The gold plate popped out of his skull; he was dead even before he landed.
Painfully I took hold of the bola that was wrapped around my neck and found that it was wound around the neck of the statue too. Had it not been, I would have been the one stretched out on the courtyard stones.
When I finally returned to Belkev, I found him huddled there in the dark, quavering and petulant. We started down the trail that led toward the village and with every step he took, he became braver.
"Any decent bodyguard wouldn't have let them get hold of me. It's not my job to defend myself. It's your job," he said nastily.
But on the way down, the mountain heaved one last sigh before settling down and when the aftershock was over, the Russian had once more paled into terrified silence.
His bodyguards took possession of him as soon as we reached the outskirts of Aucanquilcha. The mayor and the museum curator were also there to greet us and I told them to go up to the temple if they were still looking for items of historical interest. The curator took off like a sand flea and returned to town an hour later, his eyes accusing.
"There was nothing there," he said. "I searched everywhere. Maybe you were fighting with a ghost."
"No ghost did that," the doctor who was still attending my cuts and bruises told him, pointing to the purple discolorations that covered my arms and legs. "Or that," he added, pointing to the raw, red circle that went around my neck.
"But there was nothing there, nothing at all," the curator protested.
"Except this," I told him and handed over a triangular plate of gold.
He examined it carefully, turning it every which way between his fingers. Then I saw the sudden fight of understanding spring to his eyes. He dropped the gold piece hastily and rubbed his hands with washing motions, his eyes searching mine as though he were seeing me for the very first time.
"How?" he whispered hoarsely.
"I guess the gods decided to switch sides," I grinned at him.
Chapter Ten
Two days later the cool air of Aucanquilcha was almost a sweet memory. We visited the nitrate works at Santiago, the copper mines of Chuqucamata and the sands of the great Atacama Desert.
There is no desert quite like the Atacama. It covers most of the northern half of Chile. Its flat miles fade into a white horizon barely distinguishable from a colorless sky. Lizards and snakes wait for night before leaving their stones, and during the day little life is to be seen except for the giant condors that venture from their aeries high in the Andes in search of carrion. The Atacama is the driest desert in the world, its stretches more forbidding than the Sahara or the Gobi, and there is no better reminder of the fact than the black silhouette of one of Chile's national birds passing overhead.
"I wish I were back in Germany," Greta murmured, looking out of the tent where I was making sure that there were no scorpion holes in the ground where the girls would be sleeping. Greta was dressed in some sort of skimpy athletic fieldsuit that reminded me of how rudely we'd been interrupted the evening of the quake.
"Join the Communist Party and see the world. You should appreciate your opportunities. Well, no insects seem to be running loose around here."
She clutched my arm as I was going out through the flap and pulled me to her. Obviously she wore no bra under the T-shirt.
"Stay and keep me company. Please. Then I won't have to think about this terrible place."
"In the middle of a small camp in the middle of the day with a crazy, would-be lover and his bodyguards all over the place? That doesn't strike me as the most favorable situation for young romance, Greta. The sun goes down here, too."
"But what if Belkev chooses to come to me tonight? You don't know the things he makes me do."
"You know the old saying, 'Politics makes strange bedfellows.' "
I went from her tent to the line of Land Rovers that provided our transportation across the Atacama. The one concession to Belkev's fear was at the head of the line, a jeep with a light machine gun mounted on the rear. I found Belkev and his bodyguards at the Land Rover that carried our food and water.
"Here comes the Killmaster," Belkev sneered.
"How do I know he isn't dragging me into this desert so he can assassinate me?"
"It was your idea to come this way, Comrade," I told him. "You were afraid to fly or -take a boat, remember? Too easy to plant a bomb in one of them."
"It is very safe this way, Comrade Minister," his bodyguards assured him, "as long as we have water. There are no Indians around and we are in constant radio contact. We should reach the government station by tomorrow night."
Belkev turned on his heel and stomped back to his tent, where he kept his supply of vodka.
"He is perhaps a good expert in trade but he is a coward," the chief bodyguard said. "He didn't even thank you for saving his life. I will do that for him."
"Forget it."
"Just one thing, Carter. Why are you making such efforts to protect Comrade Belkev's life? I have been trying to figure this out since you joined us. I will be frank with you — I have no orders to kill you if something happens to Belkev and you are not involved in his death. If I did have, I could understand your concern."
"You could just call it professional pride."
The bodyguard mulled that over.
"You are good, as good as your reputation. I would like to meet you again sometime under other circumstances. It would mean something to be the man who liquidated you."
"Flattery will get you nowhere."
"But you still haven't answered my question. Why would AXE be so interested in the hide of a swine like Alexander Belkev? Don't tell me about the information swap on the missile silos. You know something else."
"And you would love to beat it out of me, I'm sure."
"True, but please don't confuse that wish with the sick impulses of Comrade Belkev. It is my goal to ensure the success of the work of the Party, nothing else. We will win, you know."
"Sure
. Today Chile, tomorrow the world."
"In a sense, yes."
The charming conversation was ended by a call to supper. A folding aluminum table was set up and everyone sat down to a meal of canned meat and potatoes. The main taste, however, was that of tin and I wasn't surprised when Belkev proudly informed me that the cans had come all the way from the Soviet Union.
"My favorite. Mulliginsky stew," I complimented him.
"We have it in Cuba too," Rosa said. "We call it ropa vieja."
Belkev was delighted by this homely coincidence between allies until I told him that the translation for ropa vieja was "old clothes."
Before he got too drunk, I left the picnic and fetched my gear. I wanted to sleep in the desert, away from the camp, because there was a very slim chance that the MIRistas might attempt to make an attack in the Atacama. Slim, but still a chance. If so, I would operate better by myself than I would in the confusion of a melee.
I found a relatively high spot about two hundred yards' distance from the tents and built a windbreak of underbrush. Then, while it was still light, I made a complete circle of the area, checking every possible avenue of approach the terrain afforded.
The Atacama is not a desert of sand dunes. It is more of a wilderness of packed-solid, absolutely waterless ground. The few things that grow are gray, stunted bushes and stringy cacti. I cut one of the cacti open just to see how much liquid was stored in this kind of natural water barrel. The flesh inside it might have yielded a drop under a factory press but should we ever become dependent on living off the land, the odds on survival were slimmer than a scorpion's waist. At least the condors would have a good meal out of us, especially out of Belkev.
As I circled about my private camp, I was able to pinpoint the natural route of infiltration should the MIRistas be crazy enough to venture into the Atacama. There was a rill, apparently formed many years earlier, that lay directly below my camp-right where I would have wished it. Satisfied, I retraced my steps and decided it was time to correct the damage to my gun if I could. I picked out a strong-looking cactus and sat down some yards from it, taking my time and holding the Luger with both hands, my forearms resting on my knees. There was a yellow knob on the plant and I used that as a bull's-eye before squeezing off my first shot.
A hole appeared, two inches left of the knob. I fired off another shot. The hole widened a centimeter. The barrel had a bias of about ten degrees. I did some judicious hammering with a rock and tried the gun again. A new hole skewered through the hole, this time an inch lower. In a fire fight that inch could mean the difference between life and death. On the other hand, more crude hammering might close up the long barrel and leave me with no weapon at all. I aimed the gun a fraction of an inch higher and blasted the yellow knob apart.
Before the pieces had hit the ground, I was diving to the dirt and aiming the gun at my windbreak.
"Come out!" I yelled.
A shock of red hair appeared and then I saw the face of Libya. Of all the girls in Belkev's harem, she was the only one who hadn't given me a second look.
"Don't shoot," she said. "I am quite convinced after your demonstration that you can put a bullet where you wish."
I motioned with the end of my gun for her to stand up. Lilya was an amazon of a woman who generally stood with her hands planted on her wide hips. At first glance she had reminded me of the Press sisters but her waist was slim and her broad face, while not attractive in a cute Hollywood way, had a powerful sexuality to it that was worth ten cardboard smiles.
"I followed you after supper but you were gone when I arrived. What were you doing?"
I didn't see any reason to lie to her. I explained my scouting the area and then I asked her why she had followed me. By this time we were sitting on my bedroll and sharing a cigarette.
"You think I don't know what is going on between you and the other girls?"
She leaned back on the pillow of the bedroll, her red hair spreading out. Inside her tacky Russian blouse her breasts billowed like firm pillows.
"What about your boyfriend?" I asked. "Won't he miss you?"
"Alexandrovitch? He is angry at you and when he gets angry, he gets drunk. He is in a stupor already. He won't wake up until morning and by then I will be back. I am disgusted with him. We all are for the way he ran out during the earthquake. Now that we are here in the middle of this wasteland, I don't see why I should have to stay around with him. I am free. Look, it is the sun going down."
The sun had seemed to loom larger and redder as it neared the horizon and now it cut into the earth and saturated the desert with a bronze glow. Everything that had been ugly and desolate only a few moments earlier became strangely beautiful. It was what I might have imagined the Martian desert to look like. Then the aura was gone and the desert was swathed in darkness. We watched the lamps light up in the camp down below.
"This Chile is so different. I don't know if we Russians will ever get used to it," Lilya sighed.
"It doesn't look like the Chileans themselves ever got used to this particular place. As far as I can tell, we're the only people in it."
"I know."
Her rich sensuality bathed the desert night with an air of intimacy. She watched me with dark eyes as she unbuttoned her blouse and laid it on the ground. Most of the Russian women I'd ever made love with were lithe ballerinas in comparison with Lilya. She was strong enough to turn a small car on its side but her wide shoulders were more than matched by the creamy expanse of her breasts.
"Come here, my Killmaster," she ordered.
For once I found myself matched with a woman almost as strong as myself, a woman possessed of the most primitive and urgent desires. Nothing was forbidden and nothing was left to chance. Every inch of her body was passionate and alive and by the time we joined in the ultimate embrace, we went down as the sun had — aflame and glowing.
Afterwards we snuggled down into the bedroll and she presented me with a small bottle of vodka that she'd smuggled out of Belkev's tent.
"If I'd known you were coming, I'd have brought a glass," I said.
"Ummm. Are all American spies good lovers?"
"We have a special course in it. After all, there are standards to uphold."
"You uphold them very well," she laughed. "You do everything well. I wish I could have watched you fight the Indian. I don't think the minister is worth such risks."
Her lips sipped the vodka and she passed the bottle back to me. I propped myself on an elbow in order to drink from it.
"The manufacturer of this bedroll forgot that I might have guests. It's a little cramped."
"I like it," she giggled, easing her body against mine.
"I'm going to call you Nikita. Since you're working with us, you ought to have a Russian name."
"Nikita Carter," I tried it out. "I don't know how the boys back home would like that."
"The girls out here like it very much. My Nikita, I wish you would stop taking so many chances with your life for that worthless Alexander. I would so hate to see anything happen to you. Please promise me you will be more careful."
"I promise."
"I don't believe you," she pouted. "You say that now but whenever anything happens, you throw yourself in front of Belkev. Can I tell you a secret that you won't tell anyone else? Belkev is a fool, an idiot. No one in Moscow cares whether he ever returns."
"Then I tell you what. Let's all jump into the Land Rovers early in the morning and leave him here. We'll give him a bottle of vodka for the night and a bottle of suntan lotion for the day."
"I like that idea," she smiled. Her fingers caressed my chest. "I'd like it even better if I knew that I was going to see you again. Where do you go from Chile, Nikita?"
"Back home. I work as a professor in erotic incunabula when I don't have any assignments."
"Are you fooling me? Yes, you are fooling me. You're always joking, Nikita. I never know when you're telling me the truth. I would feel much relieved if I knew why you were g
uarding Belkev. This way I imagine bad things that make me worry.
I put my hand over hers.
"You're a beautiful girl, Lilya," I told her.
"Thank you."
"Do you think I'm telling you the truth?"
"Well, I don't know but I'd like to believe you."
"Good, because you are. Beautiful and incredibly sexy. And here's something else that's the truth. You're probably the sexiest agent in the whole KGB."
She snatched her hand from mine.
"You're playing jokes on me again. Or do you think everybody is a spy?"
"No, just you. The Kremlin would never let a lecherous old fool like Belkev go around the world unless it could control him and the only way a man like that can be controlled is through sex. You're the one who's always with him, making sure he shuts up and goes to bed when he's had too much to drink and starts to blab. No man could do that with Belkev and so they assigned you to the job. And since his men down there in camp haven't been able to discover the reason I joined the fun, you thought you could find out." I ran my hand over the skin of her satiny belly. "Now, Lilya, if anyone could, you could. But you can't."
"You bastard!"
It was the first thing she'd said in English.
"You wanted the truth."
"Let go, you killer."
She stripped the bedroll back and stood up. Naked and angry, she was a virago.
"If I ever see you in Moscow, I will have you killed. It will be my pleasure."
I pulled the Luger from my side of the bedroll and handed it to her.
"Go ahead, Lilya. Do it now. I understand there's a fat reward and a dacha in the country for the girl who does it. Just pull the trigger."
The Inca Death Squad Page 8
