Amelia
Page 26
Violent seas raged around Amelia, tossed the dinghy like a bathtub toy. She clutched a side rail, floundered with an oar. The ocean ripped it away. Her face twisted, eyes opened like huge bubbles. “Vincent!” She disappeared beneath a towering wave.
“Amelia!” Vincent followed in another boat, dug both oars into the violent water. Couldn’t catch her. The sea stopped him. “Amelia!” The wind blew his words back at him. He rowed harder. His boat spun in a circle until dizziness overcame him.
A ship loomed on the horizon. Coast Guard? Fishing boat? Vincent strained his eyes. The storm would not quit. The ship, flying the Rising Sun, closed fast... .
Fear jarred Vincent awake. Sweat poured off his body. He lay on the soaked cot, gazed out a window at the star-crowded sky. His dream—was it AE or Amelia? He stared at AE’s photo. Amelia was in the dinghy, but a Japanese ship bore down on the dinghy. Did they both survive? How would he ever know?
Late the next afternoon, Vincent hobbled outside, checked the damage to the beached sailboat. Schools of black and yellow angelfish swam in and out of a jagged hole in the bow. He surveyed the rest of the boat, then hurried into the jungle, gathered bamboo stalks. He sliced thick wedges with a machete, nailed them over the hole, and applied a waterproof seal.
After rechecking the entire boat, Vincent put down his tools, sat on the beach, and stared across the lagoon. The sunset painted the sky a cloudy orange. Boat ready—regain his strength—hop on board, sail away. Where? Without Amelia, every place was nowhere.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Vincent sailed from his island in Marvin’s patched-up boat. Back to Brisbane, where he’d fallen in love with Amelia. The electricity when he first saw her. Fresh rain on her brown face, her sparkling dark eyes. She changed his life. Now, emptiness.
In the early-morning mist, Vincent docked in Brisbane Harbor. Gilded skyscrapers formed a backdrop for the noisy port, crowded with moored boats and dockside restaurants.
He walked through the drizzle to Jungle Wings; hoped Blue would be there. Vincent pounded on the locked swinging doors. He rubbed his hand on the window, peered inside, then knocked on the doors again.
Blue’s voice bellowed from the rear of the bar. “We’re not open, mate!”
“Blue, it’s me.”
“Vincent? That you, Vincent?” He opened the doors. “What you doing here this time of morning?”
Vincent pushed through the doors. “Just needed to talk.”
“What’s wrong, mate?” He saw the broken look on Vincent’s tired face. “Is it something to do with the lass?”
An overhead fan stirred ammonia fumes from the damp floor. Vincent wiped his eyes, scanned the deserted room. Everything in place, photos, planes, relics. Night would come. The crowd would crack the silence, but Amelia—gone forever. Her smile, the way she walked. The way she made love.
“It is Amelia,” Blue said. “What happened?”
“Needed to talk with someone who knew and loved her.”
“Knew?”
“She’s gone.” His eyes glassy, Vincent told Blue what happened.
“Such a fine lassie she was, like me own daughter. She loved you quite a touch.”
Vincent’s throat tightened. “What do I do now?”
“You sure she’s dead?”
“I didn’t see it happen, but my boat, Courage, was all busted up.” He stared at the floor. “No one could’ve survived. Can only hope for a miracle.”
“You aren’t taking it well, mate.” He patted Vincent’s shoulder.
“Even been writing her letters.” Vincent turned to the rain falling on the sidewalk. She’d never walk through those doors again. “Wish I was back in the CIA—in the war.”
A dark figure crowded the doorway, dropped a pack of mail on a nearby table. A small, green envelope fell to the floor.
Blue set down his bar rag, caught a glimpse of the figure’s boots under the swinging doors. “Mail’s quite early today.” He picked up the envelope from the floor. “Says Electra.”
Vincent turned. “Let me see that.”
Blue handed it to him, sorted through the rest of the mail, then stacked it on the back bar next to the cash register.
Vincent tore open the envelope. Caught Triangle’s contact, meet me old place—Toshio. He crumpled the note, stuck it in his pocket.
“Good news, mate?”
“Gotta go, Blue.” Vincent pulled up his collar, walked into the rain.
A tall figure in cap, boots, and fatigues moved out of an alley across the street, followed Vincent.
Hurrying along narrow streets lined with run-down buildings, Vincent entered a group of expensive flats surrounded by tropical gardens. Slipping through a back door, he shook rain out of his hair, wiped his face. Three flights up he knocked on number 364. Uptown street noise blotted out the sound. No one answered. He creased the lock with a credit card, opened the door, and cased the spacious living room filled with white modern furniture. Nothing out of place. Old Tad, neat as ever.
Vincent moved a chair so he could watch the front door and sat down. He looked at his watch, thumbed through a magazine rack. Lead stories dealt with the Vietnam War. Burned out villages, body bags, innocent refugees. He tightened his grip on a magazine, crumpled the pages, mesmerized by agony on a little boy’s face. Vincent dropped the magazine, rubbed his sweaty hands against his pants.
A warm, moist draft hit the side of his face. He looked through the open bedroom door. Wind and rain blew the curtains inward. Not like Tad to leave a window open. He closed it, stepped on something on the carpet. Looking down, he kneeled and moved the bedspread back. A gold lipstick case lay beside a stack of old magazines protruding from under the bed. He took off the lipstick cover. Bright red. Ruth loved that color. Fire and Ice was stamped on the tube’s end. Vincent twisted the lipstick in his hands. She wouldn’t just drop it. Her last call on Saipan... “Go get Ito.” The case slipped off his fingers onto the carpet. He stooped. The tips of black and white photographs stuck out from the stack of magazines. One faded picture showed an old twin-engine aircraft parked on an island beach. The Electra, almost intact. Damn that Tad, he knew all along. Vincent’s face tensed. He studied the photo. His eyes narrowed—other photos. A mock-up of Pearl Harbor. Tad, Ito in Honolulu. Tad with a young woman—looked like Ruth. Ito, on an island with a shorthaired, slender woman. Her face smudged. Vincent pressed closer.
A key entered the lock; the knob turned. Vincent dropped the photo, reached into his shoulder holster. He peered around the doorjamb.
Tad pushed open the front door. Vincent took his hand off the .45.
“Vince!” Tad saw Vincent step from the bedroom.
“You bastard!” His tone was cold, his stare icy. “Where’d you get these?”
He shoved the photos at Tad.
“Whoa . . .” Tad backed up. “What are you talking about?” He shuffled through the pictures. “These aren’t mine.”
“Don’t give me that shit.” Vincent’s tone turned more hostile. “They were stashed under your bed.”
“Somebody must’ve planted them.”
Vincent tossed the lipstick at Tad. “Very convenient.”
He caught it, rolled it over in his hand. He’d seen Vincent like that before—when he sent men behind the lines. What’s he doing, now? Tad offered a weak smile. “Ruth—she did like bright red.”
“Why’s she here?” Vincent, face stern, stood rigid.
“Didn’t know she was.”
“You’re lying.”
Tad was taken aback. “Look, when you didn’t show, I called Amelia’s mother. She said Ito took Amelia.”
“Typhoon got them. Found his body, but not hers.”
“Ito’s dead?”
“Shark bait. Amelia too, probably.”
“Did you check with the Coast Guard? She could’ve been picked up.”
Vincent’s face drained. “No use.”
“What’s the matter? You quittin’?”
Tad backed up, scratched his jaw. “Ruth must be taking over if Ito’s really dead. Things happened beyond my control. I followed orders. G-2 pulled the strings. Ito outfoxed us with Earhart. The Japanese knew our plan. They captured her.”
“You bastards! All these years, wasted, I never had a chance of finding her.”
“I did what I could.”
“Wasn’t enough.”
Tad sat in an easy chair, sighed. “Once we were brothers.”
“Not now.” Vincent’s face twisted. “You should’ve leveled with me.”
Tad sat forward. “Come on, Vince, let’s finish this over a beer. I’ll help you find Amelia.”
Vincent stood in front of him, pulled a letter from his pocket. “She’s dead!” He tore the letter in half, threw it at Tad’s feet, turned, and slammed the door.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Waves pounded Amelia’s head. Her broken body tossed like a cork in the stormy sea. She gasped for air, disappeared under the water....
Vincent jerked upright in his berth, sweat poured off his face and body. God, another dream—so real. She couldn’t survive. He sat on the bunk’s edge, held his aching head. Ito’s contact? Tad hadn’t said anything. Ruth sent the note. She and Tad? He said he’d help find Amelia. What more did he know? Could Ito’ve fooled everybody?
Vincent staggered up the companionway. The rain had stopped during the night. He found a tattered note taped on the wheel. Don’t give up, it said.
He sat on a seat cushion. His eyes narrowed staring at the note. He slapped the side of his face. Had he forgotten his training? Nothing was finished unless he saw it. Inside him, Amelia would always be alive.
Vincent stopped at the Breakfast Creek Hotel. “Amelia Adams, please.”
“She left some time back.” The young clerk opened his registration book. “Ran off with some bloke, she did. Her deposit’s almost up.”
Vincent glanced up the stairs. “Can I see her room?”
“Who might you be, mate?”
“The bloke she ran off with.” He pulled out his wallet.
The clerk paused. “We’d like that room cleared. Need to let it out again.”
“She won’t be using it.” He plopped several bills on the counter. “Save her things, I’ll get them later.”
The clerk handed Vincent a key. “Take your time, mate.”
Vincent climbed two flights of squeaky stairs, stuck the antique key into number 22’s lock. He glanced around the neat flat, laughed. Amelia had cleaned his messy shack the minute she walked through the door.
He combed the rooms. Classical records stacked in a corner. Dishes put away in cupboards. In the bedroom, two books lay on the thin, cotton bedspread. One book on early American aircraft, the other on Japan’s mystery islands. She’d done her homework. He picked a photograph off her dresser. Amelia and her parents in front of military barracks.
He opened a shell-covered jewelry box. Empty. When she had escaped from Harry and the VC, all she wore were earrings.
Vincent rechecked the room. He started to leave when he noticed wrinkles on the bedspread. Must’ve walked right past it. Amelia wouldn’t leave a bed cover like that. Stan taught her a Marine’s way of making a bed—tight. Coins’d bounce a foot in the air off her spread.
He pulled back the coverlet, exposed a gold cross on a chain.
He stared at it. Stan’s—how the hell... When did Amelia have it last? Saipan—in the cave. She took it from Harry. Vincent squeezed the cross. His throat tightened. Ito, that son of a bitch. He wasn’t dead. If he made it, what about Amelia?
Clutching the cross, Vincent stepped through the doorway into the hall. He glanced at the crucifix again, hurried down the stairs.
Across the wide hall, two persons peered through an open transom at Amelia’s flat.
“Happened just as you said.”
“I know Vincent, Major,” Ruth said. “Stole that cross from Harry on Saipan—made a copy. Came in handy.”
“You still spin the web.”
“Nothing will stop him now.” A sardonic smile crossed her lips. “When Ito returns, Vincent will kill him.”
* * * *
Vincent entered Queen Ann’s Hospital.
The nurse at the admitting desk shook her head. “But, don’t give up.” She saw his anxiety. “Accident victims come in every day.”
The note on the boat had said that, too. “Thanks.” He backed away from the desk and looked down the busy corridors. Nurses, doctors hustled about. He stopped them. “Where is she?”
They shook their heads. “Sorry.”
He checked the gurneys and wheelchairs, pulled sheets off beds. In the emergency room, their faces were blank. “No one here by that description.”
From across the street, Vincent glanced back at the hospital. Ambulances arrived and departed. He ran, pushed attendants aside, checked every person.
Helpless—what good was he doing? Just to see her silken face once more. He couldn’t quit. Bastard Ito—Damn Ruth, damn Tad. He took a deep breath, headed to Jungle wings. If ever they met again, it would be there.
CHAPTER FIFTY
The small, silver jet taxied to a stop at busy Brisbane International Airport. Two large Japanese men emerged from the shadows by a side gate, waited at the cabin door. Takeo Ito Sakura exited the plane, straightened the wrinkles on his tan suit. His eyes adjusted to the warm evening’s glow.
“Triangle, the Major sent us.” The heaviest man bowed. “You were lucky the Navy was alerted to your area where that merchant ship broke apart.”
Ito squinted. “Yes, had some trouble. That scheming bitch. I just managed to snatch a lifeline when the sailboat split up. Kept afloat on the planking.”
“Our ship was bound for Vietnam,” the man said. “We lost several men.”
Ito motioned to the gate. “Many sharks dwell in those waters.” He sat in the limo’s back seat; the two men sat up front. “Is he here?”
“Yes,” the other man said, “the Major and a special agent know what Electra’s doing.”
“I want him,” Ito said. “We have personal business to settle.”
“He’s been seen at that tropical bar.”
“What about Ruth?” Ito pressed a button. The side window closed.
One man looked at the other. “We’re told she’s here.”
“I must also pay her a visit.”
“The Major is waiting,” the driver said.
“Proceed, I will deal with my adversaries later.”
The limo stopped at a warehouse on the waterfront. The driver blinked the headlights off and on. A quick dot of light flickered from an upper story window.
Walking up the dark stairs, Ito knew there would be some questions. He had taken money, had power. He owed the VC. Too many contacts killed. He’d devise a new tactic. He wasn’t too old, could still take care of obstacles.
One knock, the door opened. A short Vietnamese soldier holding an automatic rifle blocked the entrance. He quickly moved aside when he saw Ito.
“Ah, Triangle.” The tall officer, wearing combat fatigues, stood rigid behind a table. “Pleasant trip?”
“A little rough, Major.” Ito bowed. “I understand your news is bad.”
“Our couriers are either killed or intercepted and replaced by spies.” The black-haired major moved around the table. “Something big is brewing. It must not interfere with our own offensive.”
“I wasn’t aware,” Ito lied. “My men report the war is driving the Americans apart.”
“True, but we must not underestimate them like your country once did.”
Ito rose to his full height. “I never have. If it had been up to me, I would have plowed through Hawaii, attacked the U.S. Mainland after Pearl Harbor.
Now, guerrilla warfare is the only way to beat the Americans.”
“I agree.” The major sat down in his chair. “But we must increase our intelligence. No more infiltrations. No more blunders.”
“I must eliminate certain thorns first.” Ito stepped closer to the table. “I understand Ruth Keuhn is here.”
The major raised his head. “She has business of her own.”
“Her business comes from Saipan.”
“And San Francisco.” The officer juggled a stack of papers. “Electra’s comrade, Toshio, is back. We had him once, but he escaped.”
“Toshio is too slippery a fish to keep netted long.” Ito tightened his jaw. “But, we will see . . .”
The major narrowed his eyes, fixed them on Ito. “He was your trusted comrade.”
Where did he learn that? Ruth must have . . .”I was deceived.” Ito clenched his fist, but did not look away. “It will be a pleasure to exterminate such a rodent.”
His composure came back.
“Do it fast and efficient. Toshio and Electra have done enough damage.” The major’s face hardened. “I’ll run future operations.” He turned back to his papers.
Ito stepped back, motioned to his two aides. The VC couldn’t challenge him. They needed him. He was shogun, Kempei Tai. Traitors, enemy, he’d eliminate his troubles one by one.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Tad stalked out of Jungle Wings into the late night’s darkness. No closer to finding Vince. Couldn’t let them end that way. All the years they were partners—the close calls, the good times. Now—like strangers. “Vince, you slick old bastard—where would you go?” He’d always found solace in his boats. Tad rubbed his eyes, straightened his drooping shoulders, and headed for Brisbane Harbor.
Still feeling drained, Tad turned onto the dock area at a slow, cautious pace. When the wind picked up, broken shadows bounced around him. He stopped, scanned the wharf, noticed the few lights still on. He checked his watch. Seemed like there oughta be a tourist or two about.