He asked the dispatcher, “Whatever became of that surveillance on the commandeered boat from Ala Wai?”
“That’s chopper four’s assignment, sir. He was doubling for a few minutes, there, then the lieutenant pulled him into the Bolan hunt exclusively. I guess they can always pick up that boat again. It’s just been idling around out there, anyway, standing off Waikiki. That is, last I heard.”
“I see. Well, you have an interesting theory concerning Bolan. You should pass that on to the lieutenant.”
“Who, me? No, sir, that’s not my department. But it’s a good theory, I believe. All the guy had to do was strip to his shorts and take off. And even if he didn’t strip … You know those black tights he wears? You ever see the surfing suits some of these people wear? Get those tights soaking wet, I bet they’d look just like a surf suit.”
“Maybe you’re in the wrong department,” Brognola said soberly.
The technician smiled at the compliment. “Well, I read a lot. And this guy Bolan is a fascinating subject. I’ve been keeping up on him for a long time.”
“This one may be the end of the saga,” Brognola replied. He left his chair and went to Patterson’s cubicle, picked up the phone, placed a call to Pacific Military Command, and ordered himself a helicopter.
Before he could get out of there, the phone rang with a call for him, from another office in that same command.
“Justice thirteen four twenty-one, electronic intelligence report,” said the caller. “Possible subject contact. A written report is in the file, sir. Would you like to hear the recording?”
“I would,” Brognola assured the guy.
“Stand by, sir. The quality is poor. This was monitored on a UHF Citizens Band channel, very weak signal source emanating from the western side of Oahu. It’s very brief, sir. Listen closely, please.”
A moment later, Brognola heard an excited feminine voice saying, “This is SOG Thirty-two. Is that you out there? Quick, is it you?” an agitated male voice responded: “Smiley, thank God! What the hell is he doing?”
“The usual. I believe we’re coming out. Can you assist?”
“You bet. Meet you halfway. Get that guy out of there!”
“On our way.”
That was the end of the recording. The intelligence officer inquired, “Did you understand all of it, sir?”
“Yes, but it’s a negative,” Brognola lied. “Remove it from the file and destroy it.”
“It is customary, sir, to—”
“Don’t quote customs to me, Lieutenant. I said remove and destroy. Do you understand me? Destroy it.”
“Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”
“Hold all further contacts until I call for them. I’ll be leaving this location.”
The fed hung up and got out of there.
As he passed through the control room, he caught the technician’s eye and told him, “Don’t close that book yet.”
“Sir?”
“The saga of that fascinating subject. There could be many chapters left in the guy.”
“Frankly, sir, I hope so.”
“So,” said the fed, as he stepped outside, “do I.”
It was an older inter-island cruiser with a compact cabin, low headroom, and only the minimal comforts of home, but she looked like sheer heaven to Smiley Dublin.
She allowed Tommy Anders to fuss over her and tape Band-Aids over a couple of minor hurts she’d incurred during the wild scramble on Kuhio, then she sank wearily onto the lounge with a sigh and a quiet, “Oh boy.”
Bolan and Lyons were topside, searching for silver wings in the sky and plotting a casual course past Diamond Head in the distant wake of the Pele Phoenix.
“Isn’t that guy something else?” Anders asked her in a quiet voice.
“If you’re speaking of Mack the Ripper,” Smiley replied wearily, “then that has got to be the understatement of the century.”
“What happened back there?”
“Oh, the usual this and that. Blew a couple of boats out of the water. Depleted the criminal population of Hawaii by about one-third. Slew a brace of high-ranking foreign crooks. Made a screaming fool of the Honolulu Police Department. Let’s see … is that all?”
Anders was chuckling. “Sometimes I just can’t believe that guy,” he said, believing it nevertheless.
“No—that isn’t all. Toss me that briefcase, will you.”
Anders picked up the case and set it on the table, fingering the shattered chain and running a hand along the closure. “There’s an interesting story here, I’ll bet,” he said. “You better hope the box is watertight, though.”
“Didn’t get too wet,” she said, smiling. “Carried it in my mouth, like a great she-cat. As for interesting stories, would you believe I shot off a man’s arm?”
Anders clucked his tongue. “Better watch the company you keep, young lady. That guy is contagious.”
Smiley shivered at the memory. “That’s not all I shot,” she murmured. “Somehow, though, it … well, it has no meaning. Know what I mean? No meaning.”
Gently, Anders told her, “The meaning, maybe, is in that case. Want me to open it?”
She nodded her head. “Please. Do you have a cigarette?”
He lit a Salem and passed it to her, then went to work on the briefcase with a pocket knife.
Smiley smoked with studied deliberation and watched the operation through narrowed eyes.
“Hope it’s not booby-trapped,” Anders said. “How would I know?”
She gave her head a vague toss and assured him, “It’s not. I saw him put the stuff in there.”
“Him who?”
“Him who Wang Ho.”
“Who the hell is Wang Ho?” Anders asked, laughing delightedly. “This is getting ridiculous, you know. Loon, Chung, Wang chatty bang bang. I never heard such outrageaus damn ethnic …”
“He’s dead. The others, too. And I have the awfullest feeling that …”
“What others?”
“Wang’s cadre. Those men, Tommy—they were here on deadly serious business.”
“Well …” Anders was trying to comfort her. “It got them dead, didn’t it. And you’re seriously alive. Can I tell you, beautiful lady, how very happy we all are that this is true?”
She touched his arm and said, “Thanks, Tom. Tell it to that big bloody bazoom up there, will you? But for him, I’d be a candidate for shark food right now.”
“Hey, it was a squeaker, eh?”
“In spades. I get so furious every time I think of these damned cops …”
“Hey. They have a job, you know. Like us.”
“Sure, but why don’t they go do it somewhere else? Of all the men to be combing that island for—well, I guess I’ll never understand it. Tommy, I think I’m in love with that damn guy.”
Anders chuckled as he replied, “Well, join the club. So’m I.”
“No, you know, I mean …”
“Sure, I know what you mean. Try me instead, kid. I’m a lot safer and my insurance costs less.”
“I love you, too, Tommy.”
“Yes, I know, you mean …”
The girl laughed and kissed his hand. The tightness was leaving her chest. The self-styled wop comic affected her that way—and she was properly grateful. “Do you want me to open that, Tom?”
“I about have it. Here we go … ahhh. Your box, ma’am.”
She gave him an appreciative bat of the eyes and took possession of the contents of Wang’s lockbox. The papers were dry, hardly affected by the moisture of that wild escape from Kuhio.
“That’s all wing-wang lingo,” the comic observed, peering over her shoulder. “I never could figure out—do you read top to bottom, bottom to top, or kitty-wampus?”
Smiley’s hands were suddenly shaking. She turned a page, then another.
“Hey, what is it?” Anders inquired excitedly, noting her reaction.
“Get Mack down here, please,” she requested in a quivery, barely audi
ble voice.
“Come on, Smiley, dammit! What is it?”
“Would you believe,” she said quietly, “another Cuba?”
“What? You mean … missiles?”
“I don’t mean beards!” she said. “Get Mack! Get him down here!”
The man himself appeared in the cabin doorway at that moment, the rugged features set in grim lines.
“A chopper just picked up Chung,” he reported. “Toby’s on them. But it looks like the end of the trail for me. You guys hang in there. Live large, dammit!”
He was gone again before the startled reaction set in.
Smiley cried, “What’s he talking about?”
Anders was scrambling toward the door. He halted there and turned a sick face toward the girl.
He did not need to explain.
The thump-whump of ‘copter blades directly overhead told the story, loud and clear, and the amplified voice floating down from up there served as mere punctuation to the dismal truth.
“This is the police. You are ordered to lay to, and prepare for boarding.”
“Oh God no!” Smiley wailed.
“He won’t fight them,” Anders said woodenly.
The Executioner had been dealt the showdown hand.
And he could not even call the opener.
19: Fire Line
Two helicopters were hovering in the airspace above the cruiser. The police craft had been joined—no, challenged—by a larger military version and the two were standing off about fifty yards apart, apparently communicating with each other via radio.
It was very obvious to those below that an argument was going on up there, and it continued for several minutes. Then the military craft yielded a bit of airspace and the police job came back to stand directly above the cruiser.
The PA announced: “This is Lieutenant Patterson, Honolulu Police. I’m coming down for a parley. You people down there stay loose.”
Lyons waved an acknowledgment.
A door opened up there and a rope ladder slithered out. A large man in a gray suit began slowly descending.
Smiley bumped Carl Lyons with her hip to get his attention and, yelling to make herself heard above the racket from the chopper, told him, “Remember, he’s our prisoner!”
Lyons gave her a hopeless flash of the eyes and stepped up to give the guy a hand.
Bolan moved to the rail, turned his back to the whole thing, and consigned his fate to the hands of the universe.
The big guy was standing stiffly on the flying bridge, weapons sheathed, hands casually gripping the rail, the face grim and sort of sad but not belligerent. He wore a skin-tight black outfit with belts running in all directions about that hard torso, supple moccasin-style half-boots on his feet.
Patterson said to him, “So you’re the guy.”
“I’m the guy.”
It was a good voice—clear, vibrant, but not defiant—a trace of New England accent clinging to it.
“You seem to be the center of a jurisdictional dispute. Or so it says here. But I could still take you in, mister. What do you say? Ready to hang it up?”
“I’m always ready. But—thanks, I’ll stay.”
The cop gestured toward the guy’s weapons belt. “Quite an arsenal you carry there. You could have shot me off the ladder. Why didn’t you?”
“You’re not the enemy,” the damned guy told Patterson in that good voice.
“So I’ve been told.” The lieutenant jerked a thumb toward the shore. “Eleven hundred good badges over there, with no cracks showing, say otherwise. You come back to our town, mister, for any reason, and we’ll say it to you loud and clear. Understand me?”
“It’s a good force, Patterson. Be proud.”
“I am proud! Who the hell are you to—” The cop caught himself and turned it off, electing to accept it gracefully. “Thanks. I’ll take that from one who should know. But it still goes! Don’t come back!”
“I’d rather not.”
“Keep it that way. What about Oliveras?”
“What about him?”
“What does he have that I could use?”
“Plenty. The local infrastructure, the pay-off network, some surprises in your tour industry. Lean on him and he’ll break.” The damned guy actually grinned at him. “Use my name if you’d like. He fears it more than omerta.”
Patterson felt his own face cracking in a returning smile. It surprised him. He said, “I’ll bet he does, at that. Thanks, I’ll remember it. How are your phantoms?”
“My what?”
“The ghosts of past regrets. Don’t tell me you don’t have them.”
“I have them.”
“I’ll bet.”
The cop signaled his chopper for a return. He had studiously ignored those other three down here, the woman and the two other men. Now he looked at the woman and said, “Relax, honey. How’s the surf this morning?”
“Splendid,” she replied coolly.
Patterson chuckled and reached out for the ladder. One of Brognola’s boys steadied it for him. He climbed aboard and turned a final gaze on the big guy at the rail.
“I wash mine down with vodka,” he yelled above the rotor racket.
The guy nodded and said something in return, something that was lost in the clatter.
The ninety-nine and 44/100 percent cop did not need to hear it. He knew what the big guy chased his phantoms with.
“Have a bucket on me,” he muttered, and went on up the ladder.
The military chopper lifted away and climbed to a holding altitude. Brognola shook hands with the man in black as he advised him, “That’s one you owe me, soldier. And don’t think it came easy.”
“I know the cost,” Bolan replied in a solemn voice.
There would be no “thanks” between these two friendly adversaries. Obvious respect was there, and mutual admiration. It was enough.
“As for you people,” Brognola said, his gaze flicking toward the other three, “you’d better have some damn hot business going here or we’re all going to be behind bars.”
Bolan abruptly wheeled about and went below.
Brognola took Smiley by an elbow and steered her in that same direction. “Come along, SOG Thirty-two,” he said. “I’m very anxious to hear what you’ve been doing these past four reportless weeks.”
The girl planted her feet and told him, “I’ll have to ask you to formally identify yourself, Mr. Brognola.”
He said, “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“I’m serious.”
“I can see that.” He dug for his wallet and produced the necessary proof.
The girl smiled soberly and said, “We figured you for SOG Control—but who would know, in this nutty business?”
“Nutty, indeed,” he agreed. His gaze flicked to Lyons. “Carl? What’s happening?”
“Chung is off for Hawaii in a helicopter. Toby’s tailing in a chase plane. Bolan flushed the guv and we’ve been nudging him toward his secret place. Close to paydirt now, we think. We had to team up, Hal. The situation was simply too critical. There was no alternative.”
“I figured that. You did right. Just don’t ever put it in writing.”
“Oh hell no.”
Smiley’s gaze had been alternating rapidly between the two. Her face was now reflecting a dawning revelation. She said, “Thanks for your confidence, guys.”
Lyons seemed embarrassed. He said, “Smiley, I …”
The chief fed took it onto himself. “The world is full of strange secrets, Miss Dublin. Don’t stub your toe on any of them.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t,” she replied, and flounced off below.
Brognola sighed. “Do you know?—my wife never believes a thing I tell her. I wonder why.”
Lyons suggested, “Let’s go below, Hal. I’ll update you.”
“Somebody better run the boat,” Anders said, over a handshake with Brognola. “Go ahead. I signed for it, I’ll swing for it.”
The comic remained on
the bridge while the other two joined Bolan and the lady in the cabin.
The big guy was seated at the mess table, staring perplexedly at Smiley’s Chinese papers.
Brognola inquired, “What the hell is this?”
“One of those strange secrets,” the girl replied. “Watch your toes, boss.”
“Come on, knock it off,” he said irritably. “What is it?”
“Try World War Three,” she groused.
“I hope you’re not serious.”
“Fifty-fifty serious, anyway. According to this top document, the man who was wearing it on a wrist manacle is high in the party hierarchy. He—”
“Wang Ho,” Brognola said quietly.
Smiley flared, “So what the hell do you need with me!”
“Hey, now—”
“Hev hell! Do you know where I’ve been these four reportless weeks?”
“Look, if an apology will help, you’ve got it. I’m sorry. It’s a paranoid business. I can’t help that. Nobody’s underrating your value or your contributions. I’m tired, cranky, and suffering jet lag. I just mortgaged my office to that Goddamned cop up there. And, to top it all, I’m so damned thrilled to see you all alive and well …” The chief fed paused and swiped at his eyes. “Aw, fuck it,” he muttered.
Smiley was crying. She put her arms about his neck and kissed him.
“I’m a dope,” she said. “Forgive me.”
Brognola’s face was several shades of crimson. He patted her bare back and said something gruff and unintelligible.
It could be an emotional business as well as paranoid.
Smiley stepped into the galley and wet her face from the water spigot.
Bolan snared a wrinkled cigarette pack and quietly lit one.
Lyons said to Brognola, “I guess you got my report.”
The chief nodded and cast a reflective gaze toward the girl. “Wang was a lucky guess,” he told her. “Carl’s report reached me on the plane, coming across this morning. Or whenever that was. God, it seems ages. Anyway, I simply added the pieces together. Our China watchers have been wondering for some time about the connection between Wang and General Loon. When I got the make on Chung—well, it was just two and two.”
“Wang is dead,” Bolan quietly advised him.
Hawaiian Hellground Page 12
