And then I twisted my right wrist out of his fingers. He could feel his grip loosening. In desperation he tried to knee me in the crotch. I took the blow on my thigh instead.
Hugo was still in my right hand. And Hugo was free now. My forearm jabbed forward. Just a few inches, but that was all that was necessary. Hugo touched him and slid into him just below his rib cage, opening a small, bloody mouth in his chest. I kept driving my weight against the Russian, lifting him off the ground, my left hand finding his face in time to clamp his mouth shut and prevent him from crying out.
He grunted hard, a muffled sound, and then he collapsed, stumbling away as if he were suddenly tired and wanted to rest. He took one lurching step, and then another, and then he was falling away from me into a seemingly boneless dark heap on the ground.
Wearily I straightened up, dragging deep, painful breaths into my aching lungs. The Kalashnikov lay on the ground near my feet. I picked it up, checking it over in the darkness as best I could. At least now I was on more even terms with the other Russian.
I heard him call across the inlet:
"Petrov!"
He called again. "Petrov, answer me!"
I didn't have time to hunt for Wilhelmina. With Hugo in my left hand, I cradled the Kalashnikov in my arms and began to trot slowly around the rim of the beach. The sand cut into my bare feet with every step I took. It was like running on a carpet of steel brushes.
I knew he could see me, but that was alright It was so dark that it was impossible for either one of us to make out more than movement That I was slimmer and taller than Petrov couldn't be discerned. Nor the fact that Petrov had been dressed and that I was stark naked.
The Russian finally caught sight of me, because he yelled out, "Damn you, Petrov, answer me! Have you seen them?"
I was around the inlet now, less than fifty yards away from him, trotting toward the sound of his voice. In my hands, the Kalashnikov was pointed in his general direction. I still couldn't make him out because he wasn't moving, but I had the safety of the rifle off, the switch was on "auto" fire, and my finger was on the cold, cross-hatched metal of the trigger.
"Petrov?"
This time there was uncertainty in his voice.
"Da!" I shouted back, and the moment's hesitation on his part before he realized that I was not Petrov was enough to get me as close as I needed to be.
My finger was tightening on the trigger when the beam of a powerful flashlight slammed into my eyes. Even as I flung myself to one side, I opened up with the AK-47. I hit the ground in a rolling tumble and stopped firing.
I must have hit him with that burst because his flashlight dropped away. It came to rest between us, its beam streaming along the sand. In its reflected glow I saw him standing with his legs wide apart, straddling Clarisse's supine form, his own Kalashnikov aimed at where I'd been a moment before.
Furiously he pulled the trigger, racketing the night with the blasting staccato roar of the gun, searching for me with a spray of lead.
Even before he ran through the clip, I was returning his fire, keeping him in my sights as the bullets slammed him off his feet onto the sand. He lay motionless, arms wide, legs drawn up like an enormous dead insect. I waited for him to move. After awhile I rose slowly, still aiming the AK-47 at him as I approached his body.
I rolled him over. He was still alive.
Half a dozen yards away, the flashlight shone along the sand, its spreading beam giving off enough light for us to see each other.
There was an expression of surprise on his face as his eyes roamed over me, taking me in from head to toe.
"Naked…" he gasped. "B-bloody…" They were his last words. The breath wheezed heavily out of his chest and with it went his life. His eyeballs sightlessly reflected the beam of the flashlight.
I turned away from him, picked up the flashlight and went to Clarisse. She was unconscious. I felt her head gently, finding the slight swell of a contusion behind her right ear. I pried open one eyeball and shone the beam of the light on the retina. There was a normal reaction. Apparently, the Russian hadn't hit her too hard; she'd be okay, I knew.
For the time being I didn't try to bring her back to consciousness. I had other things to do first that it would be best Clarisse knew nothing about.
I went down to the water and washed myself clean, scouring my skin with handfuls of rough sand. I dried most of the moisture off my body with quick, scooping slashes of the edge of my palms before I donned my shorts, slacks, jersey and sandals. The leather felt cool to my burning feet.
Dressed, I went back to the first Russian I'd killed to find Wilhelmina. Finally, I returned to the crevice that had been my original hiding place. I shone the light between the boulders onto the Russian. His eyes closed against the brightness of the light in his face.
"Well…? Why are you waiting, tovarich? Shoot me quickly." He spoke angrily in Russian.
"Wrong guess," I told him. "It's your friends who are dead."
There was a moment's pause before he answered, his eyes still tightly closed.
"Both of them?"
"Both of them."
"Turn the light away, please." This time he spoke in English with only the faintest touch of an accent. I moved the beam so that it reflected off the boulders. He opened his eyes and looked up at me.
"You … you are very good, whoever you are," he said. He drew a deep breath.
I made no reply.
"And now?" he asked after several seconds.
"It depends on you," I said. "I can walk away and leave you here…"
"Or?"
"Or I can give you the sanctuary you were trying to find when your friends caught up with you."
He took a moment to think it over. Hurt as he was, this Russian didn't panic easily.
"What is the price?"
"What do you care what it is? You've nothing to lose."
"Sometimes the price is too much to pay."
"Do you want to die?"
He answered with a question of his own.
"What do you want from me?"
"I want to know what it was that almost cost you your life."
The Russian grimaced as another shudder of pain went through his body.
"I'm cold," he said, almost in surprise.
"That's shock. You need medical attention. Are you ready to trade?"
He shrugged fatalistically. "I have no choice, have I, Amerikanski? Not if I want to live — is that it?"
"That's right."
"And you …" He swallowed hard, afraid to hope. "Can you really give me protection?"
"More than that, Russian. I can promise you medical attention, hospitalization until you're well again and a whole new identity. I can even arrange protection for you while you settle in any city in the States you'd like to call home. Is that enough?"
In the flashlight's reflected glow, I saw his bloodstained lips twist in a smile. He let his eyes close.
"I like it," he said dreamily. "But the irony of it amuses me. I've been a patriotic citizen all my life. Do you know, Amerikanski, I am a Hero of the Soviet Union? Oh, yes, I earned that medal! Now…" He drew another painful breath. "…Now I must become a traitor to Mother Russia if I want to live. What would you do in my place, Amerikanski?"
He reached out and touched my hand.
"Even… even more ironic… is the fact that I must save your country… just… just so that it can give me sanctuary! Don't you find that… amusing?"
Amusing? Hell, I didn't know what he was talking about.
He let go of my hand. "You have a deal, my friend."
"The name is Carter," I said. "Nick Carter. Now, let's hear it. What's this secret that almost cost you your life?"
He told me. It took him less than five minutes. He interrupted himself only occasionally to grit his teeth as spasmodic waves of pain racked his body.
What he told me was enough to make me realize that I had accidentally stumbled onto a threat to America more devastating
than any atomic war could ever be!
There were no mad scientists. No atom bomb, no hydrogen holocaust, no skies full of Soviet nuclear MIRV missies. On the contrary, the Kremlin would sit back comfortably and do exactly nothing while our own country would go crazily to hell, destroying itself completely in just a matter of months!
Would you believe that the plan was created by a Soviet economist?
And there were just twelve days before the plan was scheduled to go into effect!
Chapter Three
I had to drive the Citroen station wagon down onto the sands of the calanque before I could get the Russian into it. He was almost unconscious by then and completely helpless, so I had one hell of a time trying to lift him over the tailgate of the car. I'd taken the precaution of wrapping him in the blanket so I wouldn't get more of his blood on my clothes.
Clarisse was light enough to carry easily. I put her in the front seat with me. She was still unconscious. I didn't know how long that would last, but every minute she was out gave me one more minute before I had to think up explanations for her. I was damn glad she hadn't seen me kill the two Russians.
The road to Marseilles is Route N559. When you get into the environs of the city, it becomes the Avenue du Prado. There wasn't much traffic on it at that time of night.
In the heart of the city I turned right onto La Canebière, the best known of the avenues of Marseilles. In the daytime La Canebière is jammed with shoppers, shop girls and sailors. Now, at three in the morning, the street was practically deserted. I drove past the Church of St. Vincent de Paul and onto the Boulevard de la Liberation.
Half a dozen turns in the small streets that cluster to the southeast of the railroad yards of the Gare St Charles finally took me to the house I'd been looking for.
I left the Citroen at the curb and went up to the old, heavy wooden door. The brass knocker was green from years of neglect, the paint had long since peeled away, and the frame canted at a slight but definite angle. There was a modern doorbell to the right of the jamb. I pressed it and waited. After a long time a small panel in the top half of the door slid to one side and a voice asked, "Qui est la?"
"C'est moi — ouvre la porte, mon vieux!"
Jacques Creve-Coeur wasn't as old as the house, but he looked it, and I doubt he was much younger. I've known him for years. He's always looked on the verge of stumbling into his death bed from malnutrition, but you wouldn't want to let his feeble, aged appearance fool you. He can get around pretty fast when he has to, and when he does, he's deadly.
He opened the door wide, smiling broadly at me.
"You forgot to put your teeth in, you old rascal," I told him. "Stop grinning at me like that."
Jacques threw his scrawny arms around me in a tight, enthusiastic Gallic embrace. His breath was almost overpowering with the smell of garlic.
"What do you want from me now?" he asked in his thin voice, stepping back.
"What makes you think it isn't a social visit?"
"At this time of night? Bah! In all the years I've known you, mon ami, you've never come to me unless you were in trouble, hein? What is it now?"
I told him about the wounded Russian in the car and about Clarisse. He paused for only a moment. Hiding wounded men from the authorities was nothing new to Jacques. He'd been a maqui leader during World War II and had hidden scores from the Nazis.
"Bring the Russian into the house," he said. "I'll see that he's taken care of."
"Will you get in touch with Washington for me, too?"
Jacques nodded. In the light coming from the house, I could see his scalp glowing pinkly under his sparse white hair. "I'll inform them. Leave everything to me. Where can David get in touch with you?"
David. How about that! I've never yet had the nerve to call Hawk by his first name, but this old Frenchman did, and I'll bet he even called him that to his face. Sometimes I wondered how many years those two had known each other and what adventures they had gone through together.
"He can't," I said. "Have Washington set up a direct flight for me. Top priority. Hawk will arrange it I'll be at the airport in Marseilles in the morning. When I get to the States, I'd like to have him meet me at Andrews Field."
"You know David doesn't like to leave the office. The matter is truly that important?"
"Yes."
The single word was enough. I knew Hawk would get the message. Jacques didn't question me further except to ask, "And the girl?"
"We've been staying at the Ile Rousse in Bandol," I said. "Somehow I don't think it would be smart for either of us to go back there. Where do you suggest I leave her? She may need medical attention, too. She's been hit on the head."
Jacques took only a moment. "Aix-en-Provence," he said. "It's not too far a drive. I'll have a friend meet you at the Roy René Hotel."
I nodded my approval. Then, together, Jacques and I got the Russian into the house. He was completely unconscious by now. I left him stretched out on the couch in the living room. Jacques was on the telephone even before I closed the door behind me. I knew that in minutes there would be a doctor attending to him. I also knew that within the hour the Russian would be in a private clinic receiving the best medical attention and that when he was well enough to travel, he'd be flown secretly to the States. Hawk would keep my promises to the Russian.
* * *
Clarisse began to stir when we were halfway to Aixen-Provence. The highway was unwinding itself monotonously in the beams of the headlights when she finally awoke. She put a hand to her head, staring blankly out the window of the car.
"Merde!" she said, more ruefully than in anger. "I hurt."
"Sorry about that, chérie," I said.
"What happened?"
"Don't you remember?"
"No. We were on the beach, making love. Now I'm in a car. I'm fully dressed. I don't remember anything," she said, puzzled. "Were you that violent with me?"
I chuckled. French women are really something. "You fell and hit your head," I told her, not taking my eyes off the road.
"Moi-même je me coupe?" she asked dubiously.
"Oui. You fell and cut yourself," I said in French. "It was quite a blow you took."
"I don't remember," she said, a tiny frown making small creases in her brow. "Isn't that strange, Nick? I remember that the beach was full of rocks of all sizes, but I don't remember falling down."
"You hit one when you fell."
"And you are a liar," Clarisse said almost conversationally. "Because if that's what happened to me, then why aren't we on the road to Bandol? Why aren't we going back to our hotel? This is the way to Aix-en-Provence. You think I don't recognize the highway just because it's dark?"
"I'm a liar," I said cheerfully.
Clarisse moved closer to me so that we touched all alone the right side of my body. I could feel the weight and the heat of her breast pressing against my arm. She put her head on my shoulder.
"Is it a little lie, or is it something too important for me to know?" she asked, snuggling closer with a small squirm of her body.
"It's a little lie, and it's also something of utmost importance."
"Ha! Then I shall not ask questions. You see how nice I am not to ask questions that would embarrass you to answer?"
"You are very nice," I agreed.
"Where are we going?"
"To a hotel in Aix-en-Provence."
"To make love?"
"You are hurt," I pointed out. "How can we make love?"
"I'm not hurt that much," she protested, a mischievous grin on her pixie mouth. She shook her short ash-blonde hair against my cheek. "Besides, it is only my head that pains me. An aspirin will take care of it."
Clarisse was quite a girl. If Hawk only knew how much I had sacrificed!
"We will make love when I come back," I told her.
"You are going away?"
"Tonight."
"Oh? What is so important that you must leave tonight?"
"I thought you we
ren't going to ask questions."
"I'm not," she said quickly. "I just want to know."
"No questions," I said firmly.
"All right." Petulant. Lower lip thrust out moistly in a tiny pout. "When are you coming back?"
"As soon as I can."
"And how soon is that?"
Her hand was on my right thigh, moving slowly in a most intimate caress. "I don't want to wait forever, cheri."
I pulled the car over to the side of the road, set the handbrake and switched off the lights. Turning, I took her in my arms and put my lips to hers.
Her slender arms went around my neck. She made a quiet, amused sound in her throat and said, "How wonderful! I haven't made love in a car for years!" and bit me in fierce, but controlled nips that traveled the length of my neck. Her hands slid inside my shirt.
One moment we were dressed, and the next, there were no clothes between us. My hands cupped the plump, ripe contours of her breasts as her lips found their way to mine again and our tongues explored each other's mouths, warm and wet and teasingly hot.
And then we explored the most intimate warmth and the wetness of our bodies, Clarisse exclaiming in breathless whispers about my hardness and I savoring her softness. The car was filled with the musky aroma of passion. Clarisse squirmed down onto the seat beneath me as I thrust myself into the slippery cave of her body.
"Quel sauvage!" The sound was half a whisper, half a cry, pain and pleasure, delight and agony all in one phrase, and then I was caught in the wine press of her thighs as they wrapped tightly around me, extracting the juices of my body in one final, explosive tremor that she shared.
When I finally started the car again and turned back onto the highway, Clarisse reached up and touched my cheek with her palm.
"Come back as soon as you can, mon amour," she said languidly.
The Snake Flag Conspiracy Page 2
