by Nick Carter
Nick pushed back his chair. “They have more elaborate plans than they have capital to spare. You can do a lot with a hundred million dollars of someone else’s money.” He rose and grinned cheerfully around the table. “I thank you all for your attention, and for being—all of you—so beautiful.”
“It’s so nice to have a man around the house,” Alva said dreamily.
“Yes, isn’t it?” Paula agreed. “It would have been even nicer if we’d had a whole platoon.”
He had a two-day growth of stubble on his face, ill-fitting, ill-matched clothes upon his back, and he tramped about the Dominican countryside looking like a peasant farmer hunting for a missing steer. Neither OAS troops nor the local populace gave him more than a passing glance.
But hidden in the farmer’s shapeless clothes were a Luger, a stiletto, and a replacement for Pierre, along with a few other devices appropiate less to a farmer than a man called Killmaster.
Nick tramped into his third valley of the day, thinking hard. Maybe he was looking too far afield, or not far enough. Maybe he was taking the words of the Twenty-third Psalm too literally, and it was only the first phrase he should be concentrating on. ‘Trujillo es mi pastor’ ‘Pastor.’ Shepherd.
Herdsman. A farm? There was the late dictator’s own farm, Fundacion, at San Cristobal, only eighteen miles from Domingo. He supposed he’d better take a look at it, but it seemed unlikely that it hadn’t already been searched to its foundation. Some other farm? Or was ‘pastor’ supposed to be interpreted as clergyman, or parish priest? Church . . . cathedral . . . mission house . . . but Castle? Monastery? Teresa had given him a list. He had shuffled into each one of them with a hard luck story and emerged none the wiser.
‘Green pastures,’ he thought again. ‘Still waters.’ He had seen plenty of both, but not together. Maybe they weren’t supposed to be together. Or maybe he was barking up the wrong tree entirely.
He tramped on determinedly. There was a little farming community in the valley below him, and the spire of a small church showed above the trees. It was to be his last stop of the day before heading back to meet Paula and the jeep, and he hoped fervently that it would pay off in some way. Even a pot shot from the rear as he asked his subtly probing questions would be a welcome sign that he was getting warm.
There were no shots; there was nothing. The little church was dated 1963 and its young pastor told Nick proudly that he and his parishioners had cleared the virgin ground themselves.
Nick drank the proffered glass of water, thanked him and turned away.
Another wasted day.
Dr. Tsing-fu cursed inside himself. Everywhere he went there was some damned Cuban hanging on his heels. He had been so careful with the business of disposing of those mysterious bodies, yet somehow something had leaked out. In any event, there had been a police investigation of his premises —fortunately after he and Mao-Pei had finished their gruesome task—and people on the streets were eyeing him oddly. He had closed the Chinese Dragon, “for repairs,” he told whoever asked him, and was devoting himself to business affairs until re-opening day.
He did not, of course, tell them that his business affairs consisted of tracking down ex-Trujillo supporters and going to work on them with bribery and blackmail. He was also prepared to torture and kill if that would help, and he rather thought it would. In fact, he had already killed one man who had threatened to complain to the authorities about his blackmail threat.
“Mao-Pei.” He leaned over and touched his driver on the shoulder. “Stop at the library. I wish to look at old newspaper files.”
Mao-Pei grunted, and then suddenly remembered his manners.
“Yes, sir,” he said smartly.
Tsing-fu leaned back and peered over his shoulder. Damn! The motorcycle was still following them.
He glowered and took out a cigarillo. The wildest stories were going around town, and he knew there was no truth to half of them. But he was damned sure that it was true that the Cubans were out to bitch up his carefully laid plans. Everything pointed to it, especially this never-ending tailing. Yet he could not understand how the rumors had started, who had dumped the Cuban bodies on him, who had taken the blueprint for Operation Blast. Not the Cubans, surely. They had their own copy. There was a third party in this thing somewhere.
The Terrible Ones. Who in the name of all the Chinese devils were they?
Whoever they were he would beat them at their game. He had lost a few men, including that abominably stupid bodyguard-cook, but he still had a squad of men who were trained in search and interrogation techniques. They were deployed all over town at this very moment, and he had no doubt that there were screams of agony coming out of several throats. If there was the slightest chance that they knew someone who knew someone who knew something, then they were grist for his torture mill.
He smiled grimly and puffed his cigarillo. When the hunt was over there’d be some changes made in Operation Blast.
Damn those Cubans and their pockmarked, treacherous hides! He was getting on very well in spite of them.
His evil mood switched suddenly to chuckling optimism. He was getting on well. His inquiries were yielding fruit. Success was in his grasp.
On the Treasure Trail
“Maybe we’d have done better to follow Tsing-fu ourselves,” Nick growled.
It was conference time in the shuttered house and his spirits were low. Tsing-fu had been seen here, there, and everywhere, and then he had suddenly disappeared. It seemed that the whispering campaign had been so successful that the OAS authorities had been concerned enough to investigate. They had rounded up a number of Cubans, but the Chinese had flown the coop.
“Impossible,” Lucia said firmly. “We always kept our eyes open for him, of course, but with the Cubans always after him we would have made a veritable procession if we had tried it too. It was a good idea of yours to stir up trouble between them, but it had a lashback.”
“Backlash,” Nick corrected gloomily. “I wonder what he found out in the library?”
“You would do better to wonder what Teresa found out,” said Lucia, “and the rest of us.”
“I do wonder,” Nick said, gazing at her. It struck him that there was an air of suppressed excitement about her—about all the women—that he hadn’t noticed before. “What did you all find out?”
Even Paula was looking a little smug, he thought.
“You first, Teresa,” she said briskly.
Teresa was all business. “Late this afternoon I found a reference in an obscure monograph,” she said, “to a group of Benedictine monks living in a quiet valley—unnamed, unfortunately. Apparently they took some sort of vow of secrecy many years ago and seldom show themselves. But it is known that they wear black from head to foot, black cowls with slits for eyes and rough black robes reaching to their feet. It is also said that their monastery is castle-like in its appearance, although again there is no first-hand description of it. I realize this doesn’t help us much. But what you may find interesting is that they are known as the Black Cowls. Or, more shortly, as the Blacks.”
“The Blacks!” Nick slammed the flat of his hand onto the tabletop. His eyes gleamed with interest. “But you have no idea where their monastery might be?”
Teresa shook her head. “The reference only says that it is ‘somewhere near Santo Domingo.’ Obviously it is a very secluded valley, or we would have heard of it before. And you would surely have found it. But now at least we have some basis for further inquiry. There must be people in the countryside who have heard of the black-cowled monks, possibly even seen them.”
Nick nodded. “How about people right here in town? Scholars, perhaps. Theologians. Museum curator, local priests, even the bishop. At least we know now that we’re looking for a monastery. Don’t we? Yes, I guess we do. For a while there I was beginning to think we ought to be looking for a speciality restaurant run by three fellows named Black who used to be part of Trujiilo’s flock. But monks! It figures, ti
es in with everything. Now all we have to do is find that valley.”
“It must be quite a place, that valley,” Paula said thoughtfully, “to have a castle tucked away so neatly that no one seems to have heard of it. It isn’t easy to hide a castle, or even a monastery. You really think we’re on the right track?”
“We have to be,” Nick said firmly. “Now we know the place exists, right? And we know that these monks were a secretive lot, so somehow they must have found a way to conceal their castle or monastery or whatever it is. We just have to keep plugging away with the questions and the search. Anybody have anything else to contribute?”
“Yes,” said Paula. “Isabella?”
Isabella pushed a little pile of papers across the table toward Nick.
“Take a look,” she said. “We can’t make head or tail of it, but there’s some kind of pattern there. We’ve been through ninety-one homes and in six of them we found—well, you’ll see what we found. But some of the same words and symbols appear on each of them.”
Nick reached for the little pile and sorted through it. A diary, with several pages marked. A laundry list with scribblings on the back. A pocket calendar with notations against several of the dates. A sheet of lined paper covered with a list of words that seemed to have no meaning. A loose leaf from a notebook with some of the same words and numbers next to them. The flyleaf of a book, covered with a scrawl of letters and symbols.
“Meeting places,” he said slowly. “With dates and times attached, I’ll bet. But coded.”
“Right,” said Paula. “How are you at breaking codes?”
“Not bad,” Nick said cheerfully. “Not bad at all.” He spread the papers out in front of him and got to work.
Killmaster was an expert in breaking codes. Dr. Tsing-fu Shu of Chinese Intelligence was an expert in breaking people. He had not done very well with Evita Messina but now he was making up for it. He missed Tom Kee, and he missed Shang, but he had other helpers. One of them was presently engaged in emasculating a man called Garcia-Galindez, and another was stifling the screams of agony.
“You see how useless it is to lie,” Tsing-fu said placidly, tapping his cigarillo ashes on Garcia’s rug. “We know who you are. A good friend of yours told us where to find you. He was also good enough to inform us that you had one of the clues. Tch, he is not very well these days, poor fellow. It took him too long to tell us.” He smiled pleasantly. “But he did tell us in the end. And you will also tell us what we want to know. Tighten the wires. Chin You. Do not be gentle with him.”
Chin You did as he was told. Tsing-fu listened to the muffled screams and gazed around the comfortable apartment. Yes, indeed, he thought, this was a comfortable place. He might as well stay here until his mission was completed.
He was rather pleased with himself. One small item in a yellowish newspaper had led him to a man who had held a minor post in the late Trujillo’s government. That man had been persuaded to tell him of other men, now living quietly under assumed names, who in their turn had been persuaded to yield up useful little nuggets of information. Garcia-Gallindez, he was positive, was the last link in his chain of clues. Tsing-fu watched his victim writhe.
“Remove the gag, Fong,” he said easily. “I think our friend is trying to tell us something.”
Garcia-Galindez took a deep, wheezing breath and began to talk.
Tsing-fu listened. His brow furrowed into a scowl. This clue was as obscure as the rest of them.
“What does that mean?” he screamed, his sudden rage turning his pale face scarlet. “Where is the place? Where is it?”
“The Valley of the Shadow!” Nick roared triumphantly. “That’s it! It’s got to be. It won’t be one of the restaurants, or the airport, or the railroad station or the barber shop, or any of those places. The Valley of the Shadow is the only place that fits. But where is it? It isn’t on the map.”
Luz crinkled her forehead. “I’ve lived here all my life,” she said, “And I’ve never heard of it. They made up the name, perhaps?”
“They didn’t make up the other names,” said Nick. “They’re all places in around Santo Domingo. Why should they invent one name? Unless— wait a minute. Unless it’s a description, not a name.” He traced his forefinger over the map of Santo Domingo and the outlying countryside. “There are several here that don’t have names. And I know they’re sizable valleys because I’ve been through half of them.”
“Of course they don’t all have proper names,” Lucia said. “They are too small to matter. But the people who live in or near them give them names that are more like, as you say, descriptions. For instance, there is one called the Valley of the Cows, because of one little dairy farmer who uses its slopes for grazing his herd. And then there is the Valley of the Pomegranates, because—”
“I get the point,” said Nick. “But what about the Valley of the Shadow?”
“There is a place that more or less fits that name,” Paula said slowly. “It’s not so much a valley as a deep ravine, and I’ve never heard it called anything at all. In fact, I’ve never seen it. But Tonio mentioned it to me once as we passed nearby on the road to—” She stopped suddenly and caught her breath. “Tonio mentioned it to me! My husband. He said that he knew it from his hiking days, that it was a strange and gloomy place that was in shadow all day long except at noon. There was overhanging rock nearly all the way around, he said. And I remember laughing and asking him when he had ever been a hiker, because that was the first I’d heard of it. And then he changed the subject. I wondered why, and then forgot it. But I should think it would have made a perfect meeting place for a group of agile men. Which they all were.”
“Now she tells us!” Nick exclaimed. “After all these days of poking about, and you’ve had the secret all the time.”
“It was years ago,” Paula said a little stiffly. “And how could I possibly connect it with the treasure hunt— And we don’t know yet that it has anything to do with it.”
“Paula, it has to,” Isabella said intensely. “It’s all too coincidental otherwise. How many sUch valleys can there be? Think of the clues—they all match now.”
“Yes, but he didn’t say anything about there being a castle or a monastery of any sort down there,” Paula objected. “And it sounds like an impossible place for any sort of building.”
“Not impossible,” said Nick. “Just difficult. You said yourself it isn’t easy to hide a castle. And what better place for a bunch of monks who’ve taken a vow of secrecy?” He pushed back his chair. “Paula, you’re going to take me there.”
“One moment,” Alva said softly. “It is our hunt, if you remember. This time we should all go.”
“Honey, I think we’re liable to be a bit conspicuous,” Nick said reasonably. “Let me scout it first and if it looks promising we’ll all go in together. Let’s go, Paula.”
“Just a minute,” she said firmly. “Alva’s right. It is our hunt. And if you’re so sure it is the place, we will all go together.”
“Now, look—” Nick began, and stopped suddenly as he found himself surrounded by eight vibrant women with fire in their eyes. They were gorgeous, they were sexy, they were appealing, they were determined, and they outnumbered him. The worst of it was that without Paula he could not find the place. And she was against him, too. He caught her eye and scowled.
The bitch was smiling at him.
“You do want to come with us, don’t you?” she said invitingly.
He gave up. They were too much for him.
Dr. Tsing-fu danced a crazy little jig of delight. “That’s all we need, that’s all we need!” he crowed exultantly. “Mao-Pei, you can find the place?”
Mao-Pei stood in the doorway of Garcia’s living room, his sullen face alight. He nodded.
“I can find the place. He gives good directions, the stupid pig”
“Then let us go,” trilled Tsing-fu Shu. “Chin You, kill the fool!”
Garcia-Galindez had figuratively spilled his
guts. Now he did so literally. Chin You knew how to kill to please his master.
Tsing-fu sighed happily. It was a pity not to prolong the joyous moment, but he had other things to do.
The crescent moon cast its sickly light upon the mountain slope. Nick glanced back and dimly saw them following him, eight shapeless forms that he knew belonged to eight lean and leggy, lovely women. The nearest one was close behind him.
“Have them spread out along the rim, Paula,” Nick said quietly. “And don’t let any of them make a move until I give the signal. You’re sure this is the place?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Didn’t I spend half the night looking for landmarks?”
“Yes, you did, slowpoke.” Nick patted her cheek and grinned at her in the darkness. “Now deploy your troops and keep them quiet until dawn. It won’t be long now. If anybody hears anything—”
“They’re to give a whistle,” she finished for him, and turned away to head for her second-in-command.
“Wait.” Nick touched her lightly on the arm. “When you’ve talked to them, come back to me. I’ll be up there.” He gestured up toward the rim of the ravine.
“All right,” Paula said softly, and glided off.
Nick climbed the last few yards of the steep slope and stared down into absolute darkness. The faint moonlight showed outjutting rock and thickly foliaged treetops, and that was all. He could well imagine the shadows that must envelop this place even at high noon.
The soil beneath his feet was covered with soft moss and rotting leaves. To his right, the great umbrella-like leaves of some luxuriant tropical plant bent low to form an excellent hiding place. Nick crouched beneath it and looked back to see Paula spreading out her squad of women. One by one they were taking up positions to either side of him and disappearing into cover. They were all armed, all disciplined, all silent as guerillas in a jungle. It was a funny way to pay a visit to a bunch of innocent monks, supposing there were any monks about, but by the time Nick and his unlikely troop had gone through all the clues again and considered the opposition it had seemed to be the only way.
