by Philip Craig
Beyond her, the Rod and Gun Club shooters continued their target practice, shooting up God only knows how much money. The bunched shots, two two two then silence, then two two two and silence again, suggested that the shooter was still triple targeting.
I ate crackers and cheese and bluefish pate and thought about Amelia Muleto and Willard Blunt. I was still on my first martini when I heard a car coming down my driveway. I was down the stairs and standing in the front door when the car came into view. One of the Damon fleet, I thought. The car stopped, and a small, brown, elderly man got out. He peered at me through thick glasses.
“Mr. Jackson? Mr. J. W. Jackson?”
“Yes.”
“How do you do? I am Dr. Mahmoud Zakkut. May I speak with you?” His English was a bit guttural, and I remembered that he had studied medicine in Germany. I looked into the car. He was alone. He put out a thin hand. I came outside and took it.
“I recognize you, Doctor. I saw you last Saturday night at the Damon party.”
He peered around and nodded. “Yes. Much has happened since that night, as you no doubt know. This is a very pleasant place, Mr. Jackson. May we sit outside?”
“Sure.”
We walked out onto the lawn. He seemed none too steady on his feet, so I took his arm. He thanked me. I sat him in my best repainted Big D chair, and I sat in Archie Bunker’s chair. He looked out across Anthier’s Pond toward the far road where the beach people were collecting their umbrellas and children and going home for the night.
“Very lovely. Sailboats. Like butterflies, don’t you think?”
“I like the view.”
“It is a most attractive place, this Martha’s Vineyard. I can now well understand its fame as a resort.”
“You’ll be leaving soon, I’m told.”
“Yes. On Monday. It will be good to be home again, for though Sarofim is nothing like your island, it has beauties of its own which endear it to its citizens. You understand.”
“Yes.”
We looked out across the water. The pistols popped at the Rod and Gun Club.
“Well, to business,” he said at last. “I am here as a representative of His Highness Ali Mohammed Rashad, the Padishah of Sarofim. His Highness feels he has suffered a grievous injury from you which he cannot allow to go unpunished. You are an American, so I will not expect you to understand the sensibilities of a monarch such as His Highness. As His Highness’s political advisor, I have counseled him to forget the indignation he feels, but I have been unable to influence him. Thus, here I am as his agent.” He peered at me through his glasses. “Do I make myself clear?”
“To tell you the truth, I was expecting Colonel Nagy.”
“Of course. And your expectations were correct. Look behind you, sir.”
I did, feeling a sudden chill. Nagy stood in the doorway of my house, punching shotgun shells out of my twelve gauge. He nodded.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Jackson. You will appreciate the fact that we needed to distract you so as to gain this advantage over you. It is your territory, after all, and you could be expected to defend yourself.” He put the shells in his pocket and leaned the shotgun against the wall. Then he dipped his hand under his shirt and produced the pistol I’d seen in his room. “Please stay right where you are, sir. Dr. Zakkut.”
The doctor elevated himself with difficulty from his chair and walked slowly to his car. The Colonel came forward. “As you can now guess, I came through the trees while Dr. Zakkut drove down your road. A simple, but effective tactic. Although a frail, old man such as Dr. Zakkut seems no threat at all to a strong young man such as yourself, he can, however, be distracting. While you talked here and looked out at this lovely view, I took the opportunity to enter your house by its back door and search it. Mrs. Madieras is not there. Too bad. I’d hoped she would be. She was not at her own home earlier today, either. Do you have any idea where she is?”
“At work.” I willed her deeper into the woods.
“No, not at work. A nurse’s uniform is in your dirty clothes hamper. I imagine it is hers.”
“Yes. She left it here earlier in the week.” I had an almost irrepressible fear that Zee would come walking out of the woods at any moment. I could not bear the thought.
“Of course. No matter. We’ll find her later.”
Zakkut was walking slowly back, carrying a small black bag. I had time to wonder if every doctor in the world had a small black bag. Zakkut put the bag on the table and opened it. He brought out a roll of duct tape and put a pair of scissors in the pocket of his jacket. Nagy cocked his pistol and pointed it at my head.
“Don’t move, sir. Dr. Zakkut is going to tape you to your chair. Please don’t struggle. I assure you that we are taking this measure only to prevent you from attempting some violence which you might regret later. We have no intention of harming you or anything that belongs to you. But I have my orders and I will shoot you if I must. Please. Sit still.”
“If you have no intention of harming me, why do I need to be tied up?” I spoke loudly, so Zee could hear me and know not to come into view. Nagy frowned and let his eyes roam around the yard before they returned to me.
“It will become clear to you, sir. For now, please allow the doctor to do his work.”
I judged the distance between us. Too far. Zakkut came around so that I was between him and Nagy. He wrapped the heavy gray tape around and around my arm and the arm of the chair. When he had wrapped enough to satisfy himself, he cut the tape with the scissors. He then knelt and taped my leg to the leg of the chair. He and Nagy then circled and changed places, and Zakkut taped my other arm and leg. That done, he went to the table and put the tape and scissors into the bag, and Nagy put his pistol away under his belt.
“Thank you very much,” he said. “I appreciate your cooperation.”
Zakkut was fumbling in his black bag. I didn’t dare look toward the woods where Zee had disappeared. The pistols popped at the Rod and Gun Club. I tested the duct tape on one arm. The chair groaned, but the tape did not give. I gave that some thought. The Colonel stepped forward, touched the tape with his long brown fingers, and stepped away again.
“Wonderful stuff. I’m taking some back with me. We really don’t have anything like it in Gwatar. It leaves no sign of a struggle, you see. Not like rope or metal cuffs. Both of those leave unmistakable marks. My men will be very interested in this tape.”
“Now that you have me here, what next?”
“Nothing to fret yourself about, sir. The doctor is going to give you a shot of potassium chloride. In some spot where it won’t be noticed. An old scar, perhaps. You have your share of them, I note. Shrapnel, yes?”
“Yes. Potassium chloride is a salt substitute. What else does it do?”
“Please, Mr. Jackson, don’t trouble yourself unnecessarily about the inevitable. Let us say, simply, that it will put you to sleep.”
“I don’t want to be put to sleep,” I said in my loud voice. “You said that you had no intention of harming me!” I looked at Zakkut. He was filling a hypodermic syringe from a small vial.
“Yes. Well, of course that was not entirely true. I do intend to harm you. However, experience has shown that if a subject can be persuaded not to resist, it’s much easier to perform actions upon him that otherwise would be much more difficult. You will recall the lengths to which the Nazis went to persuade the Jews to voluntarily enter the gas chambers. They were told they were going to be fumigated or given showers. The Germans’ work was much simpler than it would have been had the Jews known what was actually going to happen to them. I was pleased when the same principle worked with respect to you.”
I tugged at the tape. The chair creaked. “What does that stuff do?” asked my big voice.
“Well, if you insist on knowing, I will tell you.” The Colonel stood several feet away. He was a very careful man. “Potassium chloride in an IV solution is a common and very effective injection for people suffering from certain illnesses res
ulting in dehydration. Anorexia nervosa, for example. It is well known to the physicians of Sarofim, since ours is a warm desert country where dehydration is common. Dr. Zakkut gives those injections. It’s all quite legal and conventional, I assure you.”
I was suddenly aware that the shooting had stopped. I heard the sounds of birds and the wind in the trees, but nothing more. Did the Colonel or the doctor notice the change? I needed to delay things and to distract their ears. I nearly shouted.
“Tell me, Colonel, was that story you told about Blunt taking your pistol true? Did he commit suicide? Or did you kill him?”
“Must you speak so loudly, Mr. Jackson? I assure you, sir, I told you the truth. Blunt shot himself with my pistol. Rather embarrassing for me, but not, as it turns out, to my Padishah’s diplomatic hopes. Your government, like ours, is sufficiently anxious to conclude an agreement between our countries that the fact that my pistol was the death weapon has been seen as unimportant. However, if the necklace Blunt claims to have stolen actually has been delivered into the hands of our political opponents, that will be a serious problem for my master and, alas, one that is beyond my abilities to rectify. You and Mrs. Madieras, on the other hand, are problems which I can solve. Did I tell you that potassium chloride has other interesting medical characteristics? Given in a large enough undiluted dose, it will cause the subject to have a heart attack.”
I looked at him. He smiled. My voice got bigger. “You may not be blamed for Blunt’s death, but you can’t expect to get away with murdering me!”
“Of course I can. Because you will not be murdered, you will die of natural causes. Heart attack. Most unexpected in a man of your apparent health, but hardly an unknown sort of event. When you’re dead, I’ll remove this tape and there will be no sign of violence at all. You will be found in this chair. I assure you that no one will suspect what your mystery writers call foul play, because potassium is normally found in your system and there will be no discoverable chemical imbalance in your body.”
The Colonel was too far away.
“Help!” I yelled as loud as I could. “Help! Help! I’m being murdered by Dr. Mahmoud Zakkut and Colonel Ahmed Nagy! Help! Help! Murder!”
“A wonderful medicine,” said the Colonel, frowning at my outburst. “Dr. Zakkut learned of it while studying in Germany. We have had great success with it in Sarofim. I think I should gag him, Doctor. He has a very loud voice. It’s just possible that someone could hear him.”
Do it, Colonel, I thought. Don’t just talk about doing it. “Help, help!” I bellowed. “Murder! Murder! I’m being murdered!”
The Colonel shook his head. “I should tell you that I have long since stopped being surprised at the screams of apparently strong men. Still, it is disappointing, sir. I thought perhaps you would be different.”
He did as I willed. He stepped to the table and got the tape out of Zakkut’s bag. Beside him, Dr. Zakkut held his hypodermic needle upland examined it. He nodded, satisfied. I listened and heard only wind and birds. Come close, Colonel. I took a deep breath.
“Help! Murder! Help!”
The Colonel approached and bent over me, a wide piece of tape in his hands, a look of annoyance on his face. “Yes, you disappoint me, sir. Ah, well, no matter.” He brought the tape down toward my mouth.
My muscles leaped, and I heaved with all of my strength against my bonds. Adrenaline surged through me, and a roar came from my throat. The tape on my arms held, but, as I’d hoped, Archie Bunker’s chair did not. I tore the right arm away and smashed it into the Colonel’s face. He spun and staggered away. Dr. Zakkut’s eyes widened. He hesitated, then came toward me. I tore away the left arm of the chair and kicked with first one leg, then the other. The old chair legs groaned but held. Zakkut danced in and thrust the needle at my legs. I swung an arm at him and he leaned away. I kicked again. A leg tore from the chair and I was on my feet, most of the chair still taped to one leg and other parts of it taped to the rest of me.
Colonel Nagy’s face was bloody, but he had recovered some of his wits, at least. I went for him, but he leaped back. The wreckage of the damned chair was an anchor. I kicked at it but it clung to me. I spun back and saw Zakkut coming at me with his needle. I swung at him with the piece of chair taped to my left arm but he was just beyond my reach. He was frail but intent. I was furious. I spun and leaped for Nagy, but the chair tangled my legs and I went down in a heap. Nagy danced to one side and put his hand beneath his shirt.
Then, behind him, I saw Manny Fonseca and Zee coming out of the woods. Manny was wearing his favorite camouflage shirt and shooting cap. Around his waist was the heavy belt holding his pistol holster, his extra clips, and God knew what else. He and Zee were panting from their run. There were scratches on their faces from the brush they’d come through.
I pointed at the Colonel and shouted. “This one’s got a gun and knows how to use it!”
Seeing my eyes, the Colonel whirled to face them.
It was Manny Fonseca’s worst and finest moment. All that practice finally came into play. The Colonel’s hand came out of his shirt, and his pistol swung up as Manny made his draw. Manny’s right arm locked, his left hand cupped his right hand, and he shot the Colonel twice through the chest.
As Manny fired, Dr. Zakkut leaned over me and thrust the hypodermic needle into my leg. Zee screamed. Manny never missed a beat. He swung his pistol and shot Zakkut twice. The bullets lifted the fragile Zakkut away from the hypodermic’s plunger and slammed him into the table, spilling him and the contents of his black bag onto my lawn.
The hypodermic swayed back and forth in my leg, its deadly dose of potassium chloride undelivered.
I reached down and pulled the needle out. A moment later, Zee reached me and took me and the remains of Archie Bunker’s chair in her arms.
28
The last of the police cruisers had gone out of the yard, and Jake Spitz was the only lawman left. His rented car was parked beside the LandCruiser. It was evening, and he was having a Molson. Zee and I were sticking to Absolut martinis. The three of us had finished off the smoked bluefish hors d’oeuvres long since and were reduced to cheese and crackers, which were also going fast.
“I was afraid that Manny Fonseca was going to shake himself to pieces after it was over,” said Zee. “I never saw a man so weak in the knees. I made him sit down before he fell down.”
“He never shot anybody before,” said Spitz. “Guy did okay, if you ask me.”
“He sure did,” said Zee. I looked at her. “Scary,” she said. She squeezed my hand.
I squeezed back and looked at Spitz. “What’ll all this do to the big treaty plans? Will our guys in Washington still go through with it, knowing that they’re making a deal with a psychopath?”
“Hey,” said Spitz. “Why not? It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“You mean they’ll go through with it even though the Padishah tried to kill Jeff and me?” asked Zee.
“They don’t tell me their plans,” said Spitz. “But it wouldn’t surprise me. Balance of power; national interest transcending individual issues. Stuff like that.”
“By the way,” I said. “I appreciated the tip about Nagy and the Padishah, even if it didn’t help much in the end, thanks to my dumbness.”
Spitz took a nip of beer. “How’d you know it was me?”
“Who else would plant a bug in the Padishah’s suite? Not the local cops; not Thornberry Security—their only job was to guard the necklace. Who else could it be but you? Especially since your outfit isn’t always hand in hand with the State Department and since you’re a maverick guy who doesn’t always even agree with your own bosses’ policies. Two days ago, when I told Nagy that I’d been tipped off about a threat, I watched him scan his room and I figured he was wondering where the bugs were.”
“Ah,” said Spitz. “That’s why we didn’t hear anything more after that. He found the bugs and put them out of commission. Too bad you tipped him. Otherwise we might have hea
rd about today’s plan in time to stop it before all this happened. Not that I think the world’s much worse off without Zakkut and Nagy. Good riddance, I say.
“Sorry I didn’t pick up on Zakkut being involved. I should have guessed that he might be. He was studying medicine in Germany during World War II, you know. Afterwards, when he went to work for the Padishah, the secret police got a lot more sophisticated about how they handled political prisoners. Not so much baseball-bat surgery. More death by natural causes. Now we know why.”
“No problem,” I said. “All it cost me was a chair.”
“How do you think the government will handle this?” asked Zee.
“I’m just a poor old FBI agent,” said Spitz, “so don’t ask me. If I was to guess, I’d say the scenario would be something like two crazed zealots acting completely on their own did this, and the Padishah is horrified. You can ask Standish Caplan if you see him. He’s got a future in the State Department, I think, and he can probably put as good a spin on this mess as anyone. I gotta go. I still haven’t found that stolen necklace.”
“Do you think you will?”
“No. I think it’s out of the country by now.”
“I think you’re right,” I said.
He looked at me. “You think so?”
“Yeah.”
“You know something I don’t?”
“Naw.”
“Naw. Did I tell you that we found a Webley revolver out on Chappy this morning? Right next to the road under about a foot of sand. Sending it to the lab for prints, then up to Boston so your boss, Jasper Cabot, can identify it. Funny thing, a Quaker like Blunt bringing home a pistol for a souvenir. You never know about people, do you? Well, I gotta go. Glad it all worked out. See ya.”
He went.
“I’m starving,” said Zee. She got up and pulled me up. “Let’s eat some real food and go to bed.”
“It’s only about seven-thirty. You can’t be sleepy yet.”
“That’s right,” she said.
