by Buck Sanders
“Good,” said Slayton. “It’s a start. I’ve got some records and things to check.”
She immediately became defensive. “No. I don’t want to crawl back into that bed and pretend to try to go to sleep, because that will be useless. And you know it.”
“And you know we can’t be much good as a team if we’re spliced onto each other constantly,” Slayton said, becoming stern. “I’ll relocate you, get you out of that place, at least.”
Shauna bit her lip. “Okay, okay.” She understood, and that was a relief to Slayton.
“Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll ring Maggie back at the hotel. But I’m not going to tell her exactly where I’ve relocated. As long as I’m on time and on the job, it doesn’t really matter where I stay, and I really don’t have to account to anybody for my off time. This way, maybe we can have results by morning.”
“Alright,” Slayton said. “Let’s get out of here before we uncrate something else that bites.”
Shauna did not need to be convinced to leave.
Professor Gordon Willis had handled snakes.
Slayton shifted the folder on his lap. The Professor must have, he thought, if he had poked around in half the tombs his dossier suggested. An unlikely possibility, but there. Maggie Leiber had frequently been unaccounted for during the voyage, wandering around the ship, but she didn’t seem the right temperament for it. Slayton’s instinct pulled him toward Ahmed Sadi, but the boisterous Arab was usually highly visible—he certainly did not have time to supervise two loadings on the docks simultaneously. He had been one of the first to rush over following the incident with the forklift—it would have been simple to merely double back….
“Let’s see if I can get anyone to flinch at the word snake,” he said to himself, knowing that that, too, was halfhearted.
Then there was still the trio of Willis’s diggers—Cooke, Winslow, and Pratley. They all checked out as adventurous European knockabouts; unimaginative academic careers stopped somewhere midway, followed by a fairly predictable run of caving, mountaineering, and touring the continent with practically no support whatsoever. Their function on the tour was principally to provide a counterpoint to the stuffy technicalities of Professor Willis’ speechmaking by hitting the university campus audiences hard with personal anecdotes and adventures. Tanned, assured, muscular, and self-confident, as well as having a legitimate claim to being worldly, they were a perfect advertisement for drumming up support and interest in Willis’s endeavors.
During Slayton’s primary interview, they had appeared bored but amused. They had promptly vanished into the campus milieu in order to meet their tight speech-making schedules. From the moment the Star of Egypt had docked, they were, for all intents, and purposes, booked up.
Too bad they could not loiter around, thought Slayton, even as potential allies. They would have been the most useful—they had a profound sense of teamwork, among other things, and were virtually inseparable. “Randy little buggers,” Shauna had said, with the sort of affection one reserves for wayward younger brothers. “I sometimes suspect they realized this tour would be practically a sexual smorgasboard of America—Willis did not have to do much in the way of convincing them.”
The trio was essentially irrelevant to Slayton’s problem. Though even his brief talk with them had been enough for him to register that these three were, in every way, apolitical European youngsters unconcerned with the power squabbles that were the stock in trade of people like Slayton, or, for that matter, Rashid Haman. Instead of shooting and point-making, they were balling their merry way through life. Slayton shook his head and added their dossier to the filtered stack.
Slayton, now alone, was acutely aware of his increasing physical need to strike back at Haman. It was pure frustration at being toyed with. He wanted to corner the elusive, damnable man, and take him on barehanded, one-on-one.
It would be easy for Haman to be one of the crew, any of the crew—all of the crew. Slayton kept running up against that particular investigative brickwall. He had to trust Ahmed Sadi, but what if he was Haman?
Slayton regarded the accumulated documents stacked on the table before him. There was Winship’s material, Wilma’s research, his own notes gleaned from observation and the copious details given to him by Shauna, the photos, dossiers, profiles of each member of the expedition, xeroxes—in all, a library that was doing him little direct good. In that moment, he decided that his mind would sift and retain whatever would be needed in a crunch, and henceforth it would of necessity be his hunches and instincts that would have to carry him. He had to approach this problem with the same sort of animal cunning Haman would apply—and was applying even now—to bedevil him.
That determined, Slayton left the papers on the table and regarded the slowly rising sun through a nearby window.
He had to start early, regardless of the fact he had gotten little sleep during the night with Shauna, the cobra, and the hunt-and-peck session aboard the truck trailers. He decided he’d better get a shave before leaving.
The grin on Ahmed Sadi’s face was almost cinematically apologetic.
“We seem to have misplaced one of our men, sir,” he told Slayton, as the two walked along outside the exhibit center. “Miss Dr. Leiber spoke to me this morning—ah, she is so beautiful, is she not, sir?”
Slayton nodded.
“She asked me some most peculiar questions about the handling of animals,” he continued. “I mentioned that several men in my humble contingent had occasion to work for foreign collections—zoos and that sort of thing.”
“And the man foremost in your mind as fitting her description has now disappeared?” Slayton felt a different kind of snake twist uncomfortably in his gut.
“Yes, Mr. Rademacher. You remember Bassam.”
“The one who seemed so offended by my interview?”
“Yes sir, indeed.”
This seemed even stranger to Slayton. Haman would certainly not try to draw attention to himself by being immediately hostile, and then being the first person to split when questions were asked. And then he thought: misdirection.
“Where would he go? He’s practically a tourist, Ahmed.”
“Ah, yes, sir. I think he will turn up here again soon. Unless he abandons us altogether.”
In which case we’ve got nothing to worry about, Slayton added mentally. Maybe he’ll go to work for the Bronx Zoo.
After being waved through into the exhibit area, Slayton found that the background flats had been erected, and now the area actually did look like the interior of a tomb. Two men were doing some preliminary fiddling with lighting effects and baby spots. Shauna was busy at a work table near what she had earlier described as the coffin area, brushing and inspecting what looked like a mask.
“Death mask?” said Slayton, and she looked up.
“Hardwood face,” she said. “Laid over the real thing. Look, see—the eyes are made of obsidian.”
He inspected the article briefly. She lowered her voice so the others in the room would not hear: “My god, Ben, you know now that it’s morning, I find myself disbelieving that adventure last night…”
“What adventure?” said Slayton, picking up an amulet from the table.
She shook her head. “Did you find out anything?”
“No.” He paused, really wishing he could tell her something positive, allay whatever demons were pestering her now. “This is a hydrocephalus—correct me if I’m wrong. What does it say?”
“It’s a rubric from Chapter 162 of the Book of the Dead,” she said, holding the amulet in both hands before her face and calling up the passage from memory. “That’s the ‘chapter of making heat to be under the deceased.’ It reads: O Amon, O Amon, who art in heaven, turn thy force upon the dead body of thy son and make him sound and strong in the Underworld. You’d better be free tonight, damn you.”
“Does it say that, too?” He smiled. “Depends. Maggie paid off, after a fashion. One of the workers has vanished.”<
br />
“A suspect?”
“Not really.”
“Well, I hope I can see you later. Did you speak to Maggie outside?”
“No, I missed her.”
“If you spot her, tell her her counsel is urgently requested, in Hell’s Kitchen. She’s probably at the hotel, on the phone. And I will see you later. Careful with that stuff; all those little vials are full of acid.” She said this last without even looking up.
Slayton replaced the test-tubelike container he had lifted from the table. “Acid?”
“Nitric acid, flouric acid, hydrochloric. Sometimes we need it to clean these things. Sparing dosages only. Don’t get your nose too close, kind gentleman.” She gave him a wry look, and he departed.
“Been to bed with her yet?” came a voice as soon as Slayton was back outside.
Still staring straight ahead, Slayton said, “Was there ever a man more misunderstood? Hello, Wilma.”
“I won’t quote you,” she said, catching up with him and matching his pace. “But don’t tell me you two haven’t made a point of staying within striking distance of each other.”
“I have to watch over them.”
“Why?”
“Top secret,” he mumbled.
“No fair.” She let it die out and then said, “Those trucks, and those shipments of weapons—if they were weapons—have melted into the woodwork. No traces, nothing. Sorry about that.”
“Both of us,” said Slayton, distractedly. “I got attacked by a king cobra last night, in my bedroom.”
Wilma cocked an eyebrow. “That’s what you get for sleeping out on me, bastard.”
“Wilma, speaking of those trucks—”
She cut him off. “You’re not going to talk about it, are you!” She shook her head, incredulous.
“Not polite. You know me, the soul of tact and all that. Look—here’s a man you just have to meet. Broaden your horizons.” Ahmed Sadi approached them on the walk.
“Oh, boy,” she said.
Ahmed was more than pleased to meet Wilma, who shot one of her I’ll return the favor someday, smartass looks at Slayton while being TV-polite. Slayton, naturally, had immediate business that required him, regrettably, to be elsewhere. It never happened.
From across the small courtyard, somebody started shooting at them.
Three flat and very loud reports cracked and echoed off all the cement. At the sound of the first, Slayton grabbed Wilma, pushing her to the ground with himself over her—they were flat down, but needed substantial cover. Ahmed dived behind a shrub. They were all too far away from the door to the exhibit hall to make a run for it.
A hot slug skimmed off the sidewalk near Slayton, and the second blew brick chips out of the building wall behind them. He heard the third ricochet, but did not see where it went.
He did hear Ahmed scream out in pain.
11
“Stackman! Stackman, are you back there!”
Stackman was, in fact, holed up in the exhibit hall entrance, pistol drawn. “Yeah!”
“Take two guys and bear straight in on him—one down that breezeway over there, and the other on the other side,” shouted Slayton. With guards headed down the breezeways, the man shooting—who Slayton now realized was across the courtyard—would have to retreat through the alley to the rear. It was the only way.
“Wilma!” Slayton yelled. “Are you—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Wilma said, still on the ground, covering her ears with her hands.
Slayton was off and running. He had already determined that if he was the target, his assailant was a lousy shot. If there was any more fire, Stackman and his cohorts, now charging up the breezeways as instructed, would return fire, and that would be chaotic enough for Slayton not to worry too much about getting clipped. He ran.
With Stackman and his men right behind, Slayton caught a corner of the building and tore around it just in time to see a Levi-clad ass bounce over a chain link fence at the dead end of the alley, where the tour cars were generally parked. Slayton did not know what was beyond the fence. The mystery did not slow him down, and in seconds he was up and over the fence himself.
“That dude is long gone,” said Stackman, disgusted. He motioned his men to quit running. They stared at the fence in the distance, obscured by the junk leaning against the opposite side. “Rademacher!” he called, his hands cupped over his mouth. “Jesus, both of them are long gone…”
Slayton was motioned into absolute silence by a panting Bassam, who had doubled back and, under cover, waited for Slayton to come over the fence. Obscured from the view of the Sparta men, Slayton stood with his hands slowly elevating skyward as Bassam held the big .45 on him as steadily as he was able.
Christ! thought Slayton. The bastard’s so nervous that if he hiccups, he’ll blow off my arm at the elbow.
“You will not be moved,” Bassam said, warily.
“Right.” Slayton tensed and said, “Why didn’t you let anyone know you could speak English, Bassam?”
“I am only a little.” That was for sure. He motioned with the pistol toward the fence.
Slayton picked it up. “Bassam, I don’t think they followed me.”
“To your automobile we will!” Again, instructive movements with the gun. He was extremely agitated and touchy. “You ahead of me, now.” Beyond the fence there was a narrow rift between two taller buildings, and it was toward this that Bassam directed Slayton.
The passage was just several inches wider than Slayton’s shoulders. Bassam was shorter, and seemed agile enough. Slayton gauged his chances as he moved ahead. From this end, the rift looked like a long, thin tunnel. It did not admit much daylight. Bassam would have the pistol aimed at his back, just a bit high.
It would take him a second to panic and shoot. He might continue to fire mechanically, but he would hesitate before that first shot, would wait to make sure that Slayton’s actions deserved the shooting. That hesitation would be all the delay Slayton needed. If Bassam had intended only death, Slayton would certainly be sprawled out back by the fence now, blood coming out of six or seven holes. The man’s actions broadcast uncertainty; he would hesitate. Slayton decided, and acted.
With smooth economy of motion, Slayton dropped down onto both hands and kicked straight back, hitting Bassam. He used the inertia of the kick, coming off his left hand and twisting to a stand, facing the opposite direction, as Bassam lost his balance and fell on his ass. The gun, held too tightly, went off as it swooped upward in his grip. The shell scissored madly off the close walls, bouncing from one side to the other until it was gone. Bassam had both hands on the gun and it was pointing straight up toward the sky.
Slayton wasted no time and grabbed Bassam’s feet, using the motion of his backward fall against him and continuing, flipping him over. His arms flew out reflexively to brace himself against the brick walls and to avoid being somersaulted. He dropped the gun to the dirt.
Slayton jacked his arms up and Bassam did a furious three-quarter flip that landed him on his face with jarring impact. He scrabbled to his feet as Slayton kicked the pistol behind him, between his own legs.
Bassam came to his feet attempting a general open-handed grab for Slayton, but it was a move that could be seen coming for miles. Slayton deflected the smaller man’s hands to either side and advanced with a salvo of flat, open-handed blows that bounced Bassam’s head from one side of the rift to the other, much like the misfired bullet.
Blood spurted from Bassam’s nose as he spun, arms out, against the wall to Slayton’s right. Slayton angled a chop into his throat. He stiffened and his body tried to bend over, with the result he again whacked his skull, this time against the far wall. Slayton stepped up, kicked, and Bassam’s breath came woofing out.
It was done, of course, but Slayton’s body kept working. He slammed a fist down on the back of Bassam’s neck and his body tried to crumple into a fetal position. Instantly, Slayton flipped his body over and pounced, getting a thumb onto Bassam’s wi
ndpipe, totally immobilizing the Arab.
Bassam was already unconscious. Slayton almost broke the man’s nose with another efficient blow before he noticed.
And then Slayton stood up, feeling a rush of something like nausea, very like the sensation that had overcome him after the incident with the cobra, only less pronounced.
At once, he realized his body was unleashing and burning those massive backups of aggression and adrenalin. His collected frustration against Rashid Haman had just bled off a huge reserve of power in a quick burst. It was like opening and slamming a door, getting a blinding burst of light from within in the quick interim. He might have gone on to kill the Arab, had he not checked himself immediately.
But now Slayton immediately bent to check Bassam’s pulse and respiration. He was still alive, his autonomic nervous system pulling in his breath mechanically. The blood streaming out of his nose lagged a little in its flow. Some had trickled into his mouth and outlined his teeth in red. Slayton examined the man quickly and economically. He had a goose-egg lump bulging from the back of his skull and abrasions on his face from the rough bricks of the building wall, but there were no broken bones—in a day or two, the only souvenirs Bassam would have would be some unattractive contusions.
Slayton scooped the smaller man out of the dirt and hoisted him arm-and-leg over his shoulders, creeping sideways until they were clear of the narrow gap between the buildings.
Then he remembered the gun.
He leaned the inert form of Bassam against the building wall and dashed back. The gun was covered with dirt from the struggle. The nickel plating was nicked and scratched, As soon as Slayton picked it up he realized that it was his own .45 automatic, from the Triumph—which was still in Baltimore, of course.
A quick check of the clip revealed only the four shots had been fired. Slayton stuck the gun in his belt, collected Bassam, and headed back for the exhibit hall area.
People were clustered near the entrance, where the gunplay had disrupted everything. A police car and an ambulance were bouncing their lights off the surrounding buildings.
