There was absolutely no doubt in his mind that the rough-skinned, leathery fish that had brushed against him in the water had been a good-sized shark. The question of what a shark was doing in a manmade well that was inexplicably filled with sea water was superceded by the bewildering, crushing certainty that he would be attacked a few seconds after his fingers and toes lost their grip on the wall. He was going to be dismembered, disemboweled, chewed on. He assumed that his bloody hands and thigh had attracted the shark—or sharks. It, or they, would be circling just below the surface, waiting to literally tear him to pieces. He had been brought back from the dead only to be eaten.
His fingers and toes would not hold him up any longer. With a silent scream of terror and rage, John dropped into the water.
He recalled reading somewhere that sharks were surface feeders, and for no other reason than an instinctive desire to cling to a few more precious seconds of life, John stiffened his body and knifed down into the depths. As his feet touched a bottom of silt and rock, he cringed and tucked his body into a ball.
Nothing happened. There was no great, rough weight slamming into him, no rending teeth. Still he waited, exhaling a bit of air to achieve negative buoyancy and swallowing to ease the pain in his ears.
As his initial terror receded he slowly became aware of a strong pressure on his face and torso actually pushing him backward. He allowed himself to drift with the flow for a few moments, then realized with a fresh stab of panic that he had been carried a number of feet beyond what would be the boundary of the well wall.
He raised his hands over his head and scraped his raw knuckles against stone.
Panic would only make his heart beat faster and suck oxygen from his tissues, John thought. He concentrated on remaining calm as he turned around and rolled on his back. He stuck his fingers up into the rock crevices over his head and pulled hard, hand over hand, against the increasingly powerful current. A few seconds later he reached up and touched nothing but water. He pulled himself out of the mouth of the tunnel, planted his feet on the bottom and shot back to the surface.
This time he did not waste energy trying to climb out of the well; that appeared to be impossible. Instead, attempting to deal with the most immediate danger, he gripped a section of the wall with his bandaged hands and hauled his right leg out of the water. He groped with his bare foot until he found a toehold, then pulled himself up a few inches. He rested in that position, his bleeding hands and thigh out of the water, letting the salt water support the rest of his weight.
So much for the shark and any of its friends, John thought with a shudder. Obviously, the well was connected to the sea by at least one underground cave. He assumed he was many feet below sea level, for the water pouring into the well from somewhere above his head would indicate the presence of other caves snaking to the sea like stone umbilical cords. The current would be due to tidal surge.
He suddenly realized that his chest had moved a few inches closer to the fixed position of his hands and right leg. The water in the well was rising. With absolutely nothing better to do, he thought, he would just hang around and see how far up the water took him.
He smiled wryly and almost laughed aloud, thinking that it would be funny as hell if the rising water carried him all the way to the top of Peters’ carefully considered torture chamber and death trap.
Peters would not be amused, he thought, and his smile vanished. He would make damn well certain that Peters was not amused. He would kill the man at the first opportunity, in any way he could. Then he would go to the Sierrans.
The thought of Rick Peters bloated him with rage, and he threw back his head and shouted to release the terrible, black pressure in his soul. He kept shouting until he was hoarse, then stopped and cursed himself for wasting his breath and strength. He doubted he could be heard so far underground, and even if his shouts were audible, there was probably no one yet in the castle to hear him. He decided he would try shouting again later.
He closed his eyes, floating with his hands and right leg out of the water and trying not to think of what could happen if the shark that had brushed him and turned up its prehistoric nose did not have good hunting elsewhere.
10:43 A.M.
A Gunner
“Hey, man, where the hell’s the fuckin’ coffee?”
The gunner snapped shut the lid of the equipment trunk on the floor in front of him, then looked up at the man who had stepped into the room. “I don’t know,” he said evenly.
The other man angrily pounded his fist against the door jamb. “The fuckin’ network was supposed to make sure we had plenty of coffee here!”
“Why don’t you look for Cosell? He’s probably got all the coffee.”
“Hey, you tryin’ to be funny?”
“No,” the gunner said mildly. “Just making a suggestion.”
The man was silent for a few moments, sucking his teeth. He looked as if he were trying to decide if he should be offended. “I don’t understand what’s goin’ on,” the man said at last. “What, they gonna’ depend on the fuckin’ Commies to bring coffee to an American crew? We’re union, goddamn it!”
“Maybe they’ve got some coffee outside.”
“Nah. I checked.” The man looked hard at the gunner, frowned. “What the hell do you do?”
“Gaffer.”
“I ain’t never seen you before.”
“I work out of the Queens local. One of your men got sick last night, and I was the only guy they could find to come on such short notice.”
The other man snorted with disgust. “It don’t make no difference who’s here and who isn’t. We’re gonna’ be sittin’ on our asses most of the time, anyway. Damn, I hate the thought of those fuckin’ Commies usin’ our equipment.”
“The Sierrans look like they know what they’re doing,” the gunner said easily. “If you didn’t like the job, why didn’t you stay home?”
“Yeah? Well, fuck you too, Commie-lover.” The man again slammed the door jamb, turned, and walked out.
“Hope you find some coffee,” the gunner said quietly, his lips pulling back into a faint smile.
When the man’s footsteps had died away, the gunner opened the equipment trunk and resumed the task of assembling the specially constructed revolver and silencer that had been rebored to fire the relatively heavy 6.7 millimeter Russian-made bullets the Sierrans used in their automatic rifles. As he had anticipated, the disassembled weapon, packed in with two hundred and fifty pounds of electrical equipment, had easily passed through Customs.
The hybrid revolver was a nice piece of work, the gunner thought, and he wondered who had built it. He had received it only a few hours before leaving, and he would normally have demanded a few days to practice with a new weapon. However, he had been assured that the weapon had been thoroughly tested and all necessary adjustments made. The shootings would be at close range, and he was not concerned.
He vaguely wondered where his employers had acquired such an odd weapon, one so perfectly tailored to the job at hand. However, the gunner never asked questions about matters that were not his concern. All he ever required were instructions, and his instructions for this job were precise: the odds were very high that Manuel Salva would be assassinated that evening; immediately following Salva’s death, the gunner was to kill Rick Peters and John and Alexandra Finway if they were present in the arena. He had studied their descriptions and available photographs; he would have the best possible sight angles. The gunner did not anticipate having any trouble in spotting them.
The gunner wondered who had been given the contract to kill Salva and how much the assassin was being paid.
He finished assembling the revolver and transferred it to a padded, hidden pocket inside a small equipment bag that he could strap around his waist and carry without arousing suspicion. Then he leaned back against the wall and lit a cigarette.
He knew there might be some difficulty executing the kills if the targets were widely spaced in the larg
e arena, but he was being paid a large fee to deal with such exigencies. There would be enough chaos inside the arena to cover a dozen killings. The hybrid revolver would be thrown over the castle’s ramparts into the sea, and he would leave the country the same way he had come in, with the ABC television crews. Even if he were questioned, he thought, there would be no problem. He was, in fact, a card-carrying member of the electricians’ union he had mentioned.
The larger operation, of which he had been told nothing, intrigued him, despite his basically non-curious nature.
His skills in his chosen profession were considerable, but the gunner was not an educated man, and his knowledge of other matters was rather limited. His first reaction upon learning that Salva was going to be killed had been that the Mafia was maneuvering to recapture the control over San Sierra they had enjoyed under Sabrito. Then he had given the matter more thought and come to the conclusion that even the Mafia was no match for the Russians; it would not be enough just to kill Salva. Yet, although he had not been told so, there was no doubt in his mind that the assassination was a Mafia operation. Since he worked for the capos, the gunner found it reasonable to assume that the Mafia was acting as a contractor for another interest, perhaps one of the Sierran terrorist organizations, or even a government. The Mafia, in his opinion, had simply subcontracted a portion of the work to him.
He had never heard of Rick Peters or Alexandra Finway, but he certainly knew something about John Finway. He didn’t like Finway. The gunner normally took a professionally detached attitude toward all his contracts, but he had to admit to himself that he hoped Finway would be in the arena that night; he would take personal satisfaction in killing the man. The gunner thought of himself as a patriot, and he considered the activist lawyer a Communist and a threat to the security of the United States.
Finally, the gunner could not help but wonder about the connection between his three targets and Manuel Salva. However, he had never thought to ask, because he did not want to know; such knowledge could be decidedly dangerous. The gunner had begun his career at the age of fifteen as a “soldier” in New York’s Little Italy. He was now sixty-three, and he knew he had managed to live so long because he did exactly what he was hired to do, and no more; he was reliable, but in no way inquisitive.
The gunner crushed out his cigarette on the floor. He put the carrying bag with the revolver back into the equipment trunk, then left the room and followed a thick, black electrical cable to the arena where the Sierrans and the various American crews were setting up for the evening’s telecast.
John
The rising water was not going to take him to the top of the well, John thought. He had never really believed that it would; it had been no more than a dull gleam of hope in a nether world of rock and water that seemed to offer no other.
At the time when the water had stopped rising, John had found himself at the level of the two caves that had been pouring water into the well. He had explored their mouths with his hands and found they were barely large enough to accommodate his head and shoulders. Realizing that the tunnels could snake through the rock for hundreds of yards without ever growing larger, he had decided not to attempt to go that way; once in, he could easily become stuck and then drown when the water rose again.
The water had begun receding rapidly as the tide reversed itself. The two small caves formed a kind of natural stethoscope enabling John to hear into the heart of the rock; there was a throbbing, hissing rumble as tons of water surged through the veins and arteries of the stone channels, fleeing back to the sea under the inexorable pressure of gravity.
Still in utter darkness, John couldn’t determine how close to the top of the well he had been carried by the rising water. He estimated that hours had passed since Peters had thrown him into the well. It would be midmorning; there should be people in the castle above him.
He began to shout again, using low hooting sounds rather than words in an attempt to save his voice. He proceeded systematically, sustaining a shout for as long as he could and then listening for some sign that he had attracted attention. Aside from lingering, rumbling echoes, there was no response but resounding silence. He concluded that he was too far underground to be heard.
He tried climbing again, but only made it five or six feet before he slipped from the rock face and fell back into the water. He moved around the circumference of the well, trying different routes to the top. The result each time was the same.
Finally he tried stretching his body across the diameter of the well. He was barely able to bridge the distance, but the gap was far too wide to enable him to inch his way up; he had virtually no leverage, and the strain on his arms, legs, and back was too great. He slipped back into the water, then clung to the wall and tried to clear his mind of the despair and panic that constantly threatened to overwhelm him.
The good news, he thought, was that the shark had not returned—yet. He had removed the bandages from his hands, and as far as he could determine, he was no longer bleeding; the salt water and the passing hours had served to close his cuts.
The bad news was that he was rapidly succumbing to fatigue, losing strength, body heat, and concentration. He was not going to die of old age rising and falling in the well, he thought grimly. He was a strong swimmer and could probably hang on for many more hours, possibly even a few days; he might still be alive long after Alexandra’s head had disappeared in a bloody mist. But eventually he had to fall asleep, or pass out from cold and exposure. He would slip down into the black water and drown.
“Damn it!” John yelled in frustration. Adrenalin began to flow back into his muscles, and he shouted louder, “Goddamnit!”
The water level was continuing to fall rapidly, and John was just able to reach up and grab the lip of one of the small caves. He kicked hard and managed to pull himself up into the opening. He started to hunch forward, then stopped when the tunnel narrowed even further and it became impossible to crawl. He wriggled back, dropped down into the water.
He strained to reach the lip of the second cave, but could not get his fingers over the edge. With his muscles fueled by rage and panic, he started to claw at the rocks in an attempt to climb to the second cave; then he thought better of it, stopped and took deep, measured breaths in an effort to calm himself and slow his heartbeat. He could not be sure that he would have any better luck with the second cave than he’d had with the first, and he knew he could not afford to waste any more of his rapidly diminishing strength.
The problem, he thought, was that, even allowing for the bizarre hydrostatic effect that the water in the maze of caves might exert, almost an entire day would be lost before there was another tidal surge. By the time he rose up again to the level of the second cave, Alexandra’s death might be only minutes away.
The possibility that the rim of the well might be only a few feet above him, just a few lucky hand- and toeholds away, tormented him. He started to search for a new handhold, then sighed with despair and sank back into the water. He had fallen a long way.
He knew he could not climb to the top.
Another idea came to him. The thought was terrifying, causing his stomach and throat muscles to contract, making it difficult to breathe. But the action had to be considered, he thought, and it had to be considered at once; in a short time it would be too late.
John took a deep breath, pointed his toes and stiffened his body, then pushed hard against the rock wall. His body knifed downward. Almost immediately he felt the current grab him and pull, bringing him quickly to the bottom. He thrust his hands over his head just in time to grab a lip of rock as the surging vortex sucked the lower half of his body into the mouth of the underwater cave.
It was as if he were in a huge bathtub, he thought. Earlier, he had felt the pressure of the water coming in; now it was draining back to the sea.
He pulled himself back up the rock face until his head broke the surface of the water. He clung to the wall, breathing hard, resting his head against the
backs of his hands as his heart pounded.
Don’t think. Just do it and be damned. You’re going to die anyway.
Trembling with fear and cold, John used his left hand to remove his undershirt. He shrugged it off, then felt it sucked under when he held it out in the center of the well; the whirlpool in the middle of the well was growing in power. Next he removed his slacks and shorts, let them go. He was naked.
Stop thinking about it; there’s nothing to think about. You’re a strong swimmer. If you die this way, at least it won’t be a passive death. It’s the only chance Alexandra has. Do it! Do it while you still have some strength left.
John hyperventilated for a few seconds to void his lungs of carbon dioxide, then sucked in a deep breath. He turned in the water, rolled forward, and pushed hard with his feet against the rock at the same time as he pulled with his arms. He shot down into the depths at the center of the well, executing one last powerful kick and pull and extending his body as he shot into the mouth of the underwater cave.
He knew that he had to concentrate on relaxing and minimizing water resistance if he were to go a maximum distance underwater; fear, a voracious consumer of oxygen, was his greatest enemy. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine that he was doing nothing more strenuous or dangerous than swimming lazily under a dock in some shallow lake; air and burning sun were only a few yards away.
As he slowed, he put his arms out to his sides and discovered that the tunnel was wide enough for him to take short strokes. He pulled with his arms at the same time as he used a narrow scissors kick to propel himself along with the current. When his lungs started to ache he opened his eyes, desperately hoping that he would see some glimmer of light. The water remained a stygian, hope-crushing black.
Turn Loose the Dragons Page 30
