by Jon Land
No such luck. The arms dealer was nowhere to be found and Blaine found his own seat five minutes before the lights were dimmed. His eyes swept the rows of private boxes above him, some set back so far that their occupants were hidden. He borrowed a pair of opera glasses from a hefty woman seated next to him and intensified his sweep, aware that once the house lights were turned down, he would have to break the search off. The orchestra had finished tuning their instruments. He had only seconds left.
He was studying the middle boxes on the left side of the hall when a man rose to greet a pair of female guests. Blaine smiled. François Deveraux hadn’t changed a bit. His toupee seemed to fit better than the last time they had met, but other than that he looked exactly the same. His flesh was baked bronze by the sun, the absence of lines and wrinkles due not so much to nature as to a plastic surgeon’s skilled knife. His smile flashed white and full, and he kissed the ladies politely.
The lights dimmed and a drumbeat pounded the air. The opera was about to begin. Blaine returned the glasses and slumped back in his chair, making himself applaud until the people next to him stopped.
The next hour was as long as any he could remember. He did not know the opera’s tide, nor could he follow its plot as it unfolded onstage. The high notes and orchestral reverberations stung his ears, and he found himself stealing as many glances as he could up at Deveraux’s box, wondering what he might do if the arms dealer was similarly unenthused about the performance and made an early exit.
At last the first act came to an end and Blaine pushed by the others in his row and made his way up the aisle. It was already crowded, and he felt the nag of frustration in the pit of his stomach, eyes cheating up toward Deveraux’s box. He needed the arms dealer alone up there. If Deveraux had opted for a trip to the bar, Blaine might have to stomach another act, and he wasn’t sure if he was up to that.
He moved with the crowd back into the lobby and then against the traffic up one of the circular stairways closest to Deveraux’s box. He had tried to pin down its location from its proximity to others, a needless task as it turned out, since two guards were stationed before its private entrance. Deveraux’s guards were there more for show than anything else, since the private boxes were connected, split only by a thin dividing wall and a curtain. Blaine passed Deveraux’s and entered the one two down from it.
“Excuse me,” he said, pushing by two exasperated couples and sliding behind the curtain.
He repeated the same process at the next box and then stuck his face out from behind the curtain at Deveraux’s.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur Deveraux.”
The two women gasped. Deveraux swung around quickly.
“Mon dieu” he muttered, face suddenly pale.
“Take it easy, François, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Blaine said, and stepped out from behind the curtain.
“I believe I have, mon ami, or perhaps the champagne was too strong.”
“Mind if I join you?”
“Oui, oui. Come in, please.”
Blaine moved forward and smoothed the curtain back into place. Deveraux told the two women to bring back another bottle of champagne and inform the guards to make sure he wasn’t disturbed.
“I heard you had been killed in the States, mon ami,” Deveraux said softly when they were alone.
“Couldn’t kick off until the debt was square between us, now, could I?”
Deveraux slid a small table holding a golden spittoon closer to him. In spite of his rich, urbane life-style, he had never abandoned the habit of chewing tobacco. The only concession he made was to buy the most expensive supply around, packaged in gold foil pouches that looked quite respectable. He packed a small measure in his mouth.
“We need to talk, François.”
“Are you in trouble? If so, my house is yours. No one in France would dare touch you under my protection.”
“It’s not like that. No one in France knows I’m here besides you.” A pause. “I’m working again.”
“For your own people? I would have thought your days with them were over.”
“They are formally. This is strictly undercover and unofficial. No accountability and all that.”
Deveraux expelled a wad of tobacco juice into the spittoon as gracefully as he did everything else.
“Which branch?”
“The Gap.”
“Ah, the most secretive of them all. …”
“Also the most desperate. They lost an agent a while back and I’m taking his place. The agent was on to a plot by some black fanatics planning to try the civil war all over again starting Christmas Eve.”
“And where do I come in?”
“You’ve been shipping them the weapons to do it.”
Deveraux almost missed the spittoon. He tried to hold his calm. “Because we are friends, Blaine, I will try to forget you said that. You know me too well to suspect me of doing business with such a cause.”
“Not knowingly, perhaps. And in this case the cause has lots of help. Let me put it this way. You have made nine almost identical weapons shipments to different regions of the U.S. in the past six months, haven’t you?”
Deveraux’s eyes flashed unsurely. “Yes, quite large shipments, to various new American mercenary units destined for Latin America.”
“That’s what they wanted you to think.”
“They had proper authorization.”
“Anything Luther Krell’s involved in is never what it seems. You should know that better than anyone.”
“The fat bastard …”
“I’ve taken him out of circulation for a while.”
“Yet another debt I owe you, mon ami.”
“You can pay both of them up by answering a few questions.”
“D’accord. I am at your service.”
“Where were the shipments sent to, François?”
Deveraux spit again and thought briefly. “Major cities. New York, Los Angeles, Houston, Philadelphia, Chicago. The others I cannot recall off the top of my head.”
“The weapons were divided equally by region?”
“More or less. There was no reason for me to question it.” Deveraux hesitated. “Tell me more about what is going on.”
“It gets complicated, but it’s centered around a man named Mohammed Sahhan.”
“I’ve heard of him, mon ami. Very dangerous.”
“And now very armed.”
“I did not know,” Deveraux said apologetically. He raised the spittoon to his mouth, as if not trusting his aim anymore.
“No one’s accusing you. Sahhan had help. Someone set Krell up with him and Krell set you up.”
“Who?”
“That’s what I don’t know. But it’s somebody with power, connections, and resources. Attaché cases don’t normally come packed with cash.”
This time Deveraux missed the spittoon though he still held it under his chin. His lips trembled. “Leather attaché cases,” he muttered.
“The way Krell told me he arranged payment to you.”
“Yes, but there is another client who’s been paying me the same way, also shadowy. They have purchased even more arms than Krell arranged for. But all shipments have gone to one place.”
“Where?”
“An island in the Caribbean called San Melas. Small. Remote.”
“Which tells us nothing.”
“Wait, I haven’t finished yet. The island is privately owned by that American billionaire.” Deveraux hesitated to be sure of the name. “Randall Krayman.”
For a long moment McCracken just sat there looking at Deveraux. Krayman, whose fortune was estimated to be four times that amassed by Howard Hughes, certainly possessed the resources to be the mysterious party backing Sahhan. And the connection between them was now unavoidable. But what would Randall Krayman have to gain from an association with a radical fanatic and his plans for a Christmas Eve revolution?
“Blaine?”
Deveraux’s voice lifted him fro
m his trance.
“I’m sorry, François.”
“The second act is about to start, mon ami. We should conclude our business before then,” Deveraux said, eyes looking away.
“You’re scared.”
“Krayman is a powerful man, not someone to cross.”
“You’re not crossing him, François. You’re just providing information that may be the only thing that can save thousands of lives Christmas Eve.”
“You really suspect Krayman is the force behind Sahhan?”
“I’ve got to proceed on that assumption. What I don’t know is why.”
“That I cannot tell you, mon ami. Where does the island come in? Why does he need so many arms?”
McCracken shrugged. “Training probably. He must be using San Melas to prepare Sahhan’s troops for the assault. It makes sense. A few hundred at a time every few weeks would be more than sufficient. No one would even raise an eyebrow.” Blaine found the Frenchman’s stare and bore into it. “I’ve got to get onto that island, François.”
“Impossible! Reports from my supply planes stress that it is heavily guarded and that the waters are mined. Several innocent fishermen who have strayed too close to the shore have conveniently disappeared.” Deveraux seemed to think of something. “Wait, there might be a way, but it is so risky…” His eyes sharpened. “One final shipment is due to leave for the island from one of my airfields late tomorrow morning.”
“Then it’s simple—I’ll just have to be on board.”
Deveraux shook his head. “Not so simple.” He yanked the wad of tobacco from his mouth and dropped it into the golden spittoon. “The people representing Krayman have insisted that the same crew make the drop each time. For you to replace one of them would arouse suspicion and would not help you accomplish your task in any case.”
“Why not?”
“Because my men are watched constantly from the time they land on San Melas until the time they depart. They are never out of sight of guards the whole time the shipments are unloaded onto trucks on the airfield.”
“Then I’ll have to stow away and make my escape while the shipment is being unloaded.”
Deveraux shook his head more resolvedly. “Non, mon ami. The airstrip is quite a distance from what must be the training grounds, and it is out in the open. You are talking suicide. I owe you too much to let you take such a risk.”
Blaine smiled. “Then I guess we’ll just have to think of something else. …”
When he had finished detailing his plan, the orchestra was tuning up for the second act.
“It is still risky, very risky,” Deveraux said, unconvinced.
“I’ve got to get onto that island, François, and you haven’t come up with a better way.”
The Frenchman nodded reluctantly. “Be at my airfield in Gournay by eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“You mean I actually get some time to sleep?”
Deveraux winked. “You can even stay for the rest of the show now, mon ami.”
“What do you know about Randall Krayman, Andy?” McCracken asked from his hotel room later that evening. The call had been routed through a sterile emergency exchange to make tracing or eavesdropping impossible.
“Why?” Stimson asked.
“Because I think he’s the missing piece we’ve been looking for in all this.” And Blaine proceeded to relate his conclusions based on the information passed on by François Deveraux.
“Let me get this straight,” Stimson said at the end. “A billionaire recluse is financing Sahhan’s Christmas Eve strike and training the principals on his private island in the Caribbean.”
“That’s right,” Blaine confirmed. “An island called San Melas, where I’ll be headed tomorrow morning.”
“And what might Krayman have to gain from all this?”
“Won’t know that until I get there, Andy. Maybe your computers can provide us with a head start. There’s got to be something on them that will give us an idea what Krayman, or his people, are up to. Every damn move of this thing has been carefully planned, from Chen to Krell. Any word from Peachfuzz?”
“His men are making progress, but it’s slow. Too slow. The game’s still yours.”
“I’ve got a feeling the fun’s just beginning.”
Chapter 17
DEVERAUX’S LANDING FIELD in Gournay was hardly an official strip. In fact, no one outside of a necessary few even knew it was still in limited operation. It had been constructed by French Resistance troops at the peak of World War II as a means of smuggling people out of and weapons into France. It had served brilliantly back then and continued to serve Deveraux as one of ten airfields he kept active in continental France.
McCracken arrived by rental car in the bright chill of ten-thirty A.M. to find the transport plane already warming its engines.
“Mr. McCracken?” a man with a French submachine gun said, approaching him.
“Greetings from Paris.”
“Mr. Deveraux contacted us. You are expected. I will make arrangements to have your car driven back to your hotel. Mr. Deveraux insists that no evidence exist of your being here.”
Blaine closed the car door behind him.
“My name is André,” the man, who looked to be still in his twenties, told him. “Mr. Deveraux has requested that I be at your service. Everything is arranged as your instructions indicated. We had to improvise, but I think you’ll find the results most satisfactory. Follow me.”
The whirl of the propellers stung Blaine’s ears as he followed André in a trot toward the large plane’s cargo bay. They climbed up a ramp into a damp, dark world broken by the half-light cast by irregularly placed work lamps.
“Over here, Mr. McCracken.”
André led him toward a wooden crate in the far left corner, approximately the same size and shape as all the others.
“A pair of heavy machine guns are inside here,” André explained, “with a compartment constructed between them for you to conceal yourself in upon reaching the island. A section of the crate has been cut out and loosely refitted, so moderate pressure applied by you from the inside will pop it out to secure your freedom.” André’s eyes became cautious. “If the crate is dropped or rammed, your escape hatch might be prematurely discovered. It was the best we could come up with on such short notice.”
“I understand.”
“In any event, it will not be necessary for you to take refuge in the crate until the crew informs you they are beginning their descent. At that point they will help you lift one of the heavy machine guns aside temporarily and remove one of the false separators so you can slip inside. Any questions so far?”
“Is this crate first class or tourist?”
André smiled. “Whatever you prefer. Just don’t expect any pretty stewardesses. Will you be needing a handgun?”
Blaine nodded. “Something small and reliable. Heckler and Koch, if you can manage it.”
With a thin smile André produced a sleek pistol from his pocket. “Mr. Deveraux anticipated your request,” he said, handing over a Heckler and Koch P-9.
“Perfect,” Blaine said as he took it.
“The flight will last approximately nine hours if winds are favorable. The crew will do its utmost to keep you as comfortable as possible.”
Blaine stowed the pistol in the pocket of his jacket and thanked André. He had dressed casually for the trip in sport shirt, slacks, and windbreaker, a wardrobe right for the Caribbean but not for France in December. His flesh stung with cold. The rest of his baggage was being forwarded to a Gap depot in the States, where he would retrieve it once he returned.
His return from San Melas was something he hadn’t considered yet. He had looked far enough into the future only to hope that his crate was placed somewhere he might manage an unobstructed entry from into Krayman’s base. There was always a way to escape, he told himself, and he had never failed to find it before. Improvisation was the key, the ability to create something out of nothin
g.
Even though he had managed six uninterrupted hours of slumber the night before, Blaine drifted off to sleep soon after takeoff and the surprisingly smooth flight did little to jar him. He came awake periodically and drifted off again until he awoke and realized the big plane was starting its descent.
“I’m afraid it’s time to become a stowaway, sir,” said the first officer, emerging from the cockpit.
Blaine downed a mug of coffee and a roll first and then headed for the crate.
“It’s eighty-five degrees and sunny outside,” the first officer reported. “Great tanning weather.”
“What about the time?”
“Four-thirty in the afternoon. Four hours until sunset.”
“Thanks,” Blaine told him, and together they moved toward the crate in the back of the cargo hold.
Under ten minutes later McCracken was settled between two heavy machine guns in his private tomb. The darkness was total and there was no way to be comfortable. Blaine stretched his limbs as best he could, fighting against spasm by rhythmically flexing his arms and legs. He felt he knew what it would be like now to be buried alive, and the jolts his body absorbed as the plane landed made matters worse. His head took a hefty measure of the blows, and he found himself powerless to shift his frame to a position that could spare any single part of him the pounding. He felt the brakes being applied, heard them squeak, and rejoiced as the plane taxied to a halt.
The most uncomfortable part of his journey, he hoped, was over.
Blaine heard the heavy cargo doors being opened and ramps wheeled into place. Next he heard footsteps, muffled and disjointed. Garbled orders were shouted. Each minute the footsteps and voices drew closer to his crate.
Finally he sensed motion. He felt his crate being dragged across the floor. There was a hard shove from the rear and a thud as it reached the ramp and began its slide down. At ground level impact with another crate made it sway and threatened to tip it over. Blaine grasped his pistol in the darkness. If he was exposed now, he meant to make a fight of it. But the crate came to a halt with no damage done. He heard trucks being backed up and forklifts motoring close by.
