The Golden Kill

by Marc Olden

  “Who’s she?”

  “Ah, the lady.” Clarke lifted his silver goblet in a toast. “She’s a lady in more than one sense of the word. Lady Lisa Warren, English, twenty-eight, dark hair, and lovely, as you can see, and quite important to Print Jerrold Drewcolt. She’s his aide, you might say. Drewcolt divorced his wife years ago and stuck her off somewhere with enough money to keep her quiet. Lady Lisa Warren is also Print’s interior decorator, having chosen all of the furnishings for his two castles as well as his apartments and homes in New York, Los Angeles, Paris, London, Rome, Athens, and Madrid. She acts as hostess at his parties, travels with him, and is his primary mistress.

  “A man like Print has an awesome appetite, and ego to match. Lady Warren is one of several, but it didn’t disturb her until recently. She’s educated, chic, picked up the title from her husband, who died under mysterious circumstances. Some say Print killed her husband two years ago to get her. I think she’s just now beginning to believe that.”

  As he thumbed through the other photographs, Sand said, “What’s Mr. Drewcolt’s problem?”

  “From his point of view, it’s a simple problem,” said Clarke. “He plans to steal forty billion dollars in gold, first killing a few people; then he’ll go on from there.”

  “Other than that,” said Sand, still looking at the beautiful face of Lady Lisa Warren.

  “There is a little more,” said Clarke, “if you can tear yourself away from the lovely lady. As you may already know, China and Russia are about to sign an important agreement.”

  “Something about gold, I think.”

  “Correct. China is giving Russia mining concessions. She’s letting the Russian bear pull a lot of gold out of the ground in exchange for a hundred factories to be built at Russian expense and manned with Russian technicians for the next ten years.”

  Sand was silent. He was also impressed. For both countries, it was an incredible deal, and this was the first he’d heard of the exact terms on both sides. But he knew Clarke’s sources were many and accurate.

  “Russia,” said Clarke, “needs the money in the worst way. She’s hit an economic period that’s disastrous—in fact, a lot worse than we have here with our dollar and inflation that that asshole sitting in my chair in the White House can’t seem to handle. With Chinese gold, Russian currency could become as strong as it’s ever been, which in the long run might not hurt us. In return, China gets closer to the twentieth century, and with Russia paying for the factories and technicians, a lot of that gold won’t be even leaving China.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “CCE and Print Jerrold Drewcolt. He doesn’t want the agreement to be signed. It’s due to be signed in a few weeks, no one knows for certain just where, but it’s a sure thing about the time. Four weeks. He wants the gold concession himself. He tried to grab it but got nowhere. But he hasn’t given up. Right now he’s willing to make a lot of trouble to get it.”

  “What kind of trouble, and how do you know?”

  “Answering the first part last, I know because somebody in his organization—somebody, I might add, getting paid good money by me—has told me so. This somebody is scared shitless by Print and Talon. This person has seen a lot of things happen that are frightening, and would like to retire from CCE, alive and rich. Actually, I’ve got three people inside Print’s organization, but none of them know each other. I mean, they know and work with each other, but they each think they’re the only one slipping me information. Better to keep it that way, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” said Sand.

  “Anyway, my three informants seem to bear each other out. Print wants the gold concession. As big as Consolidated Communications and Electronics is, it’s a little shaky now. For one thing, a few countries have made threatening noises about kicking out Print the American imperialist, which, if it happens, means CCE loses a great deal of money. For another, the dollar’s shakier than a drunk in a tornado. Print needs money to keep his empire on its feet, and as far as he’s concerned, Chinese gold is just the answer.”

  “What kind of incidents is he planning?”

  “He plans to attack Chinese diplomatic personnel in several countries. But whether it’s here or Europe or Africa, he’s going to see that Russia gets the blame. His men or whoever he hires to do the killing or kidnapping will be Russian or masquerading as Russian. They’ll call themselves ‘The Czars.’ That way, it’ll look like some Russian political extremists don’t want their country to sign a deal with old enemy Communist China. Communist China will get mad, pull out, and Print thinks he’ll step in and get the gold. That’s what my contacts tell me. Drewcolt will harm the Chinese in any way he can and try to blame it on the Russians.”

  “That could harm this country, too,” said Sand. “Anything happening on American soil against a foreign power causes a problem for this government, and the fact that it’s an American company doing the plotting, if that ever got out, it would look as though the American government favors this kind of thing.”

  Smiling, Clarke said, “I like you, son. You’re beginning to think just like me. Yeah, the political backlash is a big reason why I want you in on this thing. Another reason is that people like Drewcolt and Talon have to learn that it ain’t their world, that they can’t just kill when they’re hot to make a buck. I want him stopped, and I want you to do it.”

  Nodding his head, Sand continued to look at the pile of photographs of lawyers, aides, secretaries, local CCE officers in different countries.

  “I’ll need something in a hurry.”

  “Name it.”

  “A detailed floor plan of Crafford Castle, because if that’s where Print Drewcolt spends most of his time, that’s where I’ll end up sooner or later.”

  Smiling, The Baron pushed a cardboard box across the table.

  Sand looked at it, then looked at Clarke. “You’re learning,” he said to the ex-President of the United States.

  “Thank you,” said the tanned, white-haired Texan. “I’m beginning to know how your mind works too, and I like it. It’s crafty, just like mine.”

  The box was crammed with photographs of Crafford Castle, inside and out, labeled and captioned with measurements from moat to front gate, from door to door, from floor to ceiling. All of the photographs were eight-by-ten, in color, and in sharp focus.

  Piles of photographs were labeled: front wall outside, front wall inside—with measurements on the picture’s bottom. The same was done for the other three walls.

  There were photographs labeled; first floor, first room; second room; and so on. Then the second floor, with each room photographed and captioned, and a pile of photographs for the cellar and dungeon, which was still in working order. Stables and quarters for the dogs and hawks were all neatly photographed and labeled.

  Based on a quick look, Sand said, “A good job. Outstanding. She knows what she’s doing.”

  He heard a sharp intake of breath from Clarke. “She?”

  “Lady Lisa Warren,” said Sand. “She took these photographs.”

  “Jesus God, son, how the hell did you guess that?” Clarke’s voice was high with surprise.

  “No one but an interior decorator could get by Print’s suspicions and Talon’s caution. To take these photographs, you had to do it in broad daylight, and with everybody watching you. It had to be her.”

  “Damn,” said Clarke. “You surprise me sometimes. Yeah, she’s the one.”

  “Funny thing about black people,” said Sand, “they’re a lot smarter than white people sometimes.”

  “I’m becoming more of a believer every day,” said Clarke.

  “Who are your other two informants?”

  “Abe Richards, one of his lawyers. Photo’s inside, and there’s a file on him, too. Third person’s Victor Barnes, brilliant accountant. His picture and file’s there, too. The people out front in this deal will either be Russian or pretending they are. But the people behind them will be anything—white, blac
k, yellow, green—mean as hell and all bought and paid for by Print’s money. And he’s got a lot of it. This is going to be a tough one, son, ’cause you ain’t just fighting power, you’re fighting money, and that’s a lot of power in itself. Believe me, I know.”

  “I need a week, maybe more, to study these files,” said Sand. “I’ll have it all committed to memory by then. When I give it back to you, I want you to burn it all, every bit of it.”

  “Whatever you say. I take it you plan to stay here at the ranch and prime your pump, so to speak.”

  “If you don’t mind,” said Sand.

  “This place is yours, son. You want it, you got it. My men have strict orders to stay away from you, though the stories about what you did to four of ’em the first time you came is more than enough to win you respect. That and my own natural meanness.”

  “Good,” said Sand. “I want the exclusive use of your private gym from four to six in the morning while I’m here. Two hours a day. I work out privately. No one watches me, no one.”

  “No problem.”

  “Good. I do a five-mile run before I train, so tell your people not to take any target practice when they see a black man running across the prairie.”

  “They ain’t gonna be up that early. Besides, I’m the law around here as far as you can see, breathe, hear, or even think. The word’s out to stay clear of you. By the way, I told my informants somebody’s on the way, but I didn’t say who. Well, I guess that’s it.”

  “See you in the morning,” said Sand, gathering files in both hands. “As you once said, it’s time to belly up to the buzz saw.”

  That had been two weeks ago, fourteen days of concentrated learning about Consolidated Communications and Electronics, about Crafford Castle, and about the various businesses spread throughout the world.

  During those two weeks, Print Jerrold Drewcolt and the power and money of Consolidated Communications and Electronics had swung into action. A Chinese consul had been the victim of a hit-and-run accident in Toronto, dying on the street. A factory being built in Kenya by a Red China economic mission mysteriously blew up, killing four Chinese technicians.

  In Rome, a member of the Chinese embassy had died when an elevator cable broke loose in a department store and the elevator plunged ten floors to the basement. A Chinese diplomat and his wife sightseeing in Hong Kong drowned when their tourist junk overturned in the harbor. Twelve people died with them.

  And always, rumors about Russians being somehow connected with all of this.

  Coincidence? Not to Sand and The Baron. They had been warned that the incidents were on the way, but they weren’t told when and where until the New York incidents. Clarke’s informants didn’t know, couldn’t find out, or were too scared of Print, Talon, and CCE to attempt getting word out. Until now.

  With the two planned New York hits, somebody had gotten information and the courage to use it. Even knowing that, Sand had been unable to save Li Hang Sing’s life. The Black Samurai had all he could do to save his own life.

  Two weeks of learning that The Baron was right, that CCE, Print Jerrold Drewcolt, and Talon were determined in their ruthlessness and evil. Anyone getting in their way ended up dead or destroyed. Money and power. Print Drewcolt had both, and wanted more at any cost.

  Robert Sand was facing a dangerous enemy, and he had less than two weeks to stop him.

  Chapter IV

  STEPPING OUT ONTO THE roof, his rubber-soled shoes gently crunching gravel underfoot, he softly closed the huge steel door behind him and stood still in the darkness. Trained to listen with his mind as well as ears, Robert Sand froze in the shadows for seconds until he satisfied himself that the sounds around him were no danger to him.

  When he stepped from the shadows out into the moonlight and walked toward the edge of the ten-story apartment house, moonlight touched his black leather jacket and pants like a light covering of oil.

  At the roof’s edge, he looked down at the darkness below, a darkness streaked by light coming from a few windows. There was no fire escape; he had found that out earlier, and that’s why the thick strong rope was coiled high around his left shoulder. The rope was all that stood between him and a ten-story plunge into darkness and concrete.

  He looked at his watch. Ten minutes ago he had been in the basement, where he had turned the thermostat up as far as it would go. Then he had slipped his Colt .45 from the small of his back and smashed the thermostat into a handful of metal junk and red and blue wires. Now the temperature would stay at one hundred and twenty degrees until it was repaired, which would take hours after a repairman was found.

  One hundred and twenty degrees of heat on even a chilly October night was too much. Windows would open soon, and that’s what Robert Sand was waiting for. In particular, one window on the seventh floor, three stories below him.

  That would be Beth Crane’s apartment, the one window in her bedroom. Beth Crane, like other expensive call girls servicing U.N. diplomats, charged five hundred dollars for a one-hour date. In a half-hour, she was expecting Choy Lo Pi, number-three man in Red China’s U.N. mission, and a steady customer.

  Choy Lo Pi. The U.N. hit. And according to The Baron, whose worldwide informants and contacts worked hard at keeping him aware of everything, Consolidated Communications and Electronics was hitting Choy the second he walked into the call girl’s expensive apartment. A killing and a scandal. Two for one, and Print Drewcolt would be that much closer to pulling Red China and Russia apart. And that much closer to Red China’s gold, as well.

  Bending down, Sand tied an end of the rope firmly around a small red-brick chimney. Leaving the rope there, he stepped back to the edge and looked down the side of the building toward Beth’s apartment. Below him, down on the third floor, a window was shoved open fast and hard and a man’s voice rang out in the darkness, “Jesus Christ, it’s hotter than hell in here. Goddamn it, get on that phone and call somebody downstairs.”

  Robert Sand smiled.

  Beth Crane’s window, however, remained closed.

  He watched and waited.

  When she heard the front-door buzzer go off and a heavy fist pound against her door, Beth Crane was sitting nude in front of an oval mirror gently cupping her full breasts, the red of each polished thumbnail covering a pink-tipped nipple. The scars from her bust operation were fading more each day, drying up into two-inch-long white slits.

  Now she was pissed! The doorman shouldn’t have let anybody come up without announcing them first, and besides, it couldn’t be Choy, because he was punctual to the second, and he wasn’t due for another twenty-five minutes.

  She leaned her head toward the door and yelled. “Yes?”

  “Police. Open up, Miss Crane.” The man’s voice was loud and hard as only big city cops’ can be.

  Now what? Nervously she pressed her lips tightly together, wiping the back of her hand across her moist forehead. First this goddamn heat, in October no less, and now cops. What did they want? And besides, did they have to stand out in the hall and scream so the neighbors could hear? She was already paying two hundred a month to a plainclothes detective out of the precinct, and shit, she wasn’t going to pay anybody else.

  “Miss Crane, it’s about Mr. Choy. We know he’s due here soon, and we want to talk to you about him. If you want to do it the hard way, O.K. by me. We’ll stand out here in the hall and yell our questions in, O.K.?”

  Bastard! It was definitely not O.K. “All right, all right. Just a minute, a minute, huh?”

  Touching her dark-red hair with both hands, she stepped to the closet, took out a white terrycloth robe, slipped into it, and belted it around her small waist. As she turned to leave the bedroom, she stopped, ran to the window, and opened it wide. Then she raced toward the front door, saying, “A second.”

  Opening the peephole in the front door, she closed one eye and stared at three blue-uniformed cops silently standing in the hallway. Shit! If the neighbors see that … Hell, if Choy sees that! That cou
ld cost her business.

  Unlocking the door, she opened it wide, and as she stood there with her heart pounding, her right hand gently touching her throat, the three cops moved past her and fanned out, each drawing his gun.

  Quickly she slammed the door shut, desperate to keep the neighbors curious rather than convinced. A tall, lean cop stepped to the side of the bedroom door, and hearing nothing, crouched and went through the door fast. A stocky cop with a double chin moved cautiously toward the kitchen and bathroom, a .38 Smith & Wesson in his right hand held close to his shoulder, barrel pointing toward the ceiling.

  A small cop, seemingly the leader, stood in the center of the living room, his ivory-handled handgun in his black-leather-gloved fist, his eyes wide with readiness, his knees crouched.

  The light went on in the bedroom; then the lean cop stood in the doorway and said, “Nothing.” Reaching back into the room, he turned off the light.

  “Same,” said the double-chinned cop.

  Beth was holding her breath. Realizing this, she let the air out of her lungs with a long, nervous sigh. “Tell me what you’re looking for, and maybe I can help you.”

  The small cop holstered his ivory-handled gun, turning the butt around so it pointed forward, then said, “We’re looking for a nigger, a nigger who caused some trouble yesterday and might try to cause some tonight.”

  Beth’s mouth was open, and her head flipped quickly from side to side, and she smiled the way people do when they are afraid and want the approval of those they fear. “You got to be kidding. I mean—”

  “Shut up!” The small cop’s tiny, cruel eyes dug into her face, and she reached for her throat with both hands, pulling the robe closed as though the temperature had suddenly dropped below zero. She was frightened and was finding it harder and harder to keep from coming apart.

  Fear had made her mouth dry, but she licked her lips and in a tiny voice said, “If you’re going to arrest me, I’d like to know—”