by Marc Olden
Print silently listened to the flames and watched shadows flicker across the green-and-tan-tiled floor and ripple like black waves on the suits of antique armor standing around the huge room.
“Then let’s find out if your suspicions are correct,” he said. “How?”
His words precise, his voice and manner as direct as if sitting on a throne, Print said, “With only twelve days to stop the treaty from being signed, I want my organization clean again. That’s for you to take care of. It will also be your job to capture this black man, this peripatetic nigger, and bring him here to me. I don’t think he’s acting on his own, because there’s nothing in this deal directly affecting blacks anyway. Frankly, blacks aren’t smart enough. Somebody’s pulling the strings behind him, and I want to know that, too.”
“Any ideas on how to get him?”
Smiling, Print leaned back against the oak chair, saying, “That’s how I took a fifty-million-dollar company and made it a seven-billion-dollar company. Ideas. Yes. I think I know how we might get him. And I think I know how we might find out who around us is telling tales out of school.
“For example,” said Print, “let’s take the last problem first. Our trump card. How’s that for bait?”
“Besides you and me,” said Talon, “who knows about the ‘trump card’?”
“You and me,” said Print. “No one else knows that we have a White House friend using his influence over the United States military to get us one ten-inch-long steel canister with a virus deadly enough to kill two hundred and fifty thousand people.”
“You mean two hundred and fifty thousand Red Chinese.”
“Someone considers them people,” said Print. “I will too, provided they let me have their gold. But as we agreed, if our incidents don’t cause a break between Russia and China, then it’s up to us to directly see that the break does materialize. Which means we’ve got to decide tonight how many days do we go on killing individual Chinese as opposed to a more efficient method of convincing them our way is the only way.”
“I say two days before the treaty,” said Talon. “Two days before. Then, if it looks like Russia and China will sign despite what we’ve done to stop it, then it’s ‘trump-card’ time. We drop the virus on the Red Chinese town.”
“From a Russian plane,” said Print, smirking and looking at his nails. “Our own private Russian plane, with leaflets dumped on the slant-eyed little yellow darlings as well, leaflets in Russian, by Russians. Those leaflets, plus that particular twentieth-century poison, should create a lasting impression.”
“Still going with the same towns for takeoff and target?”
“Yes,” said Print. “No reason to change. Tomorrow check and see that the plane is ready and get back to me. For this, I definitely want a Russian pilot. No fakes with Russian names. About the plane itself, I want you at the airfield before takeoff day. Make final arrangements yourself. Don’t trust that to anyone else. Check his flight charts and see that the virus is on board and not left sitting on the floor of the airplane hangar.”
“Day before takeoff,” said Talon, “I leave here in a company plane, the virus in a freezer. And when I get there, I’ll put it on the Russian plane myself. I’ll also make sure the plane doesn’t come back.”
“Shame to lose a good pilot, but we’ve got to give the Russians and Chinese something to hate each other about. When is our White House friend getting us our package?”
“Day after tomorrow. He gets it to Dulles Airport in D.C., and we take over. We have a plane there. There’ll be no customs problem leaving the country, I’ve seen to that. And it cost us plenty.”
“It always does,” said Drewcolt. “Well, that’s your bait for inside. Code Trump Card. Whoever gets the news will want to pass it on. Twelve days from now it won’t matter to us who knows about our trump, especially if the gold agreement is signed and we lose. But during the next twelve days, it represents our last and final move, to be used if nothing else works. Now for something that will lure our mysterious dark friend a little nearer, so we can find out whom he is allied with.”
“We better be quick on this,” said Talon. “We want him out of the way, say, in the next forty-eight hours, which also gives us time to make him tell us the name of his string-puller.”
“Washington, D.C.,” said Print. “That’s the trap for our friend. Once we have him, we fly him here on one of our planes, and we sit and listen to this dark man who is so quick with his hands and feet.”
“I’m looking into that one, too,” said Talon. “I’m running a check on black agents, cops, federal men, independent operators, double agents, anybody. No answers yet, but maybe tomorrow I’ll have something. It sounds as though he’s trained heavily in the martial arts, so I’m having our people check out judo, karate, aikido clubs throughout major American cities. It may take a few days before I get anything, but I think it’s worth a shot. It’s costing us quite a bit of money to ask questions about this man.”
“We’ll get it back,” said Drewcolt. “We’ll get it back in dark meat pulled from his body by Rajah and his fine feathered friends. Every penny of it, torn from his black behind.”
“Let’s outline the Washington hit. If for some reason the black doesn’t show up, I think we should go ahead and see it through, actually do the hit.”
“Why not?” said Drewcolt. “Just be ready to give our expected visitor a suitable welcome up his black ass. Also, let’s discuss the names of those whom we want to know about this and about ‘trump card.’ Who gets the chance to step into the trap?”
Reaching inside his jacket pocket, Talon took out a small black notebook, flipping it open. “I’ve got a few names to read off to you. Let me know your thoughts about them.”
Print nodded.
Talon began reading in a soft voice: last name, then first name, and the position the person held in Consolidated Communications and Electronics. The fire was lower now, dying out, and the room was darker. Print loved medieval authenticity, preferring candles and a fireplace for light, even though the entire castle was wired for total electricity.
The room darkened as Talon read on.
Flipping the small page, he continued reading names. When he came to two names, his soft voice never wavered or hesitated. “Barnes, Victor,” he said. “Accountant. Warren, Lisa. Interior decorator and hostess.” He continued reading names of those he felt should be considered possible suspects.
Print Drewcolt listened and said nothing.
When the two men walked out of the huge room, the fire had died down to glowing red coals covered by fragile black burned pieces of wood. Behind a slit in the center tapestry, a pair of eyes continued to stare at the now empty room, the eyes drawn to the only light, the small, glowing fire.
In a dark, damp passage only two and a half feet wide, Lisa Warren reached down at her feet, picked up a gray stone the size of a house brick, and holding her breath, her heart beating fast, carefully shoved the stone into place. Then she turned, leaning her back against the wall, her hand pressed tightly against her mouth. She was terrified.
Talon.
He knew. That strange evil man knew, and tonight she had seen what he did to those who betrayed Print Drewcolt and CCE. He had his hawks, vicious dogs, and above all, he had his cold heart and mind.
This black man. Was he the man William Baron Clarke was sending to her? One man? How could he possibly be of any help to her? How could one man, black or white, stand up against Drewcolt, Talon, and the might of CCE?
Her mind raced as fast as her pounding heart.
“Trump card.” Virus. Two hundred and fifty thousand Red Chinese to be killed. She knew when, but she didn’t know which town in Red China, and she didn’t know where the plane would take off from. Somewhere near the target, but where? She knew it wasn’t coming back, that the pilot would be killed and the plane made to crash. But when?
Alone in the hidden passage that had been carved from stone over six hundred years ago, she we
pt. She wept for herself and for the life that was hers since her husband, Alan, had been killed in a mysterious plane crash two years ago, a crash she was almost convinced had been arranged by Print Drewcolt.
Escape from Print was impossible. She had tried that three times, and each time he had found her, once even disposing of a man who had been brave or foolish enough to say he loved her. Together they had attempted to defy Print and the power of CCE. The man had disappeared, and while no words had ever been said since about the matter, Lisa knew the man would never be seen again.
Her back sliding against the cold stone wall, she slumped to the ground, her face in her hands, tears warm on her palms.
She was afraid, and that’s why she was not going to warn Clarke that two days from now, in Washington, D.C., his man was walking into a trap.
Later, perhaps, she might have the courage to contact Clarke again. But not now. Not now.
Chapter VII
WILLIAM BARON CLARKE TALKED slowly, sipping from the gold-trimmed glass of bourbon and water, punching the air with his finger for emphasis, the clear blue eyes in his tanned face never moving from Robert Sand.
Except for the Black Samurai and the former President of the United States, the huge luxury suite in the Washington, D.C., hotel was empty. Secret Service men permanently assigned to Clarke waited in the hall and in rooms on either side of his suite.
Sand listened carefully, saying nothing. His life would always depend on concentration, whether he was sitting in a huge brown leather chair like now, or whether he was in a Paris alley fighting three killers. A Samurai’s mind and body must obey him instantly, something coming only with years of the most grueling mental and physical concentration.
For a few seconds the Black Samurai’s mind flicked back to his training under his beloved Master Konuma. On this day, none of the Samurai were practicing their judo, karate, and sword fighting with spirit. Arms and legs moved only out of memory; there was no heart attached to any man’s techniques.
In a cold, controlled fury, the master had issued a short, harsh command, his small, bearded yellow face tense with dissatisfaction at what he saw the twenty-two men doing. Instantly obeying him, twenty-two men formed two lines, dropped to their knees, and sat back on their heels, backs straight, hands palm-down on their knees, eyes closed.
The formal posture for meditation before and after practice, a cleansing of the mind and heart, preparation before fighting hard, a dedication to the utmost effort at all times.
That day, however, was neither relaxing nor cleansing. It was to be brutal.
The twenty-two men stayed in that position for three hours, their thighs swelling with pain, ankles and feet on fire with agony, then turning numb, shoulders tight with tension, back stiff, then suddenly hurting as though whipped repeatedly.
Three hours later, when the master gave the command to stand, Robert Sand was one of three Samurai who slowly, agonizingly, somehow managed to get to their feet.
There was more.
No food until breakfast the next day. Water only. Food was fourteen hours away.
Instead of a five-mile run the next morning, practice would begin with a ten-mile run. Karate practice would begin with five hundred punches for both the left and right hand, five hundred kicks for both left and right leg.
That was merely one example of Master Konuma teaching his Samurai concentration.
And now Sand sat in a six-hundred-dollar-a-day hotel suite concentrating on The Baron’s verbal report from an informant’s tip, on Print Drewcolt’s Chinese hit set for Dulles Airport tomorrow at seven-forty-five in the evening.
And there was more from the tall Texan. Tomorrow night before the hit, a deadly virus would be brought out of hiding. And just before the hit, that virus would be put in a CCE plane at Dulles and flown to England.
There, Print Drewcolt would store it in his castle until it was time to use it against Red China.
Sand had called this face-to-face meeting between them. The Baron agreed, feeling that the news he had received about Print Drewcolt’s forthcoming Washington hit made that city the place for the meeting.
The Baron had set his cover perfectly. With one phone call, he accepted a speaking engagement from a veterans’ group, an invitation they had extended him five times this year.
While he spoke, four of the Secret Service men assigned to him were back in his hotel room combing it for electronic listening devices. They found none. They stayed there until The Baron returned with ten newsmen for drinks.
Forty-five minutes later, nine of the newsmen and all of the Secret Service men left. The tenth waited in the bathroom until The Baron knocked on the door. Opening the door, Clarke said, “Howdy, son.”
Robert Sand smiled and shook The Baron’s hand.
Now he sat silently gazing at the ceiling. Then he spoke. “It’s too easy. I don’t like it. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
Narrowing his eyes, The Baron tilted his head to the side. “I’m listening, son.”
Sand stared at Clarke. “Barnes tells you Drewcolt and CCE have a ‘trump card,’ a virus they plan to use on a Chinese city. No name on the Washington man working for Drewcolt.”
“Yeah. So?”
“That’s heavy news to just be lying around in a corner somewhere waiting for somebody to come by and pick it up.”
“Barnes’s mama didn’t raise no fool,” said Clarke. “He’s got some smarts, that’s why he’s working for CCE and Drewcolt. Give that hombre credit, he’s just doing a good job.”
“For whom?”
The Baron smiled. “I like to think I know you well enough to know you ain’t backing down.”
Sand said nothing.
“Good,” said Clarke. “But there’s something else you ain’t telling me. I can smell it.”
“Smell this,” said Sand. “They know I’m messing up their hits. I’ve done it twice. They know I’m black, maybe even what I look like, more or less.”
“How?”
“Cal. That cop in New York.”
“Yeah. You know something, son? Tidy up behind yourself in the future. If you’d sent that boy to cop heaven, he wouldn’t be in a position to point the finger today.”
“I’m a Samurai, not a hired goon. If it was him or survival, I would have handled it differently. What I’m saying is that they know I’ll be coming for them, yet they plan to hit the Chinese journalists tomorrow. Plus they plan to transfer the virus to a plane. That’s also tomorrow. And finally, this is all being done with Drewcolt and Talon discovering your people on the inside.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“It’s a trap.”
Clarke pursed his lips, his eyes on Sand’s face. “You sure?”
“Instinct tells me I’m sure. You say Barnes claims Drewcolt killed Richards and Abbot. The logical thing to do after something like that is lie low. Stay cool. The next thing you do is tear your organization apart from top to bottom, making sure it’s clean, that nothing is coming in or out. Yet Drewcolt and Talon are moving along as if nothing happened. They’re daring us to stop the hit and grab the virus.”
“Time’s tight,” said Clarke. “Eleven more days and it’s adiós to forty billion dollars in gold. Maybe Drewcolt feels to hell with it, press on. Once the paper’s signed, he can’t keep coming on. It’s like a marriage—you get in, you’re in it for a long time. Come eleven days, and he’s out of this deal, and maybe he’s out of an empire. Right now, he’s saying to hell with it, let’s go for broke.”
“Maybe,” said Sand. “And maybe he’s saying, let’s see who’s killing my men. I can’t shake the feeling it’s a setup. This business of two dead informers and business as usual is hard to put aside. I’ve read Talon’s file. He’s the best at what he does. He’s hard and careful, and nothing gets by him. Nothing.”
Standing up, The Baron walked over to the bar and poured half a glass of bourbon. Then, touching the edge of a blue plastic container to the glass, he added two
fingers of branch water.
“Maybe you’re right, son. Maybe Talon’s an iron ass from now to Sunday. But so are you. You call your own shots. If you’re right, tomorrow night you stand to get a tit caught in the wringer. Your play, son. What’s it gonna be?”
“You knew the answer before you asked.”
Grinning, The Baron slapped his thigh, spilling bourbon over his yellow-and-black dressing gown. “Damn! I knew I picked a good one in you. Goddamnit, I knew it!”
Sand leaned back in the leather chair, both hands folded behind his head. Tomorrow night at Dulles Airport. Three Chinese journalists flying in from Peking to cover a Washington, D.C., reception hosted by six African nations for members of Red China’s U.N. delegation.
Before that, the virus was to be loaded on a CCE plane and flown to England, where it would be stored in Print Drewcolt’s Crafford Castle until time for its use.
His Samurai training had sharpened Sand’s mind, as well as his spirit and body. That’s why he was certain that tomorrow night he was walking into a trap.
He stared at Clarke. “Any of this information come from Lisa Warren?”
Clarke shook his head no.
Sand didn’t like that at all. “Strange that something as important as this didn’t come from her, too.”
The tall Texan was silent.
“My arrangement with her is not to contact her at all,” he said. “She checks in when it’s safe and when she’s got something big.”
“How?”
“Tapes. She records a message, mails it herself to a New York post office. I’ve got somebody there picking up things for me. Not in my name, naturally. I use five different names, and I change them every month.”
“Smart,” said Sand.
“ ‘Crafty’ is what my critics used to call me back when I ruled most of the so-called free world. Still think tomorrow’s not kosher?”
“Yes. But that doesn’t change anything.”
The Baron grinned, his lined, tanned face warm with down-home charm and four stiff bourbons and branch. “Drewcolt treats everybody like a nigger, even if they’re white. Far as he’s concerned, there’s only two kinds of people in the world: those he rules and those he ain’t been able to rule over yet.”
