by Marc Olden
Thirteen minutes to save the lives of three men he had never seen before.
Few men in history had accumulated the power of William Baron Clarke. In one sense, his journey from Texas to the White House stretched entirely around the world, because his mastery of politics kept people and places under his thumb long after he ceased to be President of the United States. The Baron still had clout.
As a former President he had muscle by the ton. His style of getting his way may have changed. Not the substance, however. “They owe me or I own them.”
What The Baron wanted, he got. Money, charm, influence, threats, smiles, or muscle—he used what he had to get what he wanted.
Tonight he wanted the control tower at Dulles Airport to keep the Red Chinese journalists on their plane and out on the runway for fifteen extra minutes.
That was all the time he could buy Robert Sand, time to be used in getting from the hangar to the private customs clearance ahead of the Chinese.
Earlier that afternoon The Baron had made one phone call to a high airport official. And that night when the Red Chinese airliner taxied to a halt five miles out on the runway, its passengers and crew were ordered to remain there until further notice. The bus that was to go out and bring them back contained four armed Chinese from the New York U.N. mission. Which meant that CCE’s kill campaign was making the Red Chinese tense.
As for the hit itself, it was to be brutal and direct.
Talon’s men weren’t going to attack as the bus returned to the private customs area. A firefight on the runway meant battling the armed Chinese on the bus.
The three journalists were to be shot at point-blank range as they stood directly in front of the customs men.
The three government customs men were gunmen working for Consolidated Communications and Electronics. There had been no trouble making the exchange. On entering the airport, each of the three real customs men had been approached and quickly taken out of the picture. None were killed. A hypodermic injection guaranteed that each would be quiet for several hours.
Standing outside the customs building in the darkness, Robert Sand peeled the black leather glove from his right hand, then used the hand to rub the water from his eyes.
The rain poured down steadily, slicing through the darkness like thousands of bright silver needles. He looked at his watch. Nine minutes before the bus would return from the plane with the Chinese, members of their U.N. mission, bodyguards, and representatives of the six African nations. Also on the bus would be two members of the American State Department and one airport official.
If just one of those people were killed tonight, diplomatic repercussions were a certainty. There would be trouble somewhere for somebody. Sand knew that, even without The Baron at his elbow to tell him.
Narrowing his eyes against the rain and darkness, he stared at the small two-story building in front of him. Four long black limousines, shiny and wet with the rain, were parked out front.
At least two chauffeurs, both black and working for the Africans, were still inside their limousines, the windows cloudy with steam from their body heat. The others were inside, along with two more members of the African delegation, two airport officials, and two security guards, both just inside the front door.
In addition to the three CCE killers, four more men, hired by Talon to kill the Black Samurai, were hidden in small rooms and behind luggage racks in the customs building.
That made seven.
Smiling in the darkness and rain, Sand adjusted the chauffeur’s cap and plain black raincoat he wore, both taken from the saddlebags on the motorcycle.
Then he moved toward the building.
He was going in through the front door.
And he was going in unarmed.
Hell, it’s just a job, Andrea Naiss told herself as she waited inside the customs building. Tonight she carried two cameras, one hanging around her neck on a thin black strap, the other gripped tightly in her hands.
She was getting an extra fifteen hundred dollars for tonight’s job, and all she had to do for the money was to turn over her negatives and prints to a man from Consolidated Communications and Electronics. All of it, every print, every negative, would be returned to her twenty-four hours later.
That’s all. Except for one thing. She had to photograph every single person coming into the customs area tonight, no matter who he was, and especially if he was black. Take the pictures, ask no questions, collect the money.
George Kondo, of the Nigerian embassy, had hired her. Within an hour her phone had rung again. Reiss. That son-of-a-bitch. He knew everything.
He knew about the job, and he had an offer for her from Consolidated Communications and Electronics. Even while he spoke, his slow Alabama drawl creeping into her ear like a thing slithering from under a rock, she knew whatever he had on his mind she’d be better off not knowing about.
Maynard Reiss. A forty-eight-year-old former congressman from Alabama, now on CCE’s payroll, and nobody knowing just exactly what he did. “I just do favors, darlin’, favors, that’s all.”
Andrea, twenty-eight, daughter of a black army sergeant and a Filipino mother, hated and feared Reiss. Not because he was a southern white, but because she knew him to be cruel and always polite about it.
She just missed being pretty, her mouth too wide, her teeth not white enough, a health trait inherited from her mother. That was the story of her life. Just missed. No talent for acting, a body too voluptuous for modeling, and a talent for photography that was between mediocre and uninspired.
Her body opened a few doors. She promised more than she really had or wanted to give. Sometimes she delivered, and sometimes she gained. Most of the time she did neither. So she took jobs like tonight’s. Money up front, no questions asked. That was Reiss, and that was Consolidated Communications and Electronics.
The man and the company were enough to give God sweaty palms.
She stared at the three men behind the customs counter, each dressed in dark-blue cap, light-blue shirt, dark-blue pants and jacket. The one on the end looked at her as so many white men did.
She was half-black, half-yellow, and as far as most men were concerned, all woman, with a body for fucking. She turned away, her eyes going up to the ceiling, focusing on the lightbulb. Shove it, Clyde, she thought. All you want is meat. I want more, and I wish to God I knew what it was.
The door opened, and she felt the cold March air wrap itself around her legs. Oh, wow! Not to be believed. Delicious, she thought. Black and beautiful, and honey, the two don’t always go together. She stared at Sand, the camera in both her hands now no higher than her navel.
As a rule, she could take black men or leave them alone. Arrogant, not too bright, and not all that great in the sack.
But this one was something special. She felt it, and she didn’t know why. Her heart pounded, and she cleared her throat. One of the two guards closed the door behind him, then motioned Sand to raise both arms out sideways and level with the floor.
Both guards were legitimate, with a job to do. Sand did as ordered. Hands quickly patted him down in an expert search, even looking inside his cap. Suddenly the guard stopped, looked at Sand, then reached inside the pocket of the black man’s wet raincoat. Pulling his hand out, be looked down at it and grinned. Adhesive tape. Without a word he handed it back to Sand, who smiled and moved forward toward the three men behind the customs stand.
Andrea watched him walk. Smooth, cool, and très together.
He was indeed something.
Damn! She remembered and brought her camera up, snapping him just about too late, catching him from behind and to the side.
Almost the instant the camera clicked, he snapped his head around, looking at her as if he wanted to pull her heart out with a pair of pliers.
She took a quick breath, leaning her head back and away from her camera. Suddenly she felt afraid, as if she had done something seriously and dangerously wrong.
Quickly he turned fo
rward and kept walking toward the three customs men.
Andrea was frightened and didn’t know why.
Chapter X
‘TALON SAYS IT’S OFF. Pull back now.” Sand’s voice was low, but two of the phony customs men heard him.
A thin white man, with sparse sideburns and a runny nose he kept wiping with the back of his hand, eyed the Black Samurai and said nothing. Finally he said, “Yeah?”
Aware that he had only six minutes to work with when he entered the building, Sand calmly said, “Don’t get cute. The hit’s off, and that comes from the top. Cal got the word, and now you’ve got it.”
The third man moved closer to hear the conversation. Behind Sand, none of the Africans, guards, or airport officials paid any attention to the conversation, which they were too far away to hear. Andrea Naiss, however, kept her eyes riveted to the Black Samurai’s back.
“How’s Talon?” said the thin man.
“I wouldn’t know. He’s in England, where he’s been for almost a month,” said Sand. “I’ll tell him you asked for him. I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you get on that hand radio you have and ask Cal why he sent me here to contact you? And when you get finished, maybe you’ll do as you’re told.”
The thin guard rubbed a hand across his mouth, then said, “Back there. That room’s empty. You, me, and Coleman here will go check it out. Simon, you stay out front. Let’s go, messenger boy.”
Reaching under the counter, the thin guard pulled out the small black hand radio, and with Coleman following him, the two walked toward the room, neither turning to look at Sand.
Reaching the room, each stepped through the white wooden door with its thick, frosted-glass upper half. When Sand stepped through, he closed the door behind him.
His Samurai reflexes sensed what was coming next, and he was ready.
Pulling a Luger from under his coat, Coleman whirled around, his lips twisted in a triumphant grin. “Nigger, you better be right—”
Stepping quickly toward Coleman, Sand silenced him with a brutal knife-edge blow of his hand across the throat, while at the same time grabbing the gun hand, pushing it down and away from himself. Two seconds later Coleman’s gun hand was behind his back, the hand high between his shoulderblades.
Then the gun was in Sand’s hand, and as Coleman, his face now red, gasped for air, Sand let him fall to his knees.
“I’m who you think I am, so you know I mean business.”
The thin guard chewed his lip, trying to control the nervous tic in his left eye. “Say it once, and that’s enough for me.”
“On the floor, face-down.”
The guard dropped down fast.
Opening his coat, Sand tucked the Luger in his waistband, then took off his cap and removed the wire wrapped around the inside. Bending over the guard, he wired both of his thumbs tightly together; then he taped his wrists and mouth.
Coleman was unconscious, his face blue from lack of air, saliva running down his chin.
Standing up, Sand quickly pulled both men away from the door, then opened it and called to Simon. “Cal wants to speak to you.”
Looking at his watch, Sand took a deep breath. Less than five minutes left. Simon reached the door, and Sand smiled, stepping aside, letting him pass, then moving quickly behind the man, slamming the door shut with a short back kick of his right leg.
Talon watched, his eyes animal bright and quick in the firelit darkness of Crafford Castle’s great hall. He and Print were alone.
Drewcolt stalked back and forth along the green-and-tan-tiled floor, footsteps echoing throughout the huge room. He was using anger to cover his fear and shock. Fear and shock would wear off, he knew that, but anger was different.
He wanted that to stay with him. He needed it. Right now, there was no trouble reaching for it. “How? Damnit all, Talon, how did he do it?”
Breathing deeply, then letting it out, Talon looked down at the floor. “He’s different, this one. He’s more than just black muscle, a lot more.”
The coded phone call from Washington had come in minutes ago, and Print was still gripped by shock, along with an uneasiness not felt in years. “One man, I mean, one man, gets in and out of two traps, and walks off with something he wasn’t supposed to smell, let alone touch, goddamnit!”
It was one o’clock in the morning in England, five hours ahead of America. Waiting for the private red phone to ring had been considered only a formality. But when it rang, the news was not of the black man’s death or capture.
The black man had gotten away with the deadly virus, and the three journalists from Red China had left the airport alive.
In the half-darkness of the castle’s great hall, Talon lifted a corner of his thin cruel mouth, the harelip looking even more frightening in the red light of the fire. “He’s got balls as big as watermelons, our black friend does. Right through the customs front door, no gun, and he takes out my three hit men.”
“Yes!” shouted Drewcolt, stopping his stalking and snapping his head around to face Talon, his long bone of a forefinger pointing at his security chief. “Four other clowns you hired never even saw him! Your men, Talon, your men!”
Leaning his head back against the tall dark wooden chair, Talon stared calmly at Drewcolt. “Yes. Yes, they were. Two, maybe three dead, and no accurate count yet on just how many are hurting. He wasted them, no two ways about it. But understand this, Mr. Drewcolt, I don’t like it any better than you. Maybe I like it less, since he’s made a fool of me at what I’m supposed to know better than anybody else. And you know me well enough to know I don’t like anybody doing that. Not anybody. Especially a black nobody. Well, we can’t call him a nobody anymore, can we? I think we are going to have to take him a lot more seriously from now on.”
Drewcolt started pacing again, this time slower, his breathing more even. Talon’s sharp eyes noticed this. That’s good, he thought. He’s calming down. That’s the only way we can attack this thing and win it. Let him get his rage out, don’t fight him. Then let him think about the problem. He’s nobody’s fool, he’ll get to where he should mentally be. Just a few more minutes.
“We’ve got to go back to the White House,” said Drewcolt, his voice soft and even in the huge hall. “I hadn’t planned on it, but then again, I hadn’t planned on a lot of things.”
“Soon as possible,” said Talon.
“Risky, though. We haven’t nailed the inside man. Which reminds me. Seems you’re right. Mr. Anonymous Black Man knew the where and when of everything. I wouldn’t be surprised if he knows which way I wipe my ass, north to south or east to west.”
Talon smirked. Mr. Drewcolt was coming back fast.
Good. “Our friend may have overreached himself,” he said. “We’ll know soon enough. Don’t forget, we did make arrangements for a photographer to be inside the customs building, remember? That I did directly, at the last minute.”
Stopping suddenly, Print Drewcolt pulled his lips back from his teeth in a smile closer to the jungle than to a human being. Smacking his palm with a clenched fist, he said, “Yes! Yes! Pictures. How soon can we get them?”
“Hours. My man will pick up a set before they even dry, then put them on a plane for here.”
“Good. Think our friend noticed her?”
“Unlikely. She was out front where she could be seen, but a photographer at an airport is nothing special. She was hired by the Africans for public-relations purposes. ‘Propaganda’ is a better word.”
“Fine,” said Drewcolt. “If we know what he looks like, it’ll help the next time. And bet on it—there will be a next time. I want his ass in a barbed-wire sling. He’s working hard to cost me everything I own. It looks like we’re going to lose the tin mines in Chile. It’s not official yet, but I can sense it. The new government’s booting out foreigners and taking over just about everything. Shit, that black bastard! I could kill him.”
“We will. The stock, is it—”
Drewcolt interrupted, waving his
hand as if to dismiss the question, and the thought behind it. “Bad. We can hold out for a few months if we have to, but that’s stretching it. Right now, CCE is bleeding, bleeding internally, sure, out of the public’s sight, but it’s downhill for me right now, with a strong tailwind. When those Chilean tin mines go, look for ten of my companies to fold. Overall stock will go down like it was wrapped around a brick and thrown from a cliff. That commie spic taking over is going to cost me at least two hundred million dollars. Minimum.”
“So the Chinese gold is becoming more of a necessity?”
“Like air and sex.”
Nodding his head in understanding, Talon rubbed both hands together against the early-morning chill. “Harley Canning. He’s going to want more money. Not only that, he might not find it so easy this time, getting into that storeroom and out.”
“His problem, not mine. He’s in my pocket now, so squeeze him. I want you to find him, now, and let him know we want another one. We want it as soon as possible, and no excuses. If we get—hell, when we get—that virus, we can still act before the gold treaty’s signed.”
“Reiss will handle Canning. We got something else to talk about tonight.”
“What?”
“Who the black has inside.”
Narrowing his eyes, Drewcolt leaned his head back and sneered. “Yes,” he said. “And please, let’s not forget our friend the black man, who knows just where to go and what to do when he gets there. I want him dead, Talon. I need him dead. I need him dead, because there’s no room for people who are tearing down everything I’ve put together.”
“He’ll die, Mr. Drewcolt. I’ll give you his life to spit on or feed to those dogs running around out there. I promise you that.”
Print Drewcolt pulled back his lips, showing his teeth in a smile belonging to ape-men huddled around fires in ancient caves.
Rubbing a yellow-nailed finger along the side of his nose, The Baron wrinkled his tanned face and said, “You sure about that?”
Sand nodded his head. “I heard the camera click. I turned, got a quick look at her, then I turned forward. My first concern was to stop the hit. Name tag on her coat said ‘Andrea Naiss.’ I’ll know her again when I see her.”
