26

 

Denver, Colorado

 

Brinkman’s underground offices were quiet except for the subdued hum of fans from the computer room. Seated at his desk, the elderly spymaster glanced through the latest reports on former KGB members now believed to be active in international crime syndicates. He’d give a lot to put them behind bars, but that couldn’t happen in his lifetime. That task would fall to his successor, and it was high time he picked someone for the job.

The telephone interrupted his thoughts. Brian Novak’s voice came through.

“Something new you might want to know. Do you remember our talk about the South African special weapons program?”

“Project Coast?” Brinkman replied. “You said something about someone dying under suspicious circumstances.”

“His name was Wevers Koenraad. He’s supposed to have been killed along with a lab assistant and secretary in a terrorist raid on his lab. But they couldn’t make a positive identification. The body was burned and the head missing, so they couldn’t check dental records. DNA wasn’t a factor then.”

“You’re telling me he’s turned up somewhere?”

“A South African traveler who knew him told the FBI he saw Koenraad in Miami International Airport the day before we debriefed Sledge and that female journalist with the wrong name. He said Koenraad had dyed his hair black—its natural color was red—but the witness claimed positive identification.”

“You’re hoping you can tie him into the factory operation?”

“We have no other leads.”

“Any other information?”

“The same man said Koenraad was traveling with a tough-looking, blond-headed guy that looked German or Norwegian.”

“You’re thinking that may be the second Northern European that Sledge and Kristin saw at the factory?”

“I’m hoping so. And that might mean the black-haired man they saw could be Koenraad.”

Brinkman drummed his fingers on the desk. “That would be convenient. I have a list of bad guys capable of masterminding an operation like that factory, but they’re all occupied somewhere else. Maybe Koenraad is the answer.”

“It’s a little too neat, but we’ll try to develop it,” Novak said. “And speaking of blond bruisers, the State Department has no record of Erich Staab.”

Brinkman sighed. “So we’re out of luck there.”

“Not quite.” Novak chuckled. “I ran the name by the FBI. Erich and Dietrich Staab are brothers. They’re listed as ‘persons of interest’ by Interpol and the German police, suspected of involvement with the old Baader-Meinhof terrorist gang. They haven’t been heard from for eight or ten years. But it looks like the black-haired man—Williams, according to the paratroopers’ debriefing—left Erich behind to take care of one detail or another, and he took Dietrich with him to Miami. That could be the pair your Colombian saw in New Orleans with Steve Spinner.”

“So now we know Erich Staab flew from Bogotá to Seattle, but we don’t know where he went afterwards.”

“That’s right. North to Vancouver, south to Portland, or east to Spokane. We don’t have a clue. Or he might have stayed in Seattle. I’ve had both Staabs added to the watch lists, but it will take a while to get the word out.”

“I’ll put them on my lists, too.”

Brinkman hung up the phone. With his pencil he drew small circles on a note pad. Koenraad and the Staab brothers were worth keeping in mind, but he put more stock in finding the transshipment point and the Preening Peacock. His people had better find something soon or, somewhere on this planet, innocent people would die.

 

****

 

Isle of Saint Mark, Leeward Islands

 

Sledge arrived on Saint Kitts, and as arranged, he checked in with the police to see if they’d made any progress on DeWitt Jernigan’s murder. They had not. Or if they had, they weren’t talking about it. Brinkman had authorized him to say he was looking into a possible gun-smuggling operation, but not to mention chemical weapons. He assured the police he was there to develop information and not to take action against anyone.

“That’s all right with us,” the dark-skinned police sergeant said, “but you should avoid the west end of the island. We have indications of a possible drug operation there.”

Sledge said he’d be careful. He had an impression the sergeant wasn’t telling all he knew, but he couldn’t do anything about that. As usual, he’d have to tough things through on his own.

At the small passenger terminal on the waterfront, he surveyed the crowd waiting for passage. It seemed just a collection of native citizens and ordinary tourists. So he followed Brinkman’s instructions and carried his light travel bag into the men’s restroom. Soon a man wearing a light-colored business suit entered. He had receding gray hair above a tan-skinned face highlighted by a pair of alert dark eyes. He did not speak but removed his coat to reveal a shoulder holster filled with a .357 Magnum. He handed the shoulder holster and pistol to Sledge and turned to leave.

“Wait a minute.” Sledge stood looking at the weapon in his hand. “I’m not wearing a coat. How am I supposed to carry this weapon without getting caught?”

The man’s smile revealed perfect teeth. “Sir, I have no instructions about that. I presume it is to remain your problem. In the holster you will find a card with my phone number on it. Use it when you wish to return the weapon.” Then he was gone.

Brinkman’s solutions have a habit of creating more problems, Sledge thought.

He crammed the pistol into his bag and hid it under a couple of T-shirts. He wanted it closer at hand since he was going into a place where a murder had been committed. He’d have to figure out something after he reached the island.

The Isle of Saint Mark was a disappointment, a place where prosperity had chosen not to linger. When he viewed his room in the one hotel, he half-wished he was back sleeping on the ground in Colombia. The bedsprings squeaked, and the mattress and linens seemed vintage World War I. But when he remembered the Andean cold, the island’s heat and the grubby hotel seemed tolerable.

The bedsprings woke him often during the night, and he entertained visions of staging an airborne assault on the hotel. The establishment’s half-hearted breakfast did nothing to sweeten his foul mood, so he was glad to move outside and get on with business. He solved the pistol problem by tucking it into his belt and letting his shirttail hang out to cover it. Back home he never wore a hat, but in this environment he was grateful for the straw boater that kept the sun off his head.

At the docks he found no one willing to admit seeing an aircraft landing on the airstrip or a cargo ship anywhere near the island. He thought he saw fear in their eyes.

For the rest of the morning he worked the east side of the island with negative results, then checked the airstrip across the northern shore. Bare spots and tire markings there evidenced recent usage, so people were lying when they said they’d seen no aircraft. That meant some untoward activity was being covered up, and people had probably been threatened in order to keep it covered.

He decided to check out the warehouse at the western end of the airstrip in the afternoon. Lunch at the hotel proved marginally edible, and he got it down without too much of a battle. By then it was after one o’clock. If he intended to finish his mission today, he’d better get going.

The houses along the road to the west showed nothing of interest, and at length, only a few abandoned buildings stood between him and the warehouse. Here caution took over. Advancing over open ground didn’t appeal to him, so he detoured to the south. That placed a shed between him and the warehouse, and he could at least get that far without being observed.

Once or twice, he thought he saw movement at one of the windows of those supposedly empty buildings, but he reached the shed without incident. The door faced his side and was unlocked. He opened it and stepped inside. His luck continued, for the shed had windows on the other three sides. He could observe the warehouse without being seen, and he could also observe to either side through the other windows.

Everything seemed to be going well, so why did he feel that cannonball in his stomach again? He’d felt the same way when he jumped into Colombia for the raid on the factory. And why was his adrenaline flowing in the familiar fight-or-flight response?

Seeing no movement at the warehouse, he looked out the window to his right. There, standing by the wall that ran from this shed to another like it, stood a slender woman wearing a floppy hat. She seemed to be staring at the warehouse. And she looked like.... Was he seeing things? No, it was Kristin.

His heart leaped in pleasure. But what was she doing here? She was supposed to be back at Mary’s Garden, and he was supposed to contact her there tomorrow.

Then shots rang out. Flashes came from the warehouse windows and bullets struck the buildings behind Kristin. A voice from the abandoned buildings shouted something, and Kristin dropped to the ground by the wall. People in the buildings began firing at the warehouse. Some of the shots fell short and struck the wall near Kristin. She was caught in the middle of a deadly cross fire.

Suddenly, Sledge knew his world would be shaken if anything happened to her. Without thought, he bolted through the door and threw himself down behind the wall. He crawled along it toward Kristin, oblivious to the bullets singing above his head and striking the other side of the wall. Kristin lay with her face pressed into the earth and hands covering her head as if they had strength to protect it from the flying bullets. Sledge’s crawl reached her feet, her waist, and finally her head. Still without conscious thought, he lay on his side and shielded her body with his own, his hand on her shoulder.

She turned her head and looked into his face, only inches away. At the sight of him, the tension in her face relaxed into surprise and then pleasure.

“Hello, brat,” Sledge said. “You sure have talent for getting in trouble.”

A forced smile graced her lips. “You dumb gorilla, what are you doing here?” Her hand squeezed his arm. “I’m glad to see you.”

They both flinched as bullets struck the wall nearby. Her grip on his arm grew tighter as the firefight raged above them.

“Sledge, you don’t have any sense at all.” Her eyes grew earnest. “Why didn’t you stay where you were safe?”

For a few moments he wondered about it, the gunfire receding into the back of his consciousness. Then he met her gaze, her eyes so very close to his. Deliberately, he touched his forefinger to his lips then gently pressed it to hers. “Well, brat,” he said, “that ought to tell you something.”

Her eyes sparkled.

If this was his time to die, at least he’d die happy.