The Cold Cash War 6 страница

The attackers were regaining the top of the cliff now. Suddenly, a mischievous idea hit Tidwell. He stood up and wigwagged the team leader. With a few brief gestures he sketched out his orders. The team leader nodded, and began signaling his team. The scout recoiled the rope and tossed it to the team leader. He caught it, stowed it in his pack, surveyed the terrain, and faded back into a bush. Tidwell checked the terrain and nodded to himself. It was a good ambush. He couldn’t see any of the team even though he had seen four of them take cover. He hadn’t seen where the scout went after she tossed the rope.

Clancy was smiling at him.

“Steve, you’re a real son-of-a-bitch.”

Tidwell shrugged modestly, and they settled back to wait.

They didn’t have to wait long. The next team came into sight, jogging along the trail in a loose group. The leader, a girl in her late teens that Clancy was spending most of his off-hours with, spotted the two sitting on the edge of the cliff. She smiled and waved at them. They smiled and waved back at her. They were still smiling when the ambush opened up.

The girl and the two men flanking her went down to the first burst of fire. The remaining two members dove smoothly under cover and started returning their fire.

Tidwell stood up.

“All right! Break it up!”

There was an abrupt cease-fire.

“Everybody over here!”

The two teams emerged from their hiding places and sprinted over to the two mercenaries. Tidwell tossed his “activator key” to one of the survivors of the second team who ducked off to “revive” his teammates.

“Okay. First off, ambushers. There’s no point in laying an ambush if you’re going to spring it too soon. Let ’em come all the way into the trap before you spring it. The way you did it, you’re left with two survivors who’ve got you pinned down with your backs to a cliff!”

The “revived” members of the second team joined the group.

“Now then, victims! Those kill-suits are spoiling you rotten. You’re supposed to be moving through disputed terrain. Don’t bunch up where one burst can wipe out your whole team.”

They were listening intently, soaking up everything he said.

“Okay, we’ve held up training enough. Report to the firing range after dinner for an extra hour’s penalty tour.”

The teams laughed as they resumed their training. Sending them to the firing range for a penalty tour was like sending a kid to Disneyland. Ever since the new weapons had arrived, the teams had to be driven away from the ranges. They even had to take head count at meals to be sure teams didn’t skip eating to sneak out to the range for extra practice.

The girl leading the second team shot a black look at Clancy as she herded her team off the cliff.

“Now who’s the son-of-a-bitch, Clancy old friend? Unless I miss my guess, she’s going to have a few words for you tonight.”

“Let her scream.” Clancy’s voice was chilly. “I’d rather see her gunned down here than when we’re in live action. I wouldn’t be doing her any favors to flash her warnings in training. Let her learn the hard way. Then she’ll remember.”

Tidwell smiled to himself. Underneath that easygoing nice guy exterior was as cold and hard-nosed a mercenary as he was. Maybe colder.

“Nit-picking aside, Clancy, what do you think?”

“Think? I’ll tell you, Steve. I think they’re the meanest, most versatile fighting force the world has ever seen, bar none. Like you say, we’re nit-picking. They’re as ready now as they’re ever going to be.”

Tidwell felt a tightening in his gut, but he kept it out of his voice.

“I’m glad our opinions concur, Clancy. I just received new orders from Yamada this morning. The jump-off date has been changed. We’re moving out next week.”

Judy Simmons languished picturesquely in her chair, gazing deeply into the candle of their now habitual table in the dimly lit restaurant. In turn, Fred studied her cautiously as he sipped his coffee. She was beyond a doubt one of the most dangerous people he had ever encountered.

The two negotiators were enjoying their traditional meditative silence after dinner, a brief breathing spell before they plunged back into the move and countermove of bargaining over after-dinner drinks.

She was striking, the kind of beauty that turned heads on the street. Yet hidden in that enticing frame was a mind as sharp as a straight razor.

Fred had been frequently frustrated in his dealings with Ivan. The man’s stubbornness and steadfast refusal to venture information beyond his instructions had been maddening at times. But his successor, this lovely little armful, was a cat of a different color. She would smile coyly and match him argument for argument, innuendo for innuendo, and mousetrap for mousetrap.

After four weeks, their talks were at a firm stalemate, neither showing any real advantage or handicap. The original swarm of jokes from his teammate about his “old man immune to the witch’s charms” were slowly giving way to impatient proddings and mumbled accusations of his “deliberately prolonging the meetings.” He was by no means immune to her mystique, but neither was he throwing the bout. The iron will and keen perception he had noted in the open meetings was even more prevalent when encountered head-on. No sir! She earned her victories, but she was lovely.

“Fred.” The voice jarred him out of his reverie. “Can I talk to you about something? Apart from our usual dueling?”

Fred was mildly startled. Something was up. She was breaking pattern. Over his years of negotiating, he had become an unknowing expert on body language, and her whole being expressed a major change. Where she usually leaned back, maintaining personal distance, stretching occasionally, like a well-fed jungle cat, she was now leaning forward on her elbows, her whole body radiating a concentrated intensity. And her eyes-she was usually expressive. But now, her eyes were distant, either looking at the table in front of her or somewhere past his shoulder. It was almost as if she were embarrassed by what she was about to say. In the entire time he had covertly studied her at the meetings, and in the last four weeks of close personal contact, he had never seen her like this. Whatever was coming, it was coming from someplace besides her negotiator’s instructions and guidelines.

“It’s about the international currency thing that’s come up. You were rather outspoken in the meeting today with your views against it.”

“That’s right. It’s a half-baked idea. The costs for running a system like that would be astronomical. Why, just to safeguard against counterfeiting...”

She interrupted with an annoyed wave of her hand as if she was shooing a bothersome fly.

“I know. I know. I heard you at the meeting today. You make nice speeches, but this time... this time I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“Oh, bullshit! Just because your whiz kids came up with the idea doesn’t mean...”

“Will you listen to me! I don’t like it either!”

Their eyes locked in angry glares. Silence reigned for a few moments before Fred registered what she had said and his anger gave way to embarrassment.

“Sorry. You didn’t say anything at the meeting.”

“I know. I couldn’t believe it was really happening. It was like a nightmare and I kept waiting to wake up.”

She stared at her coffee. Fred waited respectfully for her to regain her composure.

“Fred, you talk about the costs, but have you really thought it through? Have you really stopped to think about what would happen if the corporations got together and issued their own world-wide currency?”

She looked at him directly now, her dark eyes deep, almost pleading, as she continued.

“Money makes the world go ’round, and the governments issue the money. If we start issuing our own money, it might make international business a lot simpler and stabilize costs, but the government won’t stand for it. They’ll be all over us with everything they’ve got. And it won’t be just one or two governments, it’ll be all of them. Every single one of ’em united to tear the corporations down. I wouldn’t be surprised if the C-Block didn’t deal themselves in too. That’s why I’m against it!”

Fred considered her words.

“Do you really think that would happen?”

“Do you see anything that would keep it from happening?”

Fred started to sip his coffee, then set it down again.

“All the nations... when... I’m going to have to think about that one.”

He looked at her, and realized she was still staring into space.

“Hey! Judy!” His words were soft and concerned.

She looked at him and he realized her eyes were brimming with tears.

“Hey, this thing really has you scared, doesn’t it?”

Instead of answering, she rose and fled to the ladies room.

Fred signaled for the check and pondered the situation. Well, he had always wondered what it would take to crack that controlled exterior. Now he knew.

The waiter swept by, leaving the small black tray with the tab on it in his wake.

Fred stared at it thoughtfully for a full minute, then dug out his wallet and carefully counted out a small stack of bills onto the tray. In a twinkling it disappeared with a small murmur of thanks from the waiter, and he lit a cigarette and settled down to wait.

A few minutes later, Judy appeared, face pale but her makeup intact or repaired.

“Sorry about that, Fred, but I...”

“Shall we go now?” He rose casually, as if nothing had happened or been said.

“But what about the check?”

“I took care of it.”

“Oh, Fred, it was my turn to pay.”

“I took care of it.”

“But it’s going onto the expense account anyway...”

“I took care of it.”

She blinked at him in sudden realization.

“Oh.”

“I’m taking you back to the hotel. You need a nightcap... somewhere where there aren’t other people around.”

“Spare change? Hey, man, any spare change?”

The youthful panhandlers were inevitable, even in a Brazilian airport. Tidwell strode on, ignoring the boy, but Clancy stopped and started digging in his pocket.

“Come on, Clancy! We’ve got to beat that mob through Customs.”

“Yeah, ain’t it a bitch?” the youth joined in. “Do you believe these gooks? It’s been like this for almost a week.”

Curiosity made Tidwell continue the conversation.

“Any word as to what they’re doing?”

“Big tour program. Some Jap company is giving free tours instead of raises this year.” He spat on the floor. “Damn cheap bastards. Haven’t gotten a dime out of one of them yet.”

“Here.” Tidwell handed him a dollar. “This’ll make up for some of it.”

“Hey man, thanks. Say, take your bags to that skinny guy on the end and slip him ten, no hassle!”

The youth drifted off, looking for fresh game.

“Hypocrite!” accused Clancy under his breath. “Since when were you suddenly so generous.”

“Since I could write it off on an expense account. That item is going in as a ten-dollar payment for an informant. C’mon, I’ll buy you a drink out of the profits.”

“Actually, I’d rather loiter around out here and make sure everything goes okay.”

“Relax.” Tidwell shot a glance down the terminal. “They’re doing fine. Damndest invasion I’ve ever seen.”

At the other end of the terminal, the rest of their infiltration group was gathered, taking pictures and chattering together excitedly. Clancy and Tidwell had arrived by commercial flight half an hour after the charter plane, but the group was still fluttering around getting organized. They were perfect, right down to the overloaded camera bags and the clipboards. Even with his practiced eye, Tidwell could not have distinguished his own crew of cold killers from a hundred other groups of Orientals which frequent the tourist routes of the world.

“Hey! There you are!”

Both men winced. The irritating voice of Harry Beckington was unmistakable. After seven hours of his company on the plane, the mercenaries had not even had to confer before dodging him as they got off the plane. He would have made nice camouflage, but...

“Thought I lost you guys with all the slant-eyes in here!”

Their smiles were harder than usual to force.

“Sure are a lot of them,” volunteered Clancy gamely.

“You know how they are-first a few, then you’re hip-deep in ’em.”

“That’s the way it is, all right,” smiled Tidwell.

“C’mon. Let me buy you boys a...”

As he spoke, he gestured toward the bar, and collided with one of the “tour group.” He collided with Aki.

There was no reason for Aki to be passing so close, except that there was no reason for him not to. He was returning from the souvenir stand and the group of three men happened to be in his path. One of the forces’ instructions for the invasion was to not avoid each other. Nothing is as noticeable to a watchful eye as a group of people studiously ignoring each other. It would have been unnatural for Aki to alter his path, so he simply tried to walk past them, only to run into Beckington’s wildly flailing arm.

Aki’s arm was still in a sling from his duel with Tidwell, and it suffered the full brunt of the impact. He instinctively bounced back, and stumbled over Beckington’s briefcase.

“Watch it, gook! Look what you did!”

Aki was the picture of politeness. He bobbed his head, smiling broadly.

“Please excuse. Most clumsy!”

“Excuse, hell. You’re going to pick all that stuff up."

Beckington seized his injured arm angrily, pointing to the scattered papers on the floor.

“For Christsake, Beckington,” interrupted Tidwell, “the man’s got a bad arm.”

“Injured, my ass. He’s probably smuggling something. How ’bout it, gook? What are you smuggling?”

He shook the injured arm. Small beads of sweat appeared on Aki’s forehead, but he kept smiling.

“No smuggle. Please-will pick up paper.”

Beckington released him with a shove.

“Well, hurry up!”

“Careful, Beckington, he might know karate,” cautioned Clancy.

“Shit! They don’t scare me with that chop-chop crap!” snarled Beckington, but he stepped back anyway.

“Here are papers. Please excuse. Very clumsy.”

Beckington gestured angrily. Aki set the papers down and retreated toward the other end of the terminal.

“Boy, that really frosts me. I mean, some people think just ’cause they’re in another country they can get away with murder.”

“Yeah, people like that really burn me, too,” said Tidwell drily. The sarcasm was lost.

“Where were we? Oh yeah. I was going to buy you boys a drink. You ready?”

“Actually, we can’t.”

“Can’t-why not?”

“Actually, we’re with Alcoholics Anonymous. We’re here to open a new branch,” interrupted Clancy.

“Alcoholics Anonymous?”

“Yes,” said Tidwell blandly. “On the national board, actually.”

“But I thought you were drinking on the plane.”

“Oh, that,” interrupted Clancy. “Actually it was iced tea. We’ve found that lecturing people while we’re traveling just alienates them, so we try to blend with the crowd until we have time to do some real work.”

“Have you ever stopped to think what alcohol does to your nervous system? If you can hold on a second we’ve got some pamphlets here you could read.”

Tidwell started rummaging energetically in his flight bag.

“Ah... actually I’ve got to run now. Nice talking with you boys.”

He edged backward, started away toward the bar, then turned, smiled, and made a beeline for the men’s room.

Tidwell collapsed in laughter.

“Alcoholics... Oh Christ, Clancy, where do you come up with those from anyway?”

“Huh? Oh, just a quickie. It got rid of him, didn’t it?”

“I’ll say. Well, let’s go before he comes back.”

“Um, can we stall here for a few minutes, Steve?”

Tidwell stopped laughing in mid-breath.

“What is it? Trouble?”

“Nothing definite. Don’t want to worry you if it’s nothing. just talk about something for a few minutes.”

“Terrific. Remind me to fire you for insubordination. How about that Aki? Do you believe he managed to keep his cool through all that crap?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That Beckington is a real shit. If we weren’t under contract, I’d like nothing better than realigning his face a little.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Dammit, that’s enough! If you don’t tell me what’s up, I’ll cut your liquor allotment!”

“Well... we might have a little problem.”

“C’mon, Clancy!”

“You saw where Beckington went?”

“Yeah, into the men’s room. So?”

“So, Aki’s in there.”

“What?”

“Doubled back and ducked in while we were doing the A. A. bit with Beckington. Probably needed to take a painkiller.”

“Who else is in there?”

“Just the two of them.”

“Christ! You don’t think Aki...”

“Not out here in the open, but it must be awfully tempting in there.”

The two men studied the ceiling in silence for several moments. Still no one emerged from the men’s room. Finally Tidwell heaved a sigh and started for the door. Clancy held up a hand.

“C’mon Steve. Why not let him...”

“Because we can’t afford any attention. None at all. All we need is to have them detain all the Orientals in the airport for a police investigation. Now let’s go!”

The mercenaries started for the door. Tidwell raised his hand to push his way in, and the door opened.

“Oh, hi boys. How’s the ’dry’ business? Just do me a favor and don’t close down the bars until after I’ve left the country, know what I mean?”

“Um... sure, Harry. Just for you.”

“Well, see you around.”

He brushed past them and strode toward the bar.

Almost mechanically, the two mercenaries pushed open the door and entered the washroom. Aki looked up inquiringly as he dried his hands on a blow-jet.

“Um... are you okay, Aki?”

“Certainly, Mr. Tidwell. Why do you ask?”

The two men shifted uncomfortably.

“We... ah... we just thought that after what happened outside...”

Aki frowned for a moment, then suddenly smiled with realization.

“Ah! I see. You feared that I might... Mr. Tidwell, I am a mercenary under contract. Rest assured I would do nothing to draw needless attention to our force or myself.”

With that, the three mercenaries headed out into the terminal to continue the invasion.

Wolfe! Big Bad Wolfe! So he was finally going to talk to Wolfe.

Pete took the corner with an almost military precision. As usual, the executive corridor was empty. Bad for one’s image to be caught loitering in the corridor. Without people, all efforts to make the hall seem warm and friendly through the use of pictures, hangings, or statues failed miserably. It always looked like you were on your way to a fallout shelter or a secret underground military installation.

After three days, Wolfe had finally sent for him. Well, Petey boy’d have a word or two for him.

He winced at his own false bravado. Who’s kidding whom, Pete? You’re scared. No... not scared. Nervous. Okay... admit it. Drag it out and let’s have a look at it.

Something’s wrong. Very wrong. Not just that I didn’t get the number one spot. Something else. After three weeks as acting head of the section, Wolfe shows up. Wolfe, of all people! Wolfe is notorious as a trouble-shooter and axeman here at the corporation. His stay in any job was usually brief and always bloody. So what? I’ve survived purges before. Yes, but he’s been here three days and this will be my first time to see him alone. Usually a second in command works close with the new chief, shows him the ropes and points out the rough spots. Panic tactics. Yes... that’s it. Let me sweat it out for three days, then the mysterious summons and I’ll open up like a steamed clam, rat on everybody. That must be what he’s doing. Well, it’s working!

Okay! You’ve admitted it. Now take a deep breath and play it with a little style.

Right! Wolfe’s door loomed before him. He took a deep breath, raised a knuckle, and tapped twice softly.

One... two... three heartbeats. Five. The light above the door flashed green. He turned the knob and entered.

Wolfe beamed at him as he rose from the desk. California casual and used car friendly.

“Come in, Hornsby. It’s Pete, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s Emil. Please, no formality.”

They shook hands and Wolfe waved him into a chair.

“Sorry we haven’t gotten together sooner, but we’ve got quite a problem here.”

“That was obvious when they called you in.” Pete smiled back at him.

“Oh?” Wolfe seemed both surprised and amused. “How so?”

“Well... you... that is, you have a bit of a reputation...”

“... As an axeman?” Wolfe dismissed it with a wave of his hand.

“Quite exaggerated, I assure you. A bit annoying, actually. Makes people shy away from me.”

“Oh, sorry I mentioned it.”

“Quite the contrary, always glad to get a little feedback. Now, where were we?”

“The problem.”

“Oh, yes! We have quite a problem. That problem, Pete, is you!”

“Me, sir?” Pete felt his hands starting to fidget.

“Yes. This is the second time you’ve been passed over for promotion, isn’t it?”

“Well... yes... but I’ve been moving up. Slow and steady.”

“Still, it’s not a good sign.”

“I’ve been pretty tied up on this war thing.”

“It seems to indicate you aren’t developing as fast as we hoped, or you hoped, for that matter,” Wolfe continued as if he hadn’t heard.

“But I haven’t had a chance to get to know...”

“So we’ve worked up a plan for your leaving. It involves six months on full pay and another...”

“Now just a damn minute!” Pete was on his feet.

“Sit down, Peter. There’s no need to shout.”

“If you aren’t happy with my performance, there are other alternatives, you know! I’ve been thinking of putting in for a transfer.”

“Pete, I’m trying to be pleasant about...”

“What about a transfer!”

“Look, Hornsby!” Wolfe’s face was grim. “I’ve been trying to get you transferred! For a week before I came and for the last three days! Nobody wants you! Now sit down!”

Pete sank back into his chair.

“Now, as I was saying.” Wolfe was again the pleasant salesman.

“Why?”

Wolfe pursed his lips for a long moment, then sighed and leaned back.

“Basically because of Eddie Bush.”

“What about him?”

“Specifically the circumstances surrounding the way he died so conveniently for you.”

“Now look! If you’re trying to say...”

“If we had any solid proof, Hornsby, we’d turn you over to the authorities and that would be that. As it stands, there are just suspicions, perhaps unfounded, but enough that no one wants you working under them. I don’t want you, and no one else wants you.”

Pete’s eyes fell before his gaze.

“Now then, as I was saying, you’ll get six months...”

“How long do I have?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“You know what I mean.”

Wolfe sighed. For the first time he looked sympathetic.

“There’s an armed guard waiting in my reception area to escort you out. Your files and office are being placed under lock and key as we’re talking now. If you come back Saturday, a guard will meet you at the gate and escort you to your office where he will watch while you have half an hour to remove your personal effects.”

“Has my staff been told?”

“A memo was distributed as you entered my office.”

Pete thought for several moments.

“Then there’s nothing else to say, is there?”

“Well, you could let me tell you about the separation plan we’ve worked up for you. I think you’ll find it more than fair.”

“Save it. Send me a letter. Right now, I just want to leave.”

“Very well.”

Pete rose.

“You’ll understand, sir, if I don’t shake your hand?”

“Frankly,” Wolfe’s eyes were cold, “I hadn’t planned to.”

He strode through the common corridors, head high, ahead of his guard. He had a disembodied, unearthly feeling, like he was walking in a dream.

He was screwed! No one would hire him now. Job hunting at his pay level without a job or a recommendation!

C’mon, Pete! You can work it out later. First try to put a little style into the exit.

He forced himself back into focus and began to look around him. Maybe a few casual nods or a wink or a wave at a couple of people on his way out. He suddenly realized he didn’t know anyone in the halls. Nobody looked at him. Not that they were avoiding his eyes; they were all busy and their eyes passed over him as unimportant. Just a few curious glances at the guard. He didn’t see any of his staff. Usually there were a few of them around.

The window! One of the office windows overlooked the executive parking lot! They would be watching from the window. Some to wave goodbye, some from morbid curiosity, but they’ll be at the window! Okay, Petey boy. We’ll show them bastards how Peter Hornsby goes to meet his fate.

He cleared the door, forcing a jaunty air into his walk. He found he couldn’t whistle, but decided it didn’t matter.

As he reached his car and fumbled for his keys, curiosity forced him to sneak one peek at the window.

No one was watching.

Mausier winced as the gun under his coat bumped against the edge of the viewscreen with a loud “klunk!” He shot a covert glance around the office, but no one else seemed to notice. He heaved a sigh of relief, but was promptly assailed with additional doubts. More likely the staff had noticed and known what had happened, but chose to ignore it. The fact he was now carrying a gun was common knowledge since the afternoon he had accidentally triggered the clamshell shoulder holster, and the weapon had slid from under his coat to bounce on the floor in front of the whole office. A few had raised their eyebrows in surprise, but the majority of them had merely smiled indulgently. Mausier had secretly writhed in agony under those smiles, as he was writhing now under their tolerant silence. They obviously thought he was silly, a child with a toy gun pretending to be dangerous or endangered. They weren’t aware of the potentially explosive and violent situation they were all living in.

Then again, how sure was he? Mausier considered for the hundredth time taking the gun back to the store. It was doing him no apparent good and causing him untold embarrassment. His wife never tired of making little digs about “that thing” when he stripped and cleaned it each night. Even though he weathered her taunts in stoic silence, it was beginning to take its toll on him.

He felt foolish. Who would want to attack him anyway? He wasn’t a key figure; in fact, he wasn’t a figure at all. He didn’t make any decisions, he never even touched the various items of information his office posted and negotiated for. He was a watcher, not a doer. All he had was some wild guesses and theories based on information any number of people could have if they read extensively and thought about what they read. Why should anyone come after him specifically? More importantly, what could he do if they did?

The closest thing to an attack that had happened to him had occurred last week. He had been walking through the parking lot of a shopping center and a panel truck backed into him, knocking him sprawling. The driver could have backed over him as he lay on the pavement. Instead he stopped the truck and leaped out to help Mausier back to his feet, apologizing profusely and offering to buy him a drink. At the time, Mausier’s gun was locked in the glove compartment of his car two hundred feet away. He had left it behind for fear of tripping the shoplifter detection devices in the store.

If it had been a real attempt on his life, he would be dead. What could he have done to stop it even if he had had the gun along? Shot the driver when he heard the gears engage? He could hurt a lot of innocent people that way. Besides, the modus operandi was wrong for the assassin teams. They preferred to work from long range with scoped rifles. Okay, if one of those had taken a shot at him, what would he do, assuming, of course, the assassin missed his first shot, which they didn’t seem to do very often? Draw his handgun and try to outshoot him? A professional assassin two blocks away with a scoped rifle? Fat chance.

The handgun he carried was a Walther P-38, a nastily efficient, medium-sized automatic. Its double action allowed him to carry it with one round chambered and the hammer down and still have the ability to get off the first round by simply squeezing the trigger without fielding slides or anything. He practiced with it at a local firing range at least once a week until he considered himself a moderate shot. That is, he could put the entire clip into a man-sized target if it was close enough for him to hit it with a thrown rock.

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