Cambodian Hellhole (5 page)

"You've got to get 'em out of there," Ramsay was saying, his voice almost a whisper, feverish and faint.

"Get who, son? Out of where?"

"It's s'posed to be a secret."

He was rambling now, far gone with his fever and starvation, with exposure from his walk out of Cambodia's reeking jungle. But Stone bent closer, almost whispering himself now, willing the young man to hear and understand. "It's all right for you to tell me, Corporal. Time to make your report."

"Yessir." Hesitation, and the dry tongue darted lizardlike across white, narrow lips.

"Quang Tin province . . . north . . . not far." The eyes were glazing over, and Stone gripped him by his scrawny shoulders, shook him gently, brought him back around by slow degrees.

"I need coordinates," he said, and there was no need now to feign the tone of urgency.

The corporal was trying to pinpoint a P.O.W. camp, of that Mark Stone was certain. If he could . . . if he could dredge it up from feverish memory . . .

"Ten klicks out, across the line . . . Quang Tin . . . they've got a shitload of our men there, Captain. You . . . you got to get 'em out of there before . . ."

He faded out again, and Stone was loath to shake him. From his looks, the kid was racked with disease already, and he might well have internal injuries. If he was right about the distance from the border being ten kilometers, there might still be other ways of pinning down the camp. If there was a camp.

Suddenly the corporal grasped Stone's hand in both of his own, and squeezed it with a strength Stone would not have believed he possessed. The kid was straining up and off the narrow cot, his face mere inches from Stone's now; his eyes-were bulging, staring at and through Stone, searching for his heart and soul.

"Lynch says you owe him one . . ."

And he slumped back, collapsing on the canvas. Stone stared at him, doubting the evidence of his ears . . . except that the adrenaline was pumping through him now, the short hairs rising on his neck.

There was no doubt about the words, not really. Somehow Ramsay knew about Jess Lynch, about the pledge Stone had made to him one hellfire night in 'Nam.

He knew, and yet how could he?

Lynch was dead, his life snuffed out in a pathetic rearguard action two weeks before the final pullout in '72. A patrol had been coming in under fire, with the VC closing fast behind them, and Lynch had turned back to hold the enemy while the rest broke free and made it safely into their defensible perimeter.

And he was never seen again.

The DOD had listed him as killed in action, had informed his wife that he was dead meat, never coming home to see their baby or the home they had been saving up to buy and live in as a family.

No way in hell could Ramsay know about Jess Lynch, unless . . .

Unless Lynch was alive.

And in captivity.

Inside Cambodia?

Stone reached out for the corporal and tried to rouse him from his fever dream, but he was far beyond the point of waking now. The bulging eyes were half-closed, glassing over now, the emaciated form a rag doll, devoid of life.

His final breath had been the warning, plea, supplication, all rolled into one.

Lynch says you owe him one . . .

Another debt unpaid, sweet Jesus, but at least this one still had potential. This one was in sight, if not in reach.

You seldom got a second chance in warfare. And Mark Stone was not about to pass this by. Not while he lived.

"O
kay," Carruthers said, "we've got the dope we needed. I'll have you taken back to your hotel now . . . if you think you want to face the manager."

"That's it?"

"That's it," the agent confirmed, smiling thinly.

Mark Stone gestured toward the body on the tiny cot. "And what about him?"

Carruthers shrugged. "He's out of it. We'll send him home to his family."

"And the others?"

The C.I.A. man heaved a weary sigh. "We'll have to check out his intel. If it pans out, we may be able to get some mileage from it in negotiations."

Stone was scornful, and he let it show in face and tone of voice.

"Your so-called negotiations have been dragging on for over ten years now," he snapped. "So far, you haven't brought a single prisoner home."

Carruthers sneered. "What makes you the expert, Stone?"

"Experience," the soldier answered. "I get results." The agent's answering tone was mocking, filled with malice.

"Yeah, we heard about your great results the last time out. I guess you didn't bag your quota of Americans."

"Fuck you, Carruthers."

The spy's face turned cold. "Get this, smartass," he growled. "You're out of this. In fact, you're out of Bangkok. Like by tomorrow morning, at the latest."

"Really?" There was wry amusement in Stone's voice.

"Bet your ass. We find you still in town by lunchtime, I'll rack you up."

"What's wrong, Carruthers? Feeling heat?" When there was no immediate answer, Stone forged on ahead. "You know, if you had done your job, I wouldn't need to do it now. I wouldn't exist."

Carruthers's face had turned a violent, mottled scarlet. "You won't exist, goddammit, not if you start messing with this one."

"I don't bluff, Carruthers."

"Neither do I. This is straight from the top."

Stone smiled at his adversary, stalling as he weighed the odds and angles. Carruthers and one of his sidekicks were still in the room with him; the other two had disappeared, presumably to keep an eye on outer security. With any luck at all . . .

Stone smiled—his best, most disarming grin. "I guess there's nothing I can do to stay on your good side, then, is there?"

The agent glowered at him, fairly grinding his teeth. "Not a goddamned thing."

"Well, in that case . . ." Mark Stone unleashed a haymaker that caught Carruthers on the chin and drove him backward, bouncing him off the nearest clapboard wall. He was not out, but he was shaken, stunned, and there would be enough time to dispatch him once his sidekick was immobilized.

The second C.I.A. man was already clawing for his holstered pistol, but his jacket slowed him down a fatal fraction of a second. Stone was on him even as he reached the weapon, slashing with the knife-edge of his hand and making contact with the bridge of his nose, crushing it out flat against his face. A gout of blood erupted from his flattened nostrils, and the agent sat down hard, no more than semiconscious now, his gun forgotten.

Stone had not forgotten it, however. He retrieved it from the chamois shoulder holster, suddenly reversed it in his palm, and swung it like a blackjack, hard against the agent's bloody face.

The guy went over backward like a sack of dirty laundry down the chute. His head hit the carpet with the sound of a bowling ball bouncing downstairs.

Stone was already turning away from him, moving back in the direction of Carruthers. The senior C.I.A. man was recovering more swiftly than Stone had anticipated, reaching for his own weapon now, and shaking his head to clear it of the reddish fog that had settled in behind his bleary eyes.

Stone met him halfway and whipped the borrowed handgun up and over in a vicious roundhouse, laying Carruthers's left cheek open to the bone. He never had the time to speak or shout a warning to the men outside. A strangled grunt escaped from his bloody lips, and then he was floorward bound, a tumbling deadweight bag of bones that met the carpet with a resounding thud.

Stone lifted his revolver from its holster, just in case, and jammed it down into his own waistband. With the heavier-caliber autoloader in his fist, he moved cautiously in the direction of the bedroom door, leaving the two unconscious agents alone with the mortal remains of Corporal Ramsay.

For one of them, the war was finally over. When the others woke, they might well find that theirs was just beginning.

First things first, and Stone was at the door now, one hand on the knob, listening with his ear close against the thin wood paneling. If the man or men outside had heard the sounds of struggle, they might be advancing on him at that moment. Or they might be laying back and playing safe, setting up an ambush in the event that the wrong person emerged through the door with a weapon in his hand.

Stone knew he had to take the chance. There was no other way for him to get out of the safe house—and remaining where he was could turn out to be anything but safe.

He had no wish to kill an agent here tonight, but on the other hand, Carruthers would be aching to waste him after the beating he had just received. His options had been narrowed radically, and Stone no longer knew if he could make it out of there without spilling blood along the way.

If he had to ice an American . . .

He put the thought out of his mind. He would play it as it came, and handle it instinctively, the way he did in combat. He had not come here to kill, but by the same token, he had not come here to die, either.

Survival took priority, and he would sort the rest of it out later, at his leisure, from a true safe house of his own choosing.

He turned the knob and edged the door open a silent fraction of an inch. One eye against the slit, he scanned the room beyond—and found his target immediately.

Agent number three was standing with his back turned toward the door, no more than six paces distant. He was the only person visible within that slim pie-wedge of space—but that most emphatically did not mean he was alone.

There was the driver to account for, and he might well be positioned just beyond Stone's line of sight, perhaps with weapon drawn, already noticing the marginal movement of the door.

It was a chance Stone had to take. He could not stall forever, and remaining where he was, pinned down by his excessive caution, simply was not a viable alternative.

He shouldered through the door and closed the gap in one swift, silent rush. Somehow the agent heard him corning, sensed his danger in the final second, and threw himself aside, dodging to the left, almost evading the pistol butt that Stone directed at the base of his skull.

Almost.

The gun butt missed its primary target, but it struck the agent's cheek, tearing flesh and drawing blood. He staggered, almost going down, but he was big and tough, apparently accustomed to taking knocks and standing up to punishment.

Stone forged ahead, the pistol butt and the knuckles of his free hand raining on the agent's head and face. He brought a sharp knee up into the other's groin, and the C.I.A. man crumpled, going over, retching on the dingy carpet.

Stone stepped back a pace, gathered his strength, and drove the toe of his shoe into the agent's crooked front teeth, crushing them inward, pulping his lips, snuffing out his final flame of consciousness in one swift stroke.

The spy performed an awkward, graceless somersault, landing on his butt, going limp the moment he touched down on the floor. Stone bent beside him, feeling his jugular for a pulse and finally finding one, however weak and thready at the moment.

He would live, all right, unless Carruthers killed him for allowing Stone to make his break. Whatever happened now, from here out, the guy was on his own.

And there was at least one to go.

The driver was nowhere in sight, his absence finally registering on Stone as the excitement of his battle with the other agent faded. There had been no ambush waiting for him out beyond the bedroom door, no grim surprise.

And that meant he had another man to find and immobilize, before he could effect a clean escape.

The driver might be anywhere, inside the house or out, but he would have to find the man, and swiftly. He could not afford to leave an enemy awake and stalking in his rear zone; it was suicidal.

Moving swiftly, silently, Stone checked the other rooms of the C.I.A. safe house, moving from one to the next until all had undergone his scrutiny. The house was small—even smaller than it had looked from outside in the darkness—and it did not take him long to finish up the quick recon.

He found no one in any of the other rooms, and that meant his quarry was outside. Somewhere. In the darkness.

Stone would have to find him, in a grim nocturnal game where the hunter had as many fatal disadvantages as the prey. The only plus so far was that the driver had apparently not noticed what was going on inside the house. He would be unaware of any danger from within, perhaps approachable, if Stone used proper caution.

Moving swiftly, he rolled the fallen agent over and nimbly stripped him of his sports coat. It was far from a perfect fit, but outside, in the darkness, it would pass a casual inspection. They were nowhere near the same in height or weight, but once again, Stone counted on the cloak of night to carry him within the necessary striking range.

He left the kitchen, exiting the house by the same side door that had served as his original entrance. Outside, the night was warm, balmy, and he was perspiring in the stolen coat before he had taken a dozen steps along the narrow driveway.

He would try the car before he started searching through the yard and garden. His quarry was the driver, and it made good sense that he would be prepared to drive. The Company mind was compartmentalized that way: a duty for each agent, and each agent in his place.