Emerald Death (4 page)

            “The Padre will be fine, Bridget,” Hannigan reassured her. “He wanted me to get you out of here and away from trouble.”

…But he wished he were as confident as he sounded.  Actually, he had no idea if the priest would escape the raid on the bar, but he intended to make sure that the girl got out and was safe from harm.

He followed Shotsky and Degiorno until the four of them burst out onto the roof of The Broken Tusk. The sunlight was blinding after the dim interior of the bar, forcing Hannigan and the others to squint their eyes in order to see.  The gunfire from below was louder now as it echoed up from the street. Hannigan moved to the edge of the roof and peeked over. 

            The soldiers weren’t government troops at all, at least not from the Belgian government.  They were wearing khaki uniforms with red armbands emblazoned with a white circle centered below a black swastika.  Nazis!  Nazis storm troopers were raiding the mercenary meeting place.  But what on earth for?

            Hannigan ducked back away from the edge of the roof as bullets began to chew at the parapet.  He spun towards Shotsky and the fat Italian.  “Those are Nazis down there!  Does this have to with your big job, Degiorno?”

Hannigan crossed the distance in two steps, grabbing the man by the lapels of his white tropical weight suit jacket.

            “They want the map!”  Degiorno stammered in reply.  “I didn’t realize that they knew I had made a copy of it.  It leads to a hidden treasure deep within the Congo - in pygmy country!”

            “Treasure?” the other three asked in unison, disbelief written across their faces.

            “A mystic gemstone of some sort.”  Degiorno replied, his face a beet red.  “They want it for their leader, Adolf Hitler.”

            “Hitler?  That upstart?” Hannigan asked in disbelief.

            “He seeks a great many occult artifacts.  He apparently believes that with their aid, Nazi Germany will become invincible.”

            “You seem to know a lot about the guy,” Hannigan snarled.

            “It’s my job to know who I am dealing with,” the Italian replied.  “Personally, I think the monetary value of the gem far outweighs its alleged mystic value.  I want it for the money.  That’s why I was hiring men to send after it.”

            Bullets chopped through the doorway leading to the roof from the bar.  “I think maybe we should get the heck out of here,” Hannigan said, drawing the Colt from under his vest.

            “A sound idea, Michael,” Shotsky added.

            “Then let’s do it!” Hannigan snapped.  He fired at the door just as a booted foot sent it swinging open.  The Nazi that had kicked it flew backwards into the stairwell.  “Run!”

            The four ran towards the edge of the roof and jumped into space. Their stomachs lurched as they hung suspended over the long drop then settled with unpleasant abruptness as they landed on the adjacent roof.  Hannigan fired out the magazine in his pistol to keep the Nazis down until they reached a door leading down into the building.

            Gunfire pummeled the wooden door as Hannigan threw it shut behind him, exploding into splinters as heavy lead slugs chewed it to pieces.

“They must want this mystic rock pretty bad!”  He shouted over the din.  “Maybe these Nazi guys aren't such pushovers after all!”

            He buttoned the magazine out of his Colt and slammed a fresh one home.  He was careful to pocket the empty magazine; he had a couple boxes of rounds in his duffel, but he had a feeling finding replacement magazines for the American-made Colt would be next to impossible in Africa.

He charged down the stairs eager to catch the others, but found Bridget stopped behind Gregor and Degiorno who stood arguing in the center of an intersecting hallway. 

“We don’t have time for this!” he snapped, shouldering his way through them and grabbing Bridget’s wrist to drag her along behind him.

                                    *****

Bridget gave only a token resistance before following him… so far Mike Hannigan had kept her alive. 

            Not that she needed any man's help.  She didn’t have the heart to tell Hannigan - who imagined himself the chivalrous knight, rescuing a damsel in distress - that her adopted father had taught her the mysterious Oriental martial art he called “Te-lo.”  She could kill with nearly any part of her body if threatened.  Still, she liked the young American, and wanted to see what he had in mind.

She was worried about her adopted father, but knew that Niles McKenzie could take care of himself.  If anyone could elude the Nazis, it was her dad.

            Hannigan kicked open a door and half-dragged her into the room.  She could hear shouts from the floors below them and knew that some of the soldiers were entering this building from the ground floor.  She shot a glance over her shoulder and saw the other two men following.

            Hannigan released his tight grip on her wrist and ran for the balcony.  He slipped outside for a moment and then waved for the others to follow.  There was a balcony on the next building about six feet away.  Bridget risked a glance at the street below.  No Nazis yet.

            “We need to get across this,” Hannigan said, upping the safety on his pistol and stuffing it into his waistband.

            “How?” Degiorno demanded, gasping for breath. 

            “Gregor?” Hannigan gave his former shipmate a hard look, and the Russian nodded quickly. 

            Almost before she realized what was happening, Bridget saw them each grab one of the Italian’s arms and run towards the edge of the balcony.  She gasped in horror as they threw him over the edge of the balcony.

            A loud bleat of fear escaped from the Italian’s mouth as he flew through the air and then crashed down on the opposing balcony.  Hannigan turned to look at her.

            “I don't need any help, thanks.”  She gave a flip of her ponytail, and then broke into a run and jumped, planting one foot on the balcony rail and pushing off, launching herself into space.  She landed on the fat Italian with a thud, driving the breath from his lungs. 

           
At least he makes a soft cushion
, she thought with a grin as she rolled off him. 

            The Russian came next, flying through the air and landing hard on the balcony - fortunately for Degiorno had crawled out of the way this time.  Bridget looked across the space at Mike Hannigan as he charged the edge of the balcony he was on.  He got a foot on the rail, just as she and Gregor had done and vaulted into the open.

Except he hadn’t jumped far enough, he was falling short of the balcony. 

Bridget realized in an instant that he wasn’t going to make it and charged to the railing, reaching out to catch Hannigan’s wrist in both her hands.  His weight threatened to drag her over the rail, but strong hands encircled her waist and held her as she supported Hannigan.  His other hand finally caught the rail and she helped him pull himself over it.

            “I hate when that happens,” Hannigan gasped.  Then he looked deep into her eyes.  “Thanks, you saved my life.”

            “Just returning the favor,” Bridget replied with a shrug, looking away from his intense gaze.

            “Can we move this along?” asked Shotsky, exasperation evident in his tone.

            “Good idea,” Hannigan said, climbing to his feet.  He checked his waistband; miraculously he hadn’t lost the Colt—and was distracted just long enough to run headlong into the doorpost.  He spat out a curse along with a mouthful of blood from his split lip. 

            Bridget shook her head in despair.  “Mike Hannigan, you have the hardest luck of any man I have ever met.”

            “Ha!  Hardluck Hannigan.”  Shotsky laughed.  “The name suits him.”

            “Can we get out of here before the Nazis find us?” Degiorno begged, still gasping for breath.  The Nazis might not get him, but Bridget wondered if the fat Italian might not end up dying of a heart attack before the day was through.

            “Good idea,” Hannigan said, pressing a bandana to his mouth as they entered the room.  It was deserted, which was a good sign.

            If Hannigan's cursed luck doesn't continue to plague us, Bridget thought, this just might work.  They could hide out here until the Nazis decided to look somewhere else, and then slip away to her plane.  Once there, she could fly them upriver to the Mission, where the Nazis would never think to look.  She only hoped her father was meeting with similar success.

Chapter Five

Niles McKenzie faded into the shadows as the Nazi force crashed into the bar, bristling with weapons.  The men fanned out and for a brief moment, he wasn’t sure he would be able to hide, but then the gunfire erupted outside and their attention was diverted.

            McKenzie slowed his breathing, willing the ambient light to wrap around his form to conceal him in the darkness, becoming a living shadow.  He had learned the ancient technique at a Tibetan monastery. The monk that had instructed him had mentioned teaching the technique to one other American, a pilot named Allard who had spent time in the mountains following the Great War, but as far as he knew, no one outside that forbidden place had mastered this ability.

            It took only a few moments for the Nazis to divide their numbers, half running back outside, half charging up the stairs.  The ones going up concerned him the most; Bridget had gone that way, along with Mike Hannigan and Degiorno. 

            Cloaked in the concealing shadows, McKenzie moved up the stairs behind the invading force. 

            He wasn’t sure what he would be able to accomplish.  He had no weapons; he had forsworn their use following his entering the priesthood. Yet he still practiced the mysterious martial art called “Te-lo.”  He could, if he chose, kill several of them before they even realized they were under attack, but there were too many for him to kill them all.  Besides, killing was something he had hoped never to do again.  The faces of those whose lives he had taken during the war still haunted his dreams. 

            But sometimes there were things worth killing for, worth enduring more ghosts.  To protect Bridget, he was more than prepared to kill again, God have mercy on his soul. 

            The sound of more gunfire - not just the Germans' sub-machine guns, but also the loud report of a big caliber handgun - erupted from above, but it was faint, perhaps originating on the roof.  He felt an unaccustomed smile twitch across his lips.  So Hannigan had gotten her out of the building and away. 

            McKenzie faded back into the shadows, becoming one with them, determined to wait the Nazis out.  When they left, he would take the boat back to the Mission to rendezvous with his daughter and the others.

                                   *****

Sturmscharfuhrer Hans Wessel cursed under his breath as his men spread out across the roof.  Degiorno had escaped.  The Fuhrer would not be pleased. 

Still, he had the original map.  He only suspected that the Italian had somehow made a copy of it, he couldn't be sure.  Killing Degiorno had simply been a matter of tidying up loose ends. 

He removed his brown cap and ran long thin fingers through his thin blond hair, brushing it back from his face. A torrent of perspiration coursed down his high forehead beneath the heat of the African sun.   What a forsaken place this is, he thought.

He and his men had arrived the night before after a long voyage aboard the zeppelin Valkyrie.   Their solemn task was to find the lost city in Africa where the fabled Emerald of Eternity was said to have been entombed eons before.  Personally, Wessel felt that the Fuhrer’s obsession with this occult relic was ridiculous.

Hitler himself had admitted the truth of Marx's statement that religion was the opiate of the masses; he manipulated the Church in Germany like a puppet master, promising them a return to the Holy Roman Empire, yet in his private counsels called Christianity a model for Bolshevism.  Yet for all his scorn of their faith, he entertained a fascination with the supernatural. 

It was Himmler’s influence; it had to be.  Just as the propaganda minister had filled the nation's head with dreams of the Thousand Year Reich, so too had he played on the Fuhrer’s youthful fascination with the ancient mysteries.

Wessel knew of other special teams that had been sent out in search of mythical treasures.  Some combed the deserts looking for the fabled lost ark of the Israelites, another group, after receiving special - some would say dubious - information from a psychic medium, had been sent to learn if the so-called Spear of Destiny, which Hitler had personally removed from the Hofmuseum in Vienna and taken to Nuremburg, was actually the lance which had killed Christ.

           And now the Emerald of Eternity… superstitious nonsense.

According to Himmler, the gem was a supposed remnant of the lost city of Atlantis.  He shook his head and replaced his cap.  “Recall the men,” he announced, sending the command out through the officers.

Degiorno and the others were gone.  It would take far too much time and energy to root them out.  It would be more prudent, he thought, to simply accomplish the mission: to follow the map to the lost city.  If the Italian truly was trying to double-cross them, they could always deal with him later.  Perhaps he could spare a couple of agents to stay in town with orders to shoot the Italian on sight.  

As eager as he was to return to the Valkyrie, he dreaded another encounter with Doctor Ragnarok, the scientist that had been dispatched as the Fuhrer's personal agent in the search, no doubt at Himmler's urging.  Or perhaps it was the other way around.

Scientist
… the word seemed inappropriate when applied to the masked mystic who seemed to have an almost obsessive interest in finding the stone.  Wessel wondered if the good doctor wasn't more interested in finding the gem for his own dark purposes, rather than the glory of the Reich.