The Hamlet Warning (15 page)

“It’ll come back to you,” Tycoon said.

Dr. Segal broke out the medical packs. They donned the sterilized gowns and strapped the black upright. After Peter Rabbit took measurements, Elliott went to work, honing the wire-tough Afro down to a reasonable facsimile of a European trim.

Afterward, they washed the black thoroughly. Dr. Segal used an electric buffer to scrape away calluses from the feet and hands. On the last part of the flight, after they cleared the Gambia, they carefully dressed the black in his new finery: silk underwear, over-the-calf hose, blue pastel shirt and coordinated tie, continental-style suit, and English jodhpurs. To Elliott’s astonishment, a wallet filled with pocket litter — a well-used passport, credit cards, and such — established a new identity.

“How did they do all that on such short notice?” he asked.

“I suppose they always have some identification waiting for people who need it,” Tycoon said. He set up a Polaroid camera and began fitting special lenses. “All we need now is his portrait to complete his passport.”

Dr. Segal used tiny surgical clips to hold the black’s eyes open. They propped him up and Tycoon snapped his picture.

“I just thought of something,” Peter Rabbit said. “What if this cat wakes up in the hospital and starts talking whatever language he uses?”

Tycoon and Dr. Segal exchanged glances. The Doctor seemed mildly embarrassed.

“We’ve thought of that,” he said. “I’ve given him a massive shot of novocaine at the base of the tongue. The muscles won’t function very well for the next twenty-four hours or so.”

“And after that?”

Dr. Segal reached for the black’s wrist. He measured the pulse against his watch. “I doubt if there will be any ‘after that,’” he said.

Chapter 17

Minus
4
Days
,
19
:
37
Hours

The landing in Lisbon seemed anticlimactic. An ambulance was waiting as they taxied to the end of the runway at the small, private field off Campo Grande north of town. An unobtrusive but sizable fleet of small cars lurked in the darkness along the edges of the field.

A Mercedes pulled up and stopped beside the ambulance. While attendants loaded the patient, Elliott, Dr. Segal, Peter Rabbit, and Tycoon joined the silent driver in the Mercedes. Two cars pulled out ahead of them and two behind. The caravan drove southward into the older part of town. Turning off on Gomes Freire they headed to St. Joseph’s Hospital. They were met at the emergency room door by a platoon of nurses and orderlies. A tall, lanky Portuguese doctor came out to shake hands with Dr. Segal. They conferred briefly. Broadsword emerged from the shadows and climbed into the Mercedes.

“We were lucky,” Broadsword said. “We’ve managed to sucker them out of position. But it’s taken a lot of doing, and I’m still worried. It’s a big outfit. Very intense. Half our European force is keeping them occupied out toward Estoril.” 

The driver started the car, and they drove rapidly back toward the safehouse.

“Any idea who they are?” Tycoon asked.

“No. I’ve tried to keep from blowing the whole thing by making contact with them. But if I can get you people out of town safely, we’ll see if we can’t find one who’s talkative.”

Broadsword seemed pleased with the way the mission had gone. “We’re well within our time margin,” he said. “Langley should be satisfied.”

They remained at the safehouse only long enough to complete the debriefing.

They then left at thirty-minute intervals. Peter Rabbit went first, heading for Portela de Sacavem and a flight to Barcelona. Tycoon went back to his jet, bound for Rome. Dr. Segal’s flight was to Madrid, where he was scheduled to switch to a military jet for a quick trip to Washington.

Elliott was the last to leave.

“Be damned careful,” Broadsword said. “I’m still worried. Go straight to Oslo, check in with Langley, then lie low until all this blows over. This organization seems to have fantastic resources. When they realize we’ve had them on a false scent, they may get rough. They’ll want to find out what in hell has been going on.”

Elliott’s baggage had been packed and sent ahead. A car and driver picked him up at the safehouse to take him to Portela de Sacavem. Preoccupied with his thoughts, Elliott didn’t see the collision ahead of them on the expressway. His first inkling of danger was the driver’s sudden braking. He glanced up and saw a car flipping end over end thirty yards away. Another creamed on the right-hand barriers. Elliott’s driver put the Mercedes into a skid and managed to miss the wrecked cars by scant inches. They came to rest on the shoulder beyond, jammed against the guard rail. Traffic screeched and crunched to a halt behind them.

They were unhurt, but they were forced to wait twenty-five minutes while the road was cleared. The delay was enough for Elliott to miss his flight. The next was two hours and fifteen minutes away.

The driver studied his watch in indecision. “I was supposed to see you off,” he said. “But I’m due in Estoril in a few minutes for a pickup. And I’m already late.”

“Go on,” Elliott told him. “I’ll be all right.”

Reluctantly, the driver left. Elliott stood in the terminal for a few minutes, watching faces. He was certain he hadn’t been spotted. And he had no intention of remaining conspicuous in a public terminal for two hours. He had no trouble in deciding what to do.

He walked to the taxi ramp and hired a cab. “A’Cave,” he said.

The girl wasn’t in sight when he entered the crowded bar. He ordered a drink and sat waiting, his back to the wall. He declined offers from other prostitutes, and watched the door. He had spent the better part of an hour toying with the drink and was on the verge of giving up when he saw her come down the stairs with an American sailor. They were in a heated discussion. Elliott moved closer.

“No suckee suckee,” the girl was saying. “Fuckee fuckee. Twenty escudos.”

“No fuckee fuckee,” the sailor said. “Suckee suckee.”

Elliott tapped the sailor on the shoulder. “I hate to interrupt such intelligent conversation. But if the lady doesn’t want to blow you, why don’t you blow?”

The sailor swung around unsteadily to face Elliott. “What the fuck’s it to you, mate?”

“If you’re not going to do anything but argue with her, I’d like to take her off your hands,” he said. He turned to the girl. “Fuckee fuckee is fine with me,” he said.

She smiled at him tentatively, uncertain.

“Well, it’s not with me,” the sailor said. “You better shove off, mate.”

“I plan to,” Elliott said. “But I’m taking the girl with me. And I believe you’re too intelligent to try to stop me.”

The sailor blinked at him. His eyes shifted to the width of Elliott’s shoulders, to Elliott’s loose stance. He stood for a moment in indecision.

“Ah, fuck it,” he said, backing away.

“That’s precisely what I intend to do,” Elliott said.

Pushing the girl ahead of him, Elliott moved through the crowd and up the stairs. No taxis were in sight as they left the club, but in the distance Elliott saw one dropping a passenger. As the taxi came toward him, Elliott raised an arm and the driver pulled to a stop at the curb. Elliott and the girl climbed into the back seat. The girl gave the driver an address that meant nothing to Elliott. As they settled into the soft leather upholstery, Elliott wrapped his arms around the girl.

“You remember me?” he asked.

“Sure, I ’member you,” she said. But she didn’t. Her answer came too fast.

Elliott knew his childish hope was pathetic — that she would recall one brief encounter, when she no doubt screwed a dozen men nightly. Yet, she was everything that had haunted him throughout the African trip. Small, deliciously compact body. Rich, dark hair worn in a gamin cut. Delicate cleft chin, thin waif face, and childlike innocence to the eyes.

She moved her hand to his crotch. “You like?” she asked.

“I like,” he said, bending for a long, tongue-searching kiss. Her hand moved experimentally. He had wild thoughts of taking her in the back of the taxi.

And in that moment, the doors of the taxi flew open and four men piled in, guns drawn.

The taxi had slowed for an intersection. The driver didn’t acknowledge his new passengers or miss a beat in the handling of the wheel as he moved on through the intersection. Elliott knew, with sickening certainty, that he had been set up in a fashion any amateur should have recognized.

One unseen gunman sat behind Elliott, pistol pressing into his ribs. Two more faced him from the far side of the seat. The fourth was up front with the driver, facing to the rear. And the girl was practically in Elliott’s lap, hindering any move he might make.

“Don’t mind us,” the one in front said. “Go right ahead with what you were doing.”

He held a pistol leveled at Elliott, resting on the top of the seat: a Colt Python, .38 or .357 magnum. Elliott’s mind registered the fact with trained detachment. The man’s English was slightly modified BBC, with the bare hint of an accent. Hungarian? German? Czech? Elliott couldn’t be certain. The man was square-built, muscular, forceful. A Rod Steiger.

“At least let the girl go,” Elliott said. “She has nothing to do with this.”

“Of course,” the Rod Steiger said. “We’ll let the girl go.”

Something in the way he said it, and in the deadly silence that followed, brought home to Elliott the full situation. He understood that they couldn’t under any circumstances let the girl go. They couldn’t risk her going to the police with the story of an American being kidnaped by four armed men.

Nor did they intend to let him go, either.

Accepting these facts realistically, Elliott began to make plans.

His single-shot .38 pen was useless against such odds. He pushed it out of his mind. He would have to try something else. He kept silent, orientating himself to each man’s location, watching their movements with an eye toward their degree of expertise, evaluating their relationships, and estimating his chances. He still couldn’t see the man pressing against him from behind, but he had the two across the seat pegged. Lee Marvin and Ernest Borgnine. 

The driver had turned westward. Elliott recognized the entrance to Monsanto Park, and he knew they were on the 24 de Janeiro Road that led to the old fort. At a bend of the road, they stopped.

“We will leave the girl here,” the Rod Steiger said.

The girl looked at Elliott, dubious, searching.

“Go ahead,” he said.

The Lee Marvin and Ernest Borgnine stepped out on the far side, and Elliott knew they were to be the girl’s executioners. He waited until they helped the girl out of the door and moved away from the car.

Then he made his move.

He wheeled to his right, bringing his right elbow high in a vicious arc that caught the man behind him low on the jaw. He felt it crunch just as the pistol went off. A searing, white-hot iron lanced his side, but he was certain he’d managed to escape with only a flesh wound.

Without pause, he brought his left hand back, reaching for the Rod Steiger’s Python, hoping the man would be too confused, too cautious to shoot.

He was. Elliott’s hand closed on the gun, holding the hammer immobile, as he brought his right hand across in an open-handed chop to the throat. The blow landed perfectly. Elliott felt the carotid bone and windpipe collapse. He had time for a fleeting sense of satisfaction. The man would do no more breathing unless someone thoughtfully performed a tracheotomy within the next four or five minutes.

Switching the Python to his right hand, Elliott plunged out of the car, hunting a target as he fell headlong. Both the Lee Marvin and the Ernest Borgnine had turned back toward the car, leaving the girl, who stood frozen by fright.

“Run!” Elliott screamed at her. Rolling frantically to one side, he squeezed off a shot at the Ernest Borgnine, and heard the bullet hit flesh. The man dropped. Elliott shifted his fire, but he was too late. The Lee Marvin fired, and in the same instant a tremendous blow to his chest slammed Elliott back into the side of the car. His head struck the left rear tire. Holding the Python firm in both hands, he fired. The .357 bullet knocked the Lee Marvin flat.

Elliott lurched to his feet and began staggering toward the trees thirty or forty yards away. Ahead, in the dim glow from the distant lights of the park, he could see the girl, awkward in high heels in the soft ground, running for cover. She looked back, saw him, and stopped.

He tried to yell, to tell her to go on, but he had no breath. His chest was an agony of fire and he was certain a lung was collapsed. He stumbled, almost fell, and she moved back toward him. At that instant, the shotgun blast hit him, sending him full length on his face. As he fought to hold onto consciousness, he heard the shotgun fire again and knew that one was for the girl. When he managed to raise his head, he saw her crumpled in the grass a few feet away, her arms and legs askew like a broken toy.

Elliott was overwhelmed for a moment with the sadness of the senseless waste. He was then swept by a consuming anger, giving him enough strength to turn, bringing the .357 around.

The driver was approaching him, the shotgun at port arms. A Maurice Chevalier. Elliott struggled to bring the pistol up, but he knew there wouldn’t be enough time. And there wasn’t. The unsmiling Maurice Chevalier calmly raised the shotgun, sighted at Elliott’s chest, and fired from less than fifteen feet. Elliott hardly felt the buckshot hit. He was wondering, vaguely, if he should have taken time to shoot the driver before he plunged out of the car, in the hope he would still have enough time to drop the executioners.

He was still pondering the question as he sank back to the grass, and oblivion.