The Terrible Ones (11 page)

There were low reeds growing alongside the inside edge of the ancient boardwalk. Nick groped his way into them and found himself ankle-deep in slush but pretty well hidden.

Minutes passed. Then the boardwalk creaked. If it was the boatman, Henri Duclos, he was more than an hour early.

And Henri would not need to jab a flashlight on and off to inspect every beat-up boatshed.

The light swung into the shed where Paula lay hidden beneath the tarpaulin. It seemed to linger there. Nick stiffened, hoping to God that the intruder hadn’t spotted the sole of a shoe or a lock of hair protruding from under the canvas.

He hadn’t. He left the second last shed, and his light swung to the last shed in the line. The beam focused briefly on the door and then went out. The man glided toward the door and started fumbling with the lock with something that didn’t sound like a key.

Nick’s finger itched on Wilhelmina’s trigger. But the inky blackness made accurate shooting impossible, even at close range, and right now he would rather question than kill. Also he preferred to see a fellow’s face before he shot him.

He rose from the reeds in a slight rustle of sound and leapt at the shadowy back with one arm swinging into a Commando hook around the neck and Wilhelmina ready to jab into the ribs. But the man’s hearing must have been as acute as Nick’s own for he was turning even as Nick leapt and he squirmed like an eel when the muscular arm clamped around his throat. He slammed the flashlight against Nick’s head and kicked out with one sharp-toed foot. Both blows were light and glancing and would have meant nothing if the two men had been on solid ground, but they were not—the planking lurched beneath their combined weight and threw them both off-balance. Nick tightened his grip involuntarily and stepped back onto a board that tilted beneath his feet. Rotting wood suddenly splintered underneath him and he felt his right leg drop abruptly between the shattered planks and into an abyss of cold water. The other man, still in his grip, sprawled out heavily on top of him; Nick’s elbow struck the boardwalk and Wilhemina went flying. The flashlight clattered to a stop and cast a sidelight on their tangled forms.

Tom Kee twisted savagely and half-freed himself, sliding one hand inside his jacket as he tried to rise. Nick saw his slit-eyed face and his quick movement at the same time. He tightened his pressure on the throat with one hand and snaked the other out to clamp a vise-like, screwing grip around the Chinaman’s thin wrist. Tom Kee squealed shrilly.

“Fidelista traitor!” he panted, and tried to wrench away. Nick was in no mood to bandy compliments. His thigh was jammed tightly between the rotting boards and his weight was distributed in an uncomfortably awkward way. He held onto Tom Kee with all the strength that he could muster and screwed the arm around until the shoulder bent toward him. Then he jerked viciously. Something snapped with a sound like a pistol shot. The Chinaman screamed and chopped wildly at Nick’s temple. Nick rocked sideways and felt his fingers loose at the other man’s throat. Tom Kee clawed at them with desperate strength and tore himself away. He leapt to his feet and slammed a kick into Nick’s face. Nick ducked, caught a glancing blow on the side of his head, and dimly saw the Chinaman’s good hand reach again into its owner’s jacket.

Nick clawed at the planking and heaved himself upward. The sharp splinters of the boardwalk dug through his trouser leg and raked into his flesh like the prongs of an animal trap. Tom Kee’s arm reached out toward him, pointing. Nick wrenched himself free as a tiny tongue of flame spat in the darkness and bit into his arm. He leapt sideways and then dived forward, arms outstretched and reaching for the gunhand. There was another zap! of sound and he had Tom Kee by the arm and over his head before he felt the sting. The Chinaman slammed down headfirst onto the boardwalk and Nick went after him. He landed heavily with his knee in the other man’s back and his arm jerking under his chin. There was another crack, even sharper this time, and Tom Kee lay crumpled in the stillness of death. Nick got up and heaved a sigh. So much for the question-and-answer game. He knew the fellow was Chinese, but that was all he knew.

“Are you all right?” He started at the voice. For a moment he had forgotten all about Paula. Then he was glad of her voice in the darkness. “Yes. Grab that light and let’s have a quick look at him.” She shone the light down onto the prone form as Nick turned the body over.

“He’s one of them,” she said quietly. “I’ve seen him in Santo Domingo with Tsing-fu.”

But there was nothing on his body to tell them anything more about him.

Nick dragged Tom Kee to the edge of the boardwalk and thrust him between the rotten planks and the sighing reeds. Then he walked back to the borrowed boathouse with Paula by his side.

“I wanted to help you,” Paula said as they sat down together on the tarpaulin. “But I could see so little in the dark and I was afraid of hitting you.”

“ ‘Afraid’ is not the word for you, Paula,” Nick said quietly. “You did the right thing. Except,” he added, “that you were supposed to stay under the tarpaulin.”

She laughed softly. “Now you know that was impossible for me!” Her hand rested lightly on his arm and he tingled at her touch. “You
are
hurt,” she said gently. “Please let us go to the boat before Henri comes. I know there are medical supplies on board.”

“They’ll keep,” said Nick. “I’d rather stay where we are and keep an eye out for more visitors.”

She was silent for a moment. Nick stared out onto the boardwalk and wondered again about her friends Marie and Jacques. Jacques had known they were going to the castle, Jacques had known that they were coming here . . . He wondered if they could really trust Henri Duclos.

“Do you know,” said Paula, “that you have not even told me your name?”

He stared at her in the darkness. It was true. Jacques had not even wanted to know—it was safer that way, he had said— and the occasion had never seemed to have arisen with Paula. He had a cover name, of course, and papers to go with it. But he was sure of Paula now, if of nothing else.

“My friends call me Nick,” he said.

“Nick. I like that.” Her hand brushed lightly over his bearded cheek. “I wonder what you really look like.” She drew her hand away.

“Ugly as hell,” Nick said cheerfully. “Chinless and covered with warts.”

She laughed again. It was a pleasant sound; not a girlish giggle but a woman’s laugh. “And your body—that is a facade too, I suppose?”

“Ah, no,” said Nick, suddenly very conscious of his body and its proximity to hers. “No, it’s all solid me—except for the padded shoulders and the built-up shoes.”

“I did not like you at first,” she said abruptly.

“That was my impression,” Nick murmured.

“You see, I had expected—”

“I know, Paula.” Nick chuckled. “A posse of men. You told me once or twice. But look at it our way. Time and time again the United States has sent squads of men into a country to help, and time and time again half the world has turned on us and snarled about American intervention. Lately certain groups have begun to capitalize on this, sending up fake howls for help and then screaming to the world that Uncle Sam has done it again. We know for a fact that we’ve fallen for a couple of deliberate traps, It’s only a propaganda gambit, but it pays off for them in hatred for us every time. So, no posse. No Marines. Least of all into Santo Domingo, where they’re already spitting at us. We’re getting a little tired of spit. That’s why you’ve had to settle for one man rather than a squad.”

“I should have understood that. I am sorry.” She paused and then said, “But I am glad that you are the one man. It was wrong of me to be—so ungrateful. Would you like me to tell you now about Alonzo?”

“That would be nice,” Nick said drily, and checked the radium dial of his Cuban Army watch. One fifteen. It was still as black as a coalpit outside and as silent as the grave.

“He is a member of a special force of Cubans who have a camp in the hills west of Santo Domingo. I know it is hard for you Americans to understand this, but many of us in the Dominican Republic cannot think of them as enemies. They are propagandists, infiltrators, advisers—call them what you will. Of course they are Communists. But they bring with them a kind of revolutionary spirit that our country needs, a hope that some day we will have a leader who is neither fool nor Fascist. We do not work with them, but neither do we obstruct them and they do not interfere with us. Or so I thought. At any rate, one or two of them have become our friends. Alonzo Escobar was very taken with little Luz, one of my Terrible Ones. He has been seeing much of her.”

“And did she know where you were going when you left Santo Domingo?”

“Yes.” Paula gave a little sigh. “Whenever any one of us goes anywhere we always tell three others. It is a rule, and it has often helped us out of trouble. This time, it seems, it made trouble for us. It is obvious that she must have told him where you were to land. I wonder if he also expected a platoon.

But she’s the only one who could have told him and I can’t think why she did. He is not such a catch as a man. I hope she has not gone over to the Fidelistas.”

“I hope not,” Nick said thoughtfully. “I suppose it would be understandable if she did.” But his thoughts were quite different from his words. He had seen one badly tortured girl already and he had an unpleasant feeling that somewhere there might be another, name of Luz.

“What are you thinking?” Paula asked a little sharply.

“To tell you the truth,” he lied, “I was wondering how come you’re so blond and leggy and almost English looking. Oh, I approve, of course. But I can’t help wondering.”

“Oh. I
am
almost English. Only my father was one-half part Spanish. He died a long, long time ago . . . .”

She was telling him, suddenly, about life under Trujillo and about her husband, Tonio Martelo, who had died six years ago of a bullet in the head for being a member of a political organization opposed to the dictator. He had been more than a member, he had been its leader. He had called his group La Trinitaria, after the independence fighters of an earlier century. But every last man of his group had either died in prison or been shot after a farcical trial, and every one of their families had been stripped of all possessions while Trujillo bragged about the stolen millions he had waiting for him in the banks of Switzerland. And because he was a braggart he let slip something about a cache of gold and precious stones that he had not yet sent away. One hundred million dollars worth.
One hundred million dollars
in golden ornaments and coins, in precious stones and semi-precious gems, in rubies, sapphires, emeralds, black pearls . . . all stolen. Some had been stripped off the widows of his victims, and it was said that these gave him his greatest pleasure.

With his death the rumors spread like wildfire, until there was so much fantasy in them that the truth seemed altogether lost. Years passed, and the story of the treasure lay dormant. But the wives of the victims had not forgotten. Under Paula’s leadership they had formed a group dedicated to the righting of old wrongs—and the finding of the treasure. And they had been extremely interested when a new story had found its way to them through the underground, the story of a Chinese treasure hunt and of various clues leading to the cache. There was also the suggestion of a special Chinese use for the easily negotiable gold and jewels in a project of their own called Operation Blast. No one knew what Blast could be.

“Hold it a minute!” Nick whispered suddenly. He was enthralled with Paula’s story but he was still tuned in to the world outside. And he had heard the distant sound of running feet. It was still too early for Duclos.

The boardwalk thumped and creaked and the footsteps slowed to a fast walk. Someone came toward them, whistling breathily and pausing between notes to pant with exertion. A light flashed on and off three times.

“It is Henri!” Paula breathed, springing to her feet.

“Careful!” Nick was beside her at the door.

Her light flashed three times into a dark face whose eyes blinked in the glare.

“Paula! Thank God you are here early! Who—who is that with you?” A hand flashed to a shoulder holster.

“It’s all right, Henri. He is a friend.” Paula went to him with her long, quick strides. “What is the matter—is someone after you?”

“No, no!” he gasped, still fighting for breath to speak. “I do not think so, anyway. But there has been a terrible tragedy, terrible!”

“What is it?” she rapped.

“Jacques.” Henri drew his hand across his twitching face and swallowed noisily. “Jacques, Marie, the whole house up in flames! It burnt in minutes, only minutes, right to the ground. Police, everybody crowding around, nobody could do anything. The heat unbearable, white flames eating into everything, everything all gone!”

“No!” Paula cried. It was a cry of agony and disbelief.

“Yes, yes, I am so sorry. God knows I am sorry. Incendiaries, they say. Deliberate arson, horrible.”

“Evita too,” Paula whispered. Nick grasped her shoulders and felt her trembling violently. “Oh, God. Burnt alive!”

“Evita! I do not know Evita,” Henri said hurriedly. “But they died in seconds, seconds only. It was deliberate, for sure. Someone heard explosions, and a horse leaving the village, and looked out. There was no horse any more, but the house was one big sheet of flame. Catastrophe! We cannot leave tonight, Paula. Tontons Macoute are everywhere, questioning. Anybody missing, dreadful trouble. Tomorrow instead, maybe not even then. Also, now they think that
djuba
thing was murder, and they are hunting for a man. Everybody must be accounted for, or else the family—you know what they do to family of a missing man.”

Paula nodded slowly. “But we can’t go back there,” she said quietly. “We have to leave.”

“No, no, we cannot go. You will have to hide!”

“We have to go, Henri,” Nick said firmly. “And we will go. But you don’t need to. I’ll pay what you want for the boat, but I’m going to take it out of here tonight.”

Henri stared at him. “Paula is my friend,” he said finally. “There is no payment for the boat. Leave it in the cove at San Jorge where Paula will show you. If I can collect it, I will. If not—” he shrugged.