Peacekeepers (1988) (7 page)

"Mr. Alexander, the International Peacekeeping Force has impounded all the remaining nuclear weapons of the former belligerents of the Final War. Six of them are unaccounted for."

Frowning, Alexander said, "I don't understand."

"The IFF has checked the inventories very carefully, and double-checked with all the military, technical and political people involved. Apparently when Shamar disappeared, he took six nuclear weapons with him."

"Six nukes?"

"Comparatively small ones, in the one-hundred-kiloton range. Five times more powerful than the bombs that destroyed Hiroshima and Nagasaki, but quite small and compact. Suitcase-sized, according to the technical experts."

"Jesus Christ! Shamar's got six nukes?"

"It is worse than that," Red Eagle said, his voice heavy and deep. "The nuclear powers—the United States, Soviet Russia and the others—have suspended their own nuclear disarmament programs."

"Of course," Alexander said. "They're not going to get rid of their bombs as long as Shamar's running loose with a half dozen of his own."

"Precisely. This is an extremely serious situation, Mr. Alexander. The path to real peace will be blocked as long as those weapons are in Shamar's hands."

"But why come to me? This is a problem for the Peacekeepers."

"No," said Red Eagle, with a ponderous shake of his head. "The International Peacekeeping Force cannot intervene in this problem. The IPF must not even attempt to deal with it."

"Why the hell not?"

Red Eagle placed his huge hands on his massive thighs and lifted his eyes to the faded glories of the ceiling.

"You must understand, Mr. Alexander," he said, looking heavenward, "that the IPF has been created for one reason and one reason only: to prevent nations from attacking one another. The only situation in which the IPF can act is when a nation launches an armed attack across an international border. The only duty of the Peacekeepers is to keep the peace—to prevent war."

"But if Shamar's got nuclear weapons, he's going to use them sooner or later."

"Think, Mr. Alexander. Think. Many of the nations of the world do not trust the IPF very much. They fear that the Peacekeepers will turn into a world dictatorship. They refuse to disarm, for fear of leaving themselves defenseless against the IPF. Do you think they will allow IPF personnel to hunt for Shamar inside their own borders? Do you think that they will support the IPFs searching for Shamar in other countries?"

Alexander felt a slight wave of giddiness wash through him as he realized what the Amerind was after. "You want me to get Shamar for you."

Red Eagle lowered his gaze and fixed his deep brown eyes on Alexander. "This is very painful for me, Mr. Alexander. I am a man of the law. I do not approve of vigilantes or assassins."

"But you have to nail Shamar, and damned fast, and you can't use the IPF to do the job."

"That is the truth of it," Red Eagle admitted.

"So you want me to do the job for you."

Red Eagle said, "Through the Peacekeepers, I have access to certain forms of intelligence that are unavailable to you."

Tingling with sudden excitement, Alexander grinned and said, "You've got a deal!"

"He must be brought to justice, if possible," insisted Red Eagle. "I will not be party to an assassination."

Alexander countered, "Listen, you just think of this as an old-time sheriff hiring a deputy—or recruiting a posse."

"Not the most fortunate of analogies for a Comanche,"

Red Eagle replied dourly.

Laughing, Alexander said, "Yeah, I suppose not. But I'll get him for you. Just like I said, dead or alive."

"And the nuclear weapons. They must be recovered. That is even more important than Shamar himself."

"Of course. Sure." But Alexander thought to himself.

More important to you, maybe, but not to me.

Red Eagle got to his feet. It reminded Alexander of a tidal wave rising out of the ocean.

"Mr. Alexander, this has been extremely difficult for me. I thank you for your cooperation."

"We both want Shamar."

"And the six nuclear bombs."

"Yes."

The Amerind headed toward the door, Alexander beside him, almost scampering to keep pace with Red Eagle's stately tread across the elaborately tiled floor.

Then Red Eagle stopped. "You have not asked about payment."

"Payment? For what?"

"You will need an armed force to take Shamar. That will cost money."

Alexander smiled crookedly. "What will those suspicious national governments say if they find that the IPF is hiring mercenaries?"

"We could channel the money through a Swiss bank," suggested Red Eagle.

"Famous last words."

The Amerind frowned slightly. "Then how . . ."

"I'm not broke yet," Alexander said. "If and when I need money I'll let you know. For now, all I want from you is information about Shamar's whereabouts."

"I will get it to you."

"Good."

They shook hands at the door, Alexander's pale white hand engulfed in the Amerind's huge dark paw.

Alexander watched from the shaded shelter of the villa's front gate as Red Eagle squeezed his bulk into the back seat of a BMW sedan. The car sank on its suspension noticeably.

As the sedan pulled away and into the honking streams of everlasting traffic along the roadway, Alexander almost jumped into the air with glee.

I'm going to get Shamar! I'm going to get the bastard and kill him with my own two hands!

In the back seat of the BMW, Red Eagle was thinking, It is a dangerous thing to sidestep the law. Yet what else can be done?

He looked down at the hand that had shaken Alexander's as if it were already dripping with blood.

Red Eagle knew that we—and others—were

watching his every move and listening to as

much of his conversation as we could. He

told himself that, like Marcus Brutus, he

was armed so strong in honesty that it

didn't matter. But it did, and what he had

to do bothered him immensely. No one was

ever able to trace the Meissner assassination

to him, but it seemed terribly convenient to

have that would-be Hitler killed before he

could bring East and West to the brink of

war over a reunited Germany.

While the Peacekeepers stopped the

Mongolian Crisis from erupting into war

before a single shot was fired, we were

getting unmistakable signals that the

officer's coup was under way. Still the

sluggards in Geneva did nothing. And Red

Eagle was not officially part of the

Peacekeepers; he was mainly concerned

during those troubled months with feeding

information to Cole Alexander. Discreetly.

He thought.

Stretched out prone on the damp grass at the edge of the trees, Alexander peered through his binoculars at the village in the clearing. He swept his gaze across the cinder-block huts, then focused beyond them to the six helicopters resting beneath camouflage netting at the village's farther side.

"Those're Shamar's choppers?" he asked the man lying beside him. He kept his voice low, almost a whisper. No telling who might be prowling through these woods.

The man nodded. "One of them is. The others belong to the rebel leaders and some of the government men who are in with them. If the word we picked up from Surabaya is right, Shamar and the rebels will be taking off tonight to rendezvous with the guerrillas over in Vogelkop."

"And the government men go back to Jakarta."

"Right," said the man. "Bloody traitors."

The man's name was McPherson, a lifelong professional soldier. Both he and Alexander wore green-mottled jungle fatigues and floppy Digger hats that broke up the outline of a man's head against the heavy foliage of this sweltering tropical forest. Safer than tin helmets, McPherson claimed.

Their plastic armor vests were also jungle green; they felt heavy and hot in the sweltering humidity, no matter what the manufacturer claimed for their lightness and comfort.

It had taken almost a year for Alexander to recruit his mercenary force. It was small, but elite. McPherson had not come easily, nor cheaply. Almost every penny Alexander had inherited he had spent on McPherson and his band of professionals. Their arms and training were first-rate.

What little money he had left Alexander had used to track down the elusive Jabal Shamar. The mass murderer had also turned mercenary, using his skills and cunning in everything from terrorism to rebellion, all around the world from Ankara to Quebec. But he made certain to remain beyond the reach of the Peacekeepers. He never engaged in an attack that the IPF would consider to be aggression.

The thousands he killed died in civil wars, rebellions, guerrilla movements, terrorist demonstrations. But they died just the same, cut down by machine-gun fire or blown to bloody pieces by car bombs. They died and Shamar moved on, devising elaborate schemes of murder for pay.

Shamar had the ultimate insurance policy, of course.

Somewhere he had cached six nuclear weapons, six bombs capable of destroying six cities. As long as no one knew where the bombs were, Shamar could range the world and fearful governments would allow him untroubled passage.

Was there a nuclear weapon submerged in a Bangkok canal? Thailand turned a blind eye to Shamar's passage through their territory. Is a nuclear bomb hidden in a slum basement in Sao Paulo? Why should Brazil risk triggering it by trying to arrest Shamar?

But Alexander hunted him. He recruited McPherson and, through him, a mercenary force whose only task was to find Shamar so that Alexander could execute him.

Now Alexander and McPherson lay on a ridge at the edge of a steaming forest, raucous with birds and monkeys, stinking of tropical rot, crawling with insects. The humid heat pressed on them like a sopping sponge, drenching their fatigues with sweat.

McPherson spoke quietly into a palm-sized radio, ordering the other men to take up positions ringing the village.

He was a tall, rawboned New Zealander, ruddy of face, with hair and brows so blond he almost looked albino. He had come to Alexander highly recommended, having seen action in the Katangan Secession, the overthrow of the Diaz government in Chile and the bloody shambles of South Africa.

Alexander had agreed that McPherson would be in tactical command, since he himself had never been in action before.

"You stay close by me. Cole. Check your weapons now."

With sweaty hands Alexander examined the grenades hooked to the web belts across his shoulders, memorizing the different types: concussion, frag, smoke. Then he took the pistol from the holster at his waist. Loaded clip in place, safety off. More clips in the belt pouches. Finally he slid the action of his stubby submachine gun back and forth. Satisfied that it was ready, he slapped a banana-curved magazine into place.

"Now we wait," McPherson said.

"How long?"

"Until dusk. Let them get their dinner fires started."

Alexander felt his guts fluttering. "Suppose they have patrols out around here?"

"They do," McPherson replied with a deprecating little smile. "But they won't find my men. I promise you that."

"Why'd you make me check weapons now if . . ."

McPherson laid a hand on Alexander's shoulder.

"Wouldn't do to be caught unready to fight, just in case somebody does stumble on us."

"But you said . . ."

"I know what I said, Cole. But it's always best to be prepared for every contingency. Remember that."

Feeling like a student facing a fatherly schoolmaster rather than a mercenary soldier getting ready to attack, Cole nodded and lapsed into silence.

He worried about his exposure to sunlight; solar ultraviolet could trigger skin cancers, or worse. His leukemia was under control as long as he took the pills, but Alexander looked on the sun as an enemy. Shamar's gift to me, he thought angrily. Something else he's taken away from me.

But if we nail him here it won't matter. The UV dose will be a small price to pay for killing the son of a bitch.

For hours he scanned the village with his binoculars, turning up the electro-optical gain to its highest, until he could make out the faces of the people. Hard to tell the villagers from the guerrillas, he realized. Except for the tattered camouflage uniforms they wore, there was no real difference among the brown-skinned men. Some of the women were in dirty mottled uniforms, too, with assault rifles slung over their slim shoulders. The village women wore long colorful batik skirts and Western-style loose blouses, all of them shabby and tattered.

This was not a rich village. The paddies out on the other side where the helicopters were hidden seemed pitifully small and scrawny. Even the few water buffalo Alexander spotted looked emaciated.

Why is Shamar here, when he's being paid to organize the rebel guerrillas in West Irian? Cole wondered. Is he
actually here, or is this a ruse—or worse yet, a trap?

And then his heart leaped. He saw Jabal Shamar. The man calmly stepped out of one of the larger cinder-block buildings in the center of the village, squinting at the lowering sun and raising his hand to shield his eyes. It was him, all right! Alexander knew that face, even though he had never met Shamar.

Seeing him live, instead of a picture, brought surprises.

Shamar was shockingly young for a general, a youthful forty at most. Practically my age, Alexander realized. He wore desert tan fatigues, unadorned by insignia or any mark of rank. Vigorous, brisk movements. As he spoke he gestured vividly; his hands were never still. Yet he was much smaller than Alexander had expected, a stunted marionette of a man, slim and hard-faced, with a trim dark mustache and a livid white scar that ran from the bottom of his right ear along the jawline almost to the point of his chin.

"The murdering son of a bitch is there," he muttered, passing the binoculars to McPherson.

The Kiwi took them for a moment, then handed them back with nothing more than a grunt of acknowledgement.