The Balkan Assignment (27 page)

"In that case, make sure that those two bums don't show their faces around here tonight, or tomorrow either for that matter."

"They will not interfere with you in any way. Your gear will be delivered shortly. The shower works, but not very well. Good night."

I nodded at him and watched as he went down the steps and through the little wicket gate. Steinmetz and his friends detached themselves from the shadows and walked with him to the pickup. All four talked for a moment, then climbed into the truck and drove away. Rain began to spatter down in huge swollen drops that quickly hid the truck's taillights. I watched the rain for a moment, wondering where the hell I was going to find a radio, then closed and locked the door. Obviously, the radio was going to have to wait until morning. I had not the slightest idea where I was or in which direction the airfield lay. The rain pounded briefly on the metal roof and settled down to a steady drumming that left me feeling very lonely.

Morning arrived with the muted rattle of dishes from the living room. Faint traces of light leaked through the bamboo matting that served as a window shade. It was gray sunlight; presaging a sunless morning. A hot bath and a comfortable bed had put me out like a light. The rattling dishes had come from the bungalow's living room where some kindhearted soul had left a covered tray of breakfast. I carted it over to a table near the latticed window and sat down to three eggs, bacon and coffee followed by toast and fresh fruit.

The morning sky was heavily overcast. Puddles of water were everywhere and the road past the bungalow had been churned into thick brown mud by the morning's traffic. Hibiscus and plateau lilies bloomed in profusion amid the thick vegetation that surrounded the bungalow and blotted out the rest of the camp. Above the trees I could see rolling, fir-covered hills to the north where the plateau climbed farther toward the uplands of the Burmese-Chinese border.

During the night, my gear had been delivered from the airfield and left inside the front door . . . the lock was completely useless it seemed. I changed into fresh slacks, shirt and low boots feeling more rested than I had at any time since Klaus and I had left Italy for Yugoslavia. During breakfast I had decided that the first order of business should be to find a radio transmitter and get Ley and his support into the camp as fast as possible. The way to start was a quick tour of the camp . . . with the airfield as the best bet. After that, it would be a matter of staying out of the way until I could make my move. The other option open to me—and not a very good one—was to head out into the hills and lay low until Ley moved in on his own initiative. Two things were against that. First, I was fairly certain that Ley would not have risked following the DC-3 all the way to the camp. If Klaus's cohorts in the camp maintained any kind of radar watch—which was likely due to the nature of their business—Ley would have been spotted immediately. Secondly, I did not know the hill territory around the camp; they did. If I disappeared, it would not take them long to track me down. In that event, I doubted if they would waste time and effort in bringing me back.

There was no one around to watch me it appeared, and I struck out up the road, back the way we had driven the previous evening. The camp did look quite a bit different by day; even a drizzly day such as this. I had found a rain slicker in one of the closets, stuck a couple of pieces of fruit in the pocket and was ready for a day of walking, rain or no rain. The muddy road was unevenly lined with similar small bungalows patterned after the style popular in England during the 1920s. Small, boxy houses divided evenly into four rooms; each bungalow squatting well back from the road and surrounded by its own graying picket fence.

The road continued on through the main part of the installation; a scattering of run-down quonset-type buildings housing administrative offices, directly in back of which were large buildings in which I assumed supplies and equipment were stored. In the gray light of the overcast morning with a fine rain pattering down, the scene was terribly lonely in spite of the occasional worker walking from building to building. The all-pervading sound

of the oil pumps bumping and clanking away lay over the installation like a pall. Skeletal structures of derricks rose between rickety wooden fences surrounding obscenely bobbing oil pumps coated thickly with oil and dirt. Occasionally a small puddle of oil along the road drew a rainbow of viscous color.

The empty landing field stretched away in the rainy mist. The DC-3 was gone, as Klaus said it would be .. . south to Rangoon likely since he had expected to be back by evening. About fifty yards from where I stood was one of the go-downs which I had seen the night before. I thought it was the one to which Mikhail had been taken and a moment later I was certain it was. A shotgun carrying guard, my friend the Egyptian, wandered around the corner, stopped and leaned against the wall to light a cigarette. He never took his eyes off me the entire time I was in view. The second go-down, beyond the one against which the Egyptian was leaning, sprouted two wooden poles strung with wire . . . the radio I was after.

There was no evidence of any other aircraft, but I was sure that there had to be. If my guess about the border escape route was right, an aircraft would have been the only way since roads would be almost non-existent and certainly impassable during the monsoon. At the far end of the field was a third, larger go-down; just about big enough to shelter a small Cessna. I studied it carefully noting the enclosed and probably locked door extending the full length of the building. The go-down was built of corrugated metal rather than wood and looked to be a lot more solid . . . and weatherproof. My preliminary reconnaissance took nearly an hour; the installation twisted and turned so that it was difficult to derive a mental picture of the layout. There was no way that I could sketch a map unnoticed, so I continued to wander about. Finally, certain that I knew the layout well enough, and since I had nothing else to do until dark, I decided to test my apparent freedom by walking out the main gate. There was a ridge to the north of the installation from where I could look down on the camp.

I had been surprised to find that this area of Burma was not heavily jungled but rather like the forested uplands of the midwestern United States. Even the vegetation, while different, was not alien. Fir trees were abundant, deciduous trees that resembled oaks were scattered about and the undergrowth was lush grass beginning to grow again in the monsoon rains. I continued on down the road past my bungalow, stopping only long enough to pick up a fresh pack of cigarettes and the revolver from beneath the couch where I had hidden it the night before. There were evidences that the bungalow had been searched in my absence, but it did not look as if they had discovered the .38 where I had hidden it between the springs of the couch. It must have been a hurried search, either that or the searcher had not really expected to find anything.

The main part of the compound was enclosed by a cyclone fence rimmed with barbed wire. Floodlights were mounted at intervals along the fence and freshly plowed areas extended several hundred feet on both sides. I found out later that the hills to the north were home to several bands of Communist guerrillas . . . considered by the government and local populations alike to be nothing more than bandits. On their periodic swoops down from the hills the oil installation was a favorite target. The fence had been installed to keep them out of the camp by night. They • rarely operated by day, since they were thoroughly hated by the local peasantry, and the Burmese Army maintained helicopterborne anti-guerrilla units at Lashio, twenty minutes south. By day, the gate was open and a lackadaisical Burmese guard kept watch on whoever came and went. But at night, come within sight of the gate and you were liable to be shot at. No one paid any attention to me and I walked out as if I were heading for one of the drilling sites beyond the fence. After all, just where could I go?

The rain had let up for the moment, but the sky remained as overcast as ever, threatening at any moment to resume drizzling. A narrow muddy road angled away from the gate and headed off through wide fields that surrounded the compound. A mile away, the road ducked into some rather heavy fir forest and began to climb the slope to the summit of the ridge. Avoiding the road itself, I stayed on the verge and walked along at a leisurely pace. It turned out to be farther than I thought to the top of the ridge. In some spots the road disappeared altogether into

muddy ponds, and in others, large sections had been washed away by the rains. A tiny village lay at the foot of the ridge, invisible from the camp, neatly hidden in a shallow valley.

From the ridge, the compound spread out before me, almost lost in the mist of the low cloud. It was easy to see now that the main road through the camp did not travel directly between the airfield and the gate but, in fact, formed a vee that had its apex at the administrative complex with the airfield and gate on either ends of the arms. The oil storage tanks squatted in the middle near the north fence, between the two arms and were served by secondary paths. The oil pumps sprouted here and there throughout the camp, but clustered most heavily around the tanks. An occasional lone derrick was still to, be seen around the administrative area but were thickest, almost a forest, half a mile away beyond the south fence, where they formed a second and smaller compound. From what estimates I could make in the confusing haze and drizzle, the camp appeared close to two miles wide by one and a half long. The fence surrounded the main camp entirely. On the eastern side, the land was cleared for several hundred yards, but immediately after that became heavy fir forest. Beyond the camp, and almost hidden by the mist, were the Shan Mountains forming the easternmost side of the valley.

On the northern side of my ridge, the slope was gentle; large jumbled masses of stone eaten away by uncounted centuries of monsoon rain tumbled down into a devil's playground of rock. Beyond, the slope rushed down another terrace to a small, tumbling stream swollen with winter rains and gathering power for its two hundred mile dash to the Irrawaddy River. On the far side of the stream the dense fir forest began again and the features of the land were concealed under the soft blanket of black trees. The radio shack was going to be a real problem I thought. It was sure to be guarded and the go-down in which Mikhail was being held was less than fifty yards away . . . unless .

. . why not? I certainly didn't have much to lose at this point. If I could convince Mikhail to swing in with me, providing I could break him out first, the two of us at least would stand a better chance than I would alone.

I pondered the idea for a while, weighing all the pros

and cons. Unfortunately, there were many more cons than pros. It could not be done alone that was certain. So long as I watched my back every second .. . Wishing heartily for a pair of binoculars, I spent the rest of the afternoon studying every inch of the ground around the go-downs and the airfield.

Klaus accompanied my dinner that evening bringing his along as well. I had heard the DC-3 returning earlier and had been expecting his visit. He was dressed in a heavy woollen business suit and looked so much like a typical European businessman that I almost burst into laughter. After nearly two weeks of dirty, sweaty levis, he appeared very strange to say the least in clean, civilized clothing.

We ate dinner over small talk. I told him about my walk to the ridge and he cracked a heavy-handed joke about running away. Be careful he warned mockingly, or the bandits would get me. He responded with a quick summary of his trip to Mandalay to straighten out a contractual dispute between the sponsoring firm and the Burmese Government concerning the pay of Burmese nationals. All very interesting I was sure, to someone who specialized in negotiating labor disputes between two distinctly different cultures. I listened politely, but sensing my lack of interest, Klaus mercifully cut it short. After we finished, Klaus stretched, removed his jacket and opened his briefcase. I expected him to produce a contract or some other kind of business papers, but he came out with a bottle of cognac instead. I fetched two glasses from the kitchen, expecting to get down to serious drinking and talking.

"What do you think of our installation in Burma and of our operation in general?" Klaus asked as an opener.

I snorted. "I'd certainly feel a lot better if I knew who the hell you really worked for and what your objectives are?'

Klaus smiled into his glass. "I'm afraid I cannot answer those questions yet," he said softly. "Maybe after you have proven that you can carry out instructions without deviation and without questions."

Be careful, I thought to myself. He is trying to mousetrap you into something better left unsaid.

"Well, if that's the way you want to run your show, that's up to you. What I really want to know is where do we go from here. When and where do I set up shop for the airfreight line?"

Klaus leaned over and pulled his briefcase closer. From it he extracted a wad of bills and tossed it to me. I picked the packet up and looked at him questioningly.

"That is one hundred thousand American dollars. Consider it a down payment on the airfreight line . . ."

I felt that here some honest indignation was called for and it was not hard to feign. " Down payment . . . like hell," I roared. "This is $230,000 short of the third of a million that I have coming to me!"

"Shut up, you fool," Klaus snapped back. "You will take what we give you, do you understand, and be grateful that you are still alive. If I had not convinced others that you could be very useful to us because of your reputation with the police and customs officials of certain countries, you would be as dead as Mikhail will soon be."

"So, you intend to murder Mikhail after all!" I hissed at him, half rising out of my chair. Klaus sat imperturbably. "Shut your mouth, fool. We certainly do not intend to murder Korstlov. We will turn him over to the Yugoslav authorities for the murder of the policeman, Vishailly, at the proper time. After all, he did shoot him."