The Big Bite (13 page)

Knox had expected something like this. Forrest would lead a crew here to get the gold and take it aboard the ship. Then, he surmised, Gomez would go aboard, the ship would sail, and that would be the end of it except that somewhere along the line Natasha was supposed to have got her million. Now, of course, there was no one to take the million. Chalk up a profit to Forrest and his bosses.

Curtis called, “They’ll be coming in soon.”

Knox’s relief left him. This was the touchy part. He felt as helpless as a baby chicken being maneuvered by a hawk. He said, “Got everything ready?”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Curtis called. “Grenades at hand.”

Knox said, “Don’t mess it up. If you have to, drop the things whether or not I’m clear.”

“Yes,” Curtis said. His voice was tight now. “I wish I had more of them. I could have sworn there was a boxful in the dinghy.”

Knox was too preoccupied to be interested in grenades. Curtis had four. In the narrow confines of the harbor, two would be enough. One, he thought. It only took one to blow a man to hell.

“Keep back,” he called up. “I can make you out in the moonlight, and Forrest sees just as well.”

“Check.”

Knox adjusted the gun in his pocket, made sure that the sand-filled sock he carried for a sap was hanging tightly at his belt, and, with the aid of a small pencil flashlight, made his way up the path.

In position, he waited. Shortly he heard the throaty purr of the cruiser and, above it, like overtones in a symphony, the higher pitch of outboard-powered boats. He could not see but, judging from the echoes, a half-dozen must have entered the little harbor.

Knox thought about those standing off in the large boat, and he hoped that they remembered to time their part in this.

The echo of the last motor died. Silence descended and then was broken by the sound of men moving about under crisp military commands.

Knox sat motionless in the dark.

Knox had to admire the efficiency of the operation. Forrest led it, accompanied by someone in the uniform of an officer. Knox could not make out the insignia, but he assumed the wearer was a member of the Cuban Liberation Forces or some such nonsense.

The men were marched to the small space before the cave. A searchlight, hooked to the power source of the cruiser by long, thick flex, was turned on, flooding the area with harsh white light. The men began to dig. When the first box was uncovered, it was passed out hand over hand to where Forrest stood. He wore a seaman’s jacket with collar turned up and a hat that was pulled down low. Knox wondered how he stood it in the muggy heat.

Forrest took a small pinchbar and pried open the lid of the box. Gold bars gleamed dully. Forrest removed the first layer of bars and the second, lifted the box and shook. There was no rattle. He replaced the bars and passed the box on where the lid was replaced by a soldier. The box then went down by hand-chain to one of the waiting boats in the harbor.

To the officer, Forrest said, “I was afraid when we found the boat gone, they had tried to take the gold. But I think they just ran. Natasha is no fool. She knows we knew her plan.” He spoke in Spanish. The answer was a grunt.

The work continued. Box after box was tested as before. By the time a half-dozen had been run through, Forrest had descended merely to lifting lids and examining the top layer of bars.

He said once, “If any was taken, it would have come from the top boxes. No one would be fool enough to dig them all up unless he could steal them all.”

Knox sat and wished he had a cigarette. His muscles had begun to cramp but he dared not shift his position.

He saw the last box come out of the hole, pass on to Forrest, where it was opened, inspected, and sent on. The men with shovels came wearily out of the cave, wiping sweat from their grime-stained foreheads. The man in uniform barked an unintelligible command. They fell into line and started down the path, taking the searchlight with them. Forrest followed and the man in uniform brought up the rear.

Knox grinned. Gomez’ officer—he presumed the man was one of Gomez’ watchdogs—was not about to trust anyone. Cautiously now, he stood up and slipped carefully down the path after them. He was barefoot, and his feet brushed over each step before he allowed his weight to fall on them.

He stopped at the bend in the path. The boats were warming their motors. Then they began to leave. A sliver of moonlight fell onto the mouth of the harbor, showing the tired, stolid faces of the men in each boat, the way the boats rode low in the water.

The cruiser, well to one side, would be the last to go. Knox watched until Forrest and the officer had got aboard and the line was cast off. Then he hurried down, crouching to keep himself against the dark rock background. As the stern of the cruiser swung within feet of the pier, Knox jumped lightly aboard and flattened himself on the deck.

When the cruiser crossed the streak of moonlight at the harbor entrance, he lifted a hand, signaling to Curtis. He wondered about Curtis, alone again on the island, with no certainty that he would be taken off. It had taken a brave man to volunteer for that job.

They were coming out into the open sea where there was a full sweep of moonlight. He could not stay undiscovered much longer. Quietly he went forward, ducking under the door lintel and into the cabin. Forrest was at the wheel, a cigarette hanging from his lip. The officer sat hunched to one side, his head down. From his position, Knox guessed that the sudden chop of open water might be bothering him.

Knox said, “Just keep your hands where they are, gentlemen.”

The officer lifted his head. Forrest swung about. Knox stepped forward and drove the sap in a swiping blow at him.

Even as he swung, Knox knew he had missed. Forrest took the blow on his shoulder, went sideways out of his seat, sprawled on the floor. He got quickly to his feet. The officer made a retching sound and there was the stench of vomit in the air. He did not seem to care what happened.

Forrest said, “Still trying, Knox?”

“I told you who I was,” Knox said. He used Spanish for the benefit of the officer. “You’re under accusation by the Party and you’ll stand trial as soon as this is over.” His voice was curt. “Now get to the island. I want to see if Gomez is all right.”

Forrest was staring at him, doubt on his lean features. Doubt and then fear. Knox looked boldly back. Forrest said, “Of course he’s all right. He’s on his way aboard the freighter now. What am I accused of?”

“Defection,” Knox said. “Before she died, Natasha revealed the scheme. She told us of the plan you’d cooked up.”

“I made no plan,” Forrest said.

Knox shrugged. “You’ll get a chance to prove it at your trial.”

Forrest looked green. “Trial—farce, you mean.” His expression cleared. “I have a witness. Portales.”

Knox sneered. “He is in the custody of the Mexican police.” Or, he thought, if Nat and the others had done their part in getting to Silac at the right time, he should be. Give Silac a small fish, he thought; maybe it would satisfy him.

He added, “Your Adele Fisher is the only witness, Forrest, and she has already testified to me against you. How you tried to shoot her—a party messenger.”

“I thought she and you—I was just protecting …”

Knox felt a little sorry for Forrest. The man was competent and no doubt brave. But faced with a party trial, there was little for him to be brave about. Knox sneered again. “Save it for the trial.”

Forrest staggered as the wallowing cruiser took a small wave broadside. When he righted himself, he was coming for Knox. Knox swung the sap and Forrest took it on one arm and came up underneath, aiming a solid fist for Knox’s ribs. Knox stepped back and shot.

The bullet took Forrest in the face as he came forward in a crouch. The force sent him backward, twisting. He struck the officer and fell to the floor. He was dead before he struck. Knox looked at the officer, who was standing now, and tried to bring his gun around.

The officer shot before Knox could get in position. He felt the bullet take the gun from his hand, leaving it numb to the elbow.

Knox said, “You played it pretty well, Chuco. You’re a good shot, too.”

Chuco took off his visored officer’s cap. He no longer wore his fierce black mustache or his hair long and lank. His face was clean-shaven, his head round under a crew cut.

“I am sorry, Señor Knox, but what has to be done, has to be done.”

Knox tried to play his hand out. “You heard what I told Forrest. Put that gun away. You know where I stand.”

“I know very well,” Chuco said. His English was impeccable, unaccented, a little formal. “You were good to rid us of Forrest. He was arrogant and too inquisitive. But we will tell his people that he died a hero’s death.”

Knox knew that he was done, and the finish had come from the last place he expected it. He said, “You drank one hell of a lot of my beer, friend.”

Chuco grinned, looking more like the boy Knox had known. “Would you have done less for your country?”

“That depends on who’s trying to run my country,” Knox said. He shrugged. “This is no place to argue politics. Mind if I smoke?”

“No.” When Knox had lit a cigarette, Chuco said, “Please take the wheel and steer for the ship.”

Knox took the wheel. “Where do we go from there?” he asked conversationally.

“You go aboard,” Chuco said. “And there you inform us about your charming friends—the ladies in particular. They cannot go far without being seen in so large a boat.”

“Except to shore,” Knox said.

“Would they?” Chuco asked in surprise. “Which of them would want to contact the police?”

Knox realized suddenly that Chuco did not really know who he was, but assumed they were all connected with a rival outfit—private highjackers à la Gerard Tinsley’s old techniques. Not that it mattered. You were just as dead whether you were legal or illegal.

His cigarette suddenly tasted like an old boot and he threw it aside. They were headed for the ship now and once aboard that ship, he would be helpless.

Chuco kept up a running chatter, most of which Knox ignored. But he heard the name Manuelita. He said, “What did you say?”

“I said that she is well,” Chuco told him. “I was sorry that I had to hurt her a little, but like so many part Indios, she became silent in fear.”

“What are you talking about?” Knox demanded.

“About the party,” Chuco said. “I found her after she had turned off the main light switch. When she told me what you had ordered her to do, naturally I took the little outboard back to the mainland. I did not wish you to think she had failed.”

“I heard the motor,” Knox said bitterly. He understood now why Silac had not acted earlier; he had had no information to act upon.

“But Manuelita is well and still on the island,” Chuco repeated. “Please open the throttle more, Señor Knox. You can see that all the boats have unloaded and they are waiting just for us. Señor Gomez is aboard. There is no more that you can do.”

Knox agreed. Chuco held a big gun and he had already demonstrated his competence with it. Had it not been for Chuco’s needing information about Nat and the others, Knox knew he wouldn’t be alive now.

The ship loomed ahead. It showed few lights, but there was moon enough for Knox to see that it was a freighter, a rusty-sided old tramp on the surface but with the good, clean lines of a fast ship.

With a sudden motion, he opened the throttle wide and aimed the bow of the cruiser head on for the side of the freighter.

The rusty side of the freighter was dead ahead, looming like a huge wall in the moon-silvered night.

“You will slow down!” Chuco commanded.

Knox laughed mockingly, and swung the wheel hard to port.

The maneuver sent them both jarringly across the cabin. Chuco’s gun went off and then fell out of his hand as he was brought up sharply against the bulkhead. Knox recovered himself and went for the gun. The cruiser, with the wheel running free, was whipping crazily across the water, running now away from the freighter, now toward it.

Neither man could maintain any balance. Knox got a hand on the gun, only to have a wild kick from Chuco send him sprawling back. Both fell and the gun skittered to the aft end of the cabin. Chuco was swearing hoarsely in Spanish. Knox kept his breath and tried to work his way to the gun.

Chuco reached it first and tried to brace himself in the doorway. Knox made a staggering dive for him. Chuco fired, but he was in too big a hurry. The instrument panel splintered under the impact of the bullet. The cruiser took a wild swing under the bow of the freighter, made a wide arc, and headed straight for the seaward side of Fog Island.

Knox went into Chuco, striking him just above the knees with a driving shoulder. Both men went back onto the deck, fighting for the gun that now lay bare inches away. The boat yawed again, sending the gun to the rail. It struck, bounced as the boat heeled in the other direction, struck a cleat and bounded up and over the railing.

Knox forgot the gun and swung as Chuco got hard fingers about his throat. He broke the grip and rolled free. The cruiser snapped itself straight. Both men got to their feet, facing each other.

Chuco reached into his uniform and came up with a knife. Knox charged him, slashing the knife arm upward and driving his fist into Chuco’s midriff. The blow sent Chuco backward into the cabin, where he sprawled on the floor. Panting, Knox started after him.

He looked up. He could see over the cabin. Fog Island loomed ahead, so close that even the sharp edges of the rocks were visible. Knox turned and raced for the railing. He jumped.

The impact of the cruiser striking the reefs rent the night. Water slashed at Knox, driving the breath from him. He came up out of foam, sputtering, flailing against the wicked suction of current.

The cruiser was to his left, the motor screaming with the screws out of water. The hull seemed to hang on some invisible bottom for a moment. Then the bow lifted and the cruiser started to slide backward. Knox had a glimpse of Chuco, fighting grimly to make his way across the steep slope of the deck. But the boat did not wait for him. The scream of the motor died as the stern went under.

Knox struck out frantically against the current, against the suction. When he felt the grip relax slightly, he turned his head. Just the tip of the bow of the little cruiser showed—and then that was gone, leaving only the white-capped waves washing over the reefs.

The currents were trying to drive him onto the reefs. He worked out of his trousers and began fighting. He swam, seeking slack water, and finding none.

His arms and legs began to tire. He could feel the deadly lead of exhaustion crawling through his muscles. He stroked now toward the reefs at an angle, wondering whether there might be a low spot where he could be carried over into the quiet water of the lagoon beyond.

The throb of a motorboat ran through him and finally its meaning registered. He lifted his head again and this time saw the dinghy from the big cruiser, whipped by the current, dart daringly in his direction. He tried to lift an arm, but there wasn’t that much sap left in the muscles.

Dimly he heard a voice: “Paul!”

Later he had a vague memory of hands helping him, of his own grip on the gunwale of the boat being pried loose, of two feminine voices, both swearing at him and crooning at him at the same time. There was the delicious stench of bilge in his nostrils. Beyond that there was not even vague memory.

• • •

Knox awakened to find himself in the air-conditioned comfort of his bedroom at the Viewhouse. He thought of ringing for Chuco to bring him something to drink, and then he remembered. But there was someone moving about in his living room and he could smell coffee.

He got up slowly, every muscle protesting. Making his way into the shower, he let it run hot and then stood under it until he felt parboiled. Getting out, he washed his teeth and shaved. Finding a clean pair of lounging pajamas, he went into the living room.

His visitor was Silac. He was no longer in waiter costume, but he seemed to be performing the function of a waiter. He looked impassively at Knox. “Please sit down. I have made coffee.”

Knox let Silac serve him on the divan. With a cup of coffee inside, Knox felt better. He lit a cigarette and looked at Silac.

“Did you get my message?”

Silac’s expression took on life, rather violent life. “
Si
—hours too late. By the time I reached the island, there was only that Manuelita there. Crying.”

“But didn’t you get Portales?”

“Portales! A fly. What does he know?”

“Damn it,” Knox said, “didn’t you intercept the ship before it got out of territorial waters? Didn’t you get my note about the gold being aboard?” The idea, he remembered clearly, was to offer the Mexican government the gold and Portales and Gomez with his party in exchange for a little quiet. Knowing Silac’s boss, Rodriguez, Knox was sure the deal could have been made.

“I received your note,
si
. I took Portales and I went to the island. I then sent a radio message to our naval ship at Tampico to intercept the freighter. All of these things I did.”

“Well, then?”

“You missed a magnificent display, señor.” Silac sounded bitter. “Have you ever watched a large ship explode in the early morning darkness? Have you ever seen it, possibly loaded with ammunition as well as gold, blow itself to bits in a very few seconds?”

Knox reached for the coffee pot. “No,” he said. “No, I never did.”

Silac pushed forward his cup. “I have—not twelve hours ago. It is something I do not understand.”

“Nor I,” Knox agreed. As he said it, he knew that he was lying. “But a ship is dangerous—especially an ammunition-loaded ship. A spark, a careless cigarette. And that ship was full of soldiers. Soldiers are careless, Silac. These things happen.”

Silac sighed. “Also I do not understand where your friends have gone.”

“Aren’t they here?” Knox’s innocence of expression was also a lie. His friends would be far away by now.

“A large cruiser was seen hull down on the horizon after daylight this morning.” Silac shrugged. “There are only the fishermen here.” He rose. “I must go and see to their wants. The government has taken the Viewhouse in order to continue its policy of providing accommodation for the tourist. I am temporarily the manager.”

“By all means,” Knox said, “take care of the tourists.” He went back to drinking his coffee.

Later he got dressed and began to pack. Silac appeared as he was about finished. He carried a radiogram. “A message for you, Señor Knox. Could it be concerning your friends?”

Knox read:
Am being married tomorrow in El Paso, Texas. Can you join the festivities? Signed, Kiltie
.

“A Scots friend,” Knox said. “You know, the people who wear kilts—skirts, sort of.”

“I am familiar with the Scottish dress, Señor Knox.”

“Okay. This friend is getting married and wants me to come and see it. That’s all.”

“And you will go?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Silac said dryly, “I have no recourse but to thank you on behalf of my government for your efforts—and to wish you a good journey.”

“Thank
you
,” Knox murmured.

• • •

Knox was a day late for the wedding. He drove wearily to the hotel in El Paso, turned his car and baggage over to the doorman and went in to get a room. He was given a very nice one, cool and pleasant. He looked at the bed, sighed, and picked up the telephone.

“May I speak with Miss Meridee Simpson, please? This is Paul Knox.”

There was silence, a buzz of voices and then a click. Knox heard a feminine voice, “Paul?”

“Adele? What’s this all about?”

“Where are you? I’ll come right in.”

He told her and she came. She looked cool and rested in a white sleeveless dress. She carried a bottle of Irish in one hand and two letters in the other. She handed the letters to Knox and began pouring drinks from the bottle.

The first envelope held a brief scrawl:
Sorry you missed the wedding. Meridee and I on way to San Francisco via the Rockies. Curtis
.

Knox said, “I’ll be damned.” He opened the second envelope. This was from Nat. He recognized her faint perfume, her childish handwriting:

Dear Paul, I had the most awful urge to go to Tangier. Kurath is a very good seaman, so we are taking the cruiser. Do look me up when you get leave. I love you in spite of your conscience. Nat
.

Knox dropped the letter. Adele put a glass into his hand. He drank deeply. “Tangier, eh?”

Adele smiled faintly. “They couldn’t think of anywhere else to get rid of the gold, and they did have that lovely boat all stocked.”

“What gold?” Knox emptied the glass.

Adele refilled it for him. “Why, the gold they had left over when they took out some bars to make room for the time bombs they made. Nat said there was quite a bit, especially after they found some nice, heavy lead bars in one of the ships’ lockers, and it seemed a shame to just let it stay there on the island.”

Knox was breathing hoarsely. “Time bombs?”

“Yes, they made them from some of the grenades and electrical equipment they found on the cruiser. Nat did it. She seems very clever that way.”

“Very clever,” Knox admitted. “How much gold?”

“About a million and a half, she thought.”

Knox finished his drink and set the glass aside.

“Cuba should give her a medal,” he said. He shut his eyes, trying to imagine what Nat would do with that much money. Probably start another organization in the fashion of her father.

Adele said, “She got rid of a lot of revolutionaries, didn’t she, Paul?”

“Let’s not think about it,” Knox said. “Let’s think about you.”

She came and sat on the arm of his chair. “Why, how sweet.”

“About your problem,” Knox said.

“Oh,” Adele said. “Nat figured that out. She said for me to tell you to tell everyone that you hired me to work for you undercover and that anything I might have written—like letters—or any information on me the Curtain boys have was all done in the line of duty.”

“Oh, my God,” Knox said.

“Would World Circle object?”

Knox said honestly, “Not if you become an operative. There are lots of—of different types in the organization. Most of them have pasts.”

“You see, Nat fixed everything.”

“Yes,” Knox agreed, “Nat fixed everything.” He got up, stretching. “Thanks for the drink. It put life back in me.”

Outside, it had grown dark. Inside, it was very dim and Adele looked very nice with her tanned skin standing out against her white dress.

“Now what do you do, Paul?”

“I’m going to wire for a leave,” he said.

“And go to Tangier and see Nat?”

“Hardly,” Knox said. “I wouldn’t be crude enough to get there before she gets rid of all that gold. No, I thought of driving you home—by way of the Rocky Mountains. I haven’t seen them for years.”

Adele went to the windows and drew the draperies. Now the night lights of the city no longer gave light to the room. She walked across to where Knox stood, waiting.

“I’d love to see the Rockies, Paul.”