CHAPTER ONE

Once away from the suburbs of Belgrade, the train runs across the vast Serbian plain and slowly begins to climb the eastern flanks of the Dinaric Alps separating the interior of the country from the sea. In mid-December, snow lies on the ground at the lower altitudes, but patchily; etching bare trees boldly against the gray sky. Not until you reach two thousand feet does the snow become the thick winter blanket typical of Central and Balkan Europe.

The train winds slowly through numerous small villages as it climbs, the steepness of the slope often forcing the engine to a crawl. If I hadn't known better, in the half-light of the winter night, I would have thought we were passing through Bavaria or Switzerland.

Each tiny village is tucked snugly into a narrow valley; a main street running along the floor at right angles to the tracks, a church . . . usually Orthodox . . . invariably located at the far end of the street and on both sides, two-story gingerbread houses straggling comfortably up the slopes. Occasionally, the firefly lights of other houses showed through the silent trees.

It had been early evening as the train had left Belgrade behind and now, approaching midnight, the few dim lights left in the villages were fading slowly. A touch of insomnia brought on by unfamiliar surroundings had kept me awake for the first time in years. I had finished the paperback novel I had picked up at the Belgrade depot and, desperate for reading matter, had just finished going over the route map that the railroad authorities thoughtfully place in each first-class compartment, when someone knocked on the door of my compartment. I opened the door to see Ley's bland, unsmiling face staring at me.

"May I come in?"

"Get lost ..."

But he shouldered past and sank down onto an opened-out bunk and sighed.

"Only in Eastern Europe do you still find train seats built for midgets."

"Okay," I muttered, "you're in. Now what the hell do you want. I thought the Yugoslav, police were hot to bounce you out of the country?"

Ley sighed again and swung his feet up onto the bunk and leaned back.

"Ah, that is much better." He loosened his tie and sat back and smiled at me.

"Look," 1 said patiently, "I've already asked you what you want. If I don't get answers fast, I'll call the porter and have you thrown off the train."

Ley laughed softly, deep down in his throat as if he really thought my threat was funny.

It may have been to him, but it wasn't to me. I was tired. And I had already spent most of the afternoon with him. So maybe I have certain prejudices, but I don't care much for police agents. One thing sure, I didn't care for Ley. I'd met enough and worked with enough clandestine-type agents, spooks and cops in Vietnam to last me a lifetime; I didn'

t like any of them, and I had no wish to renew my acquaintance with their methods. That Ley was involved with some type of secret service or intelligence gathering outfit I had no doubt. In the past two decades, they had proliferated throughout Europe . . . some run by governments on both sides of the rusty Iron Curtain and some run by private organizations. The private groups are the worst. They employ the cast-offs from the government agencies, the riffraff that would have been—and probably are, anyway —common thieves, pickpockets, murderers, rapists, what have you; the dregs of society, in short. These people really exist as I learned in Southeast Asia where the political conditions are similar in many respects to those of Central Europe . . . only the boundaries aren't as clearly drawn . . . and they would sell their souls, their grand-mothers and their mothers for a few bucks and preferential treatment.

Just where Ley fitted into this sad commentary on twentieth-century political fringe life, I had no idea. But wherever it was, I automatically did not like him and I did not like his associates.

Ley must have sensed the direction of my thoughts because he swung his feet off the bunk and sat up, looking indescribably weary.

"Look, my friend, I do not care what you think of me, personally, or my government or my business. I have a job that must be done. Many times it is a dirty job, but still, it must be done. Our enemy is not a government with a different political or economic system; or a people with a different skin color or religion. Our enemy, our common enemy, is man himself. Those men who are natural gangsters—who would rob and kill and cheat and torture no matter what political or social system they found themselves in.

These people only use the system. Some of them sell drugs . . . these are killers of the worst kind because they rob the world's youth of their youth, of their chance to change that into which they were born. Others kill and lie and steal to realize a profit or to make their own life more comfortable or to satisfy an abnormal craving. They, and the men who use them for their own ends, are the ones I hunt. I am a policeman. My oath and everything I believe in requires me to do all I possibly can to stop these people. Now I am asking for your help as well."

I snorted and looked at my watch. "It's still a half hour to midnight; too early for sermonette. Now tell me —and fast—what you want and then get out of here and let me go to bed."

Something like pain washed over Ley's face, but only for an instant before it resumed its usual bland countenance.

"I do not care to again go over the ground we covered this afternoon in the hotel. You are involved in something that is larger and more dangerous than you in your self-assurance realize. I am asking for your help because of what you are and who you are."

"Who I am?" I asked mockingly. "Just who do you think I am?"

Ley reached into his coat and pulled out a stapled sheaf of papers and flipped through the pages until he found the one he wanted.

"Christopher Boyd," he read. "Major, United States Air Force, retired. Air Force Academy graduate, assigned to Yugoslavia, Libya, Germany and Vietnam. Several commendations, the Silver Star and the Air Medal, not to mention the Republic of Vietnam Medal of Honor. You left the Air Force, resigning your commission after fifteen years, and with a friend, one Peter Schenk, also a resigned Air Force major, you now operate an airfreight line in southern Italy. You are divorced after a childless marriage, and your parents died four years ago. You have two married sisters, whom you have not seen since leaving the Air Force. Shall I go on?"

I shrugged. "Suit yourself. I don't see what you are proving by reading off my service record and personal history except to establish the efficiency of whatever-thehell organization you work for."

Ley stared at me for a long moment, then refolded the sheaf of papers but did not put them away. He reached into the same pocket and brought out a card, very similar to a plastic credit card right down to the embossed, computer-readable numbers; only this was no credit card, not by a long shot. It was pale gold in color and the slightly raised black lettering identified Ley as a captain in the International Criminal Police Organization.

"Not German?"

He smiled and nodded. "Yes, I am German, but I do not belong to any German police or intelligence force, although we co-operate with all of them. I am a member of Interpol and as such have limited investigational powers in most countries of the world.

Yugoslavia, not being a member of the Warsaw Pact, accords me the same privileges as most any country that is, shall we say, more tightly in the western orbit. So, I am relatively free to come and go as I wish."

"I see," I said without really seeing at all. "I suppose then that you ran right to the Yugoslav authorities as soon as you left the hotel." Already I was kicking myself for my big mouth.

"On the contrary, I followed you directly to the train. In fact, so limited was my time, that I almost missed the train. I am without a ticket at the moment and had to rely on the head porter's understanding, or should I say, misunderstanding, of Interpol's authority, to remain aboard. I do respect the confidence of my sources of information," he finished with a grin.

"All right, you said you wanted help. What kind and how?"

Ley was a big man, sure and quiet in his actions .. . and very deceptive. As I was about to find out, he could move with the speed of a striking cobra. But he became very deliberate now, pulling out a beaten, blackened pipe, stoked and lit up. When it was burning to his satisfaction, he returned his attention to our conversation.

"I would like you to leave the train with me shortly and meet a man who will show you incontrovertible proof of what your friend Maher has in mind for that million dollars in gold. If you agree to help, and we succeed, there will of course be a suitable reward . . . a monetary reward."

"Leave the train, are you crazy? We happen to be in the middle of Yugoslavia, somewhere in the Dinaric Alps and this is an express; it doesn't stop until Mostar."

I had had enough of his nonsense by now. I stood up and opened the door to the compartment, but before I could call the porter, Ley had shot from his semireclining position, slammed the door closed just before my head poked through and shoved a pistol against my ear.

"You will please sit down," he said softly.

The pistol and the one meaty hand holding my wrist left me no choice. Ley let go when we were both seated on the berth again.

After a few moments, the surprise began to wear off . . . about the point that circulation returned to my wrist.

"All right," I said shakily, "you've made your point. We get off the train .. ."

"Just this side of a village named Tobruz," Ley replied, smiling with satisfaction. "It is a small and not very good ski resort. It was the best we could do on such short notice. I had to get my man in, but at a place away from any possibility that Maher's organization could watch you. There is no one on this train following you."

"There isn't? How the hell would you know if there was?"

Ley smiled knowingly. "They have left a few too many tracks. Interpol knows most of their operatives. Evidently 'they felt that once you were safely aboard the train, you would stay on the train until you got off in Mostar. Their resources are not unlimited.

And there is the matter of Colonel Mistako's murder in Belgrade, which they must clean up . . . part of that cleaning up involves my death as well as his. It was a matter of chance that we were not in the same automobile. A family emergency had taken Mistako home for lunch instead of the restaurant where we were expected to go."

I also recalled that Mistako was going to make his decision about that time. I wondered if he had. Misinterpreting the look on my face, Ley chuckled grimly.

"Are you beginning to be convinced now, my friend. There are only a handful of people who have access to the files concerning the activities of the Neo-Nazi movement in Yugoslavia. Myself, of course, and Colonel Mistako. In this case, his direct superior is the Minister for Internal Security, who had not yet been fully briefed at the time Mistako was murdered. And possibly Colonel Mistako's secretary. She is at the moment being interrogated by the Security Police. It is possible that she had access to his private files, and it is certain that as his secretary she knew every move the Colonel made. It is unlikely, however, that she will be able to tell us much. She was too obvious a suspect.

"We therefore assume that Maher's cohorts know all that we know . . . with the exception that you have been involved. I personally suspect that the gentleman who called on you in your room was searching for evidence as to your whereabouts during the morning.

They would know that you had already obtained the fuel pump. Obviously, he did not expect to find you in."

"So, you think I'll be followed when I leave the train in Mostar."

"Not necessarily. They saw you get on the train .. . they did not see me. There is nowhere else for you to go, now or when you reach Mostar. We have no reports of their operatives in the area, and they seem to be giving the island of Kornat a wide berth . . . as if they did not care to attract attention to themselves."

"That doesn't make sense. What about Maher? If he's so important . . ."

"Ah," Ley held up a hand. "It was only two days ago that we learned that your friend Maher might be involved. I am not sure why we have not discovered traces of him before this . . . either he has been too clever or he has remained inactive and carefully hidden."

As we talked, I felt the train slowing. I picked up the map and folded it back to the central region of Herzceovina, the nine- and ten-thousand-foot Dinaric Alps. I knew that by now we were deep into the eastern flanks of the same mountains through which the partisans had ranged in their struggle against the Nazis, as had other partisan groups before them to battle Serbs, Turks, Bulgarians and a host of other invaders back to the dawn of history and beyond. There is perhaps no more blood-soaked arena in all the world than this mountainous and ruggedly beautiful area of the Balkans.

"We will be leaving the train in five minutes." Ley rose to his feet and stretched full length. "I will be glad to see this night's work finished.

Perhaps with you convinced of our sincerity and honesty, I will be able to sleep a few hours."

He stared dreamily out the window. "Sometimes, I think I have forgotten what it is like to sleep an entire night through." Then abruptly, "But, no matter. Come, get your belongings and your coat. It will be very cold outside, and we will have to walk a mile or so."

I glanced up at him. The pistol was nowhere in sight, but the memory of his lightning fast sprint across the compartment was still very fresh in my mind. I had no choice, whether I believed him or not, and he knew it.

I shrugged and got to my feet. Ley handed over my parka and picked up the carton with the fuel pump and tucked it under one arm as if its thirty pounds were three. Then he motioned me to one side and slid the compartment door part way open while I struggled into the parka.

"Stay here," he muttered and slid out into the corridor and walked quickly down the length of the car. I noticed that he silently checked each door of each compartment as he went. Apparently satisfied, Ley placed the carton on the floor, slid his hands inside his topcoat and eased open the corridor door leading to the platform connecting with the next car. Satisfied that it, too, was empty, he came quickly back up the corridor and repeated the performance at the other, nearer, end of the car, glanced quickly at his watch, took the pistol out and motioned to me to hurry. I hurried.

As I joined him on the swaying platform, he replaced the pistol, looking rather sheepish.

"It may seem like cops and robbers, but then . . ." and he left the sentence hanging. I thought of the dead Mistako, and suddenly I agreed with his caution wholeheartedly.

It was cold on that platform, and dark. The corridor lights had been dimmed and frost glazed the windows. The light filtering through was barely enough for Ley to find the manual release that opened the car door and lowered the step. Ice had crusted along the seal, but three powerful kicks broke it away and swung the door open.

The cold flowed in like an icy river, temperature hovering near the zero mark and the chill wind cutting through my parka. The snow-covered landscape slid by silently.

The train had slowed to less than fifteen miles an hour as it groaned its way up the miles-long grade. For a moment, it seemed to stand still while the snow-covered ground slipped away in quiet undulations. A full moon was just clearing a ridge to the east and its ice-water light flooded the narrow valley at once, reflecting from the fresh snow cover and turning the night to thick twilight. Ley muttered a curse in German at the moon and then nodded for me to get down onto the step.

"You first, my friend. That way there are no second thoughts."

"The hell with second thoughts," I muttered. "I haven't gotten past the first ones yet."

Nevertheless, I did what I was told.

From the step, I could look back down the valley and see the ghostly twinkling of the lone mountain village in the exceptionally clear air. I could also plainly discern the masses of tall pines rearing in dizzy ascent up the valley wall . . . almost close enough to touch. Ahead, the railroad track began a long curve to our left, away from the steep embankment.

"Jump in the middle of the curve," Ley ordered. "Roll straight down the embankment."

He gave me no time to argue but planted a foot in the middle of my back and pushed.

Before I could spread my arms to take up the shock, I was rolling head over heels down the embankment, driving the coldest imaginable snow down into my collar and up under my jacket. I had the impression of snow literally exploding in all directions. The boot in the back was designed to knock the wind out of me to provide Ley with enough time to shut the door, jump after me and recover himself before I could regain my feet.

It worked as he planned; I had decided to jump him while he was floundering in the snow. Instead, I did the floundering and by the time I had dug the snow out of my eyes and got to my feet, he was seated on the fuel pump carton some fifty feet up the track, waiting for me. Behind him, the last lights of the train were disappearing around the bend. A high-pitched double blast of its whistle floated back as it passed through the village of Tobruz. Ley got off the carton as I walked—perhaps staggered would be a more honest description—up to him.

"I am sorry that I had to do that, but I am sure that you understand."

"Perfectly."

"Shall we start our walk then?"

To say that the night was cold is to do an injustice to Yugoslavian winters. It was downright frigid. A light wind eddied the powdery, virgin snow around our knees as we plodded toward the distant lights of the village. Looking back along the way we had come, our footprints were etched as sharply as if done on silver plate by a master silversmith. If Ley cared that we were leaving a trail that a blind man could follow, he showed no sign. Anyway, the wind would probably cover any traces within an hour of two. On either side, the steep walls of the valley loomed a good two thousand feet above us. They were thickly carpeted with tall mountain pines that gave the appearance in the moonlight of a black, impenetrable mass.

It took us nearly twenty minutes to walk the mile to the village, so thick was the snow. It was a choice between plowing through drifts or breaking our necks on icy ties. Ley wisely chose the drifts. By the time we reached the village, I was not only half-frozen, but my legs felt as if they had been carrying me for a week.

Ley led me in a circle through the scrub pine until we approached the small wooden depot, deserted and dark now that the last train had passed for the night. We stopped behind a thin screen of pines while Ley carefully examined the depot and the small yard.

I nudged him.

"If you expect them to be waiting for me in Mostar, how do you plan to put me back aboard the train? It doesn't stop again before it reaches the coast . . . at Mostar."

Ley grunted and motioned me to silence. A man was coming around the far wall of the depot and heading across the wooden platform that separated it from the tracks. Both of us watched him narrowly, Ley with his hand inside his coat, resting securely, I was sure, on his pistol. The man crossed the platform and stopped at the base of the signal tower, opened what looked like a small panel door and made some adjustments. A green light came on high up on the tower and he stepped back for a look. Apparently satisfied, he reclosed the panel and

walked back around the building. A few moments later we heard the sound of an automobile start up and whine away out of the depot parking lot. Ley sighed and removed his hand from inside his coat.

"Railroad worker," he said needlessly.

"You still haven't answered my question," I reminded him. "How do you expect to get me back aboard the train?"

"We will cross that bridge when we come to it. Before that, we have many things to do.

Come."

We pushed through the stand of pines and walked across the narrow field separating us from the depot. Naturally, the snow here had to be deeper than along the tracks. We crossed the depot yard, circled around to the far side of the building and found ourselves in a small parking lot.

An old-fashioned, bare-bulb street lamp hung over the entrance to the parking lot. A narrow street led straight as an arrow two city blocks or so to the village proper. Ley examined the only occupant, a snow-covered automobile, then walked back to where I was waiting. He nodded at the road and gave me a gentle push in that direction.

We made quick time up the road walking more easily on the hard-packed snow surface.

The village, with proper development, could have made a magnificent ski resort. Some of the best slopes in Europe were only minutes away, slopes that would have been the envy of the proprietors of Vale, Sun Valley or Innsbruk. I could picture a ski-lift terminal set in the middle of town, two or three modern, all-glass, A-frame-type ski lodges, the local stores filled with skiing merchandise . . . and was damned glad that it hadn't yet been converted to a ski resort.

Both sides of the street were lined with the gingerbread structures that you automatically associate with Switzerland, but in fact are common throughout the alpine areas of Europe. High-peaked roofs are the most logical solution to heavy snow accumulation and the street-side overhang is a proper answer to the problem of limited, flat building land. Ley led me rapidly up the deserted main street of the village directly to the only lighted structure in sight . . . the local hotel, which, from the size of the stack of skis leaning against the front wall, also doubled as the local ski hostel. It was probably the single major reason why the village was not more famed as a ski resort.

In the dark, it was hard to tell exactly how long ago or by whom it had been built. I guessed the Turks. All old buildings have a distinctive smell compounded of ancient wood full of dry rot, effluence of closed human habitation and just plain age; you detect it as soon as you step inside. With this hotel you encountered its age odor while still in the street. Through the window I could see that the decor was an odd mixture of cheap Scandinavian-style furniture squatting boredly on an aged oriental rug.

"Come on," Ley ordered, not one to be deterred by architectural monstrosities, and I followed him through the door. I was wrong about the source of the odor; it came solely from the curious Slavic custom of overheating all dwellings in winter until you feel as though you are forever trapped in a sauna. The abrupt transition from below-zero cold to the eighty-degree fahrenheit interior left me gasping for breath and wishing I was back outside. The heat literally poured into the street when the door was opened.

The lobby was separated from the rest of the ground floor, which was mostly bar or restaurant, by a flimsy partition across the width of the room. The clerk was half asleep behind the desk and he roused only enough to give Ley a slow, knowing nod.

So, my big German friend had been here before. Curiouser and curiouser as Alice said.

And about now, I was beginning to feel like Alice.

Ley stopped in the middle of the room. "Go into the bar and wait for me. I will return in a moment."

With that, he was gone up the rickety flight of stairs to whatever lay above. Standing there by myself, I considered turning right around and going back out into the night. The only problem with that was that I had nowhere to go. There would be another train going east to Belgrade about noon, which gave me only ten or eleven hours to hide from Ley and his friend or friends in a village small enough to be hidden under a postage stamp.

And it was too damned cold to head for the forest, even if they wouldn't be waiting for me at the depot when the next train came through. And the next village in either direction was twenty miles or more away; one back down the valley, the other on the far side of the crest. There was no real danger that I would run out on him, and Ley knew it.

So, I followed his advice and went into the bar.

A huge and roaring blaze eating up the fireplace was supplemented by a fancy hooded stove in the middle of the room around which a group of drunken students and ski bums were working on their final steins of beer under the watchful eye of the barkeep. He gave me the same kind of disgusted glance previously reserved for the students as I paused on the top step leading down into the bar. I set the fuel pump carton down on a table near the door and hooked a finger at him. He came, reluctantly.

"Dobro vetchay," I said in passable Serbo-Croatian. Surprise and faint pleasure replaced the scowl.

"It is rare that we have Americans in Tobruz who trouble to speak any Yugoslav," he grinned around the three chins that ended his face in pendulous bag.

"I didn't think it showed that much."

He looked surprised for a moment. "Ah, my knowing that you are an American? It is your clothes and haircut. Only American men are wearing their hair short these days."

"Short," I muttered, fingering the locks that were threatening to engulf my collar. But when I glanced over at the students near the stove I saw what he meant.

"How about something stiff . . . it's pretty nippy out there."

"Rakia . . . hot. Just the thing," and he scurried off.

I pulled off my parka and loosened my shirt. The heat inside was so intense that within three or four minutes I was sodden. The bartender brought back the rakia in a heavy mug and then went over and pushed his way through the students to the stove, banked the dampers and kicked the logs in the fireplace apart.

Ten minutes went by during which the students gradually exceeded their blood-alcohol capacity and in the process quieted down. I heard the telephone on the front desk burr softly and the sleepy voice of the clerk talking. A few moments later he came into the bar and over to my table.

Droog Boyd, molim . . . Herr Ley . ." he struggled with his rusty English, "wished you to come . . . number four."

I looked up at him, seeing an ancient, sleepy face peering anxiously at mine.

I nodded and picked up the carton and my parka, dropped a coin on the table and followed him back into

the lobby and to the stairs There he stopped and motioned me upwards.

"Hvala lepo," I muttered and started up.

At the top of the stairs, a low-wattage bulb burned, casting barely enough light in the narrow hall to read the room numbers. I found number four readily enough, and when I knocked Ley opened the door immediately . . . and stepped aside.

The body lying on the floor at the foot of the bed had been strangled. The agonized expression would have been enough to tell me that even if the cord knotted around the neck hadn't been visible.

Surprisingly, I didn't drop the carton. Ley took it from me while I slumped against the wall and gagged. The hotel was not as old as I thought, because the room contained a small bathroom. After I had used it, my stomach, now empty, felt a hell of a lot steadier.

Ley had removed the cord and covered the body with a blanket from the bed. I came back into the room and sank down in an overstuffed chair near the partly open window.

The fresh air was welcome.

"Who was he?"

"My superior, Major Bowen. He came in from Amsterdam this afternoon."

I noticed that Ley had removed his top coat and opened his jacket. He looked hard at me, hesitated then tossed a medium-sized automatic pistol across the bed.

"Do you know how to use that?"

I nodded. It was a Walther P-38 automatic, a standard European police side arm.

"Good, then stay awake because Bowen's murderer is still in the hotel."

"How do you know?"

"The desk clerk has seen no one come up the stairs or go down. To go either way they would have to pass him."

"Nuts," I snorted. "He's asleep most of the time."

"He has been a hotel desk clerk for forty years," Ley said staunchly. "It is impossible to sneak past him. They had to have been on this floor to get into the room, which means they are already guests."

I pointed to the open window. Ley shook his head.

"No. The snow outside is completely undisturbed. I opened the window after I came into the room and it was locked. Bowen was too careful to have been taken that way. He would have locked the window as soon as he came into the room, and if he did not judge the lock adequate, would have taken precautions. No, someone knocked on the door, misrepresented himself, perhaps as a hotel employee, got Bowen to open the door, and then two or more men forced their way into the room, drugged him and then while he was semiconscious, strangled him."

"Whoa, wait a minute, how do you know all that?"

Ley moved a hard-backed chair to face the door and sat down. He removed his pistol from his shoulder holster, cocked and laid it in his lap.

He said patiently, "I will explain. First, one man alone could not have strangled Major Bowen. At least. two and possibly more would have been needed. Secondly, he would not have opened the door, unless he knew who was on the other side."

I remembered the hotel room in Belgrade and the "precautions" Ley had taken when the bellboy delivered the gin. Too bad that Bowen had not been quite as careful.

"Third," Ley continued, "the method of execution is a rather infamous SS terror trick.

First the victim is drugged —not unconscious but into immobility with chloroform. Then he is allowed to revive until his mind is awake, but his body is still very weak. The cord is looped around the neck and tightened slowly and the victim strangles, not able to struggle. It is a terrible way to die. It was used against partisans and chetniks both during the war and the bodies left in public places to serve as warnings.

I felt sick again but managed to control my stomach. "So," I said shakily, "Bowen serves as a warning to you?"

"Yes. Obviously, their intelligence network is broader and deeper than we suspected. In sending the message to Bowen after Mistako was killed this morning . . . yesterday morning . . . I used the message center at the police headquarters. They have either broken our codes or have infiltrated the Yugoslav police.

"The important question is; how much does your friend Maher know about all this. Is he directing this operation, or is it being directed by someone else? I suspect the latter," he answered his own question. "Communications between the mainland and the islands are very bad. He would need a powerful radio transmitter otherwise. Do you have any transmitters, besides the one in your aircraft?"

I shook my head. "And that one is a crystal set, tuned only to the aircraft and marine bands."

"Could he have brought one aboard without your knowledge?"

"Hardly, I checked and stowed away every piece of that cargo myself. I always do before each flight. PBYs weren't built for hauling cargo. If anything heavy starts to shift, it can go right through the side."

Ley was quiet for a moment, thinking. I occupied myself by checking over the Walther and making sure that the magazine was full.

"All right," he said finally. "We go through it all again. I am sure that I was not followed from Belgrade . . ." "Yeah, why so sure?" I asked.

Ley took a blondish wig from his coat pocket and pulled it on over his thinning dark hair.

He added a pair of heavy, black-framed glasses, opened his coat and folded back the lining to show a muted plaid design. At a quick glance, he was not Ley. At a second glance, and with that coat, he was not Ley. In a crowd that is about all the time anyone would have had to examine him.

"Rather James Bondish I am sure, but sometimes effective and necessary."

I nodded and he continued. "I left your room and the hotel and went out the back way. In the alley I changed my appearance and went directly back to the police headquarters where I reported a traffic violation and when no one was paying any attention to me went to Mistako's office. I changed back before I entered the office, was briefed on the latest developments, apologized, sympathized and told them I was returning to Berlin that evening. I then had dinner and went directly to the station where I boarded the evening train for Berlin. I was followed, but as soon as I got on the train, my shadow seemed to lose all interest and left me. I then got out on the other side of the train, after changing my appearance again, walked around and boarded your train. I checked very carefully to see that I was not followed and then thoroughly combed the train to make sure that you were not being followed. You were not . . . or so I thought."

"Bowen is dead," I pointed out.

"Obviously. But the concern now is how could they have known . . . or, rather, did they know. We have two possibilities here immediately before us. Major Bowen was also engaged in narcotics work . . . and that is very dangerous and the people involved are as bad as the Nazis. They will kill for revenge and just as cruelly. It could be that his death was part of some vendetta that I know nothing of."

"That's not very likely is it? Yugoslavia isn't big in the drug trade, and it doesn't seem likely that if they wanted a revenge killing they would track him all the way to an isolated village in the Dinaric Alps and kill him. The idea behind that killing . . . as you said . . . is revenge and warning."

Ley nodded and shifted in the hard chair. "You are probably right. So we can only infer that Bowen's death is to serve a warning to someone here?"

"But no one knows we are here .. ."

"How do you know that?" Ley asked mildly. "Well damn it, you said we weren't . . ."

"I could have been wrong, you know."

"Look," I said desperately, "it's after two o'clock in the morning and I haven't had any sleep yet. I'm hungry. I find I'm involved in a plot that's right out of a spy thriller —my only companion is a member of Interpol and his superior is deader than a doornail, and here we sit trying to figure out how the hell someone killed him and whether or not they will try to kill us, all when they are not even supposed to know that we are here in a dumb little village in the middle of Yugoslavia—and all the while you get cuter and cuter. How the hell do I know if you're wrong or not! Stop confusing the issue any more than it already is!"

Ley smiled tolerantly at my outburst. "I am sorry if it sounds confusing, but that is exactly the way it appears to me. Obviously, I am not infallible. I thought we had not been followed. It rather seems that we have been. So, what do we know? That there are at least three unknown assailants who are looking or waiting for us?"

"Yeah, great, that's all we know . . . why three?"

"Because it would have taken at least two men to kill Major Bowen and one to follow us.

That is the minimum number."

He raised his hand to forestall my next question. "Major Bowen was killed before we got off the train. His body was quite cool when I discovered him; it takes at least an hour for the human body to cool after death, especially in a warm room like this. And that is probably the reason that

I did not find the killers waiting for me. They did not know I . . . we were coming."

"Now they do?"

"It is quite possible. If our organization or the Yugoslav police has been penetrated as far as I think they have, then part of the Nazi organization knew that Bowen was coming here. Since even by code I did not refer to you in any way, they would know only that he was coming to Tobruz to meet someone. They would know only that Bowen's contact was connected with the investigation."

"So, you are saying that they don't know that I'm in Tobruz?"

"That depends on who you mean by they. Surely the man or men who followed you or me know. As by now, do the killers of Major Bowen."

"So, then the Neo-Nazis know that I'm at least traveling with . . ."

"Not necessarily. I have already talked with the desk clerk. He tells me there are only two telephones in all of Tobruz . . . the one downstairs and the one in the local police station. We must gamble that they have not used the police phone."

"What about the hotel's phone?"

"The desk clerk says that no messages have gone through him at all since six o'clock this evening when two men with accents and ski equipment made a call to Belgrade."

"Our two friends?"

"Most likely. He gave me a description of them . . . they are posing as skiers. So my guess at the moment is that they have gone to meet the man who is following us. That is the reason they left the body . . . not as a warning, at least yet, but because they had to leave."

"Okay, so then the only three people connected with the Neo-Nazis who know that I am involved with you are right here somewhere in Tobruz. What do we do about it?"

"We kill them." Ley said it quietly, but with so much unconscious menace in his voice that I knew he was deadly serious.

"Kill them, what the hell for? Let's get the local police to handle them."

Ley laughed rudely. "What would you charge them with. The murder of Major Bowen?

How would we prove it, and do you think they would let either of us live long enough? No, there is no other way. They will be returning to the hotel as soon as they find out that the man following you did not get off the train. They will return knowing that somehow I have gotten off the train. I have arranged with the desk clerk to buzz the room as soon as they start up the stairs. If they ask, as they probably will, he will tell them only that I have gone up to this room a minute or so before." Ley smiled slowly, cruelly. "They will come in expecting to find only me. You are my trump card."

And it happened that way. A few minutes later, the buzzer sounded. Ley whipped the blanket off Bowen's body and threw it back on the bed. He reached out and opened the door a tiny crack and bent over Bowen's body in such a way that he could still keep an eye on the door. I was out of their line of sight on the far side of the room, squeezed in between the wardrobe and the wall; the position providing an excellent line of fire.

Two men, dressed in skiing clothes came through the door silently and fast with guns in their hands. They had Ley covered and the door closed before he could raise his head.

The first started to say something in German, motioning with his left hand for Ley to raise his. He never completed the motion. I shot his through the side of the neck once and in the chest as he fell, twisting toward me. A stupid shot, but I was too scared to think.

Ley pumped two bullets into the second man as, startled, he swung toward me. He got off one shot that smashed through the wall only inches from my nose. Ley and I put the third and fourth bullets into him so fast that I couldn't tell which shot was which. The shock of the bullets smashing through his body from two directions, slammed him against the wall with enough force to shake the room.

Both men were dead before they reached the floor. The instant's silence following the roar of the pistol shots was almost as deafening; then the silence was broken by screams and shouts from hotel patrons, blasted from sound sleep.

By the time the first semiawake guest had edged open the door, Ley and I were sliding down the steep roof to land in the deep snow drifts below.

CHAPTER TWO

Perhaps it was the numbing shock of the almost hundred-degree change in temperature as we plowed through the deep snow away from the hotel in a long circle that would take us back to the far end of town, that kept me from realizing that I had killed one man and helped kill another. In any event, my only thought at the time was to keep up with Ley as we bolted away from the hotel.

Within five minutes of the shooting, we had covered nearly a quarter of a mile in a wide circle that had taken us along the back side of the single village street so fast that various household dogs were only just beginning a puzzled barking in our wake. The hour was nearing three o'clock, the train was due in Mostar by noon and we had less than five hours of darkness in which to catch it.

Ley was heading for the automobile he had examined so closely; the snow-covered one, parked on the far side of the depot, apparently belonging to someone connected with the railroad. The doors were locked, but Ley merely hammered out the glass on the driver's side with his pistol butt and wrenched the door open, snapping away the coating of ice. I brushed away the snow from the front window as fast as possible while Ley ducked under the dashboard, then backed out again and ran around to the front and threw open the hood. He studied the engine compartment for a moment in the feeble light from the depot roof lamp and then tore off his gloves and went to work on the ignition wires.

"Turn on the headlights," he snapped. I climbed behind the wheel and found the switch.

The lights came on all right, a feeble orange glow that barely reflected off the wall of the depot.

Ley swore loudly in German. "The battery is nearly dead. Come."

I climbed out and followed him around to the front of the station where he repeated his breaking-and-entering trick, smashing out one of the window panes in the door with his pistol and reaching through to unlock the door.

"We need something highly flammable, like petrol or paraffin."

Time was of the essence now, not secrecy, and heedlessly he flipped the light switch that lit up the interior of the plain wooden depot with its wooden benches. For some reason I was not surprised to find the interior of this Yugoslavian train depot was little different from the one in the midwestern village where my grandparents lived. Wooden seats like church pews supported on cast-iron legs; a wooden railing with a swinging gate to separate the waiting area from the space in front of the ticket window inset into the wooden wall. The whole interior had been varnished and revarnished so many times that it was almost orange.

An old wood-burning stove was planted in the middle of the waiting room and Ley made straight for it and the beaten old metal can with its corrugated nozzle that stood next to the coal scuttle.

He wrenched the cap off and sniffed. "Paraffin. It will do, but look quickly to see if there is any petrol."

I hurried through the swinging gate and around to the left and through the door into the ticket agent-station master's office. There was nothing but the usual paraphernalia of a train depot still serving passengers as well as freight . . . piles of schedules, a few posters showing pretty girls in bathing suits along the Adriatic, a sign noting in Serbo-Croatian that spitting was forbidden on railroad property and an ancient telegraph key that must have been an immediate descendant of Sam Morse's. Other than that, only a few crates stacked against a wall under an ancient key-wind clock that read 2:56.

I backed out quickly shaking my head at Ley. A minute later we were in the parking lot.

Ley wrenched the air filter off and liberally poured kerosene into the carburetor. "Try the motor," he commanded.

I pressed the accelerator pedal all the way down to the floor and the engine groaned twice over and began to click.

"Wait," he called. I saw him pick up the can and pour a little more kerosene into the carburetor and then dig into his pocket.

He stuck his head around the side of the raised hood and yelled, "Get ready. Try once more when I tell you."

I waited less than twenty seconds before I saw an orange glare blaze up. At the same time, Ley jumped back and screamed, "Now!"

I pressed down on the accelerator pedal once more, the

engine turned slowly and then something exploded in a tremendous backfire. Clouds of blue smoke rolled from both ends of the car and the engine ran crankily up. I eased in the choke and Ley slammed down the hood and pushed me over into the passenger's seat.

He ran the engine up quickly to warm it, shifted gears and eased forward, then into reverse to break the grip of the frozen snow. The ancient car groaned and creaked, but moved out of its ruts, the engine lurching and coughing. As we drove carefully out of the parking lot, I leaned back and wiped away the sweat that had accumulated on my forehead in spite of the cold.

"How in hell did you get it started?"

Concentrating to avoid the deeper snow along the road, Ley replied abstractly, "I filled the carburetor with paraffin oil and lit it with a match. The manufacturers do not recommend it, but it does work."

"For God's sake," I exploded, "you could have blown the whole damned car up!"

"Perhaps, but it was a chance we had to take wasn't it? Now, shut up and let me drive."

Still shocked, I was silent a minute. "All right, one more question, how do we get me back aboard that train?"

Ley twisted the wheel sharply and we cut onto the main road leading west out of the village and toward the summit of the pass. The road had been cleared efficiently here and he increased the speed to seventy kilometers. "We are heading for a small town on the far side of the Alps, with luck, less than three hours from here. There the track has snapped from the cold and the train will be stalled. You will get back aboard there."

"How do you know the rail has snapped?" I asked suspiciously.

"Because I arranged it. There will be at least a three-hour delay."

I shut up. I hoped that this arrangement would work out a hell of a lot better than his last two. Both Mistako, Bowen and the two agents we had killed in the hotel room kept dancing around in my head. The Med., my airfreight line . . . my escape from the world's insanity . . . what in hell had happened to it. And I knew; the same thing that always destroys utopia ... greed.

The next few hours were an insanity of reckless driving

over frozen, ice-encrusted hairpin turns as Ley pushed the old car to its utmost. The Dinaric Alps are not high by the standards of their Swiss and French cousins—only some eight to nine thousand feet—but they are rugged. Most of the roads running through their passes and valleys had started out as foot trails in times immemorial and had progressed through horse, cart and, finally, metalled or asphalt auto roads. Often they were less than two lanes wide; no turnouts and no guardrails; as if even the highway builders had not taken seriously the idea that roads could or should be pushed through these ancient mountains and these were only temporary affairs. Ley didn't seem to mind; in fact, did not even seem to notice. He drove like Stirling Moss when he was at his best. Yet in spite of the obvious danger, fatigue and emotional letdown finally caught up with me, leaving me drained and exhausted. Ley's face was set hard in the darkness . .

purposefully, completely in command . . . far different from the harassed civil servant of our first meeting that morning, or rather, the previous morning as it was now long after midnight.

Herr Fredrick Ley was clearly in a quandary. He paced back and forth, pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow as if the sum total of these actions would prompt a correct decision. From the way we had been introduced . hastily and with no explanations or credentials shown . . . I suspected that he belonged to one of the innumerable West German intelligence agencies. The only thing I knew about him for certain was that he was a West German. That had been made clear immediately.

He paused on the other side of the room to stare down on the Garlenplatz, filled with midwinter sunshine and scurrying shoppers, obviously trying to decide what he should do next. Finally, with a sigh, he turned to me and placed his heavy hands on the back of Colonel Mistako's chair and pushed downward so that it rocked in time to his words.

"Herr Boyd, I find your reluctance to tell me the truth," he paused to search for a word and found . . . "incredible."

I sighed in turn. "I know, I know. But as I said earlier, I don't give a damn what you think. That's my story. You do what you want with it."

Ley gave me a pained look.

"There are many questionable facts . .."

"I don't really care if there are," I said, trying my best to hold my temper. "That's it. Now, if you have finished, I'm leaving . . . unless, of course, you have a warrant?"

Ley snorted. "I have no jurisdiction in Yugoslavia. Colonel Mistako will have to see to that."

"Fine, then I've got better things to do than to sit here answering silly questions about buried Nazi treasures; particularly when it might help a government that I don't even care about."

Waiting in the reception room outside the office was Colonel Alexandre Mistako, chief of European Liaison for the Yugoslav Federal Police. As I closed the door, he got up from the desk where he had been talking with his hungry-eyed secretary and came across to take my arm and lead me aside.

"What was his reaction?" he asked quietly, nodding his head towards the door.

I shrugged. "What would your reaction be? He doesn't believe me when I tell him that I don't know what he is talking about, any more than you did. He knows that if he is wrong, then you are wrong as well, and you can both wind up looking like a couple of mighty big fools."

"It's a policeman's lot to always be in danger of looking the fool," Mistako scowled. "Do not mistake his, or my, hesitation for fear."

"Well, you know more about that than I do. This nonsense sounds too much like a Grade-B thriller . . . maybe that's why you are hesitating?" I waited for his answer and got only a cold silence. "Have you decided about a warrant?"

Mistako's scowl deepened. "We do not have enough evidence to talk of warrants yet .. .

but we will try very hard to find out what you and your two friends are doing on Komat Island."

"Nonsense! If you believed any of what Ley told you, you would have me down in one of your dungeons right now."

Irritably, I shrugged my arm out of Mistako's hand and turned toward the window. The center of the Garlenplatz was filled with people bundled against the cold wind sweeping in off the Sava River. Girls in mini-skirts and boots floated across the square on their way to office jobs, their parkas and bulky coats contrasting with bare and booted legs. The whole mood of Belgrade was lighthearted, in keeping with the coming holidays; a mood Mistako clearly was not feeling. He was worried. The typical bureaucrat I decided . . . faced with a new situation he was at a loss without orders from higher up, and as chief of European Liaison, Ley had rightfully come to him first with his suspicions. Now Mistako had to decide whether or not to act. If he decided yes, he would have to arrest me and notify the government; tantamount to admitting that he believed Ley's story.

"We do not put people in dungeons in Yugoslavia . . but as you say, the story is rather fanciful," he finished. I thought I detected deepening doubt in his voice.

"But not so much so that you do not believe it?"

Mistako hesitated a moment before answering. His gaze followed mine to the square beyond the window. "No, only . . . officially, I do not disbelieve it."

"Officially?"

Mistako looked even more uncomfortable. "Yes, officially. Personally, I do not know what to believe. I receive a report from Major Vishailly on Kornat Island. He tells me that he suspects you and your comrades are on the island to illegally recover a store of gold left by the Nazis in the last war . . . to steal this gold since it is considered the property of the State.

"But, I happen to know that this treasure is buried beneath tons of rock and mud in the middle of a mountain. The government has already conducted several studies, and all have ended by advising that the costs to recover the store would be more than the value of the gold. Ordinarily, I would have dismissed the entire matter as an exaggeration or fabrication, but for two things; Vishailly is extremely reliable and I have never had reason to question his judgment before. Secondly, this German arrives from Berlin with the same story. What am I to believe? What am I to say, other than I will study the matter further . . ." His voice trailed off and he continued to stare out the window, seeing nothing but his own thoughts.

I waited a moment, then turned from the window and wandered away a few paces. "You know, it might help if you'd tell me what is going on. It could help me to come up with more information that would add pieces to the puzzle."

I stared at him, helpfulness--or at least the offer

written all over my face, but he avoided my gaze and moved toward the office door. "I am sorry," he said in that official and officious tone—the bureaucrat's refuge—"but I am not allowed. Now, if you will excuse me, r would like to consult with Herr Ley and receive his impressions."

I nodded and he paused before opening the door. "I will want to discuss this matter further. Therefore, please do not leave the city without notifying me first."

I shrugged. "You're the boss." Mistako opened the door and went in to talk with Ley.

The Federal Police Building in Belgrade is one of those new modem edifices that are popping up all over the eastern bloc nations . . . now that they have money to spend on frills.

The Yugoslav police have long outgrown the old secret-police days; they no longer come for you in the dead of the night, for instance. Now, if you've broken the law, you go to court with your lawyer. But, this was still a communist nation, even though small "c"

communist; where the individual's rights are subordinate to the State, and modem building or no, the setup still smelled of secret-police prisons complete with torture chambers in the basement. I was glad to leave.

I had last been in Belgrade during the mid-1950s attached to the air attaché's office at the U.S. Embassy. It was right after the Hungarian uprising, and everyone was scared stiff that Khrushchev was going to send troops swarming across the Hungarian and Rumanian borders to put an end to Tito and his independent ideas. Militiamen, looking more like vigilantes than soldiers, roamed the streets and the capital had a wartime air that was half defiant, half scared-to-death. Now, the city more resembled London or West Berlin.

Soft popular music with a definite rock beat floated out of a store specializing in high fidelity and stereo music systems. Along the sides of the Garlenplatz, public and private traffic swarmed, heavy but well-behaved. None of the honking horns and gesticulating, angry drivers that you find in New York or Paris. Belgrade is a "different" city in many respects, combining Western living with old-world Balkan courtesy. In all, it is a lovely city and one I'm glad that the Russians stayed out of with their dour, almost Victorian morality.

Mini-skirts for example, were at least four inches shorter than anywhere else in the Communist world.

I reached the hotel twenty minutes later and rode the . elevator to the seventh floor. The thick carpeting, which seems to be a passion in the Balkans, blotted up the usual undercurrent of noise that infests hotels everywhere, and the double windows effectively shut out the traffic sounds. The maids had finished with the room earlier and the air was still heavy with the piney scent of disinfectant mingling with the rosewater room freshener on the bureau. Lying on the floor next to the closet was the carton containing the new fuel pump.

Vishailly had been right when he predicted that I would have trouble with the local phone system. The telephone bureau in range of Kornat did not employ Italian-speaking operators, thus making it impossible to get through to Brindisi. But he could and did get me through to Belgrade where we found a repair co-operative that had a spare fuel pump to fit the PBY—but only if they did not have to deliver it. So, Vishailly had put me on the mail boat that calls once a day at the island from Mostar and from there it was an overnight train trip to Belgrade.

Earlier in the morning I had not been sure just what had prompted the call from the Federal Police. But Mistako's polite but firm request had brooked no opposition. Vishailly, the police official on Kornat Island, had been so attentive that afternoon that he left me wondering if he wasn't onto what we were up to.

My thinking processes were not helped any by pacing about the room, and so I stopped in front of the window and parted the thin curtains. A small park lay between the hotel and walls of buildings on the far side. Although the sun was shining brightly again, a stiff wind had sprung up, whirling the snow in small gusts along the tops of the snow banks piled on either side of the street where the snow plows had been at it. People hurried along with heads down against the cold. A neon sign on one of the air travel offices opposite competed vainly with the sunlight to pour a washed-out message in Cyrillic script around its frame while the wind flung streamers of snow at it up the face of the building.

It had been obvious right from the beginning that Mistako wasn't telling me everything he knew; especially

obvious when Ley showed up. While Yugoslavia's relations with West Germany had never been as virulent as those of the rest of the Communist bloc, they were far from friendly. For Yugoslays to have invited the intervention of a West German intelligence agency . . . that indicated to me that something really out of line was in the works. If I had known then that Ley was a member of Interpol, I might have been even more worried than I was. The scene beyond the window offered no more answer than had the carpet, and I was about to go down to lunch when I heard a key slide into the door.

It was done just a trifle. too stealthily to be a maid, I thought. As I turned around, the door edged open and a man I did not recognize put his head in. Startled, he gaped at me a moment then slammed the door. By the time I reached the door and pulled it open, he was gone, disappearing around the turn in the corridor that led to the stairway.

The chase was hopeless and I closed the door thoughtfully behind me, wondering if Mistako had put him up to this. Perhaps the police had not expected me to return so quickly to the hotel. Suddenly, I was angry. I didn't like to be spied on I discovered, and I was not going to put up with it. I grabbed the phone and dialed Mistako's office. He was out, conveniently, I thought, and I left word for him to call back as soon as he came in.

Then, I went to work to make sure that no key was going to open the door unless I wanted it to. It was a simple matter to insert my key into the lock after first wrapping a heavy rubber band around and through the ring hole and looping it up and over the door knob. The rubber band pulled the key up into the lock, jamming it against the tumblers so that it could not be forced out from the other side. Simple, but effective. Then I phoned room service for lunch and settled back to wait for Mistako to return my call.

It turned out to be a long wait; an eternal wait. About three in the afternoon, I picked up the phone and called Mistako's office again. The buzzing of the bell on the other end went on for a long time before anyone answered. When they did, I was surprised to hear Ley's voice, and he was equally surprised to hear mine. I asked where the hell Mistako was? He was dead. That simple, and I sat down heavily, stunned, stunned the way you always are

when you hear that someone you had spoken to recently had died.

After a moment, Ley told me the rest of the story. Mistako had gone home for lunch—so damned mundane that it almost hurt—and driving back to the office, a car driven by two men had forced him to the curb and in the middle of Belgrade, hauled him out of his car and shot him to death. They then got calmly back into their car and disappeared. Just like that.

At the moment, the whole city was in a subterranean uproar. The murder of a policeman in any country brings swift and heavy-handed pursuit. But the killing of a Federal Police executive in a still-totalitarian society is the quickest way to reopen the interrogation cellars, constitutional guarantees or no, because the killing is not a civil but a political crime. So, every suspicious character in the city was being picked up for questioning.

Ley was about the only one left in the office. Mistako's secretary had collapsed and been sent home. I told Ley about the cop who had paid a visit to my room earlier, and before I could finish, he brusquely ordered me to stay put and slammed the phone down. Ten minutes later, he was sitting on the couch regarding me with that polite, inquisitive look of a professional cop.

"Who was this man?"

I shrugged. "How the hell should I know? I thought he belonged to Mistako. You tell me

. . . and tell me everything, damn it. You sure as the devil know more about what's going on than you let on this morning."

"I really don't know any more than you do," he said shrugging. "The Yugoslays aren't in the habit of taking Germans, West or East, into their confidence."

I snorted. "And with good reason."

Ley stretched out on the couch and toed his loafers off, sighing. "All right. Insults will not help the situation. Maybe you do have pieces of information that I need . . ."

"Or vice versa," I muttered. Ley glanced up sharply, but said nothing for a moment.

Finally, he sat up straight, grimacing at the effort, and in a flat voice, as if giving a report said:

"Yesterday evening, I was told by my superiors to leave immediately for Belgrade. I was given a dossier that I was to read on the aircraft. Mistako was waiting for me at the airfield, and we went directly to the police offices. There I was briefed—learning nothing more than what I had read in the dossier—and sent to a hotel for the night. The next morning—this morning—I talked to you."

"That's not a hell of a lot."

Ley nodded. "I agree, but that is all I know."

I got up and paced for a moment. If, and it was a big if, I could believe anything Ley said, he was sent especially to talk to me. If he left last night, there was a good chance that it was because Vishailly had reported me securely aboard the mail boat and headed for Belgrade. Disgruntled and at a loss for the moment, I picked up the phone and dialed room service to order a bottle of gin and some ice. We waited silently, staring at each other until it was delivered. When the knock on the door came Ley bounced off the couch like a shot, reached into his jacket for a pistol, concealed it behind his trouser leg, and was across the room and had the door open before I could move. He took the order without a word to the bellboy, slammed the door shut with his foot, almost catching the man's hand, and relocked the door.

"Jumpy aren't you?"

Ley didn't reply but set the tray down on the dresser and poured out two stiff drinks and added ice.

"The dossier," he continued, handing me my drink a moment later, "described a network of Neo-Nazi party members extending throughout Europe. Our people have been keeping them under close watch for the past several years; ever since they began to make gains in the West German Government. We are especially interested in where their money comes from. As you may know, the original Nazi party in the 1930s was heavily financed by the industrialists who were promised sizable military contracts in return for their help.

These same people today—and others like them—are in no position to donate money to the Neo-Nazi party, even if they were so inclined. We watch the party carefully for any "

front" movements they might organize to collect donations. These businessmen know they have more to gain by supporting the present government and maintaining NATO

commitments. The party claims that their funds come primarily through membership fees and party member donations. But checks, which go on continually, indicate that the membership is not large enough to sustain their present, or past for that matter, volume of spending. We want very much to find

out where this money is coming from. And we think we know."

Ley paused to sip at his drink thoughtfully before going on. The room was very still.

Snow had begun to fall as twilight descended over the city, and the feeling of unreality that I experienced two nights ago on the island was with me again.

"Where," I prompted.

"As you are well aware, SS units, which, by the way, operated independently of the Wehrmacht, were not composed of the best people; especially during the latter days of the war. You may also know that as German Army units were withdrawing from the conquered territories of Europe, SS units were always the last to leave, usually remaining behind to loot; to remove everything that might possibly aid Germany's war effort. It is not something we are proud of today, but you must recognize that war brings out the worst in every man and every people.

"In late 1944 we believe that orders were given from Berlin that directed this looting—such as that which took place in the Balkans and the proceeds of which were sub-sequently lost on Kornat Island. Much of this loot, mostly the gold, jewels, paintings, national treasures and so on, which could either be broken up or could not easily be traced after the war, was secreted throughout Europe. We estimate that it amounts to well over a half a billion U.S. dollars."

I whistled. "That would make quite a tidy reserve fund for any political movement."

Ley nodded. "Yes. And if we can locate these sources and cut the party off from them, we are well on the way to toppling them before they become powerful enough to cause major damage."

"So you believe that the gold we are after on Kornat is part of this hidden cache?"

Ley nodded again. "Two years ago, West German police files of the Neo-Nazi party were opened to Interpol. We conducted our own investigations, very discreetly, and came to the same conclusion. Interpol has since been in the process of informing certain members of various police establishments throughout the world. The Fascist mentality is still with us, and, as leftist-promoted unrest grows throughout the world, there are certain types of people that find it attractive. If you will recall, it was a similar unrest that provided fascism's tremendous acceptance in the 1930s—the fear of the anarchy and resulting repression that came with the work of the Comintern. Today, it is the radical left organizations in your country and similar organizations throughout Europe. They are not organized or integrated as the Comintern was in the thirties, but many people feel they are, and to them, reactionary solutions become attractive. That is why we find it imperative to move wherever we see the slightest hint of Neo-Nazi activities on the continent. Unfortunately, Mistako was one of the few people in the Yugoslav police aware of Interpol's and our own conclusions, and the only one who knew the reason for my visit."

"And now he's dead. So where does that leave you?"

Ley shook his head. "I wish I knew. I have no instruc tions from my superiors, and I do not believe the Yugo-slays will be happy to see me remain in the country."

"Why the hell do you need instructions," I said, making it sound like a dirty word.

Ley sighed. "You have no idea' the troubles that I could cause between Yugoslavia and West Germany if I decided to act on my own. It sounds very easy to say, but it would be extremely difficult to live with the consequences. I have my wife and two children to support and that is very hard to do in Germany if you do not have a job."

He had a point, I knew. It was easy to go off and do whatever you wanted to if you were alone with nobody depending on you.

"Let's go over your story once more;" Ley said quietly. "This time make it complete.

Everything, what these men are like, who are they, what they've done . . . everything you can recall . . . and in a great deal more detail than you gave me this morning," he finished dryly.

"Why the hell should I do that?"

Ley shrugged. "I just thought you might rather deal with me than with the Yugoslays. If I go back and report no success, Interpol will officially withdraw from the case —Mistako'

s murder has seen to that. You, however, could become a prime suspect." Ley sat back and waited for my answer.

"All right, if you think you can sit through another rendition without falling asleep . . ." I snagged the bottle off the table and refilled both glasses, angry because he had me in a trap. His statement left no doubt that if I did not talk, he would turn me in immediately.

The only light in the room now was the westering sun banked securely behind thick snow clouds. It was becoming harder to see in the dimness filtering through the window, but I didn't turn on the lamp; somehow the semidarkness was comforting.

CHAPTER THREE

The flight from Brindisi, Italy, to Kornat Island off the Yugoslavian coast covers 320

miles. When we had taxied out onto the apron at Brindisi two mornings ago, the muttering of the starboard engine on my ancient PBY Catalina wasn't any choppier than it had ever been. Twenty years and more of flying with overhauls few and far between, and she was pretty worn out. My partner, Pete Schenk, and I had managed for the last few months to keep her going, but the fuel pump was about ready to pack in. New fuel pumps cost money . . . money that we did not have. The old Catalina therefore, was reserved for short hauls where there were plenty of airfields handy for quick landings.

We had finally managed to scrape up the cash, but pumps that old took a long time to find and even longer to deliver. Normally, we used our DC-3, equally old but much better preserved, for the longer and heavier flights.

But on this junket I needed the amphibious capability of the PBY, and so we had taken a chance. I had overhauled the pump and was fairly confident that it would hold together . .

. it hadn't.

We were still a good twenty minutes out when the starboard engine missed its first beat.

Klaus Maher, occupying the copilot's seat leaned across with a questioning look and shouted something that was lost in the roar of engine and slipstream coming through the open vents.

I throttled back as far as I dared and leaned the mixture out, then rammed the throttle forward. A plume of white exhaust showed for an instant before being whipped to tatters in the slipstream and the RPMs continued to drop as the muttering became choppier.

I glanced over at Maher. His face was no longer

quizzical; it was pale. I felt the same way—and I'm sure I looked it. For the past half hour, we had been chasing a fast-moving rain squall below at about six thousand feet.

We were just about over the trailing edge when the port engine started to miss under the overload. Beneath us, the cloud cover had lost all semblance of fleecy whiteness. From a relative altitude of a few hundred feet it was a twisted, wispy mass of angry gray, as cold and stark as the depths of the Arctic ice pack. Deep inside could be seen the opaline glow of lightning blinking fitfully. Because there was an even deeper layer of ice cloud above us filtering the afternoon sunlight, the effect was a funereal gray, underscored by the ululating whine of the wind against the aircraft. Altogether, it was not a pleasant feeling knowing that any moment one of the engines might quit and we would vanish into that embattled mass of cloud.

I leveled the PBY off a few hundred feet above the fringes of the cloud layer and increased the revs only enough to maintain altitude. Added to the fuel pump problem was the severe air turbulence along the top of the storm. The framework of the aircraft was groaning in every joint but the extra lift provided by the turbulence made it that much easier on the straining portside engine.

"How are the engines holding up now?" Maher asked suddenly.

I waved at the instruments. The air was too rough to read them accurately. The needles were bouncing back and forth across the dials in a kind of St. Vitus dance.

He nodded and turned back to the window. I was about to say something further when the edge of the storm began to show on the horizon. I reached across and shook his arm.

As we cleared the last of the squall, I eased the nose down and ahead, nearly to the horizon was the humped rock of Kornat Island . . . the pivotal point of a minor and almost forgotten economic blow to Nazi Germany in late 1944.

While the Nazis were being pushed out of the Balkans in 1944, the High Command in Berlin, some say Himmler himself, struck on the idea of raiding local bank vaults along the line of retreat to improve ebbing Nazi finances. Within days, flying squads of SS

special detachments were moving from city to city in Greece, Albania and southern Yugoslavia and the treasure they amassed in less than six weeks was estimated by the Allies at the end of the war to be more than 30 million dollars.

Initial plans called for the SS detachments to complete sweeps through their assigned territories and rendezvous at Mostar, the only port city on the Adriatic coast of Yugoslavia still securely held by the Germans. The loot was to be loaded aboard an armored train and sent up the coast to Trieste from where it would be transhipped to Berlin. But Allied bombing strikes had been accelerated sharply along the coast in November of that year to support increased partisan activity. The High Command decided that it was too risky to move by train. Instead, the gold was taken to the submarine base at Kornat where it was stored in ammunition boxes and stacked on the quay to be loaded and sent off by submarine.

As senior submarine commander, the actual transport of the gold to Trieste was Klaus's responsibility. Klaus, knowing that the end of the war was only a matter of months away and that all of the money in the world could no longer prop up the Nazi war machine, diverted one million U.S. dollars worth of the gold, 1785 pounds to be exact, in four ammunition crates, from the quayside warehouse to the deserted food-store areas deep in the series of tunnels that honeycombed the base of the mountain.

Enter Mikhail Korstlov, the third member of our intrepid trio of treasure hunters.

Mikhail Korstlov came from the Bosnian village of Glasnic, high on the eastern slopes of the Dinaric Alps. A long-time member of the Communist party, he had fought the Nazis for six years, first in Spain and now in the mountains of Yugoslavia.

In November 1944 Mikhail was in command of a partisan brigade operating in the Mostar region of Herzceovina. There were several military targets within two days'

march of his headquarters; two Luftwaffe airdromes near Mostar from which Focke-Wulfs and Me-109s rose, to challenge escorting P-47s on Allied bombing runs to the oil fields of Rumania, a large Nazi garrison at Mostar and several army strongholds along the coast. And the miniature submarine base on Kornat Island.

In early December 1944 Mikhail received orders to intercept and capture at all costs the armored train loading in Mostar. He was not told why this particular train was so valuable, only that he was to obtain the sealed ammunition boxes at all costs.

Within hours, the order was amended. The ammunition boxes, he was now told, were being sent to Kornat Island by the Nazis and from there would be transhipped by sea to Trieste.

No matter what the cost, he was told, he was to take those ammunition boxes. Not once did he question those orders or the value in capturing a trainload of artillery ammunition; even though it could very well mean the total destruction of his unit.

The only direct route was into the stronghold itself through the heavily guarded harbor entrance. An indirect overland route crept down the length of the island from the steep rocky beaches of the northern end. But Mikhail knew that he could never hope to take so large a force the fifteen tortuous miles over the chaparral-covered ridges without being detected. The western and eastern sides were impassably high cliffs. The direct approach through the southern end was completely out of the question as the Nazis held the two small islands that served as wardens to the harbor. To be successful, the attack had to be mounted in complete surprise.

Mikhail decided to go in over the western cliffs from the seaward side in spite of the danger . . . a possibility which the garrison commander should have guarded against but did not.

Mikhail assembled his small invasion force of fifty men in a tiny cove thirty miles or so north of Mostar and loaded them into three fishing calques and put to sea, counting on the winter rains to conceal their movements from German coastal patrols. For two days they fought to the westward directly into the teeth of a gale-force wind until on the third day, they rounded to and drove in on the high western coastline or Kornat. That two-day delay was to prove extremely critical for every man connected with the contents of those ammunition boxes.

They reached the cliffs at sunset. In spite of the almost impossible climb, by midnight the partisans were up, equipment distributed, and ready to march. Mikhail briefed his men for a final time, and they separated into two groups. Mikhail leading the main party, crossed the narrow island, climbed the 'thousand-foot ridges in the dark and traveled down the eastern flank where they holed

up just before dawn in a brush-grown canyon less than three miles below the northern flanks of St. Peter's Mountain. That midnight, they reached the entrance and slipped into the base. Their immediate targets: the five submarines moored to the underground quay.

Two men were sent to silence the lone sentry standing watch at the near end of the quay.

These were followed by two more partisans carrying crude dynamite bombs that they attached to the hull of the nearest sub. Unknown to them, the Nazis had unloaded the two torpedos that each submarine normally carried to make room for the crates of gold. Ten torpedos were stacked neatly on the quay waiting to be moved to the ammunition bunker.

.

Two minutes after the timers were set, the dynamite charges went off and in one roaring, sympathetic explosion, the torpedos detonated as well. The concussion reverberated through the main chamber, smashing tons of rock down on the submarines, part of the quay and thestacks of ammunition crates containing the gold.

When the first series of explosions blasted through the cavern, Maher was in the briefing room deep inside the base. As a submarine commander, Klaus had no regularly assigned combat station and the forward tunnels leading to the main cavern were completely blocked. Klaus wasted little time on a hopeless cause. He may not have known how large the invading force was, but it required little intelligence to decide that with the amount of damage caused by the detonating torpedos, the rattle of gunfire and the number of casualties already sustained, that resistance was only delaying the inevitable.

With his executive officer, a twenty-two year old Bavarian named Helmuth, they proceeded to carry out a plan formulated days before. Only now, the danger of detection by the SS was no longer a factor. All were busy fighting for their lives.

Klaus and Helmuth managed to work out of the press of panicky men and make their way to the barracks area where the slave laborers were quartered. They overpowered the guard and recruited at gunpoint the five strongest; a mixed bag of two Russians, two Yugoslav Jews and a Greek.

It took three hours to load the ton of gold bars onto hand carts, drag them back through the narrow tunnels to the cistern and dump them in; three hours during which the sound of gunfire echoing through the rock chambers gained in intensity, then melted away. The final shots inside the cavern were those fired by Helmuth as he killed the five slave laborers.

After the war? Mikhail became an officer in the newly organized Federal Army. But the combination of strict discipline and the break with the Soviet Union instigated by Tito was for him, as for many other old-time party members, too much. Used to the independence of the guerrilla leader, he was finally cashiered from the army, thrown out of the Communist party.

Klaus had managed to locate Mikhail in a small mountain village in Herzceovina, working as a forester and deeply embittered. Klaus felt that Mikhail was the key to the entire operation since he had organized the raid and afterward completed the demolition of the base to prevent the Nazis from reopening it. Following the war, Mikhail had served on the several advisory committees to both the Allied and Yugolsav investigating boards charged with trying to find ways to recover the gold. If anyone knew the cavern and its intricacies, it was Mikhail.

Maher and Helmuth were two of the few German survivors of the Kornat invasion who managed to escape through an airshaft. Helmuth was later killed by the partisans . . . or so Klaus said. Klaus was later posted to Norway, where he stayed until the end of the war. After his release from a Norwegian prisoner-of-war camp in 1946 he returned -to Germany, where he worked as a translator for one of the British intelligence services and finally wound up in Italy in 1956, running his own import-export company, a solid and respected businessman.

And that's how I became involved. I had been in the air force since college, and after a divorce and two tours in Vietnam I had about had it. I found myself in the same quandary that others of my age group were suffering through . . . not quite young enough to know everything, not quite old enough to be perfectly satisfied with things the way they were and with damn little hope that I could straighten anything out, myself included. Two years ago then, I resigned my commission and with a buddy, Pete Schenk blew my savings on an old PBY aircraft and buried myself in the Med. ,A two-man airfreight line is no way to get rich quick, but at least you eat fairly steadily. And in the course of two years, we had managed to add an old DC-3 and expand our business somewhat.

Maher was one of the few steady customers we had and the only one who paid his bills on time. The Mediterranean, mildly described, is a hotbed of smuggling . . . everything from girls to opium. Don't trust your customer is the rule of thumb, and because at least twelve different nations' police and customs officials watched us, we watched with whom we did business. Maher had wanted to contract for several pretty hefty shipments and before signing the papers, we had run a check on him through the Italian commerce department. They gave him a clean bill.

During that first year then, we had become .. . not friends exactly . . . but two expatriates drawn together for mutual company and liking the alien tang, you might say, of our dissimilar backgrounds and ages. Maher and his wife, a small, pretty but rather vacant blonde from Germany, had invited me to dinner at their villa or their club for tennis a few times. His wife was an excellent cook, and I was more than happy to abandon the one-burner gas stove in my apartment. It might never have gone beyond that if he hadn't ridden along on that particular trip to Istanbul. On the flight back, Maher had turned to me and with some hesitation related the story of his last months on Kornat Island.

The story he told of those last hours was so at odds with the Klaus Maher I knew, that I didn't know whether to be shocked, horrified, sad, or all three at once. What rocked me was the horror of the tale unfolding to encompass the deaths of the five slave laborers.

Maher claimed that he was not directly responsible for their deaths, but, as he admitted, had done nothing to stop Helmuth from executing . . . murdering . . . the prisoners.

Killing by remote control, I was good at that and God only knew how many human beings I had killed with just a touch of my thumb from a six-hundred-mile-an-hour fighter-bomber. But close-up killing, killing with a machine gun of five helpless human beings, five men so starved, so exhausted they could not have resisted had there been opportunity for them to do so; no, that sickened me. But the abhorrence I should have felt was quickly submerged by the thought of that million dollars buried in the cistern of some long-forgotten naval base. I was not ashamed then, nor was I until after the true ambivalence of my own

character was brought so forcibly before me that I could no longer ignore it.

The rest of the flight was silent; neither of us knowing what more to say to the other, how to react to the other's silence or how to break the emotional impasse. It wasn't until we had landed and were turning off the taxiway onto the apron in front of the customs shed, that he said quietly without looking at me: "Chris, I need a partner to help me get that gold out."

He said it simply and matter-of-factly, as if he had no doubts that I was going to be that partner. A good many men would tell you a story such as he had and then let the subject drop, a confession of sorts to a person they could trust, sort of third-party purging. But from the way he spoke, I knew. Klaus was serious about going after the gold and was equally serious about having me in.

"I need you. I need someone I can trust, someone who knows the Mediterranean and can fly an amphibious aircraft. I can always find the aircraft, but I can't find a man I can trust down every side street."

He left it hanging in the air between us and I nodded slowly.

That was us then; three used-up soldiers, done in by wars that, in this supposed age of enlightenment, had managed to kill more people than all of the wars in man's previous history rolled into one. Klaus Maher knew exactly where the gold was hidden and he had the connections to dispose of it at the best price, with no questions asked. Mikhail Korstlov knew how to get into the cavern because he had carried out the final demolition.

Me, I had the aircraft.

CHAPTER FOUR

We passed over the narrow bulk of the island at four thousand feet and turned into a short spiral down between the two long ridges on either side of the bay. Traces of white waves marched across the Adriatic to shatter vainly against the rocky bulk of the island.

But the sheltered bay from this altitude, was as calm as a lake.

Maher pointed out the abandoned monastery—looking more like a crusader's castle than an Orthodox church

surmounting the top of St. Peter's Mountain. The mountain itself was a long, humped pile of rock resembling a sleeping bear. The northeastern flanks began in a series of hills and ridges and climbed slowly to the rounded peak on which the monastery clung. The southern side, however, rose almost sheer from the Adriatic; as if some long-ago giant had stepped across the channel and with a sword, hacked away a side, leaving a perpendicular drop of nearly a thousand feet to the bay.

On the final approach, the starboard engine quit altogether. The old PBY swayed down onto the port wing and I swear the wingtip cut through the tops of the swells before I could steady her out. We hit hard, harder than I intended and bounced, causing a tremendous bow wave over the nose that almost washed out the port engine.

Our entrance to Kornat was neither prestigious nor auspicious. Fortunately, the waterfront was all but deserted and only Mikhail was waiting on the quay to meet us.

As I swung into the dock, Maher slipped down into the nose and shoved the hatch back and climbed through. He tossed the mooring line to Mikhail, jumped for the quay, and together they warped the PBY alongside the dock and snugged down. I shut off the engine and sat for a moment, relishing the silence and the soft lift of the aircraft in the tiny waves. We might sink; but we couldn't fall any further.

Mikhail's face appeared in the hatch, grinning sourly.

"Trouble, heh?"

"Yeah, fuel pump gone on the starboard engine." Mikhail nodded as if this were an every-day occurrence. "Can you fix it?"

I shrugged. "Depends. I don't have a spare, and I doubt if they have one lying around up at the monastery." "You are sure it is the fuel pump?"

"Let's say I hope to God it is. Fuel pumps are easier to come by than Pratt & Whitney R-1630 engines."

I unbuckled my seat belt and pulled myself up through the hatch and clambered back onto the cockpit. Rearing directly above us like a thunderhead was the precipitous southern face of the mountain, crowned with the jumbled child's blocks of the monastery.

A stiff wind was beginning to leak in through the harbor mouth ruffling the waters of the bay as it came. There was something heavy and oppressive about the scene, something beyond the pressure of the wind.

Mikhail climbed off the aircraft to the dock to talk with Maher. I couldn't hear what they were saying, and for the moment I was content to sit on the canopy feeling the sharp wind against my face. Sitting up there, I felt, looking down on the two of them, as if I had no part in this entire affair. They were just two Europeans whom I had only met casually and contracted to fly into this Godforsaken island.

But, my moment of peace couldn't last forever. Maher called up for me to join them on the quay and I reluctantly left my perch and climbed down.

"Mikhail says he has located the access tunnel to the cistern," Maher announced without preamble. "He's followed it back three hundred meters. There's a cave-in at that point, but he thinks we should be able to clear it without much trouble. If everything is all right on the far side, there should be only another few hundred meters to the cistern."

I nodded. "How long to clear the cave-in?"

"Two days," Mikhail answered promptly. "We will need one day to drill sinks for the explosives and one day to clear away the debris."

"You're going to blast ... ?"

Mikhail nodded. "I've checked the walls of the tunnel. The shoring is quite good and there are no flaws in the walls."

"What about the aircraft?" Maher asked.

I shrugged. "I don't know for sure without checking, but it's probably the fuel pump. It will have to be replaced most likely."

"And you do not have a spare," he said acidly.

I hesitated before answering, angered at this unnecessary rebuke. "No, I don't. It's not often that I'm called on to change fuel pumps in the middle of the Adriatic."

The frown on Maher's face disappeared. "I apologize for speaking so sharply. Of course not. There are many things that can go wrong with an aircraft this old. It is impossible to expect to be prepared for all of them. How long do you think it will take to fix it then?"

Somewhat mollified by Maher's apology, I backed down. "It depends on how fast I can locate another fuel pump. Once I have it, a couple of hours should be enough. The problem will be to find another. I'll probably have to have Pete hunt one up in Italy and fly it over."

Maher started at that. "No . . . we do not want Schenk to know that we are here . . . he might start asking questions. We are supposed to be in Turkey."

I snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. We had engine trouble and had to land in Yugoslavia.

That's all that Pete will see. It's happened before . . . you always watch for emergency landing fields when you lay out a flight plan. And Pete knows that PBY as well as I do.

He certainly is not going to think it strange that we had to land here."

"I don't care," Maher said stubbornly. "If there is another way to get hold of a fuel pump, then find it. I do not want to take the chance."

I shrugged. "All right then, I'd better take a look at the engine to be sure it really is the pump."

Maher nodded. "Mikhail will help you. I will see about getting the equipment to the tunnel."

In the few minutes we had been talking, the wind had increased sharply. The surface of the bay had turned a hard steely, gray mirroring the overcast sky, and here and there whitecaps were beginning to break.

Maher turned to Mikhail. "Is there anywhere that we can rent a boat large enough to move all of the supplies .. . one with a dependable engine?"

Mikhail stared speculatively across the bay before answering. "There is a fisherman in the village. He will not want much if you fill the petrol tank on your return. His house is at this end of the village, the second in the row on the left side. Tell him I sent you."

Maher nodded and I handed him my passport. "As long as you are going up, you might as well take care of these."

Maher grunted and took the passport. Usually the customs duties were my little chore, but this trip I was a partner, not a hired hand. He pulled his hat down tighter and without a word, left the dock.

Mikhail and I watched him go. I don't know what was in the big Yugoslav's mind as we watched our German partner's figure disappear up the long flight of steps climbing the impossible slope to the village, but I was glad he was gone. Ever since we had completed the planning for this grand adventure, Klaus had become another person; calculating, impersonal, cold. Mikhail snorted and swung up onto the wing.

With night approaching, we decided to dismantle the starboard landing light and rig it out to light the engine

mount. I had about three hours of work ahead to drain and dismount the fuel pump before I could check the diaphragm. We were in the process of removing the nacelle when trouble appeared on the shore end of the quay. Mikhail saw him coming and nudged me. I looked up to see a man, dressed in an old military-style greatcoat that flapped around his ankles and officer's cap, walking slowly towards us. About fiftyish, he had that bearing and tight casualness that spelled experienced cop.

"Trouble," I muttered. "Know him?"

"Yes." Mikhail's face was grim. "He is deputy head of the Federal Security Police in Dalmatia. He arrived on the island two days ago. I have already had one bit of trouble with him."

Mikhail didn't get a chance to explain just what kind of trouble before the man had reached the aircraft and was looking up at us.

"Good day, gentlemen." His English was heavily accented but understandable and his face said plainly enough that he knew all about us . . . or at least enough to make some pretty shrewd guesses.

I sat up on the engine, wincing at the stiffness in my back. "Good evening. You speak English?"

"Obviously."

I coughed and tried again. "We're having a bit of engine trouble. Perhaps if you know the island well enough, you could tell us where we could find a mechanic?"

He stood looking up at me for a long moment before he answered and when he did, he shifted his gaze to Mikhail. "No. I am afraid there is none. Your friend should know that.

He has been on the island for several days now."

Mikhail grinned wolfishly down at him and then turned his head and spat into the water.

"Yes, I have been. Long enough to know what is what and who is who . . . or at the least, those who are worth knowing."

The two men locked stares long enough to make me uncomfortable, and angry as well.

Angry at Mikhail. He knew damned well what was involved. And he sure as the devil knew better than to have a run-in with the local law, no matter what the provocation.

There was something between the two of them, and whatever it was I did not like it at all.

Finally, the policeman broke off the silent battle and

turned back to me. "Permit me to introduce myself. I am Major Orez Vishailly, Prefecture of Police. In turn, I would be very much obliged if you would show me your passport and other paper." He smiled slightly, "I find that the most part of my job concerns who is coming and who is going through and within my area of responsibility."

"And with what, heh, Major!" Mikhail snorted.

Vishailly's head snapped around so fast that I thought it would topple right off his shoulders. His eyes went wide and he almost snarled in his anger. I glared at Mikhail's grinning face. For God's sake, I thought, what in hell was he up to.

"I am sorry, Major," I interrupted hurriedly, "but my passenger, Klaus Maher, has taken the papers up to the customs house to clear us through. We are flying a freight run for his company, Imports du Italia. He should be back shortly if you would care to wait."

Bemused, Vishailly stared vacantly at me for a moment, then turned to Mikhail.

"This is Mikhail Korstlov. He saw us land and noticed that we were having trouble and offered to give me a hand . . ." I let the silence trail off because Vishailly had turned and was walking back up the dock. As soon as he started up the steep flight of steps leading to the town and was out of hearing, I wheeled on Mikhail.

"You idiot, what in hell are you up to? Are you trying to louse up the whole deal? If you bring the Security Police down on us we'll . . ."

I shut up because Mikhail had shoved the spanner he was holding into my face.

"You do not talk to me that way," he said very quietly and very slowly. "Do it again and I will kill you." And undoubtedly he would. I shut up.

Mikhail settled back down on his haunches and tapped idly at the engine mount with the spanner.

"Now, I will tell you. Our friend Vishailly arrived on the island two nights ago. As is his habit, I am told, he went to see a certain friend of his in the town. They were once very good friends, if you understand my meaning. Only this time, he found me there. We did not fight, although we came almost to blows. He will never forgive me, and I in his place would do the same. It is something that cannot be helped. Something that a foreigner cannot understand . .. a matter of honor. Now I must play it through or he will suspect there is something more here than one man taking away his mistress."

It made a certain amount of sense. Maher told me that if Mikhail had a weakness, it was women. But he was damned sure that that weakness did not also run to a loose mouth.

"All right. Do what you have to do. Maher isn't going to be very happy about this at all.

Just stay as far away from Vishailly as you can."

Mikhail shrugged and went back to work:

It was just after sundown when we heard the sputtering of an engine over the steadily rising wind and saw Maher nosing an ancient calque into the quay. Fishing boats in the eastern Med. are pretty much all of a style, a very ancient style that, but for the addition of an engine, had hardly changed in two thousand years. This one looked like it had been handed down from generation to generation since the days of the Turks. She was fat with one mast stepped far toward the bow and the other far astern. The original coat of paint had long since washed away, but streaks of unnamable liquids had sunk, or eaten, I don't know which, far enough into the oak lapstreaking to relieve the dull monotone of sunburned wood. A square boathouse perched gloomily on the stern and was pierced by the mast. A long, slender spar was lashed to the foremast and extended back to the foot of the mizzen. The roll of moldy canvas bundled around it suggested that we check the engine carefully. Each time the piston descended, it belched a cloud of blue smoke followed by a drawn-out rumble. As it rose again and the pressure backed off, water gurgled into the exhaust in a way that was almost obscene.

Maher came up onto the wing carrying a thermos of hot coffee. The coffee made an excellent excuse to stop work for a few moments.

"Where the hell did you dig that up?"

Maher climbed up onto the engine mount with me and handed over the thermos. "The best I could do. She looks terrible, but doesn't leak . . . too much."

"I suppose that's the most you can ask for out here," I admitted. Seen closeup, the fishing boat was even worse. Once, long ago, to judge by the way the wood was weathered to the same shade of gray, the calque had smacked something mighty hard. A rough patch had been applied to the forepeak, about halfway up from the water line, and the edges sealed with pitch. The deck was littered with poorly coiled lines and two empty water barrels leaned drunkenly against the foremast. I could almost smell the scum coating their sides.

"No wonder the owner doesn't ask questions. With that for rent, I wouldn't care if it was ever brought back."

"It will serve," Maher said shortly. "Have you found the trouble yet?"

I nodded. "It's the fuel pump. The diaphragm and housing are both cracked. The whole thing will have to be replaced. I'll go up to the village after I put it back together and find a phone."

Maher nodded slowly. "That will take more time." "Why, any trouble?"

"No. Not as yet. We are issued a three-week visa, which should be more than ample.

They were a bit sticky at first until I mentioned that we were having engine trouble. After that, it was no trouble at all. In fact, they were quite interested in the aircraft."

"Who is they?" I wanted to know, suddenly apprehensive. I glanced at Mikhail, but he was sipping his coffee, unconcerned with the conversation.

"A Major Vishailly . . . the head of the Customs Department, I suppose . .."

"Oh, hell."

Maher scowled. "Why do you say that?"

I hooked a thumb at Mikhail. "Ask your trouble-prone friend. He can tell you all about Vishailly, beginning with the fact that he is not a customs official, but the deputy head of the Security Police for the Dalmatian district."

Maher stared at me for a minute and then turned slowly to Mikhail.

"Is this true, what Chris is saying?"

Mikhail peered into the bottom of his cup and then tossed the dregs into the water before answering. "Yes. He is the Prefecture of the Security Police for the district of Dalmatia."

"How do you know?" Maher's voice was taking on a steel edge. "How do you know that?

" he repeated.

"I had a small bit of trouble with him a few days ago. Nothing that will interfere with us here. It is strictly of a personal nature."

"How personal?"

When Mikhail did not answer right away, I put in sat-

castically, "He took the nice policeman's girl away while the nice policeman was out of town. And, the nice policeman didn't like it at all."

"What else?" Maher demanded without taking his eyes from Mikhail.

"That's all I know. Vishailly was down here earlier this evening to look us over. When he saw Mikhail, he turned all different kinds of red and purple and went away in a huff."

Maher sat staring very hard at Mikhail for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and poured his own cup of coffee. "Then perhaps it is purely personal. There is nothing to worry about if it just woman trouble. It is a way of life in the Balkans."

"Like hell it is, Klaus," I snorted. "Anything that brings the cops down on us at this particular time means trouble up to and including five years in a Yugoslav prison. Like you also said, feuds over women are a way of life around here. And usually someone gets himself killed. No! We haven't got time to spare while Mikhail and this Vishailly square off in some dark alley. We have to be out of here inside of a week . . ."

"All right, Chris, drop the subject."

"Come on, Klaus, something . . ."

"I said drop it, Chris." Maher was angry, and right. If there was one thing we did not need then, it was fighting among ourselves.

"All right," I agreed. "I won't say anything more. But I think it best if Mikhail steers clear of both Vishailly and his girl friend."

"I will decide if that is necessary," Mikhail rasped. "Mind your own business and I will take care of mine."

Maher swung round on Mikhail for the second time and now his voice did have an edge to it, a cutting edge. "You will stay away from Vishailly and this woman. Do you understand? You will not go near them for the rest of the time we remain on the island.

Do you understand?"

Mikhail had come into a half crouch, one knee under him, ready to spring. One big hand shot out and gathered up a handful of Maher's jacket lapel and he shook him, very gently, but enough to set the wing to bobbing. "No one, no one, especially you, Nazi, tells me what I will do and what I won't. Do you understand? I take . . ."

Mikhail's voice cut off abruptly and for a moment, I

didn't see the thin blade of the knife that Maher held pressed against his throat.

"I will tell you once," he said quietly, almost in a whisper. "There are two things you must never do. One is you must never lay your hands on me again. The second is you must never call me a Nazi. If you do, for either one I will kill you." He said it quietly, but death was a centimeter away from Mikhail.

The two men sat hunched and staring at one another for a long moment before Klaus withdrew the knife and slipped it away. Both men stood up on the wing and Mikhail turned angrily away as if to climb down for the dock.

"Get into the boat," Maher said. "We still have work to do."

The Yugoslav hesitated, I could almost see his mind churning with the indignity Klaus had thrust upon him; weighing his pride against his greed. Finally, he turned back and climbed down into the stern of the calque. The greed had won out this time. But it was very clear that sooner or later, the two of them would have to finish what had started tonight.

Maher followed him without a word to me and in a few minutes, the calque was lost in the gloom that had now completely spread across the bay. The high-pitched keen of the winds covered even the sound of its engine. I can remember shivering, perhaps with the cold, but more likely with the shade of some ancestral fear of a cold, windy night eons lost when death had come brushing past.

It was close to nine o'clock before I had the landing light rerigged in the wing and finished up. The calque had made one full trip to and from the cave, reloaded with the last of the equipment and returned a second time. I was cold and hungry and the thought of tinned meat and cold tea was too much for my stomach. According to Mikhail, the village contained more bars than houses. In one of them, I thought, I should be able to find a hot meal and a phone.

The restaurant was a low, kerosene-lantern-lit shed and indescribably dirty. But I was so tired, I really did not care . . . and besides, I had eaten in worse places in Vietnam. The proprietor was half asleep behind the wooden platform that served as a bar. There were still several

people at the scattering of small tables and all looked up curiously as I entered.

After the cold night air, the tiny coal fire at one end of the room accentuated the decades-old smell of sweaty bodies and burning kerosene, making the place indescribably close.

I chose a small table near the door and ordered coffee and the stew of goat meat that was the only item on the menu. When it came I had second thoughts. From the smell I was not sure that it was goat. From the warm, rancid fat floating in the plate in large, half-melted chunks, I was not sure that it was food.

"Please eat. We have a department of health that looks in every week."

"I know. That's one of the few benefits of living in a socialist country . . . you can go anywhere into the boondocks and you won't die from food poisoning . . . usually."

I hadn't seen Vishailly standing near the bar, but he'd seen me come in. I waved to indicate the other chair and he sat down heavily. The man looked tired, not just tired from one or two nights of little sleep, but from decades of insufficient rest. Seen close up and in better light, his face was heavily lined and the shock of long hair was shot through with steel-gray. The backs of both hands were blotched red and purple and the fingers of his left hand were twisted, as if they had been broken all at the same time and reset improperly. But his eyes were what told you that he was not the overworked civil servant he appeared to be. Deeply hooded in folds of loose brown skin, they stared out in a perpetual frown; the perfect policeman's stare.

The waitress shuffled over with a foggy glass and a bottle and he nodded his thanks and turned back to me. "Have you fixed your airplane yet?"

"No," I said rubbing the back of my very weary neck. "A fuel pump is gone and I don't have a spare." "What will you do to fix it?"

"Nothing much I can do until the morning. I figured I'd phone Brindisi and ask them to send over a spare. Shouldn't take much more than a couple of days."

Vishailly nodded and swirled the liquor around the inside of the glass. "You cannot find a spare on the island, or something that will do in its place?"

"I'm all for buying locally, but here, I doubt it. This isn't a piece of equipment that you can pick up in the local shopping center."

Vishailly glared at the sarcasm in my voice, but I was too damned tired to care.

"You are an American?"

"Yeah, how'd you guess?" I was wishing that he'd go away somewhere and let me eat the mess in front of me in peace. I never was a very good liar under the best circumstances and dead tired as I was, I was either going to fall asleep or make a stupid mistake.

Vishailly didn't answer my return question.

"We don't do things the American way .. ."

"Bully for you." Surprisingly the stew was edible; in fact, despite its appearance, it was quite good. Perhaps the fact that I was half starved had something to do with that.

Vishailly watched me eat for a few minutes, saying nothing and ignoring my bad manners in not offering to listen further to him.

Finally, he brought himself to the next question. As I ate, I watched him carefully. His face worked as he thought, but in no discernible pattern.

"Where is your friend now? Klaus Maher is his name?"

I shrugged. "Either out on the bay somewhere in that damned boat he dug up or else back on the plane, asleep. It's his money, and I don't care where he goes or what he does."

"As long as he pays you?"

"So long as he pays me," I echoed.

I couldn't take any more of this tired, dedicated old man. "Look, do you have something you want to ask me? Korstlov told me who you are and what you do. If you have any questions, just come right out with them. I'm just a businessman—not a very successful one mind you—who has the major piece of his capital equipment busted and losing money for every minute it sits out there in the damned harbor on this Godforsaken island.

"

"No," he said finally. "I merely thought you would like some company while you ate your dinner. We Yugoslays try to be friendly to foreigners."

"Thank you for your kind thought, but no. I'm too damned tired to enjoy conversation with anybody right now. So, if you will excuse me, I'm going back to the dock and get some sleep."

Vishailly stood up slowly. Everything the man did

seemed to be in slow motion, and I wondered how true this impression really was. I remembered how he had spun on his heel and disappeared up the cliff after his go-round with Mikhail.

"You will find that from here the only telephone connection with Italy is through the switchboard in my office. That is in the building at the end of the street. If you will come after nine o'clock in the morning, I will be glad to give you what assistance I can."

I stood up also and dropped a couple of bills on the table next to the plate. "Thanks," I said, trying to sound as sincere as the offer called for. "I imagine that I will need all of the official help I can get to unravel the Italian overseas operator."

Vishailly smiled for the first time. "And our own local operator as well. She is almost deaf."

I let that one hang.

We walked out together into the sharp air of the night. Overhead, the sky had cleared off and was full of stars. A soft moon was edging up over the faintest line of the mainland to the east. The moon was bright enough to outline the way down the broad street to the rickety scaffolding of stairs leading down to the harbor. We both paused to look down the steep line of cliff at the PBY, caught snuggled against the quay, her wings and the line of the tail outlined in silver. Nestled under one wing was the calque.

"I see that your friend has returned. I will say good night then."

Vishailly turned and made his way up the steep street. The conversation in the restaurant and the ethereal quality of the night, now that the bora had died away, all seemed part of a dream and I wondered if I wasn't overtired after the long flight and the hours spent working on the engine. The feeling persisted as I wandered down the street, past goggling, whitewashed buildings well worn by the scouring winter winds and rains and the dry heat of summer.

By the time I reached the PBY Klaus was asleep, stretched out in a sleeping bag in the cargo space. He woke long enough to mutter that Mikhail was staying in the cavern to keep an eye on the equipment. I nodded and undressed to crawl into my own sleeping bag and fell asleep almost instantly.

"The next morning—yesterday, that is—I, went back up to the village and as Vishailly predicted, it proved impossible to get through to Brindisi. We did get through to the mainland and Vishailly used his authority to speak directly to the airport managers in Zagreb and Ljubljana, but without any luck. The Pratt & Whitney field office in Belgrade did manage to come up with a fuel pump that would fit, however, but refused to deliver it. So, Vishailly suggested that I take the morning mail boat to Mostar and catch the night train to Belgrade."

By the time I finished the story, it was nearly five o'clock. Beyond the window, the city was wrapped in the thick winter darkness. The sky had become dull pink as a result of the city lights reflecting from the underside of the clouds and a desultory trickle of snow lent a peaceful aspect to the streets. The sounds of traffic came faintly through the sealed window, but otherwise it was perfectly quiet in the room. Ley swung his legs from the couch and stood up and stretched, then wandered over to the window to stand staring out for a long minute. I remained in my chair, contemplating the last of the gin.

"It is a very interesting story, that you tell . . . and you tell it well."

I looked over at him, but said nothing.

"As I told you this morning, it is a story that I find difficult to believe. But, the fact remains that Colonel Mistako is now dead . . . that could be a coincidence .. . that he was killed by two mysterious gunmen for some other reason . . . but I doubt it very much.

Also, I believe that you are completely unaware of the reasons behind this, ah, treasure hunt, I believe you could term it."

Ley shrugged and turned away. "As I said, I have no instructions and, therefore, no business remaining in Yugoslavia. It is now their problem and up to my superiors to reopen contact if help is requested. You have answered all my questions as best you are able, in my opinion."

He picked up his coat from the table, slipped it on and headed for the door. Before opening it, he turned to me once more as if to say something, then shook his head.

"For your own sake, I advise you to be careful. This is a dangerous affair you are mixed in. I do not care if you manage to extract the gold from under the noses of the Yugoslav police . . . that is their business. The statute

of limitations on war crimes has expired and Yugoslavia's laws are their own concern. I will, of course, have to report what I learned from you to my superiors, and in due time they will notify the Yugoslav Government . . . a matter of several days. This should not interfere with your activities then. But I caution you again, this affair is that of the NeoNazis, not as you believe a matter of a simple treasure hunt." Ley smiled briefly and left, and I thought I had seen the last of him.

CHAPTER FIVE

Ley shook me awake as he piloted our ancient carriage down the last stretch of a long hairpin turn that emptied out ahead into a broad, flat plain apparently running on to the Adriatic. We had crossed the Alps, probably faster than it had ever been done before . . .

at least in the dead of winter. It was still dark, but the sky was clear and the full moon, starting for the western horizon, lit up the valley. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and focused on my watch; just before six.

"How far to the train wreck?" T croaked out.

Ley chuckled. "So, you are awake. I was thinking that I would have to carry you onto the train; like a baby you were sleeping!"

"Yeah, like a baby," I repeated. "How far to the train wreck?"

"It will not be a wreck, only a delay. Perhaps another five minutes or more. The train should have stopped more than two hours ago. By now, the rail will be almost fixed."

"What if we get there after they fix the rail?"

"They will not leave," he said complacently.

I wriggled around in the narrow seat, trying to stretch some of the numbness out of my stiffening body. Then I took the P-38 out of my pocket and carefully reloaded it with the fresh clip I had taken from Bowen's body.

Ley glanced over at me. "I hope you don't mind," I said in a tone that I hoped would brook no opposition. "I intend to hang onto this."

Ley was silent for a moment, concentrating on his driving. "Then you finally believe that your friends are involved in some type of plot to recover this gold cache and use it for purposes of the Neo-Nazi party?"

"Whoa, I haven't said that. Yes, I will admit that something is going on. Whether or not it has anything to do with the gold we are after, I don't know. Somehow, associating with you, I seem to have gotten myself involved. But I do not admit that Klaus or myself are involved in any such Neo-Nazi plot. You still haven't shown me anything but the flimsiest circumstantial evidence."

In fact, I had been giving a great deal of thought to whatever was going on, trying to fit Klaus into it. I had known him for nearly two years now and we were probably each other's closest friends . . . if that is the term you could use to describe our association. I had spent considerable thought the past few hours—whenever events allowed—trying to fit Klaus into the plot that Ley had woven. And, fresh in my memory was Mistako's unofficial skepticism. It didn't necessarily follow that just because he was dead he had been killed by the Neo-Nazis, or that whoever killed him was tied up with our activities on Kornat Island. I had only Ley's word for that, and he was an admittedly prejudiced witness.

But, as I said, I probably knew Klaus better than any

one in the area and I was not sure that he could ever be

involved in anything as wild as this. On the other hand, I couldn't be sure that he would not be. Klaus was a funny guy. Some of the statements he had made in the past, now that I thought about them, would almost lead me to believe that he never really had gotten over his Nazi days. From age ten to thirty his whole life had been given exclusively to the Nazis. You don't break habits learned that young easily.

Then again, where did Mikhail fit into all this? Despite what seemed to be his hatred for the Yugoslav Government that he helped create, I think his experience with the Nazis was traumatic enough to make damned sure that he would never co-operate with them in any way, shape or form. But that also went for any government or political movement.

Mikhail was an anarchist of the old school, forced to become so by circumstances. I didn'

t know; I was at a loss and I was tired, cold and hungry. Not a good combination on which to do heavy thinking.

Ley finally shrugged. "If I haven't convinced you by now, you will have to convince yourself. Your loyalty to your friend is most admirable. I hope it will not be the death of you."

"Very funny!"

Ahead, a string of lights began to grow out of the snow-covered landscape, and Ley slowed the car. He glanced at his watch and nodded.

"This will be the train. You will have to cross the field from where I stop. Of course I cannot come with you or they will know that something happened to you during the night besides a sound sleep."

The road paralleled the railroad track several hundred yards distant. And that damned snow looked deep. Then I remembered what I should not have forgotten; the very thing that would ruin Ley's carefully laid plans.

"The fuel pump," I shouted, "that damned fuel pump!"

Ley just hooked a thumb at the back seat and there it was, the carton with the Pratt & Whitney Eagle staring at me, only slightly the worse for wear. In everything that had happened, Ley had remembered to bring that damned thing along. And I couldn't even recall seeing him carrying it.

The lights from the train were clearly visible by now and Ley flicked the headlights off and coasted to a stop.

"Go to the second to the last car at the rear of the train. You will find the door open. Go into that car, pull the emergency cord twice as you do so and go directly into the lavatory and wait until the train is underway and at speed. Then return to your compartment.

Make sure that no one sees you."

I nodded and reached for the door, the fuel pump carton securely under my arm. Ley grasped my shoulder.

"Remember, you are involved, whether you like to believe it or not. After the gold is recovered and flown to wherever they will take it, you will be of no use to them. Watch yourself at all times. If you wish to get in touch with me, I will notify you after you return to the island how to do so. Do not be surprised at my choice of messengers."

"Your incontrovertible proof," I reminded him. "I still haven't seen it . . . or was it supposed to be Bowen's dead body?" I finished, perhaps more cruelly than I should have.

Ley winced and spread his hands dejectedly. "It was not on his body .. . a photograph and a dossier. Perhaps the murderers took it. We will never know now."

I nodded and shoved open the door, thoroughly con-

fused. "Also remember," he called after me, "two men are already dead. Do not become number three."

With that, he yanked the door shut and drove away leaving me standing on the side of that damned road. God, it was cold. A fresh wind coming with dawn was blowing snow in long streamers across the field. At the least, the miniature ground blizzard would serve to hide my approach from anyone on the train who might be watching.

I slogged across the road, climbed over the couple of strands of barbed wire that still remained visible and struck out across the field, trying to shield my eyes from the driving snow with one hand. It seemed like hours before the brightly lit bulk of the long train loomed up before me, cutting off the force of the wind. I scurried into the shelter of the train and worked my way down to the second car from the end. Ahead, faintly over the wind and the whisper of the driving snow, I could hear the racket of a power hammer putting the last spikes into the ties. As Ley had said, the door to the second to the last car was open. I had no trouble climbing in, found the cord and pulled it twice. My only bad moment came while locked in the lavatory. Someone banged on the door and hollered in German or Italian. I cursed him back in Yugoslav and the door slammed as whoever he was went looking for another comfort stop. Other than that, I just kept falling asleep until, near seven o'clock, the train finally got underway. A few minutes later, I had made it back to my compartment, not really caring whether or not anyone saw me, locked the door, removed my boots and fell dead asleep.

The mail boat came slowly through the two flanking massifs that guarded the harbor to Kornat Island like sleeping lions turned to stone by the slow passage of centuries. The snow that I had left only hours before in the mountains was here a driving rain that slanted down from leaden skies, whipping the waves of the Adriatic to a froth. The mail boat was an old coastal patrol boat taken from the Germans after the war and used for a time in the miniature Yugoslavian navy as an anti-submarine craft, then coastal patrol again and, finally, in the waning days of its existence, as a mail boat. I got her history from the captain, a grizzled veteran who had started as a cabin boy in a four-masted schooner when my father was still

a child. He was so overjoyed to have someone to talk to . .. listen to him, rather . . . that he insisted upon conducting me personally on a tour of all forty feet of the craft as she pitched and rolled through the waves and wind. Oblivious to the greenness that was beginning to sallow my complexion, he droned on and on until the sight of the entrance to the harbor dragged him reluctantly away to oversee the docking that no doubt the crew of four, and perhaps the boat by herself, could have accomplished purely by reflex.

Other than the roughness of the sea, the trip had remained uneventful from the time I awoke in the train compartment to the porter's knock. I ordered breakfast, dressed and by the time I had eaten, the train was rolling into the ornate structure that housed the Mostar terminal of the railway. A taxi had taken me directly from the train to the dock where the captain had delayed his departure to wait for me. I found out that the railroad had notified the harbor and airline authorities of their delay along the tracks, so that all schedules with connecting passengers could be held for them. I was surprised to say the least, after what I had been told of the inefficiency and lackadaisical manner in which the trains and airlines ran in Yugoslavia. Obviously, it just wasn't true.

The tiny cabin space allotted to passengers for the four-hour run from Mostar to the island was located in the deckhouse directly under a wheelhouse that resembled nothing so much as the hurricane deck of a Mississippi river boat. I sat and watched the boat pick its way through the narrow entrance, thinking back over the events of the last twenty-four hours to Ley's final comments.

The boat cut its way through the choppy waves to the long stone quay where my old PBY rode none too gracefully at her moorings. A rain-slickered figure was standing near the end of the quay and as the boat idled alongside, walked back with her to the mooring area. As we drew closer, I could see that it was Maher.

Several conflicting emotions charged through me at the sight of him. Affection, distaste and suspicion all jumbled together. Then the captain bustled down into the passenger cabin with a slicker that he insisted I wear and leave with Major Vishailly when the rain had finished. Chattering profusely, he bundled me out onto the deck and waved good-by as I stepped down on the quay where Klaus was waiting to greet me.

We shook hands and he asked how it went and I lied; uneventful. Belgrade had changed some in fifteen years and that the train ride had been comfortable but long, the broken track . . . the usual small talk with which friends greet each other. We crossed the quay and climbed down into the PBY. Klaus had broken out the small tent heater and the interior of the aircraft was warm and dry, if cramped. Klaus had had food sent down from the inn in the village and we dug into it while it was still warm.

"Any problems with the fuel pump?" Klaus asked when we finished.

"None. It was there and waiting. I had them do some machine work on the connections to fit some modifications I've made in the intake valves. They only charged half-aleg for that. Their rapprochement with capitalism seems to be proceeding quite well."

Maher chuckled. "Greed seems to be the basis of all human dealings, no matter what the economic or political system, heh?"

I snorted agreement . . . my own position clearly in mind. "I guess so. Anyway, it shouldn't take more than a few hours to install and another hour to make a quick test flight."

"Perhaps you should do it immediately then."

That surprised me. "Why, has the local fuzz been taking an interest in us?"

"No, just the opposite, which makes me suspicious. Our Major Vishailly seems to go out of his way to leave us alone and even to be polite and helpful. Witness your easy passage to Belgrade. He has even stayed away from Mikhail, which is unusual for the conditions of their disagreement."

"You think he knows what we are here for?"

It was Klaus's turn to snort. "If we stay around too long, they would have to be fools to think otherwise. So far, our alibi is holding up. I cannot be sure, but I think the aircraft had been visited when Mikhail and I were away. Nothing was disturbed that I could see, but I could almost swear that someone had checked on the work you had done on the engine."

"Well, there's no problem there. The old fuel pump is sitting on the cargo hold flooring in pieces. Anyone

who knows the least thing about gasoline engines can see that both the housing and diaphragm are badly cracked and unsuitable. They could also see that the crack is from wear and not deliberate."

Klaus nodded. "Yes, that is true and I am not worried, not yet anyway. I have paid the usual look at the cavern as would befit the bored victim of an aircraft breakdown. By the way, it is as Mikhail says, impassable from this side. He told me that even before he sealed the cavern after the war to prevent tourists and curiosity seekers from killing themselves, the explosions had already collapsed enough of the cavern to make it impossible to work into the deeper chambers. From the force of the explosions as I recall, I never doubted it."

"So how is work going on the air shaft approach?"

Klaus smiled quite broadly. "Much better than I had hoped. The air shaft is hidden quite far back in a cove five miles from here in a location that renders it impossible to detect until you are actually on the beach. It cannot be seen from the water. Also, it is not as hard to get to as I remembered. It was very dark the night we came out and I was too exhausted to pay much attention to the surroundings. Mikhail found it quite easily from what directions I was able to give him, but admits he would not have been able to unless he had known where to look."

"Before I left, he said something about having to do some blasting to clear the tunnel?"

Klaus nodded and finished his coffee. "Yes. A part of the ceiling has collapsed.

Otherwise, the shoring on this side is quite sound and there is no reason to believe that it will not be as sound on the other. The collapsed part is about three hundred meters down into the tunnel . . . and less than one hundred meters from the cistern. Mikhail plans a series of powder charges to split the larger rocks into many pieces. He has identified the key rocks, as he calls them, and thinks that when they are split apart, others will collapse enough to allow us to dig away a passage."

I shook my head. "I sure as hell hope he knows what he's doing. If the rest of that roof collapses, it will finish us."

Klaus's voice took on a hard edge as it always did when he was contradicted. "There is no danger of that. I have checked the tunnel walls and ceiling myself, and I say they are quite sound. I am not a mining engineer but I do

know something of explosives. What Mikhail plans is sound. The black powder charge will crack the rocks, not explode them. They will then fall into pieces, allowing the rest of the boulders resting on them to fall away."

"All right, all right," I said shrugging. "You two guys know what you're doing. If not, we'

ll find out soon enough. When do you think you will be ready?"

"If everything goes well," Klaus said with a trace of petulance remaining, "we will be ready to blast late tomorrow night. You have the aircraft ready to fly by tomorrow evening and join us. We should reach the cistern before dawn, bring up the gold during the day and load it aboard after dark and leave at midnight."

I thought for several moments before answering, going over Klaus's timing. If everything went according to schedule, we would have to stall Vishailly only one day before we would be ready to go. I could easily do that with some excuse about the aircraft.

"All right, it sounds okay to me. If your schedule works out, we should be out of here, and Yugoslav air space, before they know we are gone."

"Is your flight plan ready?"

"Yeah. It's ready and on file. All I have to do is confirm and we are cleared for Turkey."

Klaus was quiet for a moment, studying me intently. Finally, he said: "What if I told you we might not be going to Turkey?"

Oh, oh, I thought, here it comes. Immediately all of Ley's warnings came flooding back.

Loose, I decided, loose. Stay cool but just a bit upset, like a man who has suddenly discovered a major change in plans that will -cause him some inconvenience. Don't show any mistrust yet.

"For God's sake why not? We're already filed through."

Klaus only grinned at me. "I think it might be better if we did not go on to Turkey from here. I have news of where we will be able to get a better price for the gold."

"Where's that?" I asked, suddenly all attentive.

Klaus's grin broadened. "Never mind for now. I must confirm it first. After all, we have suppliers who will be disappointed if they are kept waiting."

And that was the first hint that I had ever had that Klaus conducted other business in Turkey beyond his import-export dealings. I wondered how much of it the Turkish police knew about and whether or not they

included me as part of his operation. I was convinced that if Klaus had been pulling any shady dealings in the past, the Turkish police knew. They always do. It was a matter of who knew and how high up they were . . . not that the members of the Turkish police were any more corruptible than any other policemen in the world, but with several thousand square miles of emptiness along the Soviet and Iranian borders, the opportunities for smuggling payoffs were greater. The question was what did he mean by suppliers. Since the United States, France and Turkey between them had dried up the major suppliers of heroin a couple of years ago, the narcotics business had been hard hit.

A million dollars worth of gold could buy enough raw opium from Afghanistan, Turkestan or Northern India to ransom a small nation after it was processed. The trade routes presumably were still open since the police had gone after the sources . . . the poppy fields ... and not the operators, many of whom were ignorant villagers and farmers being paid only a few dollars for crops worth thousands raw and millions finished and shipped.

"Wait a minute, Klaus, if you're talking about narcotics, forget it. I don't want any part of that kind of business. It's too damned ..."

"Wait, Chris, wait," Klaus smiled and said softly. "Who is talking about narcotics? You know me better than that. I want no part of that dirty business either . . . come, relax."

I sank back down and sat twisting the coffee cup in my hands. If it wasn't narcotics, then maybe Ley had been right all along. I thought I knew what lengths Klaus had gone to set up this contact in Istanbul. A million dollars in raw, bulk gold isn't the easiest thing in the world to get rid of . . . unless you know how. Klaus did, I was sure. There are three principal gold buying points in the world today . . . not illegal gold exactly, rather that which never sees the inside of an exchange . . . India, Hong Kong, and Macao. One of the smartest moves the United States ever made was dropping the artificial gold price of thirty-five dollars an ounce several years before. The market had fluctuated wildly for a year or so, but then as the speculators began to drop out, the price, which had risen as high as forty-four dollars per ounce at one point, gradually fell back to thirty-five dollars and had held quite steadily since. Thus the U.S. had gotten its cake and eaten it as well. The gold reserves had been freed for industrial and foreign exchange use, and the dollar remained as solid as any currency that could not be backed in metal —impractical in today's world unless you are the size of Sierra Leone and are willing to settle for their gross national product.

So gold continued to bring in about thirty-five dollars an ounce, give or take a few cents depending on the current market. But that was gold honestly come by, which means you have to explain to a number of authorities, including your own police, exactly where you got it. But in certain markets, India or Hong Kong or Macao, that same ounce of gold was liable to bring as much as sixty dollars an ounce precisely because it did not have to be explained. Everyone automatically assumed that any gold that went through these markets was dishonestly come by, and since the markets were hard to locate . . .

protected as they were by graft-taking government officials and/or various criminal syndicates . . . they flourished, ruthlessly excluding all competition. The gold disappeared, some behind the Bamboo Curtain, some to Taiwan, the rest scattered throughout the world to reappear in the hands of whoever had need of raw gold but not the justification or the willingness to risk exposure by coming to it honestly.

"All right," I said, "but I don't think this old aircraft can fly to Hong Kong."

Klaus looked startled. "Hong Kong," he repeated, "what do you know about Hong Kong?"

I smiled indulgently at him.

"Chris!"

This wasn't a question, it was a command; a different side to Klaus Maher. His face had turned hard as a rock. Not even the night that Mikhail threatened to knife him had I seen his face so hard, so devoid of all of the characteristics that I associated with Klaus Maher. I thought to myself as I stared at him that maybe Ley was right after all. This was the kind of face I had seen in photographs of Nazi soldiers herding prisoners to gas chambers. It was the same kind of face that appeared on Japanese soldiers stamping the earth flat over a mass burial of living people in Shanghai; of Viet Cong propaganda photos; of South Vietnamese soldiers sweeping into a village—their own village—to find the bodies of women and children tortured and beheaded only minutes before. It was the look of a

man who has forgotten humanity; who is on the verge of killing anything, anyone, and it frightened me.

"Easy, Klaus. I was just kidding. If you want a high price for gold you go to India or Hong Kong. What's the big flap about that?"

Slowly Klaus relaxed. What I had said was true. It was common enough knowledge that these were the higherthan-world-market-price markets. The trick was in locating the buyer. Moments later, he was laughing and joking as if the incident had never occurred.

The events of the previous night and the long boat trip, extended because of the rough seas, had landed me on Kornat late in the day. As Klaus and I sat and talked, the rain stopped and the skies cleared quickly away to intense blue in the setting sun. Twilight slowly deepened until darkness fell completely. A few lights showed far out in the bay; fishermen returning. The PBY bobbed slowly in the swells sweeping in past the breakwater to die in eddies around the quay. As Klaus talked on, relating how he and Mikhail had performed the preliminary clearing work in the air shaft, I found myself fighting to keep from falling asleep.

"I'm sorry," I interrupted Klaus, "but I'm really beat. I've got to get some sleep."

Klaus apologized. "You look tired. Mikhail won't be back until late and I have to go up to the village. So turn in now if you like."

Klaus said good night and climbed out through the hatch to the quay and walked rapidly away in the direction of the stairs leading to the village. I undressed and climbed into the sleeping bag and promptly fell asleep so long and hard that I heard neither Mikhail nor Klaus return later that night.

The following day dawned bright and clear. It was close to midmorning before I could drag myself as far as the cockpit to catch the NATO weather report for the Adriatic region and the Central Med. A high-pressure ridge had pushed in during the night as far as the Dinaric Alps bringing clearing weather and cold. The clear, bright sky of the night before had been the first indication of the front. But the weather forecasters were also predicting a severe bora for the Adriatic coast. I winced at that.

The bora is a high-velocity wind that sometimes devel-

ops in the wake of short-lived high-pressure ridges along the Adriatic coast. Itself a high-pressure wind, it sweeps down from the mountains as the pressure ridge retreats, raking the coastline like an insane cat. The bora can blow for days on end at speeds exceeding sixty miles per hour and then end in a tremendous rainstorm or a heavy fog. It is somewhat akin to the mistral of Mediterranean France or the Santa Ana winds of the southern California coast. In addition to the physical damage these winds do, the mental and moral damage to the people living in their paths can be just as disastrous. Police statistics from areas all over the world show sharp increases in violent crimes that climb higher in direct proportion to the time spans of these winds. The grinding effects of high-pressure wind, the constant whistling in tortured ear drums can send strong men over the brink into berserk rages.

The sun had long since cleared the headland to the east and its strong rays slanting down across the water were beginning to provide a measure of warmth when I emerged from the PBY the following morning. Klaus and Mikhail had left before dawn for the air shaft and I had the task of installing the new fuel pump ahead of me.

By midafternoon it was installed, sealed and hooked up to the fuel system. I cleaned up, bolted the nacelle back on and climbed down into the cockpit. The starboard engine turned over easily and I ran it up for a few minutes to charge the batteries, then kicked the ignition to the portside engine. It fired easily in a sheet of blue smoke that floated into the bay in the smooth air. The propeller turned over lazily, picking up speed until it became a quicksilver disk in the sunlight. The fuel pump worked like a charm. The aircraft vibrated to the deep crescendo of the two heavy engines and the instruments in their cases jiggled crazily. I idled down, feathered the props and climbed out to cast off the bow and stern lines.

The PBY swung away from the quay and headed eagerly into the bay, the slipstream of water curling back around the boat-shaped bow. The revs were right on the mark and at the entrance to the headlands, I swung her around in a tight circle and ran both engines up to peak RPM and lifted easily into the air, water shedding from the fuselage in sheets.

I kept a close watch on the port engine as I climbed up and across the ridge to the southern side of St. Peter's Mountain. Not a miss anywhere.

The landing was completely routine . . . but the reception committee wasn't. As I taxied the aircraft up to the quay, I saw a stiff figure waiting near the mooring. As I drew nearer, the stiff man resolved itself into Major Vishailly, wrapped in his old, dark greatcoat and hat against the wind beginning to blow up. To be on the safe side, I pulled the choke out on the port engine and let it run rough all the way into the quay.

Vishailly raised a hand in greeting, and when I had shut down the engines and crawled out onto the nose of the aircraft took the bow and stern lines and helped me warp her to the dock.

"She must be tied securely," he commented. "The bora will begin soon. The islanders will tell you that it often blows strongly enough to destroy houses."

I nodded agreement. "I've heard some of the stories they tell about the bora. Back home, they have a similar wind that blows off the desert and down through the mountain passes to the Pacific . . . the Santa Ana winds. They can hit sixty miles per hour on a good day."

Vishailly turned his back to the wind until he was half facing away from me and stamped his feet. Obviously, he had been waiting for some time and was chilled through.

"Home? That would be the southern coast of California."

"Ah, been doing your homework I see!"

"Merely routine police work. It was easy enough to obtain, from your passport in fact . . ."

I snorted. "My passport gives my home as Oceanside, California. Unless you have a pretty good atlas in your office, you wouldn't know that all four thousand people in Oceanside are located in southern California."

"You will be leaving tomorrow morning, I understand," Vishailly said, abruptly changing the subject.

I grinned at his obvious discomfiture. "That's what we hoped. But the port engine is still running rough and I'm not sure whether it's in the fuel pump or not. Until I know for sure, I don't dare try for Turkey on an engine I can't trust."

Vishailly nodded. "So, you are doubtful about leaving tomorrow?"

"Maybe. It could turn out that we might have to stay over another night. Why? What's the problem? The visas you issued are good for three weeks aren't they?"

Vishailly nodded. "Yes, they are good for three weeks," he repeated. "And there is no problem about continuing your visit to the island. I am only too happy to be of service. It just seems to me that a man with an airfreight line to run would be more concerned."

"Well, I guess I would be, but Maher is a steady customer; in fact, the steadiest customer I have. If he's happy to stay on this rock for a few days, then I'm happy, too.

There are no other charters waiting for me in Italy right now . . . winter isn't the best season for airfreight. Customers in my dollar level get nervous about flying cargoes under winter flying conditions. Most of them can't afford insurance and one loss would wipe them out. My insurance won't cover cargoes and I have a disclaimer in my contracts to that effect. Maher . . . he's big enough to afford both my rates and insurance. As long as he pays his bills on time, if he says we don't fly until that engine is running like a watch, then we don't fly."

At this Vishailly nodded and turned to walk back up the quay. I walked along with him since I didn't have anything else to do at the moment. After a few paces, he stopped and looked at me.

"It is as Captain Ley has said, your record would provide no indication that you are the type of man who would become entangled in the workings of the Neo-Nazi party."

He said it quietly, raising his voice only enough to be heard over the wind. Even so, it was as if he had shouted at me with loudspeakers.

"What the hell !" I exploded. "Don't tell me that raving maniac has gotten to you as well?"

"Captain Ley is no maniac," Vishailly replied. "He has told me about your reluctance to believe that your friend is involved in a Neo-Nazi conspiracy, in spite of the murders of Mistako and Bowen."

At that I winced. If Vishailly already knew what happened in the hotel room, then he could have me in the local clink before I could even begin to think up an alibi.

Vishailly was perceptive enough to know what and which questions were racing through my mind.

"There is no need to worry," he said, chuckling softly. "While the police do know what has transpired since Herr Ley has arrived, and while we do now know why you and your friends are really here on Kornat . we are willing to

co-operate with Interpol to the extent of letting you recover the gold before we make a decision."

"I see," I said angrily. "So it's co-operate or go to jail?"

"Not at all. I am merely telling you that we know what you are up to. We know about the hotel room and the three bodies . . . you might say that Captain Ley has a certain reputation. Wherever he goes, dead bodies seem to sprout magically . . . on both sides."

"I can certainly believe that," I replied fervently.

"So you see, there is no blackmail intended. But on the other hand, we do know about your plans to seize a national treasure. If you are caught, well then of course, the Yugoslav Government would have to prosecute under existing laws." Vishailly's smile was cold.

"But you won't make a decision about co-operating with Interpol until I decide to co-operate with you, right?" "In a manner of speaking, yes!"

Vishailly turned to face me point blank, challenging me for an answer.

"All right." I had no other choice. Co-operate or go to jail. "You obviously know about Ley, what he is and who he is, and have good reason for believing what he tells you . . ."

"The best . . ." Vishailly interrupted, ". . . his reputation. He is well known in police circles, mostly for his work in the narcotics area. Now that European routes are dying out, he has begun taking an interest in the Neo-Nazi party. In fact, I understand that he is now devoting his full energies to that end."

"Okay, okay, so he's not insane. I don't like what the Nazis stand for any better than you do . . ."

"Ah, but that is where you are wrong," Vishailly interrupted a second time and now intense anger in his voice.

"You did not live through the Nazi occupation. You did not fight first with the chetniks, then with the partisans. You did not have your entire family murdered in a public square as a reprisal for your actions. No, you cannot even begin to conceive of how I do not like the Nazis."

I nodded. "I stand corrected. Your point is well taken. You have first-hand experience with them, but to me they represent the Viet Cong mentality with whom I also have had first-hand experience. The Viet Cong were and still are terrorists and murderers in the same vein as the Nazis. Everything they started out to do has to be set against the murder and torture they employed for over twenty years. I've seen what that has done.

You have seen what nazism had done. I doubt if there is that much difference in the end result."

Vishailly was silent a moment, then he said: "This is neither the time nor place to argue the merits of the war in Vietnam. Our problem is with this type of mentality that you claim to detest so much. If you do, why have you refused to aid Captain Ley?"

Now he had me. I had been asking myself exactly that same question. Part of the answer was that I had not really been able to believe the fantastic web Ley spun for me. Of course, it was extremely possible that some of the loot cached by the retreating SS

throughout Europe might now be finding its way back into the revived party coffers.

And, too, it was partly that I didn't really believe that Klaus could become mixed up in anything like this. And finally, it was partly that I was just as greedy as the next person.

The thought of a nice tax-free third of a million dollars . . . you can buy a lot of escape with that kind of money.

"I honestly can't give you one single reason why," I said finally. "I'm not sure myself."

"Do you still not believe that what he is telling is the truth?"

"No, I guess I don't. The Yugoslav police certainly have ways and means of checking on him that I don't. So, I guess that if you're satisfied, I am, too."

"We are satisfied that he is who he is," Vishailly replied gravely.

"All right," I said at last. "What can I do to help?"

Vishailly glanced around the quay then turned to survey the road leading along the ridge to the cluster of tiny houses and shops of the village.

"I hope that my assistant is keeping watch as I told him to. He is a good man but grown lazy in such an easy post. It is time to transfer him back to the mainland, I suppose," he said with a sigh.

Having politely warned me that I was under constant surveillance, he was all business again; he turned back to me. "Ley reports that his field operatives have located the first of the reception points for this gold."

"Now, let me guess just where it might be," I grinned at him. "It's not Turkey for which we have filed a flight

plan. So, it's either Berlin or Hong Kong or maybe someplace in India."

"No. You are not even close. It is Egypt."

"Egypt?" I repeated astounded. "Why in hell Egypt? You'd have a hard time scraping up someone outside the government who had a million bucks. And with Soviet carte blanche support, they don't have to pay premium prices for gold."

"Precisely the question as I asked it. Ley tells me that his operatives are sure this is only the first stop in a pipeline that might ultimately lead to Hong Kong. And this is what he must know. Where does this pipeline lead and what does it consist of?"

"And he wants me to find out, right?"

"Ah," Vishailly murmured. "Good. I am happy that you have agreed to assist us. Now, since your friends do not intend to recover the gold through the main cavern, I need to know how they expect to get in and where it is located. How are they entering the cavern?"

I held up a hand. "Not so fast. Just in case anything goes wrong, that's going to be my insurance policy. If you don't know where the entrance is, you have only to search the line of the entire bay; maybe some fifty miles? But look carefully because the other entrance is well hidden."

Vishailly started to retort angrily, then thought better of it.

"All right, I will not press you."

He looked anxious and worried for the briefest moment.

"Don't worry," I said softly, "I won't double-cross you. Remember what I said about the Viet Cong. I feel the same way you do."

Vishailly nodded. "Well," he said briskly, "you are to co-operate fully with everything that Maher wishes you to do. When you leave, you will of course fly out in your own aircraft. We will be watching on radar. To identify you, we wish you to climb directly to twelve thousand feet, descend immediately to eight thousand and reclimb to twelve thousand. At that point, we will have singled your aircraft out of the others that will be expected in the area. Your radio transmits on the commercial bands only. You will find that while you were in Belgrade, we added an extra channel. The channel selector switch will click one stop more than is indicated. If you are in difficulty, you have that frequency and we will attempt to get aid to you.

It can also be used for whatever reports you would like to make. It will be monitored at all hours of the day in the vicinity of your aircraft. The band is 127.6 kilocycles."

Maher had been right, I thought. Someone had been aboard the aircraft. I had to admit that whatever else, Ley ran a tight organization.

I nodded. "So all I have to do is to play along with Maher no matter what he says and try and get as far down the pipeline as possible. What happens after we reach Egypt if he decides that he no longer needs a pilot. What do I do then?"

"There is that possibility," Vishailly admitted, "but Ley thinks it is remote. He is of the opinion that Maher cannot trust those with whom he works. He suspects that you and Mikhail were taken along as much for his protection as for your help." •

"Well, you can tell Herr Ley that I sincerely hope he is right—righter than he was about Mistako or Bowen."

CHAPTER SIX

With sunset the wind increased both in velocity and ferocity. I returned to the PBY after Vishailly had left and there spent the better part of an hour slumped in the pilot's seat reviewing the events, and my part in them, of the past few days. In that hour, I discovered facets of myself that I was not particularly pleased with, beginning with my reasons for coming to Italy and to this ridiculous excuse for an island.

The January sky was pitch-black and studded with scudding clouds driven to madness by the wind. The wind itself had settled into the bay, its fury driving whitecapped waves into a frenzy of lashing crosscurrents. The winds were strong enough to question the advisability of driving the PBY the five miles or more to the cove. Even hugging the coastline, I could expect little mitigation of the wind since it funneled in through the narrow entrance and poured over the flanks of St. Peter's in a bevy of crosscurrents impossible to read. But, I knew that if I waited any longer, there would be little chance of the wind

slackening for hours, if not for days. The bora starts out strong and gets stronger.

I hunkered back into the fuselage to check the few pieces of cargo still remaining . . .

mostly the heavy SCUBA gear that Mikhail had left behind for me to bring along, since I was to do all the diving. Everything was still secured properly and I noticed that the belts and straps that Mikhail had loosened as he removed other pieces of equipment to load into the calque had been neatly stowed or coiled away. Everything seemed to be in order, but before climbing out onto the nose to cast off the bow and stern lines, I dug under the seat and pulled out the Smith & Wesson .38. Carrying a loaded revolver was a habit that I had gotten into in South Vietnam and one I found hard to break. I checked the safety, wriggling it back and forth, then replaced it. The Walther P-38 was still tucked into the inside pocket of my jacket and there

intended to keep it for a while. I still wasn't sure that Interpol and the Yugoslav police, in the respective guises of Ley and Vishailly, were telling me the truth, and it wouldn't do any harm to take a few precautions.

" After that, there was nothing to do but get started. Since the high quay and the cliffs above protected the mooring area from the full force of the wind blowing in through the entrance to the bay, I had no way of judging accurately the conditions out on the water.

I had planned to taxi diagonally out into the bay as if making a test run. Then, instead of actually lifting into the air, I had planned on continuing around to run straight west, around the headland and finally to the cove. From either the quay or the village darkness would prevent watchers from knowing that I hadn't taken off.

I abandoned that plan almost immediately. Once away from the quay, I found that both engines at half power were needed just to maintain headway. The wind quartered constantly, first rushing in on the portside, then seconds later, slamming around to smash into the starboard quarter. The waves were just as bad. Three and four feet high at times, they marched and counter-marched in welters of flying foam, smashing over the cockpit and reaching up to snatch a wing tip. There was no chance of pretending that I was trying to take off . . . in fact, anyone watching would have been sure I was crazy to try.

What Vishailly was thinking as he watched through high-

powered glasses from atop the cliff, I didn't know or care. The only thing of which I was sure was that he was watching and that it would probably do him no good at all as my luck had finally run out.

I knew I would never make it to the cove. And, there wasn't a chance in the world that I could turn the aircraft back to the quay without the wind lifting a wing and flipping her over on her back. It was equally certain that I wasn't going much further before that happened anyway.

I had misjudged the strength of the bora. A PBY is a stable craft in a rough sea, but this was way beyond what she had been designed to handle. She was an aircraft, not a ship; and in short order, it looked as if she might become a submarine.

Spray became an incessant hail of water smashing back at the windshield, a deluge, a torrent that shut out all but the sound of the wind and the chatter of water lacing the fuselage and wings. I had only the compass to steer by, and the shuddering rack of the fuselage, as she smothered down into the troughs between wave crests, kept that in perpetual flux.

As the minutes passed, it seemed more and more impossible that the PBY could continue to maintain headway. Both engines were now straining at full power. I guessed that we were making less than ten knots in the bellowing seas. The aircraft plunged and rolled with all the abandon of a Gloucester schooner in a gale, but somehow, she came up from each trough with spray flying from her bow; the huge tail section digging into the wind for purchase. Perhaps it was the tail section that saved me; that and the tremendous suction created by the stepped pontoon fuselage providing the stability so desperately needed.

The bora, like all compression winds is given to sudden starts and subsidences. A given volume of air must pour into the far end of mountain valleys and canyons, which tend to act like venturi tubes to compress and often heat the air. This same volume must pass out the other end of the tube . . . and it does; moving several times as fast. Any change in the inflow can cause the winds to falter and slacken for several minutes, or even hours at a time. Fortunately, it happened exactly like that.

The rolling and pitching eased and the overloaded wipers began to keep pace. Through the rack of scudding

cloud I saw a fantastically bright and full moon edging up over the rim of the island.

Within five minutes more, the winds slacked to a dead calm: twenty knots worth of calm.

The moon had cleared the eastern ridge of the island and I was able to take a bearing on the black bulk of St. Peter's. I was not as far off course as I had expected to be and shortly sighted the headland shielding the cove from the main portion of the bay. The wind was beginning to blow harder again when I rounded the headland and taxied slowly into the cove where a dim lantern marked the shore line. Klaus had warned about the steeply shelving beach that would make it impossible to taxi ashore, and so, by the time I had swung the aircraft around and was ready to tie up to the two buoys anchored earlier, Mikhail, alerted by the sound of the engines, had pushed a dinghy off the beach and was rowing out. He waved as he came alongside, took the lines and moved away easily to the buoys.

"The wind . . . is it bad out there?" he shouted up as he rowed back again.

I nodded. "Really bad," and clambered down off the nose into the rubber boat, landing heavily as it shifted in the choppy waves.

Mikhail sculled the dinghy expertly back to the shore. The sides of the cove were steep and high, reaching some two hundred feet up the flanks of the mountain rearing directly above our heads. The entrance to the cove was from the southwest, well away from the path of the bora. It would be gusty, but nothing like the high and steady winds that I had encountered on the bay, and I was confident that the PBY would not drag her buoys.

We beached the dinghy and climbed up the beach to the air shaft opening. I tried to question Mikhail about the progress they had made in the tunnel that day, but he was even more uncommunicative than usual. A series of grunts and shrugs was all that I was able to get out of him, and by the time we had reached the shaft I had given up. He seemed just as happy.

The air shaft entrance or exit, depending on its function at any moment, was well concealed. Without a guide, I doubt if I could have found it easily, even though the moon was just past full and high enough to cast light into the cove. The back of the cove was layered with a fall

of rock washed down by water and gravity over the centuries; near the base of the cove, just above the beach, were several boulders that could easily have tipped the scales at several hundred tons. One was almost as big at a railway car.

Mikhail led me up the rockfall to the base of another even larger boulder lodged securely against the ridge wall. Beneath the boulder was the tunnel mouth. I had to stoop to enter, but once inside, was able to straighten to full height. It obviously had been dug as much for an emergency escape route as for an air shaft. We plodded down the steep corridor, and I noted in the light of Mikhail's flashlight that the walls and floor were dry and smooth; the unfinished floor should pose no problem in bringing up the heavy crates of gold, in spite of the incline. Klaus, who in his good German thoroughness had thought of everything, had included a small winch and a soft-tired cart for hauling the gold.

We reached the site of the cave-in three hundred yards deep into the tunnel. The tunnel curved rather sharply as it burrowed into the bowels of the mountain; the entrance was no longer visible, and the darkness was almost total except where Mikhail's flash cast a small oblong of brightness on the undressed rock floor.

Maher was waiting for us at the site of the cave-in, relaxing near a pile of broken rock.

He added the beam of his flashlight to ours as we came into view.

"Is everything all right?" he asked anxiously, ignoring my greeting.

I nodded. "So far. Have you been able to clear a way through the cave-in yet?"

Maher stood up and reached for his shovel, ignoring my question. I waited a moment and thinking he hadn't heard, repeated it. Again he ignored me and then stopped and stared blankly at the rockfall.

"Klaus," I said peevishly and Mikhail chuckled and picked up his own shovel. Something wasn't right . . . I took the flashlight from Mikhail and went over to Klaus. In the light I could see that his skin was ashen gray. Sweat stood out on his forehead in large droplets in spite of the coolness of the tunnel. Mikhail muttered in the background.

Maher's breathing was ragged and his hands were shaking. I put a hand on his shoulder and shook him gently.

After a moment or so he responded and his eyes lost their inward-turned glaze to peer at me.

"Klaus," I shook him again gently. "Klaus, what the hell is the matter with you?"

With an effort, he smiled and took my arm.

"Chris, it's time you got here . . . is the engine fixed?"

I nodded and glanced around at Mikhail who shrugged. Maher pushed my hand aside and turned away. "Come,

we must finish. Morning will soon be here and we must

be gone . . ." he let the sentence trail off uncertainly.

I went over to Mikhail. "What's the matter with him?" He shrugged again. "Ghosts."

And it dawned on me. Beyond the rock slide was the cistern where the five slave laborers had been killed. Five men whom Maher had permitted his executive officer to murder.

Perhaps his terror was magnified by the natural feeling of his claustrophobia brought on by the downward-slanting narrow walls of the tunnel, or perhaps it was fatigue and worry. But whatever, it had Klaus strongly in its grip.

"Sometimes today he was like this for a few minutes. Then he was all right again. He will hold together. Nazi!"

Mikhail spat in disgust and with a sneer as Maher went to work on the rock.

The tunnel had been cut through the soft rock that formed the underpinnings of St. Peter'

s Mountain and shored with heavy timbers. Sometime during the twenty-five years since the end of the war, a timber had splintered under the load and a portion of the roof had collapsed. The cave-in brought down large boulders, some up to eight feet in diameter.

These were the keys to the rock-fall which Mikhail intended to crack with black powder charges.

With hammers and rock drills, the three of us, at Mikhail's direction, spent another hour cutting a variety of channels and grooves into the three largest exposed rocks.

It was obvious that Mikhail was an expert with explosives. He carefully went over each boulder to be dealt with, tracing faults and identifying pressure points. Once these were located and marked with chalk, he put us to work with the rock drills. Coarse grains of black powder, grudgingly measured out were then tamped into the holes with a wooden rod, a fuse inserted and a wooden plug

pressed down into the hole to seal in the exploding gases.

It was close on three a.m. when Mikhail finished. After we had completed the drilling, Klaus had begun to wander back and forth to the beach. Occasionally, he stopped to watch Mikhail work, then would go out again to the beach never saying a word. The tension mounted inside the tunnel as Klaus's weird behavior increased. It was so unlike him that I wondered if he wasn't becoming deranged.

Finally, Mikhail straightened up and stepped back to examine the rockfall. He grunted once and began to gather up his tools .

One minute it was silent, a silence that had come with the cessation of the incessant hammering, the next the tunnel was filled with the grinding roar of sliding rock and debris as a section of the roof twenty feet behind us gave way. Mikhail collapsed as the gasoline lantern was smashed, throwing the tunnel into inky blackness. Then it was over as quickly as it had begun. A few shudders of compacting rock and silence.

It had happened so quickly that I barely had time to move from where I had been resting against the original rockfall. My hand was shaking so badly as I struck a match that it went out immediately. The second stayed lit somehow and its uneven light helped me find the flashlight that Klaus had propped on a rock to illuminate Mikhail's working area.

In its strong, yellowish beam I could see where the tunnel roof had torn away between two supporting crossbeams. Water poured steadily out of the gash; water from the winter rains that had filtered down through the rock overlapping the western flank of the mountain and loosened the soft, sandstone like shale . . . literally rotting it away. The new cave-in left us sealed into a pocket no more than twenty feet long by the width of the tunnel . . . five feet.

Mikhail stirred against the rockfall where he had fallen and in a moment more, he was struggling to sit up.

"What . . . what . . ." was all that he could manage coherently. The rest was gibberish in Serbo-Croatian. A small piece of rock had ricocheted back, glancing off his head. It left a nasty but not serious cut.

The cold terror of our predicament now took hold of me with the clutching, squeezing fingers of nausea and

shock. In a daze, I watched Mikhail struggle into a sitting position and stare stupidly at the blood smeared on his hand where he had wiped his forehead. I sat down beside him and forced my head between my knees, breathing deeply to shake off the nausea. After a few minutes, the nausea and heat flush began to pass and I lay back gasping for breath.

Mikhail stared as if seeing me for the first time. He blinked and rubbed his eyes and forehead again, starting the blood afresh.

"What in the name of God happened?" he mumbled.

For a moment, my throat would not work. Finally, I managed to force out in a hoarse voice: "The roof has collapsed . . . we're damned lucky . . . we weren't caught under . .."

"Where is Maher?" he demanded.

"Maher?" I repeated stupidly. "Outside on the beach ... I think. He was watching the beach until we finished."

Mikhail's laugh was harsh but agreeable. "Yes, he is standing guard on the beach . . .

because he caused the roof to collapse. He tried to kill us!" Mikhail spoke with such certainty that for a moment I almost believed him.

"Why the devil would he do . . .?" I crawled forward to where the water was pouring down from the roof and splashed handfuls over my face and neck.

"Why not?" Mikhail interrupted. "The gold, you fool. If he can kill us, he will have the gold for himself .. . there would be no need to share it. That is why he no longer wants to go to Turkey as we planned. And why he does not want to tell where he now plans to go.

"

"Nuts!" I muttered. "Klaus can't fly an airplane. At the least, he would need me for that."

Mikhail's head jerked around again and he glowered at me, his face working intently.

"Of course," he said slowly, to himself. "You are right. He cannot fly an aircraft. You must have been caught in here by accident ... poor planning for his part. That means he will be digging through to you and then you will both kill me . ."

Mikhail did not finish the sentence—instead he launched himself at me. The suddenness of his attack took me by surprise and he caught me solidly in the chest with one hammerlike fist. I went down, gasping for breath. Mikhail was a big man, nearly six-foot-three inches and well over

two hundred pounds. Against that, my six-foot-one and 180 pounds were barely a match.

Against the cunning and combat techniques he had learned as a partisan and guerrilla instructor, it was no match at all.

Mikhail followed the first blow with a kick that came up fast, catching me in the ribs.

The yellowish light cast by the flashlight spiraled and did not stop until I felt the hard surface of the tunnel floor against my back. Mikhail reached down and grabbed my jacket with both hands and yanked me to my feet and hit me twice with teeth-rattling, back-handed blows that dumped me on the far side of the tunnel. Mikhail came in low for the kill .. . and I don't doubt that he meant to kill me. In the past three days I had almost convinced myself that he was a homicidal, manic depressive. He now confirmed that theory for me.

Mikhail lunged across the tunnel. As he reached for me, I kicked him in the shin, dragged my foot back again and kicked hard against the side of his knee. He went down like a rock and the pistol butt with which I hit him on the head was harder . . . though not by much . . . than the fist with which he clipped me. But he went down and I stayed up, and it was easy enough to hit him again on the head. This time he stayed down and stayed still.

I backed slowly across the tunnel, keeping an eye on his inert form all the while, and sank down next to the flashlight. I was too weary and disgusted to examine my bruises. I leaned my head against the wall for a moment . . . and more exhausted than I had realized, promptly passed out.

Several moments of panic passed before I remembered where I was and what had happened to place me half sitting, half lying in a widening pool of freezing water. The tunnel was silent except for the receding buzz in my head. As it died away, I became aware of a strange and intermittent scraping noise. I picked up the torch from the edge of the puddle and flashed it around the cavern. The water leaking through the ceiling in a steady freshet was already several inches deep over the rough-cut floor.

Mikhail still lay on his back, half across a pile of rocks where I had knocked him unconscious hours, minutes, days before? His chest rose and fell evenly so I knew at least he was still alive; although then I couldn't have cared less. Except for the rising water, everything was as it had been. The scraping noise was louder against the entombing rockslide. Suddenly, it was punctuated with a grinding roar as a large boulder shifted position and thudded to the tunnel floor . . . on the other side.

Klaus was digging through to us; at least I hoped to God it was Klaus.

I dragged a shovel and pick to the slide and went to work. As I did so, the scraping noises stopped on the other side. I banged the shovel against a rock and immeditely the noise began again with renewed vigor.

I worked steadily for twenty minutes and ran out of wind; I had managed to make only a small dent in the debris. Disgusted, I waded over to Mikhail and shoveled water into his face until he woke up sputtering.

It took several minutes for him to regain consciousness enough to get to his feet. When he did, his face converted itself into one single snarl of hatred and he jumped me.

Knowing his one-track mind, I had been expecting this reaction and was ready for him.

The flat of a shovel in the face may not be pleasant, but it does have definite sobering tendencies, and between us we started to make progress on our side of the rockslide.

The slide was deeper than I had anticipated. Not only had the tunnel roof collapsed, but everything above it as well seemed to have settled downward, compacting and twisting the mass of boulders and timbers. It began to look as if we would have to dig through half the mountain to get out. I had considered using the blasting powder to clear some of the debris, but that was thoroughly impractical as the concussion in the confined space would have flattened us like eggs.

Mikhail gave out first and stumbled over to the shelving slope of the original slide and sank down breathing heavily, his head thrown back and hands resting on his knees. After a minute, I followed him. He had picked up the flashlight and was aimlessly examining the slowly dimming bulb.

"That bastard Nazi has done this to us," he finally choked out.

Suddenly Mikhail jumped to his feet and attacked the slide in a frenzy, realizing as well as I what was happening. For several minutes he worked like a man possessed, flinging dirt and rock in a steady stream until eventually

the lack of oxygen began to tell and the shovel dropped from his hands, and all he had left was a steady stream of curses.

I remember watching Mikhail slowly crumple into himself and wondering how he had ever managed to sustain a four-year guerrilla effort if he cracked that easily. He huddled down against the slide, mouth pressed against the rock, seeking the faintest trace of air.

His curses gave way to mumblings that were either prayers or gibberish. The last thing I remembered was a dull and persistent ache in my chest.

Water dribbling into my face brought me awake again. Klaus was kneeling over me, face anxious as he poured water from a canteen. I coughed and choked and waved him away.

When he was sure I was awake, he started to work on Mikhail. I climbed dizzily to my feet and staggered across the cavern to the spot where Klaus had cleared a way through the slide. The fresh air blowing through the opening was the sweetest I have ever tasted.

My legs gave way and I sat down suddenly, smack into a puddle of water. For the longest time I just sat in that puddle, breathing deeply, waiting for the blackness to go away.

Behind me, Mikhail began to cough; deep racking spasms which finally died away to intermittent groans. I leaned back against the rock and turned my head to watch him. He had shrugged off Klaus's supporting arm and was trying to stand. Klaus moved in again to help, but Mikhail tore his arm free and shoved Klaus away. Then he staggered past me and up the tunnel.

Klaus made as if to follow him, but stopped beside me when I held up a restraining hand and watched Mikhail weave up the tunnel and out of sight.

"If I were you, I'd stay out of his way for a while," I muttered.

"What . . . I don't understand what you mean . . ." "The hell with understanding, just stay out of the way for now."

Whether or not he realized exactly what had happened, the bruises on my face were fresh enough. He nodded and followed Mikhail slowly up the tunnel. After a few minutes I felt strong enough to follow them both.

As I emerged from the tunnel, I found the wind blowing stronger than ever. From the vantage point of the sloping beach, I could make out the silhouette of the PBY riding nervously at anchor in the cove. The moon was just disappearing over the western flanks of St. Peter's, its hard light filling the clear sky. Down on the edge of the beach near the calque, Mikhail and Klaus were standing with their backs to me. The wind carried away any trace of their voices, but the tenseness of their postures and their gesticulations left no doubt that they were arguing. After a moment, Klaus swung around and stormed angrily back up the beach. He passed me without a word and disappeared into the black tunnel. Mikhail turned and climbed into the boat and went into the tiny wheelhouse. He was safe enough there I decided. No one in his right—or wrong—mind brought up along the shores of the Adriatic would chance a small boat in a bora wind.

I followed Maher into the tunnel and found him at the site of the original rockslide.

Maher gave me a searching glance. "Mikhail thinks that I arranged the rockslide to kill him," he said slowly.

"He's a damned fool. I think he's gone over the brink. Klaus, why in the name of all that's holy you brought him in, I'll . . ."

Klaus cut me off with a sharp wave. "Never mind that now. He has been useful and will be again before we are finished."

I snorted. "Providing he doesn't kill you first."

"That is my problem."

"That's easy enough for you to say with that cannon in your pocket. Suppose he takes it into his head again that I'm the cause of all his problems. What then? Maybe I'm supposed to beat him off with my bare hands?"

For the first time in days, Klaus grinned. "From the condition of your face, I would say that you have already done so."

"There happened to be a big rock handy. Look, Klaus, you better get rid of that bastard before he kills both of us. That guy is trouble . . . pay him off or something and send him packing . . ."

"No!" Even in the dim light of the dying flashlight, I could see the sheet of blood that gushed beneath his skin, suffusing his face with red. "Mikhail is my problem. I Will take care of him."

I decided that further talk was useless and spun on my heel and went back up the tunnel.

As I left the tunnel for the second time that night, the vividness of the pink sky to the east startled me. My watch showed ten minutes to seven; we had been trapped in that damned tunnel for nearly five hours. In some ways it seemed like days, but in others, like minutes. The sky however, left no doubt that we had lost an entire night. I clambered aboard the calque and pushed open the hatch to the wheelhouse. Mikhail was huddled inside with his back to the far wall, staring balefully through the shutters at the deck.

"Dobro Yutro," I said politely.

"Zdravo."

I pushed inside and leaned against the other wall.

"When Vishailly sees that our -aircraft is gone and finds that we haven't cleared customs, he will be out looking for us."

Mikhail remained silent for a long moment. "Are you foolish enough to think that the Nazi will let us live after we have loaded the gold aboard your airplane?"

I nodded.

"Why?" His question was sharp and challenging. "He needs a pilot."

Mikhail snorted. ."So you live until he can find another pilot, until he no longer has a use for you, yes?"

"No! I don't trust him any more than you do. And to be honest, I trust you less than I trust Maher."

Mikhail nodded at this, accepting the truth of the statement. "I, too, trust you as much as you trust me."

"Okay. Now that we have that settled, let's make a deal."

"What kind of a deal?"

"Klaus is a dangerous man, and I think we both agree that he wouldn't hesitate to kill either one of us if he thinks it's necessary."

Mikhail nodded.

"Now, you may be right that he will let me live only as long as it takes to find another pilot. If so, then he has to get rid of you before then . . . and that means he will need my help. He wouldn't dare try it alone considering who you are."

Mikhail nodded again. A little flattery never hurts, no matter what the situation.

"So, the two of us have only one chance to come out of this alive . . . and with our share of the gold. One chance, but only if we stick together."

Mikhail had followed every word intently, nodding his shaggy head from time to time.

Now he paused in mid-nod, waiting expectantly for my proposal.

"It's simple. You watch my back and I'll watch yours. That way he won't be able to take either of us."

Mikhail sat quite still for a long time. I could almost hear the rusty wheels turning.

"What guarantee do I have that you will not turn against me . . . that already this is not some kind of a trick?"

I shrugged. "You don't have any guarantee. And neither do I. But neither one of us will get out of this mess alive unless we stick together."

Another long period of silence followed while he thought that over. Finally, he nodded.

"Yes. We must stick together then."

I sighed deeply.

Our brave affiance was just so much hot air when the chips went down, and Mikhail knew that as well as I did. Whether or not we would in turn co-operate would depend on the situation and how the other stood to gain from it. I consoled myself with the thought that my motives were loftier than his . . . but I didn't believe it then, or now.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The hours that followed the long night trapped in the tunnel were an oasis of peace, sandwiched as they were between the events of the coming days and the insanity behind.

The cabin of the PBY had already begun to warm with the early morning sun, dispelling the bora's chill. Both engines turned over easily and I swung the ponderous bulk of the PBY out of the cove and into the bay. The wind had dropped with the coming of dawn until it was now only a mild head wind. She rose easily from the water and climbed for altitude in one long, easy spiral. I settled back with a cigarette and relaxed for the first time

in days as the tension began to drain away. The PBY settled easily onto a course heading due west and I let her go, enjoying the peace and serenity of the morning over the rythmic beat of the engines. The abrupt transition from an atmosphere of paranoia and hate to peace and contentment was startling at first, but after the initial shock, very enjoyable.

An hour later I brought the Catalina down onto the glassily smooth surface of the bay.

The fishing boats were gone from the quay to take advantage of the unexpected break in the weather. By nine a.m. I had eaten a quick breakfast, taken a swim in the icy bay and fallen into my sleeping bag for some badly needed rest. The gentle rocking of the aircraft knocked me out as effectively as a club and it was late afternoon before a loud banging on the canopy woke me. Vishailly, who else. I swore to myself as I caught sight of his long face peering back at me from the cockpit.

"Good day to you," he said, smiling. "I am sorry to wake you. If I had known you were sleeping, I would have waited."

Since it has been my experience that people enjoy waking others out of a sound sleep and then apologizing afterward, I kept silent and pointed to the nearest crate.

"You were gone last night?" said Vishailly sitting down. Although he had meant it as a question to be polite, it had come out as a command to be answered, and since they don't construe civil rights in Yugoslavia the same way as back in the States, I described the storm, the location of the cove, the cave-in, the nearing disintegration of our little band of intrepid treasure hunters, and the reason I had returned, in minute detail.

"Good," was his only, slightly bored, comment. "I wish them to think they are being watched. You must make up a story. Tell them that you are being watched, but that you think you managed to get away without being seen."

"Will I?"

"Will you what?" Vishailly was not as puzzled as he tried to appear. He knew what I meant, but I explained it to him anyway; all part of the game we were playing.

"I mean, am I going to get away without being seen? To put it even more bluntly, have you decided to play along with Interpol? Or are you going to grandstand on your own?"

"What do you mean, grandstand?"

"Are you going to work with Interpol or are you going to act on your own," I rephrased the question impatiently.

Vishailly looked at me sharply. "Why would we do that?"

"To make damned sure that one million dollars worth of gold stays in Yugoslavia. That's why. You know that Interpol is more interested in tracing the pipeline than in retrieving the gold. You know as well as I do that if they have to, they will sacrifice the gold for the pipeline and consider the money well spent. But Yugoslavia can't be that carefree with monetary windfalls. Maybe another country without your chronic shortage of foreign exchange could, but not Yugoslavia. Your superiors suspect that if the gold leaves Yugoslavia, it will be divided by Interpol among the countries it came from, or else turned over to some international organization to distribute. Either way, your government stands to lose a good part of a million dollars."

"Perhaps you are right," Vishailly answered seriously, his face troubled. "I hope not. I would hate to think that my country is so small-minded that it would forfeit the chance to wipe out the Nazi menace once and for all for mere money."

"I hope so, too," I muttered. "But then, it's not your country making the choice, it's your government and there's a hell of a big difference between the two. Govern- ments detest two things; poverty and challenges to their authority."

"Perhaps you are right. But then, it really should make no difference to you how the problem is resolved."

"Except," I pointed out, "that with the backing of Interpol I don't wind up in jail for twenty years. If the Yugoslav Government moves in without Interpol, I'm liable to get swept up into the net. And, if something happens to you, who would testify to my good intentions at the trial?"

"I think I can assure you that my government has no intention of acting on its own in this matter. They are very anxious to co-operate in tracking down this 'pipeline' as Herr Ley insists on calling it. I have been given orders to co-operate in every regard."

Vishailly left right after that, refusing a cup of coffee. For the next two hours, I puttered around inside the PBY, securing what little cargo remained. I wondered idly how the two of them were making out, cooped up inside the tunnel by themselves. If they hadn't killed each other by now, maybe there was hope after all.

By seven o'clock, it was pitch dark and only a few scattered lights remained along the top of the cliff marking the location of the village. The quay was completely deserted. This night was as different from the previous night as it could be. Where the other had included sixty-mile per hour winds and a sky so clear it could scratch like diamonds; tonight was still and somber, beginning to wrap itself in a soft shroud of fog. The air was cold and the warm waters of the Adriatic were shedding strands of mist and threatening fog by morning. Well and good, I decided. If we got away before dawn the fog would muffle our passage. I had no idea then just how welcome that fog was going to be.

The trip back to the cove took less than fifteen minutes . . . in contrast to the hour of the night before. I taxied the PBY out and in one fast run toward the headlands was airborne.

Heading toward the mainland, I flew on until I had covered half the distance and then made a long sweeping turn to the north and west that brought me back to the head of the deep cove across the barren and deserted northern hills of the island.

I found Klaus and Mikhail lugging the last of the equipment down the tunnel to the cistern. Obviously, they had worked steadily through the day as both rockfalls had been cleared sufficiently to allow easy passage. The blasting powder had done its work well enough. Several large boulders were still scattered in the passageway, their sides blackened and freshly fractured.

The cistern formed a black hole in the middle of a small chamber,, perfectly round with mortared stone edging. The surface of the pool was still and cold. The chamber roof was a vault some twenty feet above our heads, its sloping sides were of rough-hewn stone. A narrow walkway encircled the cistern and proved wide enough to provide a purchase for the tripod we had brought along.

Klaus had described the cistern quite accurately, even to the intense cold of the water. He had estimated that the pool itself was some thirty feet deep in the center with sharply sloping sides that led down to the source, a small

spring that had been widened by German engineers. Because of the sloping sides, he was certain that the ammunition crates would be comparatively easy to find since the gravity would have worked them downhill by now to the cistern bottom. The water looked clear enough. I was counting on the fact that most springs were crystal clear due to the inflow of a constant volume of water that kept silt out of suspension. Also, as the cistern was well closed-off from the rest of the cavern, there wasn't much chance that food plants would have taken root to provide food for marine life.

Even so, I did not relish the idea of having to dive into that Stygian pool. Having done some amateur diving while in the service, I was elected to do the diving by the unanimous approbation of Klaus and Mikhail. Neither of them had ever worn a diving rig, let alone a wet suit, in their lives, and Klaus had stated very firmly that at fifty plus he did not intend to start. Mikhail had seconded him; possibly the only thing that those two had ever or were ever to agree upon.

I left Klaus and Mikhail rigging the tripod and winch while I went out to gather up my diving gear. The tripod was just that; three sturdy steel legs to straddle the pool and a hook at the center point from which to hang a block and tackle arrangement. A hand winch was attached to the other end of the steel cable running through the pulleys; five hundred pound ammunition crates of gold are not brought up with hand lines under any circumstances.

Lugging the diving gear through the deepening fog and up into the strangely echoing tunnel, I wondered what in hell I was really doing on this Godforsaken island off the coast of Yugoslavia. Surely there were more pleasant places to die than thirty feet down in a dead pool in the bowels of a barren mountain ... a mountain that had already tried to kill me. Put it down to the weirdness of the place and the hour and the fog and the company. Put it down to whatever you like. I was damned scared and I don't care now who knows it. Two half-maniacs were waiting for me to come and dredge up one million dollars in stolen gold. Who knows how many people had died for that gold . . . from the bank guards to soldiers to the SS troopers who were massacred by the partisans to the sailors and soldiers and partisans trapped inside the underground submarine base when the roof was blown down. And don't, above all, forget

the five slave laborers and, for that matter, the tourists who came after the war and died in the mudsinks and cave-ins.

But of course I now had a higher calling than mere greed . . . I was here to follow the gold, to put an end to one of the most cursed, most evil of modem political philosophies

. . . nazism. So they told me.

But it was me that was going down into that pool while those two washed-up professional killers waited for me to come back up with that last load. Maybe Klaus knew how to fly after all; maybe Mikhail did; maybe they had another pilot waiting until the last crate was up. Maybe just one of them did. If so, I would surface, pull off my mask and one of them would put a pistol bullet in my head.

I walked down that tunnel just as slowly as any condemned man walking that last mile.

Most of what passed through my mind during those moments, I cannot recall . . . which is probably just as well. I still wake up in a cold sweat on bad nights dreaming about the weird tableau that met me as I came down the tunnel to the cistern; Mikhail had stripped off his shirt in spite of the clammy chill, his face hideous and bright red with exertion, the crushed shapeless cap on his head rearing up at the corners in imitation of horns, exaggerated in the black shadow swelling on the far wall. Maher standing expectantly against the wall, waiting, face set and eyes locked queerly on the cistern. The pale hiss and whitish glare from the Coleman lantern cast flickering shadows that seemed to move of their own volition. The entire scene was a sojourn in hell.

As I moved into the light, both men turned slowly to examine me, both sets of eyes, I noticed, moving carefully to my equipment. Then Maher burst into a deep laugh that ended in a series of dry chuckles. Even Mikhail had a chilly smile on his face.

"After all these years," Maher breathed softly. "After all these years."

Mikhail glanced sharply at him and then at me. I was wearing my wet suit, having changed in the aircraft and I was damned glad now that I had shoved the short-barreled Walther into the inside pocket of the suit. Not for anything in the world would I have parted with it at that moment.

Klaus, still smiling strangely, walked carefully around the edge of the pool and clapped me on the shoulder.

"This is it, my friend. This is what I have been waiting for for over twenty-five years. In a little while we will be looking at one million dollars in gold. One million dollars, imagine!"

I forced a grin back at him. Mikhail joined me, his very stance recalling our bargain: the two of us allied against Klaus at any price. Fortunately, Klaus was too excited to notice.

He even smacked Mikhail affectionately on the arm before pushing me toward the edge of the pool.

"Is your equipment ready?" he asked impatiently.

I twisted the valve on the air tank and listened to the steady hiss of air pouring out. The pressure was holding on 2200 PSI and the needle shuddered delicately as the air rushed out.

I nodded at him and dipped my mask into the water of the cistern and sniffed at it. It smelled of the normal, flat smell of pure water; I had been concerned about seepage from accidental reservoirs of gasoline or acid left in the bowels of the destroyed submarine base. If any had leaked into the fresh-water cistern, I wanted to know about it, even though no matter how slowly the water in the cistern, was renewed, after twenty-five years any lingering traces should be gone. It was better to be safe than sorry.

I rinsed the mask and slipped it on, adjusted the strap and sat down on the edge of the cistern. I shrugged into the web straps of the tank and buckled the weight belt on. I had not bothered with flippers since in the confined space of the cistern, I did not expect to do much swimming. Mikhail handed me the powerful underwater torch that I had bought in Brindisi the week before, and I slipped down into the cold water.

The first shock of water against your skin is always terrible. The coldness literally swims in between the foam rubber layer and your skin; it's as if someone had wrapped you in an icy blanket in a single instant. Then body heat quickly warms the water trapped between rubber and skin and from then on you are aware only of the frictionless sliding of wet rubber.

The heavy lead belt took me down quickly and the inside of the cistern became a quicksilver pool when I flicked on the torch. A moment later my head broke water and I hooked a hand over the edge of the cistern. Through the watery lens of the mask I saw blurry shapes of Klaus and Mikhail.

"What's wrong?" Klaus demanded sharply.

"Nothing, damn it," I said spitting out the mouthpiece. "Just getting my bearings. It's blacker than the inside of hell down there."

Just as I started to pull the mask down again, I caught sight of something that chilled me even more than the water had.

Lying just beside my hand was the tarnished glint of a brass cartridge case; a stubby, fat cartridge case. Instantly I knew that it was from one of the bullets that had been fired that day at the cistern to murder five slave workers.

I am usually not squeamish, but the moment I realized that I could encounter five dead bodies at the bottom of the cistern, I can only say that the hairs on the back of my neck actually lifted of their own accord and the nerve shock that scored down my spine left me shaking.

"What is wrong?" Klaus demanded again.

I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak. I wondered if he had seen the cartridge case and if he had . . . I bit hard on the mouthpiece and dragged the mask down over my face and let go of the side. As the lead belt dragged me down into the black depths of the pool, the cartridge case danced in front of my eyes like a burned-in retinal image.

My feet touched bottom shortly, and I sank in up to my ankles in the soft muck. I had come almost straight down along the cistern wall, my hand trailing down the rough rock where the German engineers had long ago hollowed out the shaft to increase the flow of the natural spring to supply the submarine base with a constant source of fresh water.

When I turned the torch onto the wall, the scrapes and grooves left by their power machines were still visible. The cistern was not quite sterile; a thick lichenlike growth covered most of the wall, pale greenish in the torchlight. The bottom of the pool was covered with a ' brownish silt to a foot in depth. With every step I took, long strands of mud wafted up into the current, and I knew that soon the water would be full of silt.

Klaus had described the ammunition boxes as being standard German Army issue .88

millimeter steel artillery ammunition crates measuring thirty-three centimeters wide by forty-four long by thirty deep. They were painted green and had been sealed with pitch.

Since the bottom of the shaft had been hollowed into a shallow bowl to allow the water to continuously wash the silt away from the spring, the silt should have been deeper near the walls where I was standing than toward the spring itself. Given this con-figuration, then, the ammunition boxes should have congregated near the source after twenty-five years, pulled downward by gravity against the mild current.

A very good theory, but that's all it turned out to be. The upwelling of fresh water through the spring was at a slow enough speed and volume that it carried silt up nicely for a distance of a few feet and deposited it in an ever-growing mound around the source.

As I moved down the slope, the silt became deeper and deeper until I was sinking in up to my knees.

One tentative step more and my foot slid forward in slow motion, throwing me off balance and wrenching my leg into the source itself. I floundered helplessly for a minute and the torch slipped out of my hand and buried itself in the loose silt, leaving me in darkness.

Cursing, I regained my balance and pulled my foot out and went down on hands and knees to dig around in the area where the last flicker of light disappeared. The torch was a heavy, rubber encased affair and it had sunk deeply. I wasted almost five minutes before my fingers made contact with it and at almost the same time with the hard edge of something that felt like a metal box. Retrieving the torch, I dug carefully down through the silt again to uncover the metal. The mud was like loose sand, it flowed back into the hole almost as fast as I scooped it away. After a few minutes, I quit trying to dig away the silt and concentrated instead on feeling out the dimensions of the box. I could make out the flat metal top and along the front, the protrusions that were the snap fasteners. I was able to get my fingers under the box and found it far too heavy to move.

If Klaus's memories were correct, there would be four rings, one at each corner. There were and with difficulty, I worked a strand of nylon rope through one ring and secured it tightly and attached a plastic bottle filled with air to the other end. The drill was that when I was ready for the cable to be passed down, I would send up the nylon rope using the bottle as a buoy. Mikhail would attach the cable end. Using the line, I could control the rate of descent of the heavy steel cable. It was a hell of a lot better than getting smashed with three hundred

pounds of steel dropping down through the water ... which is exactly what happened.

The buoy hadn't been gone more than thirty seconds before I spotted a dark shadow above me. I'm not sure what exactly warned me, but I twisted sideways desperately and saved my life. The entire reel of steel cable plummeted down; a single loose strand slapped me across the back like a terrible whip. I lost the mouthpiece as I screamed in agony, and instantly my mouth was full of water and I was drowning. My hand hit the quick release of the weight belt and I kicked upward desperately. You can pack a lifetime of terror into a twenty-second swim for air. I know.

My mouth and nose were full of water; water that was trying its best to work its way down my throat and into my lungs. At the same time, the muscles in my windpipe were constricting in agonizing coughs to clear away the water, but to open my mouth to do so would have been to drown. My head broke the surface and Klaus and Mikhail dragged me out of the cistern and up onto the paved walkway to gag and choke the water from my lungs.

The only thing that saved both of those idiots from being beaten to death was the half drowning and the coughing spasm that followed. By the time I was able to get shakily to my feet, I had regained a measure of control. Both Klaus and Mikhail watched apprehensively as I stumbled around. Then Klaus stepped forward hastily and took my arm when I tottered over to the brink of the cistern to stare at the broken hook dangling from the apex of the tripod. It had broken all right. The steel shank of the hook had snapped at the bend. The characteristic jagged fracture of stressed steel showed plainly enough. Twice now, I thought.

"Do we have a spare?" I croaked.

Mikhail nodded. "Yes. There is another in the tool kit."

"Then get it hooked up, damn it. And make sure it's done right. I don't want any more foul-ups in this operation."

Both men nodded quickly. I could see the beginning of hostility in Mikhail's eyes again, but I was beyond caring now. My back, where the cable end had whipped across, burned like fire. I could feel a gash through the tough butyl rubber and foam and I was damned glad I had been

wearing the wet suit. I hated to think what the cable would have done to my bare back.

Klaus and Mikhail attached the new hook to the tripod and reassembled the block and tackle. It took them nearly a half hour, but by the end of that time, the ache was gone and the pain in my back was beginning to subside.

"It's ready now," Klaus muttered, wiping grease from his hands on an old handkerchief.

"All right." I refrained from saying anything further. Tensions were high enough as it was.

I pulled the tanks on to my back grimacing at the -pain where the straps rubbed, settled the harness as comfortably as possible and slid back into the water. While I readjusted the mask, I watched Klaus and Mikhail, still working industriously; Klaus on the winch, readying it to take the nylon rope I was taking down with me to fasten to the cable and Mikhail, carefully paying out the coiled line.

In all, three hours of precious darkness were wasted in bringing the cable back to the surface and bending it again to the winch drum. After that, it was relatively easy to dive again, fasten the first of the ammunition crates to the cable and haul it to the surface. By this time, I was running short of air . . . in fact I was down to the last of the three forty-five-minute tanks by the time I surfaced with the first crate. There were three more to go and I had no intention of diving without a tank into that cistern under any circumstances.

Klaus and Mikhail worked the winch and cable more tenderly than they might have handled their infant grandsons. I sat on the far edge of the cistern and watched them hook the cable and gradually wind it in, then ease the brake and let the cable run out while the other pulled until the crate was resting securely on the rubber-tired dolly. Both men grinned at each other and then at me. I was too tired to smile back. Mikhail picked up a crowbar and snapped the rusted padlock, then pried the lid up carefully. Twenty-five years of rust resisted at first. Mikhail swore, settled his feet, dug the point in for a better purchase and hunched the muscles in his shoulders and heaved upward convulsively. The lid groaned and flew open.

A mass of dirty water and rotting canvas poured out. Klaus used his knife to dig away the remains of the canvas

cover. The first strip that pulled away revealed two evenly matched bars of gold; frantically, Klaus raked away the rest of the canvas and the gold flamed in the light of the gasoline lantern.

After a minute of stunned silence, Mikhail used his knife to pry up one of the bars. I reached over and pulled its surprisingly heavy bulk out of the chest and held it up. The bar was twelve inches long by four wide and four thick. The two and one-half decades in the water had done nothing to diminish either its luster or smoothness. I turned it over in my hand and on the end found a strange seal and slavic script.

"Royal Treasury of Bulgaria," Mikhail translated and then began to laugh. In a few moments, Klaus joined him and the two of them laughed like fools at this masterful joke on the now defunct Royal Treasury of Bulgaria. I watched them for several moments, wondering seriously at the margin of sanity left to either and touched the comforting bulk of the plastic-wrapped Walther P-38 inside my wet suit.

By four a.m., all of the crates were out of the cistern. We had been at work for eight straight hours. I was not able to speak for either Klaus or Mikhail, but I was ready to collapse. They were probably in worse shape, since I had had eight solid hours of sleep during the day. In my ' estimation, neither Klaus nor Mikhail were stable enough to take the kind of pressures that a combination of fatigue and fear brings; something would have to give . . . and it did, and it was strictly a panic reaction.

"Come and help me with the cable," Klaus called urgently as I shucked the diving gear.

I hurried over to help him. The cable was not feeding evenly onto the drum and for the moment I was too busy to ask what had happened to Mikhail. I pulled on the heavy canvas gloves and began tugging on the heavy cable to guide it back onto the drum properly. The crate came into view and between the two of us, we got it over the cart and let it settle with a thud. Klaus came over to the cart, both of us silent; the last of four crates . . . one million dollars in gold in those rusting metal boxes. One million dollars of the hardest, firmest, most negotiable currency in all the world and it was ours. All we had to do now was load it aboard the PBY and be gone from Yugoslavian air space before dawn. Curiously enough, I

felt no surge of pride, pleasure or greed. I kept picturing five bodies lying at the bottom of the cistern, covered by mud and silt and forever forgotten.

Two gunshots smashed through the tunnel. We both stared at each other for the briefest of seconds and broke' into a run. As we pounded up the tunnel, I unzipped my wet suit, yanked the pistol loose and ripped off the plastic waterproof covering.

At the second rockfall, Mikhail stood over a body. He was leaning forward very slightly, head down peering intently at the man flung back on the stone floor. It was obvious that Mikhail had caught the other unaware and shot him with no warning. Very deliberately, Mikhail aimed the pistol at the victim's head.

"Mikhail, stop!" Klaus shouted.

Mikhail turned, glanced casually at us and raised the pistol again. I slid to a halt, steadied the pistol over my left arm and fired two shots past his head, not really caring whether I hit him or not.

"Damn it," I yelled at him, "stop, now or I'll put a bullet between your eyes!"

Mikhail shook his head as if in a daze and Klaus raced up and wrenched the pistol out of his hand. He offered no resistance; just stood and smiled down at the body.

"He is dead, do you realize? I told you several days ago that one of us would have to die, but you did not believe me."

"Vishailly," Klaus whispered.

"Good Lord," I muttered. "Vishailly." I sat down heavily. "For God's sake Mikhail, don't you ever think! He probably brought half the police in Yugoslavia with him."

Mikhail only laughed at that. "Police . . . what do I care for the police?''

"You'll care plenty when they put the rope around your neck to hang you."

Mikhail chuckled slowly now, his laughter ponderous. "I am becoming an old man. What do I care if they kill me? My whole life I have given to my country, to my beliefs. They will not kill me with a rope."

"I wouldn't count on it." I took a deep breath. In the past few days, there were two or three times when things had looked pretty bleak. But right at that moment, if somebody had offered million-to-one odds that we would

not get out of Yugoslavia, I would not have thought them too high. Vishailly had not come alone . . . no one would have been that stupid.

I got up slowly, feeling like half the world was on my shoulders.

"Klaus, take this damned idiot back down to the cistern and bring up that last box of gold. Leave the equipment behind, we won't need it anymore. I'm going up to see how many troops Vishailly brought with him. Maybe we can negotiate some kind of surrender."

"Surrender?" Klaus almost screamed. "We will never be able to surrender. If we try, they will kill us . . ."

I didn't waste time arguing, but grabbed the flashlight from his hand and raced up the tunnel. With every minute that passed, I became more and more apprehensive. Why hadn't anyone come to investigate the gunshots that had killed Vishailly? Vishailly, damn him. I cursed his soul all the way up the tunnel. What had possessed him to grandstand like that? By coming into the tunnel alone, he had signed his own death warrant as surely as if he had jumped in front of a speeding truck.

A small patch of gray-black marked the mouth of the tunnel. I turned off the flashlight and glanced at my watch: 4:32 a.m. Cautiously, I edged up to the tunnel mouth and lay down flat on the cold stone. After a few moments, I could make out the tiny pinpoints of stars across the cove, above the fog that was beginning to flow in from the bay.

Carefully hidden in the shadows, I searched the narrow beach below the tunnel entrance.

The PBY still rode at anchor in the cove, rocking gently in the lapping waves. The calque was beached in the exact same spot where I had seen it earlier in the evening. In the waning moonlight, it took several minutes to spot the small powerboat that was drawn up on the far side of the tiny beach.

I watched the cove for more than ten minutes. In all that time there was not a whisper of sound or movement. At least fifteen minutes had now passed since the pistol shots that had killed Vishailly had been fired. In all that time, neither sound nor movement had betrayed anyone who might have accompanied Vishailly. Either they had extra-human powers of self-control, or they didn't exist. The latter I hoped, and crept slowly down to the beach to examine the powerboat.

It was a small, fibreglass outboard boat, relatively harmless in itself, but the two-way radio mounted under the dash chilled me to the bone. The radio was still on and tuned to a police band.

He may have come alone, but he had not come without signing the warrant that was going to take one and probably all three of us to the gallows. With Vishailly dead, there would be no one but Ley to describe the course of my involvement . . . and the chances of Ley being believed were next to nil. Both policemen who had been involved with him as well as his own superior had been killed. You might describe it as leaving a trail of bodies across the countryside. Ley would be lucky enough to get himself out of the country in one piece.

If the police were following by boat, I forced myself to reason calmly, it would be at least an hour before they arrived. They couldn't come overland since there were no roads.

If they were coming by air, the helicopter would have landed ten to fifteen minutes ago.

Ergo, they were coming by boat and we had thirty to forty-five minutes left . . . if Vishailly had not waited long before starting off on his own. I beat it back into the cave to find Mikhail and Klaus shouting at each other like two fishwives halfway down the tunnel. I didn't wait to find out what the argument was about. I grabbed Mikhail by the shoulder, spun him around and pushed him down the tunnel. Klaus subsided immediately, apprehension glazing his face. Roaring like a madman, I chased both of them back to the cistern. I didn't give either a chance to recover, but ran through the time line I had worked out on the beach

.. at the top of my voice. The situation analysis sobered them both quickly and they fell to without another word.

It took twenty minutes to get that last cart up the tunnel, down onto the beach and loaded into the calque. While the two of them sweated and swore over the loading, I took the small dinghy and rowed to the PBY to warm up the engines. The port engine kicked over slowly; the batteries were running low and I held my breath until it started with a bang and a plume of dirty smoke. The starboard engine, now running off the generator, turned over immediately and ran up with a powerful surge. While the engines warmed up, I ducked back into the fuselage and shoved open the starboard hatch. Back in the cockpit, I swung the PBY around until the nose was pointing at

the beach and edged in carefully to meet the calque. As it slid under the wing tip,! I idled the port engine down and let the starboard engine swing the ponderous bulk of the aircraft around again until we were heading out to the open bay. As we came around, a flare burst just over the low headland separating the cove from the bay. One police boat signaling to another? I had never been surer of anything in my life. I slammed back the window vent and shouted down to Klaus and Mikhail. My words were torn away in the engine noise, but my meaning was unmistakable. Klaus vaulted across the hatch sill as soon as the calque was close enough to do so. I left the cockpit and ducked back to the cargo blister. Mikhail edged the calque in as close as he could and Klaus smashed away the railing with an axe. Together the three of us pushed and pulled those four, fivehundred-pound boxes into the PBY, letting them fall to the deck with enough force to shake the airplane. It took less than five minutes and left all three of us shaking with the exertion. While I staggered back to the cockpit, Mikhail jumped for the tiny wheelhouse and spun the rudder flat over and yanked the throttle wide open at the same time. In the next instant he was out and across the deck and in a long leap clawed himself into the cargo hatch. The calque heeled away from the PBY, the ancient engine sputtering toward the beach. I didn't wait to see anymore, but threw myself into the pilot's seat and pulled the throttles open. The PBY leapt forward.

The hell with the prevailing winds, I thought as we dug out of the cove. We were just going to have to depend on those two twenty-six-year-old engines so far over their scheduled overhaul that the pistons dragged a pound of carbon up and down with each stroke.

As we cleared the mouth-of the cove, the searchlight on the leading police boat flashed past, checked and swung back to hold on us. Automatic carbine fire from two boat loads of Yugoslav police opened up. The distance was not point blank, but then at one hundred yards, even in a fog, anything as big as a PBY is not the hardest thing in the world to hit.

And hit us they did. I dug down in the seat and hung onto that wheel literally for my life.

I have been through massed corridors of .51 calibre antiaircraft fire in Vietnam, but for some reason it did not seem to compare with the firepower that those cops turned on us.

I counted fourteen bullet holes in the side and front windshields alone the next morning.

The fuselage was so full of holes that it looked like a sieve. So did the starboard engine.

And, it ran like one as well. How we ever got off the water, I'll never know. But those two faithful R-1-630s poured their hearts into that thousand yards to gain speed and to take us out of range and off the water.

Once up, I didn't bother with the niceties. The quickest way out of this mess was west; due west out of Yugoslav air space as fast as the engines could take us. We would have made it too; if five minutes later, the starboard engine hadn't quit cold.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Klaus stumbled through the compartment door and almost fell into the copilot's seat, cursing in a monotone trying at the same time to stem a flow of blood from his forearm.

I've heard men swear in a dozen different languages, but I have to admit that to a connoisseur of profanity, no language but German will ever again suffice.

"Now what are you going to do?" he roared accusingly and pointed to the starboard propeller windmilling to a stop.

"What the hell do you mean, what am I going to do, you damned jackass. What do you think, it's my fault because the Yugoslav fuzz shot up my aircraft and knocked out an engine?"

I added a few swear words of my own, but the effort seemed half-hearted at best compared to Klaus's. "Is there any other damage back there?"

"Only if you count Korstlov's split skull. He fell against one of the crates, but he is only unconscious. He will suffer a small concussion at worst."

"Too bad," I muttered under my breath.

"What?" Klaus demanded.

"Nothing, nothing," I muttered again trying to conceal my disgust. "I've got to find someplace to put this crate down before that other engine gives out and drops us like a rock."

I brought the PBY around in a gentle turn and headed

back to the Yugoslav coast. As expected, it brought a reaction from Klaus.

"Are you crazy?" he bellowed in confusion and anger. "Why do you want to take us back .. ."

"Use your head," I roared in return. "If I don't put this crate down and fast, it'll go down by itself and the landing will spread us all over the Adriatic. If we land on the water, outside the three mile limit, where will we be then? The Yugoslays will just send a patrol boat to pick us up. They saw which direction we were heading and it won't take them long to figure that we didn't go anywhere but down. We haven't gotten high enough to attract the attention of their radar operators, and we can find someplace along the coast to hide. Then, I can try to fix the engine. They saw us fly west, the last thing in the. world they would expect, under any circumstances, for us to do would be to turn back for the mainland."

I did not waste a second while explaining, but steadied the shaking aircraft around onto a heading that would take us east and north some twenty miles to a marshy area on the coast where I expected we could find a creek mouth or cove in which to hole up. The starboard engine was completely gone and the port engine was in a bad way, overheating furiously under the load. I figured that she had at best, ten to fifteen minutes flying time left. We lost altitude more rapidly than I would have liked, lower and lower until we were only some twenty feet off the waves. I watched them race past thinking that if the port engine gave out now, we wouldn't fall far, but the shock and the unsecured weight of the gold would snap us in half. We would go down like a rock.

The moon was beginning to set. Its light, meager at best against the dark water, was waning fast. Dawn was still an hour away and the sky to the east had not yet even the first faint flush of dawn.

We passed over a peninsula jutting a mile into the Adriatic. A thick belt of land, it curved sharply northward, forming a scimitar. I could just make out the faint gleam of a small creek winding down through the center of the peninsula from the hills several miles away to empty into the sea.

We had little choice. The temperature gauge was now over into the red and the port engine beginning to miss badly. The PBY limped around and I knew that this would have to be the final pass. I eased her down as if she were carrying a cargo of nitroglycerin. Flat water stretched away in front of the nose, shining black in the last bit of moonlight. Ahead, I could barely make out the hook of land lying low in the water.

The altimeter showed zero and seconds later, the first bump as we touched a wave; then a second and a third, mild all of them and we were down.

I eased the throttle forward and wiped a hand across my forehead. The ragged engine carried us into the cover of the peninsula and there I turned to run in alongside the shoreline, but keeping a good distance to avoid submerged sand bars.

Klaus straightened himself in the seat, turned to say something to me, then apparently thought better of it. The darkness on the surface was almost complete. A heavy surface mist ten or so feet deep was forming in the darkness that lay over the coast. There weren'

t even stars visible to provide relief from the suffocating pall.

I taxied as far in as I dared before turning on the landing lights. The two powerful beams sprang out to smash aside the tendrils of fog and cautiously we moved forward again, seeking the beach. I could tell from his sharpened breathing that Klaus didn't like the idea of the lights any better than I did, but it was either the lights or we would wind up on a sand bar in full view of the patrol aircraft that certainly would be out looking for us at dawn.

The cove formed by the peninsula was larger than it appeared from the air and it took ten minutes to locate the mouth of the creek that I had spotted so easily from the air. I ordered Klaus out onto the nose to act as "pilot" to warn of sand bars or other obstructions.

If I remembered the map, this section of the coast was relatively uninhabited. The few people who did live in the vicinity were grouped together in small villages scattered along the coast and made their living almost exclusively from fishing. They certainly weren't going to be out hunting for us.

By the time I shut down the engine, the sun was beginning to edge up over the eastern horizon. The pinkish sky of early dawn was empty and damnably cold. A rare bird occasionally broke the stillness, but other than that, we might have been on another planet. To the east, the peaks and slopes of the Dinaric Alps, Dalmatia's eternal barrier to the interior, were sharply etched against the sky. The upper slopes were thickly covered with snow and the scene reminded me of the long hike from the train to the village with Ley three nights before.

Klaus and I warped the PBY with hand lines to a mooring in a small cove near the river's mouth. When she was secured, we trudged slowly back to the PBY, to find Mikhail sprawled in the copilot's seat, clutching his aching head. Klaus glanced at me and began to laugh softly at first and then harder and harder until he was bordering on hysteria.

Perhaps it was nervous release, but I joined him and we laughed until tears came.

Mikhail was offended; he thought we were laughing at him and, in fact, we probably were as he did look ridiculous with his eyes screwed up against the pain, crusty blood lining the side of his scalp, and both hands pressed tightly against his temples as if holding his head together. But, eventually, he couldn't hold out any longer and joined in.

Those few moments of hysteria were a safety valve, dissipating the tension and terror of the past few hours completely. We were alive and given that, were optimists enough to believe that we could do anything. After we had calmed down, Mikhail felt clear-headed enough to break out the primus stove and fry eggs and bacon from our rapidly dwindling stores. Coffee and a hot breakfast can do wonders, no matter the situation.

It was Mikhail who put into words what Klaus was reluctant to say and I was not about to: we had to get rid of the PBY. There was no other choice. She looked like she had come through a twenty-year siege. I had never seen so many bullet holes in an aircraft, at least one that had remained in the air as long as she had. But Mikhail was right, even though I did not want to admit it. The starboard engine was a total loss. There was not a whole cylinder head left; all twelve had at least a fin shot away and several were utterly smashed. The wings were so full of bullet holes, that even at the low speed we had been making, the slip stream had begun to peel the wing covering. The windshields were also a total loss, and worse yet, the fuselage was beginning to take on water. She was a total loss short of a complete machine shop and at least one, possibly two new engines.

In addition, there are not many PBYs still flying. As far as I knew, I had one of the very few still in commercial

service anywhere in the world. That fact, coupled with her bright silver paint and glaring red name, made her instantly recognizable.

"So what do we do for transportation?" I asked sarcastically.

Mikhail glared at the tone of my voice. But not Klaus. Herr Kapitän was already beginning to regain his composure. Now that the gold was out of the dank cavern where the crushing memories flourished, he was ready to assume command again.

"We must unload the gold and destroy the aircraft, soon, before it is spotted from the air,

" he stated in his best command voice.

"So how do we get wherever the hell it is we are going?"

By way of an answer, Klaus pulled a coastal map out of the map case and unfolded it on his lap.

"We are about here," he said pointing to a spot twenty miles south of the southern end of Kornat Island and about thirty miles south of the coastal town of Sibenik. Do you agree?

"

When I nodded, he went on. "Then one of us will have to find a way into this town," he pointed to Sibenik, ",and rent a truck to transport the gold. Then he will have to arrange to purchase or rent an aircraft, drive back here, pick up the other two . . . who meanwhile will have destroyed the aircraft, and drive us all back into the town. We will load the gold on board the new aircraft, file a flight plan for Belgrade and leave in the opposite direction."

"Just like that?" I asked.

Klaus inclined his head with a bright, quizzical look and nodded. "Yes, like that."

"Ha," I snorted. "You seem to have forgotten one or two little items. First, this is a Communist country and I don't care how far outside the Communist bloc it really is nor how far they have managed to come in the past ten or fifteen years, it is still a police state. And in police states you don't just wander around the countryside hitching rides and renting airplanes . . . especially if you are a foreigner with an expired visa . . . and wanted for the murder of a policeman."

I waited expectantly for Maher's rebuttal and was mildly disappointed when it did not come.

"I agree with you. But, we do have a Yugoslav citizen with a valid passport . .."

It was Mikhail's turn to snort skeptically. "My documents are no more valid than yours."

"In addition to which," I picked up, "none of us dare show our faces anywhere in Yugoslavia or the civilized world for that matter. Good old solid citizen here has shot a cop . .. and you know as well as I do what that means. On top of which, they know damned well that we have gotten away with one million dollars worth of gold. We need transportation; preferably another aircraft. This happens to be Yugoslavia and we have absolutely no chance of getting, another aircraft, legally or illegally. Airfields are the first places they'll clamp down on."

• "I understand perfectly," Maher answered in a calm voice. "I repeat, I am well aware of the obstacles, but I do have a proposal to make."

"Well all right. Let's hear it," I conceded grudgingly.

Maher nodded politely. "Thank you. One of us must walk out to the highway, which the map shows parallels the coast in this region, but five miles inland. He must then obtain a ride into Sibenik and on to the airport." Klaus held up a hand to forestall questions. "

Please let me finish. He must arrange to rent an aircraft, preferably a large, commercial one with a pilot. By hiring a pilot, we will decrease the owner's suspicions that we may fly off with his aircraft, never to be seen again."

"Okay," I growled, "what next? How do you hire an aircraft in this country in the first place; assuming, of course, that you reach the airfield. None of our papers are any good and whoever goes will need to show some form of identification."

"That must be left to the imagination of the individual. You offer the owner money, a bribe . . ." Maher's patience broke down at this point. "We are not children," he snarled. "

If we must bribe the man, we bribe him. If we must hold a pistol to his head, we will hold a pistol to his head."

"Who will be this person to go?" Mikhail asked suspiciously.

Klaus turned to him with an angry look. "You, of course. You are the only one here who is Yugoslav, are you not? You are the only one here who speaks Yugoslav fluently, are you not?"

"And while I am gone, you two make off with the gold. No!"

Mikhail slammed his fist down on the arm rest. "We will divide the gold now, right here.

Then it will be each man for himself."

"For God's sake, Mikhail," I said wearily. "It's thanks to you that we've gotten into this mess. Use- your head. Just how far do you think you are going to get carrying 750

pounds of gold on your back? Klaus has a good point; if we use our heads, we can get a truck to haul the gold out of here."

"Bah! Either one of you I would not trust to go away alone. We will divide the gold into three parts and each make our way as best we can."

"If one of us is caught, then all are in danger," Klaus observed drily. "The police will not need any great imagination to realize that we are on the mainland rather than across the Adriatic. To divide the gold at this point is the most foolish thing that we could do.

"There is something in what Mikhail has said, though," Klaus continued, turning to me. "

If two of us were to go and one stay behind, then no one can turn traitor.

"Yes," he continued thoughtfully, "if Mikhail and I went to Sibenik to hire an aircraft and bring back a truck, then Chris could stay here, unload the gold and get rid of the airplane while we were gone."

"No." Mikhail's, face was set. "I do not trust him any more than I trust you."

"Do not be such a fool," Klaus sneered. "Just where would he possibly go with a ton of gold and an airplane that cannot fly?"

Mikhail was silent for a long minute, then he looked up, angry and unhappy. "Perhaps it is the only way."

The two of them left an hour later. I watched them go with relief, heading into the marsh in the direction of a secondary road which the map showed connecting with the highway leading to Sibenik. Klaus's last word was that if they hadn't returned in three days, I was to hide the gold somehow and go back to Brindisi and wait. Great, providing I could find a way to get myself out of Yugoslavia. It was a mighty long walk north to. Trieste and the Italian border . . . some three hundred miles, and all of it through rugged coastal mountains. I would be as conspicuous as an eskimo in Tahiti.

The fog had not thinned . . . in fact, watching the two men disappear, it seemed thicker, heavier. I was grateful enough for the fog, but at the moment it did nothing at all to lighten my spirits.

The first task was to somehow get two thousand pounds of gold ashore. With the PBY

anchored well inside the river mouth, I was safe from detection by sea and by air . . . but only as long as the fog lasted. My cowboys and Indians idea of covering the PBY with branches lasted only as long as it took me to find out that the brush which looked so dense and impenetrable in the dark, was pretty sparse by daylight. I doubted if there was enough on the peninsula to hide one wing, let alone the rest of the aircraft.

The river was narrow enough that the starboard wing overhung the soggy bank. But the cargo blister was still some fifteen feet away and the stream bed very steep.

I clambered back into the tail section and dragged the heavy rubber raft out onto the deck. Sweating and swearing, I got it unpacked, inflated, patched and reinflated, in just under an hour.

In our hasty departure, all of the equipment had been left behind in the tunnel; including the winch. No one lifts five hundred pounds of gold and metal crate three feet up and then down five feet to a raft . . . not by himself anyway. So, two more hours were wasted rigging a makeshift winch with nylon rope, running it up and over the starboard blister coaming, the wing, and finally to the engine mount. I tore the cowling off the ruined engine and disconnected the starter motor from the main engine. The direct drive flywheel and shaft served as the winch drive, providing just enough leverage to pull one crate of gold at a time clear of the blister coaming and, hopefully, lower it gently into the raft. It worked, after a fashion, but it needed an awful lot of tugging and straining on the rope and running back and forth to the cockpit to manipulate the starter switch before the first ammunition crate was safely ashore.

Getting the crate up the tiny beach to the tent was another matter. If you have never had occasion to move five hundred pounds of dead weight, don't even bother to try. I was reduced to carrying the bars up the slope

two at a time to the tree-lined copse snug against a large flat rock where I had rigged two plastic tarps as a tent.

It was late morning and the fog beginning to thin by the time I got that last bar of gold into the tent and repacked in its crate. I had reluctantly concluded that there was no way out of having to get rid of the Catalina. For two years, sometimes frustrating, sometimes cooperative, she had been faithful to me in a faithless sort of way; she was a part of my life, but with half the police forces in Yugoslavia able to identify you at very long range by a shiny, bulky and now useless material possession, it is amazing how quickly you can sever all emotional ties.

Maybe she read my thoughts, because I had the devil's own time getting the portside engine to start. But finally, with the rubber boat in tow I taxied carefully out of the river mouth and headed for deep water. The poor old Catalina rocked along in the swells with a reluctant gait. After ten minutes of easy travel during which I carefully watched the engine temperature gauge as it inched up and over into the red again, I judged we were far enough out and swung the PBY about, feathered the prop and let it idle.

The river mouth had disappeared in the fog pressing down in dreary silence. In any direction there was only gray stillness to be seen. Fine mist droplets slid down the windshield; the only physical objects in motion in my apparent universe. I lit a cigarette and warmed up the radio, figuring that there had never been a better time to shout for help.

I switched first to the marine band and tuned through the scale picking up odd bits of foreign languages and international code, then through the weather band ignoring the Met. reports in Yugoslav and Italian. My limited facility in each language combined with the poor quality of the reception made the reports incomprehensible. For some reason I could not locate an English broadcast. Finally, I gave up and clicked the switch down into the special position, picked up the microphone and transmitted my call sign.

Immediately, as if waiting for me:

"Please limit your transmissions," a voice barked, excitement and strain evident in spite of the poor reception. "Do not transmit until told to do so." The radio went dead.

Startled, I jerked my thumb away from the microphone

button. Obviously, Ley knew that something had happened. The snappy way the operator was prepared for me and the no-nonsense order to get off the air were impressive. I thought I had heard a teletype in the background . . . which indicated he was somewhere well-equipped with access to more than house current; logically a headquarters area and possibly even a ship near by. I waited impatiently for a further transmission, fretting while the temperature gauge on the idling engine went steadily further into the red danger zone and I expected the engine to quit at any moment. If that happened, I doubted if there was enough power left in the batteries to light the dial.

Two minutes passed almost to the second, and they were back on the air.

"Stand by," the voice said and a moment later, Ley's voice was coming through loud and clear.

"Chris, do not transmit, just listen to me. The Yugoslav police have apparently decided to move in without waiting for Interpol . . . and without telling us. If they have not already shown up, be warned they are on the way. Do not attempt to resist. We are trying to reach the Minister for Internal Security, but so far have had no success. Now transmit, but be quick. I am sure that we are being monitored and I do not want you located."

Quickly I switched on the microphone and said hurriedly; "Too late. Mikhail killed Vishailly. We got away. Won't say more. Over."

Ley was back on immediately. "Damn, I was afraid something like that would happen.

Do not even hint where you are. We now know that somewhere in Egypt is the first transient base. We suspect Hong Kong or Macao as the final destination. I am only afraid that the Yugoslays have done us a good bit of damage. Over."

"Must abandon aircraft. How do I keep in touch, over."

"Transmit on same 127.6 Kc frequency. My call letters, KXY-23. We will keep as close watch on you as possible. Is there anything else I can do? Make this your last transmission."

"Yes," I said. "Get the Yugoslays off my back. Out."

I shut off the radio and sat staring through the windshield while I finished the cigarette.

The lowering gray sky only deepened my melancholy. We stood about as much chance of getting out of this fix as I had of jumping

over the moon from a standing start. Finally, I stubbed out the cigarette and cut the port engine. The sound as it wound down to a standstill almost broke my heart.

I took only the .38 revolver with me and waded back into the fuselage to the portside blister, swung it open and pulled the raft up. Then I went across the fuselage and opened the starboard blister. I had decided that sinking her was the only way of doing it gracefully and with finality. Maybe, if things turned out all right, I could persuade Interpol that they owed me a salvage job .. . at the very least.

I spent a further fifteen exhausting minutes cranking open the landing gear doors by hand. On the trip out, the aircraft had partly filled as water seeped in through the numerous bullet holes. Now, with the gear doors open, the water became a torrent. I took a last sentimental look around and climbed out into the raft, from where I could watch her as she settled beneath the surface. Five minutes later, she stopped sinking as the starboard wing listed over and dipped beneath the water. Slowly rowing around to the front of the PBY, I could see that the top of the fuselage was almost awash but her gasoline tanks were still three quarters full. That, combined with the broad wing expanse, would keep her afloat for hours, perhaps days.

So much for any possible salvage, I thought and rowed under the wings to open the pet cocks on the gasoline tanks. After a few moments, two good-sized pools of gasoline accumulated on the still surface. Sadly, I rowed off fifty yards, took a last long look and fired the raft's flare gun into the gasoline under the port wing. The gasoline exploded into twin pillars of flame that shot skyward, melting the fog into clear air. So intense was the burning high-octane fuel that the flame was almost colorless. Seconds later the tanks in the starboard side erupted, adding their ferocity to the blaze. I had begun to row steadily shoreward as soon as the first tank had gone up. Now at a safe distance, I watched the aircraft bum to death; first the wings blazing up and then crumpling under the intense heat. As each dropped into the water it spilled a stream of liquid fire. Within minutes, the entire aircraft was enveloped in flame.

I watched the whole time until, at last, the skeleton buckled and slipped beneath the waves and the fog crept

back, sealing the crypt. Then I turned the raft and began the long row to the shore.

CHAPTER NINE

The fog never did properly clear off that day, and I spent most of the remaining afternoon reconnoitering the area. It was pretty much as shown on the map; empty swamp land lying between the foothills of the Dinaric escarpment and the coast proper.

Immediately in back of my camp, the ground began to rise steadily until it leveled off to form a small plateau, heavily overgrown with pines, that connected to the mainland. I struck out through the trees and shortly, was climbing uphill again. It took nearly an hour, but finally I broke out of the forest onto a ridge overlooking a shallow valley through the middle of which ran a narrow, unpaved road. I found a comfortable spot to sit in the hazy sun and watched the road for half an hour. In all that time, not even a stray dog passed by.

It was close to dark by the time I made it back to camp, ravenously hungry. Lunch had been forgotten and the heavy exercise of the day had exhausted me. I ate a hurried dinner, laid out the sleeping bag and settled down with a last cigarette. My mind wandered briefly to Klaus and Mikhail and finally to Ley.

Obviously, the Yugoslav authorities, with their hasty action, had taken him by surprise.

Vishailly would have notified his superiors as to which radio wavelengths to watch, but brief as our conversation had been, I seriously doubted that they had obtained an accurate fix. Without radio direction-finding equipment in the immediate area watching the exact wavelength, it was unlikely that they could have narrowed the search any closer than the general area. They would have learned nothing more than they already knew.

Too tired to think about it any longer I stubbed out the cigarette and was asleep in seconds .. . in spite of the hard ground and the unfamiliar surroundings.

Dawn of the sixth day in Yugoslavia. Dull, dreary, foggy. Not expecting Klaus and Mikhail to return for some time yet, I ate a leisurely breakfast and took a long, cold swim to work out some of the kinks. After that, I lazed around the camp for several hours, ate and finally fell asleep again in the early afternoon.

A dream I had not had for several months was waiting for me. I was playing Forward Air Controller for a South Vietnamese' Ranger unit up near the DMZ. Monsoon rains were drizzling and the air held the soft heat of the wet jungle. The unit had been moving on a suspected VC rendezvous camp, and I had left them several hundred feet behind while I pushed up through the undergrowth with a radioman. Overhead, I could hear the dull drone of a circling Phantom waiting for my co-ordinates to begin his bombing run.

I had just radioed the exact location of the camp and could hear the Phantom swing off to the north to begin its approach. At that moment, we were suddenly under heavy fire. The radioman yelled at me, and a moment later knocked me to the ground before collapsing limply on top of me. The whine of the approaching jet, the corporal's screams and the constant sharp cracking of the small-arms fire tangled impressions and I panicked. That damned Phantom was coming in with napalm and we were smack in the middle of his drop zone. The radio had been knocked from my hand by the fall and the corporal's heavy body and the tangle of brush put it beyond my reach.

The dream always reached this point clearly, concisely; as if I were watching an exceptionally well-done movie. But as soon as I lunged for the radio phone, the film spurted forward into a dreamy surrealism. The rain drops grew in size and fell slowly and merged with the shape of the gray egg descending from the Phantom, tumbling end for end. The dead or dying radioman disappeared and the trees and the brush thrashed violently in the wind storm that was somehow created by the gunfire. And the bomb floated closer. I was standing now, the better to watch it. Then, I began to run through the jungle, fighting the vegetation and the sucking mud and when I looked behind me, the bomb had changed course to follow me until it came to rest less than a foot from the top of my head. A tiny crack appeared in the casing and grew and grew until the burning napalm came boiling out.

A loud halloo woke me; shocked me awake is perhaps more accurate. The intense reality of the nightmare always

left me shaken and disoriented. I had lived a part of that dream once . . . up to the exploding napalm. A bullet in my leg, disoriented, scared as hell and almost paralyzed knowing that there was nowhere to go until Pete Schenk sprinted through the gouts of flame to pull me out.

I came out from under the shelter halves with the pistol in my hand to see Klaus and Mikhail grinning at me from the beach.

"How the hell . . ." I began.

Mikhail laughed and with a sweeping gesture pointed to an old fishing boat riding at anchor in the river. I stumbled down to the beach and stared at it.

"Where in the world did you steal that thing?"

Klaus grinned even wider. "Mikhail found it in the village that we passed through yesterday afternoon. We had gone in to buy food, and we came across a funeral procession. One of the bystanders told Mikhail that the funeral was for a fisherman who had died of pneumonia the day before. He was an old man and had left his wife, after a lifetime's hard work, an old house and fishing boat. This gave us the idea. That evening we went round to her house, bought the boat from her and swore her to secrecy for at least three days. Then we sailed the boat south this morning. Mikhail says she handles well enough to get us to Italy."

"Italy?" I asked in surprise. "Why the devil do you want to go to Italy?"

Klaus snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. Where else do we go? First we must get out of Yugoslavia. The police are looking for us all along the coast. The old woman said that soldiers were in the village looking for several men. She did not know who or why."

"The second reason," Mikhail interrupted, nettled obviously at having the spotlight stolen, "is that the two of you have valid Italian passports and residences in that country.

Therefore, you can fly your other airplane out of the country with little difficulty."

"Ha, what the hell makes you think the Yugoslav Coast Guard is going to let us sail right on across the Adriatic?"

"The weather," Mikhail replied smugly. "The reports say fog and rain will continue for several days. If we leave now while the fog is still heavy, we can be off the Italian coast by daybreak. I spent many years dodging Nazi coastal patrols," he said this last with a slight sneer

that twisted his lip in Maher's direction, "and I do not think I have forgotten how."

Much of what Mikhail said was true. If there was anybody qualified by experience to run a blockade of coastal patrols, he was certainly it. If the police were already in the villages looking for us, it would not be long before they started scouring the country and coast between.

"Okay," I agreed. "We probably stand a better chance of getting across to Italy than trying to find another aircraft here."

We cleaned up the campsite immediately, covering any trace that might have betrayed us. Always we worked with one ear cocked for the slightest sound of an aircraft engine or worse, a patrol boat. I told them what had happened to the PBY. Klaus said nothing, but Mikhail was surprisingly unhappy that I had destroyed the aircraft. An amazing wreck of a man I thought. Every hour revealed another unsuspected facet of his character.

By late afternoon, we had the gold stowed aboard the boat in the forward hold under a molding pile of old fishing nets. Other than that, we took no further precautions. If we were stopped and searched, there was no way we could have hidden four rusty ammunition boxes aboard such a small boat.

The boat itself was a slightly more modern version of the Balkan calque we had used on the island; it looked more like one of the San Pedro fishing boats that still operate off the west coast of the United States. The hull was broad-beamed with a high bow, the stern squared off and supporting a small deck-house just aft of amidships. A small, fifty-horsepower diesel engine in surprisingly good condition pushed her along smartly at twelve knots flat out or eight knots cruising. Unlike its American contemporaries, this craft carried no radar and only a small receiver permanently tuned to the marine weather band. I would have liked a police band to keep tabs on what was being said about us, but on a fishing boat there would, of course, be no time or need for such luxuries.

Mikhail assured us that the engine was in good enough repair to attempt the crossing and that the tanks were full of diesel oil. What more could we ask? Maybe a full pardon, I thought, but I kept it to myself.

A light drizzle had started earlier, and now as we crept

out of the river channel in the heavy dusk it increased to a steady downpour. If nothing else, the elements seemed to be on our side. Mikhail crouched his six-foot two-inch bulk into the tiny wheelhouse and peered out through the driving rain. With the three of us, the cabin was jammed, and when I couldn't stand the cramped cubicle any longer I slipped on one of the old rain slickers hanging by the screen door and went out onto the narrow, slippery deck and made my way to what I suppose you would call a forepeak.

The steady downpour mixed grandly with the fog to hide all beyond fifty yards. Mikhail had set a course in a southwesterly direction to take us through the outlying islands and out of Yugoslav waters as fast as possible. Yugoslavia subscribed to the Hague Convention that had set three miles as a territorial limit, but like most nations bordering the sea, continued to exercise informal control to a twelve-mile limit. Thus, with the offshore islands thrown in, we had nearly forty miles of heavily patrolled waters to traverse before we could begin to relax, and even then, if they decided to stop us on the high seas, there would be no one to deny them that right; certainly not us. We had four pistols between us. I knew that Mikhail had one, I had two . . . the Smith & Wesson .38

carefully wrapped away in my sleeping bag and the Walther beneath my shirt. And I was certain that Klaus had a pistol concealed somewhere. We were a dangerous band of desperados, yes we were.

It sounds childish in the retelling, but believe me, at the time it was mighty comforting to feel that cold bulk of the Walther pressing against my skin. The memory of Mikhail's attack on me after the rockslide was still very fresh in my mind. So was the incident with the coil of steel cable.

For an hour, we continued to push through the dark silent seas. There were no waves to speak of; the surface was like a lake in the early morning, only the barest of ripples spattered with raindrops. I was worried most about Yugoslav coastal patrol boats equipped with radar. Smuggling is the bane of all eastern-bloc countries . . . especially those with a coastline. Western luxury goods command a high price and import quotas are usually low. The Yugo-slays would be well versed in anti-smuggling tactics, which they would certainly put to good use while searching for

us. Our only hope was in relying on the darkness and Mikhail's extensive experience running Nazi wartime blockades.

When the rain began to seep through and around the slicker I went back to the deckhouse. Mikhail acknowledged my company with a nod and mentioned that Klaus had gone below to the small cabin to sleep.

We stood in companionable silence for a while. I asked if he would like me to take the wheel, but he shook his head and continued to stare fixedly through the forward windows. The compass was bearing steadily on the course he had set, 272° WSW. In the light reflecting from the red dash lamps, I studied the big man's face. Lit from beneath, the coarseness was gone from his features. The red light obscured the folds and wrinkles, smoothing the skin and making him look younger. He must have been a great one with women in his younger days, I thought. His face was all angled planes; no' round weaknesses at all. The strange light made it crystal clear that he had grown older refusing to accept changing ways, and this obstinacy had begun to show in his face. Now in his fifties, he had the appearance sometimes of a punch-drunk fighter. Apparently the pitiless glare of change had also affected him mentally. I could not picture the childish man I knew as Mikhail Korstlov ever surviving the rigors of a guerilla existence against an enemy as cunning as the Nazis. Yet that night in the deckhouse of a tiny fishing boat, fleeing from the Yugoslav authorities with a cargo of contraband, I found I was not only seeing Mikhail in his natural environment, but also as he had been thirty years earlier.

Physically, he may still have been as powerful as in his youth, but only his strength had survived the years. I could feel a great pity for this man; no affection, only a pity for the wreck who stood before me grasping the spokes of the wheel with competent hands. He was a man from another age, an age when war was still conducted on a man-to-man basis. He had not been suited to the peculiar rigors and demands of the cold war nor to peace time nor to the strange non-wars with which we now occupy ourselves. He had become an outlaw, an outcast, a restless spirit of a kind doomed in a technological world.

As I stood watching him, I honestly could not decide if the world would be better off when his kind were gone completely. Maybe we would; but a certain vitality of spirit and purpose would also disappear with him. The effects were already to be seen among the young all over the planet as mankind fought desperately to adapt himself to an alien way of life, a way that could only inevitably treat him as an inconvenience not properly programmable on a computer punch card. We adaptable ones would probably make it, but never men like Mikhail. This was probably his last great adventure, the last opportunity to "accomplish". I knew that if we survived this crazy quilt of cross-purposes and managed to get cleanly away with the gold, Mikhail would not live beyond another year. It would ruin him. I wondered if he realized that?

They were not happy thoughts that strange night, but they clarified much for me. I had finally come to see that Mikhail resented Klaus for the authority that he somehow represented rather than for any past political ideology which he had fought against for nine continuous years from Spain to Dalmatia. Mikhail was an anarchist, not a Communist; simply an anarchist. I was fully aware that Klaus was the authority figure and it rankled; but nowhere near to the same extent that it rankled Mikhail. I was of a different generation and background; one taught to respect authority . . . perhaps unfortunately for my generation, taught too well. But in any event, since I had decided to co-operate fully with Interpol, Mikhail, the anarchist, and I, the fool, were forced to become allies against the Nazi. We had reached a working agreement that morning on the beach, and I felt that that was about as far as I dared go.

Presently, the gentle swaying of the boat and the closeness of the cabin made me desperately sleepy and rather than go below, I spread a couple of blankets on the deckhouse floor and fell asleep.

The explosion occurred so close that it lifted the old boat and slammed it sideways in the water. I was thrown solidly against the flimsy bulkhead and shocked out of a drugged sleep into a fierce disorientation that lasted several seconds until a second explosion cast a vivid white light, bright as lightning through the windows of the fishing boat etching Mikhail boldly against the glare as he struggled with the wheel. He wrenched the wheel sending the boat away in a spinning circle to heel dangerously to starboard. I staggered to my feet and propped

my back against the bulkhead, bracing a hand on the railing in front of me. A third vicious crack followed and a spear of lightning lanced down from the tortured clouds and I laughed insanely.

Mikhail whipped his head around, lips drawn back in a grimace of exertion and surprise.

He obviously thought I had gone mad. I laughed again and pointed through the windows at the storm raging outside, throwing up mountains of water around the little boat; waves that lost their crests to the wind slashing the angry seas.

"A storm!" I shouted at him. "I thought we were being attacked!"

"We are, damn you!" he shouted and as if to lend confirmation, another roar and a strip of railing exploded and vanished into the waves.

By God, I thought insanely, he's right.

"A patrol boat," Mikhail panted. "They fired across our bow. I do not know where they are. Then they fired again, closer and then right at us."

He spun the wheel frantically, letting the bow fall away into the wind. The old boat shuddered as the wind clawed her broadside and she slewed sharply, almost corkscrewing, across a wave crest and then slipped sideways down into a trough. The port rail dipped under the greenish black water and the deck foamed upward, the railing torn away from bow to amidships. Mikhail spun the wheel again and she staggered and then steadied, driving up a towering wave rearing in front of us. Another shot whistled overhead, clearly heard in spite of the storm's fury. But this one was wide and all we saw was the lightninglike glow of its explosion far to starboard.

"We're losing them," I yelped. Mikhail snorted and muttered about radar. We had not lost them I realized. Their gunfire was wild in the heavy seas. The hatch banged open and Klaus squirmed through. Mikhail roared at him to stay out of the way and he sidled over to brace himself beside me.

"What in hell is happening?" he shouted into my ear.

"Must be the Yugoslav Coastal Patrol," I shouted back. I pointed out the missing rail and the smashed deck barely visible in the strobelike effect of the rapidly flickering lightning.

Another shell screamed at us and exploded; nearer this time. Then another followed, falling short on the port side.

"Bracketed, by God!" Mikhail chortled.

A sixth shot smashed into the waves behind us and exploded in a geyser of water that reached the boat, for a moment doubling the intensity of the water pouring down on us.

"Only a few more shots and they will have sunk us," Mikhail boomed, his voice full of admiration. He rammed the engine throttle forward and spun the wheel, heeling the boat to starboard again. As he did so, the seventh shot smashed into the water just beyond the bow deluging the boat with the geyser of its explosion. I thought I had lost my eardrums; I could see Mikhail's mouth working, but could hear no sound for several seconds.

. . using . . . three-inch deck gun. Must be impossible . . . aim properly . . . these seas . . .

yet . . . sink us yet. Must . . . old German boat or . . . hit us . . . third shot . . . radar does not control guns directly . . . furnishes

plot."

I didn't know much about artillery fire from the deck of a moving ship, but I did know about radar and about artillery fire. Semiautomated fire control, they called it. Radar locates the target and watches the shell on the first part of its trajectory; superimposing the plot on the radar scope. The spotter watches and calls off new co-ordinates to the gunner who readjusts and fires another shell. The process is repeated until a direct hit is scored.

The only thing in our favor was the heavy seas which made it impossible to lay and fire a gun accurately. But even that would only delay the inevitable. They had us bracketed and could saturate the area with gunfire. Eventually, one of the shells would damage or sink us.

The rain had slackened momentarily but now poured down harder than ever; almost a tropical downpour. At the same time, the wind screamed at us in full gale. The old boat faltered, struck on the beam by the almost solid, wall of air. The waves, seen in the incessant flickering of lightning, towered around us, mast high in some instances, burying us from sight in their troughs and exposing us to the attack of the wind on the crests. The pounding we took was terrible. As I watched, another section of railing carried away as the calque doggedly lifted her bow out of churning green water once again. I only hoped that Mikhail had been right in his assessment of the soundness of the boat. She carried pumps but if the boat were taking on water, they would be next to useless.

Two shells in quick succession smashed in just short of our portside, throwing great geysers of water skyward, the concussions stabbing at our ears. Mikhail whipped the spokes of the wheel again to turn us to starboard, bringing the boat up short relative to the patrol boat. Again it worked as we saw a shell explode a hundred yards ahead.

"How far outside of Yugoslav waters are we?" Maher demanded.

"At least eighty kilometers," Mikhail shouted back. "We have been in international waters for hours. They have no business firing on us! It is piracy!"

Maher laughed deeply at that. "Who are we to complain to," he shouted back. "Even if we had a radio transmitter!"

My arms and legs ached from having to brace myself against the fury of the seas. My eyes were full of exploding flashes of light as if I were trapped in a mad dream, sanity threatening to desert at any second. The explosions of shells were falling more quickly now . . . and nearer, the seas seemed to be continual geysers of tortured water as we ran on at full speed for the Italian mainland, twisting and turning with all the skill at Mikhail'

s command. We were marked and doomed, able only to delay the inevitable. The patrol boat would track us by radar across the Adriatic if need be, and we were helpless to either fight back or escape. There was nothing left but to surrender or die as the heavy gun pounded us to pieces.

The three of us must have realized this simultaneously because I saw the stiffness go out of Mikhail's back and shoulders and Klaus turned to me with an apprehensive look.

"There is nothing else to do . . ." I started to shout and with that weird telepathy that seemed to link the three of us now and again, they nodded assent, without argument, before I was finished speaking.

But the question was how to surrender. We were out of sight in the darkness and distance and with no transmitting facilities. Mikhail found the answer by stopping the engine and letting the calque glide forward on her momentum, then going ahead at just enough speed to maintain steerage weigh. The patrol boat must have realized what we were doing because the shells stopped exploding around

us and for the next ten minutes we were left to peer through the rain-drenched glass until Klaus caught the ghostly shape of the patrol boat maneuvering toward us several hundred feet off the port bow.

Moving more like an automaton than a human being, I pulled on the slicker again and squeezed through the screen door. The storm was beginning to peak in ferocity and the roar of the wind was almost solid. Waves towered around me, crashing over the deck as we crested first one and then dropped down the steep side into the trough of another. At odd moments, I could see the lights of the patrol boat as it slowly closed on us. I ducked back into the shelter of the deckhouse and waited. The wind was an irresistible scream in my ears, wiping away all sound but the throbbing of the patrol boat's engines as it came nearer.

Twenty minutes after the last shell was fired, they took up station off our portside, and in the lightning flashes I could clearly see the two sailors braced at the deck gun mounted forward of the wheelhouse. One other sailor stood near the stern winch with a light machine gun. There was no hope for it at all.

I stood up as best I could on the heaving deck and raised my hands over my head. At that, a hatch banged open and two men, wrapped in slickers, came out onto the deck. One carried a light heaving line. The one who appeared to be an officer leaned over the railing and shouted across the space of churning waters. I shrugged my shoulders and pointed to my ears, indicating that I could not hear over the noise of the storm. He cupped his hands and tried again; again I pointed to my ears. Then he turned and spoke to the sailor with the line who immediately ducked back into the deckhouse and re-emerged with a portable loud-hailer. At the same time, Mikhail came out on deck and stood beside Me. The Yugoslav officer shouted through the loud-hailer and this time his words carried clearly across the gap in spite of the storm.

"Digni se i privuci konope." (Heave to and prepare to take aboard a towing line.) The Yugoslav officer spoke slowly enough that I was able to understand most of what he was saying.

Mikhail cupped his hands and shouted back, his voice carrying over the distance in spite of the wind.

"Sto zelite? Zasto streljate na nas?" (What do you want? Why are you shooting at us?) His accent was that of a Dalmatian fisherman, harsh and coarse.

"Uzmi ovo konope, ako ne mi cemo streljati." (Take this towing line or we will fire on you.) The steadiness of the officer's voice indicated that he had no doubts at all that we were the men he was after. He said something else but the wind carried the words away.

"Mi smo samo Ko ste Vi i sto zelite?" Mikhail shouted back. (We are only fishermen.

Who are you and what do you want?)

"Ja sam Porucnik Obrevgov od Jugoslovenske Obalne Patrole. Vi ste aretirani I dodjete s nama u Mostar. Ako ne ja imam naredjenje streljati na vas." (I am Lieutenant Obrevgov of the Yugoslav Coastal Patrol. You are under arrest and will accompany us to Mostar. If you do not, I have orders to fire on you.)

"Mi nismo u Jugoslovenskim vodama." Mikhail roared insulted. "Vi nemate prasa aretirati nas." (We are not in Yugoslavian waters. You have no right to arrest us.)

"Primi konope o strelijal nate." (Take the towing line or I will fire on you.) Mikhail swore under his breath. The hauling line came snaking over and in spite of the wind it was a perfect cast. Within a few minutes, the heavy manila hawser was led in across the bow and turned securely to the foremast. Without another word. Obrevgov disappeared, leaving the sailor with the machine gun to keep a watchful eye on us as the patrol boat turned away into the wind, tugging us with it.

Both Mikhail and I went back into the shelter of the deckhouse where Klaus was waiting.

There was nothing, literally nothing to say. By now, Obrevgov would have radioed that he had taken us under tow and by dawn, other Coastal Patrol boats would be converging on his course. Overhead, it was even possible that they would be committing aircraft to keep pace with us. International waters or no, they obviously had no intention of letting us get away and that made Obrevgov's oversight even more puzzling. Why had he not warned us about dumping the gold; the evidence that would surely convict us.

Then the thought occurred to me: what if Vishailly had not told his superiors everything?

Supposing that he had relayed another excuse for our presence on Kornat, con-

veniently neglecting to mention the gold? In that case, wasn't it conceivable that the Yugoslav authorities would have put two and two together and come up with five?

Unless Vishailly had passed on the information that one million dollars in gold was hidden in that cistern, the government would have had no way of knowing so. Ley was depending upon two men in the Yugoslav police for contact with the upper echelons: Mistako . . . dead .. . and Vishailly, now also dead. But Vishailly had died last, long after the time he could have reported the hidden cache of gold as our real objective in coming to the island.

Now my mind was beginning to churn with the frustrating puzzle of what if . . . ?

Suppose Vishailly had not passed on the right word; had come up with some other excuse . . . anything from a Chicom/Albanian plot to plant weapons for a takeover bid to a narcotics operation. Suppose that he had tried to sneak into the cistern that night to surprise the three of us, thinking to kill us all before the troops arrived; had instead been surprised by Mikhail and shot to death? If he had succeeded in killing us, then he could have gotten away scot free with the gold. I was sure that he would have been ready with enough evidence to back up whatever story he had thought up to prevent another exploration of the cistern. Later, he could have put Ley off by telling him that the Yugoslav Government had confiscated the gold and depended on the well-known propensity of Communist governments to refuse to release information concerning their police activities.

It all fit nicely together. How else to explain the fact that the patrol boat had fired with every intention of sinking us? How else to explain the fact that Obrevgov had not warned us about disposing of the gold, the only evidence that could tie us to the murder, over the sides? Simple answer. He did not know that we had gold aboard. Vishailly's beautiful plan had failed the moment Mikhail shot him. The only question remaining was why?

What had Vishailly to gain? A million dollars? He, a dedicated Communist civil servant?

It was out of character. Besides, he was only one man . . . how could he possibly hope to raise the ammunition crates, smuggle them out of the country and convert the gold to cash by himself? He could not do it single-handedly ... therefore, there had to be someone else involved. But who? An

organization . . . a gang? Was he, in fact, part of Maher's operation? Each question led to a dozen more, and I quit before I went out of my mind.

Klaus leaned against the forward windows staring through the streaming glass, well sunk into apathy and self-pity. I could see the single sailor with the machine gun planted solidly on the afterdeck of the patrol boat and since there did not seem to be much chance that we could escape, it suggested that he was there only as a safety measure. The gun crew had demonstrated their ability to shoot accurately under the difficult sea conditions. We could not have gotten more than a few hundred yards before a flurry of shots would have sent us straight to the bottom.

We were trapped like hooked fish, and like fish we danced and jerked on the end of the towing line as the fury of the storm continued unabated. The winds, I estimated, were blowing now at close to fifty knots, almost a full-fledged gale. The waves were topping fifteen feet and the crosscurrents and chop, complicated by the wind, kept Mikhail at the wheel countering the thrust and pull of the calque to prevent the heavy hawser from snubbing up short and ripping away the mast and opening a gaping hole in the deck.

Klaus disappeared below and in a moment, returned to report that we were taking on water. For God's sake, I thought, what next, and followed him below, down into the center hold where the air was stale and flat and smelled of dead fish and the creakings of the wooden hull were like the screams of the damned. Nearly a foot of water covered the bilges; seeping through the lapstreaked hull, but at a rate which was of no immediate danger.

I went into the dingy engine compartment to switch on the bilge pump. I noticed a glint in the dull light from the single low-wattage bulb mounted directly above the tiny generator. Snugged securely in a wrapping of oily rags and jammed down between the engine and the main fuel tank were two unopened bottles of wine. I grinned in spite of myself. Hidden away from view as they were, they probably belonged to the dead fisherman and had been meant to provide a measure of solace during the long hours of fishing in the winter months. The bottles were unlabeled, which was not so unusual . . .

this coastal area was also grape country . . . I bent down again to examine the fuel tank.

Sure enough, near the bottom a metal plug screwed into the tank. Klaus had already gone back up into the deckhouse leaving the compartment door braced open and me alone. A quick search turned up a wrench that fit the plug and two sharp blows from a ball-peen hammer loosened the rusty grip of years.

A small amount of hope; possibly, there was a way out. I pulled the corks from the wine bottles with a pair of pliers and dumped the evil-smelling brew into the bilges. Anyone brave enough to drink that stuff would need galvanized plumbing. I loosened the plug in the tank enough to generate a steady trickle of diesel oil and filled both bottles. Two strips of twisted rag, soaked in the oil, made admirable fuses and I had two Molotov cocktails.

In the deckhouse once again, I spotted the patrol boat through the driving rain. She was about twenty yards ahead, stern waggling in the waves as she bucked both wind and the weight of our boat. Klaus stood impassively at the rear of the deckhouse wrapped in his own thoughts. Mikhail was at the wheel, exhaustion beginning to show on his face.

"Can you increase speed to bring us closer?" I asked him.

He swung his head to look at me. "Why?"

"Can you?" I repeated insistently and showed him the two fire bombs.

Comprehension dawned on his face and he broke into a grin, nodding. Klaus moved forward to hear what we were talking about and I showed him the wine bottles.

"They're full of diesel oil," I explained. "If we can get close enough, I can lob them onto the stern while you cut the tow rope. The fire might keep them busy enough to let us get away . . ."

"So that they can sink us . . ." Klaus countered with a sneer.

"It's that or a hangman's noose. This way we have a chance. I say take it."

"I, too," Mikhail rumbled.

Klaus only shrugged his shoulders. "We have no other choice," he said apathetically.

"All right. Go get the axe from the engine compartment. Mikhail, ease us closer to the patrol boat. Do it slowly so that you don't attract their attention. We have to get within about ten yards before I can be sure of hitting anything."

Mikhail nodded and I ducked back down the hatch again. There was a kerosene lantern hanging in the main cabin and I quickly cut the cord suspending it from the ceiling and shook the lamp to see how much fuel was left. It was nearly full; satisfied, I raised the squat glass chimney and lit it, turned the flame up high and shoved the lantern into one of the wooden boxes that served for storage and lugged it back up the ladder.

"What is that for?" Mikhail demanded when I pushed into the deckhouse.

"For lighting the bombs. I want to make damned sure I can get a flame in all that wind without attracting attention."

"The guard has just gone in," Mikhail said, nodding agreement. "Perhaps the storm is too severe for them to have a man on deck."

That was one of the first breaks that we had had in a long time, I thought. In the few minutes I had been in the cabin, Mikhail had surreptitiously increased speed. The stern of the patrol boat was appreciably nearer. Klaus hurried up from below with the axe, his face animated now that action was in the offing. We slid open the door cautiously and inched out onto the deck.

The wind had abated somewhat but the rain was falling harder than ever. I had thrown my slicker over the box to shield the lantern and was wet through to the skin in an instant. Klaus pushed past me and crept to the bow, staying below what was left of the railing on the off chance they were watching us from inside the wheelhouse. I did the same and as soon as I was in position, crouched beneath the railing, I turned and waved an arm at Mikhail.

He caught the signal and I felt the boat jump ahead as he yanked the throttle out. I lit the first of the fire bombs. The oil-soaked wick flamed and burned harshly in spite of the rain. The fishing boat closed rapidly now on the larger patrol boat and just as I stood up to throw, I saw the cabin door burst open and an armed sailor stumble through. I didn't wait any longer but threw the fire bomb with all my might.

It arched up, over the tossing waves, the burning fuse describing an orange arc in the night until it smashed down on the stern of the patrol boat, bursting high and exploding into flame. The sailor jumped backward and as I prepared to throw the second, he got the machine gun into action. A spray of bullets raked the bow. I saw the phantom shape that was Klaus slamming the axe into the hawser, once, twice, a third time. The rope • parted as the second bomb smashed and exploded on the afterdeck and the entire stern of the boat became a blazing inferno.

The fishing boat slewed away, heeling dangerously and Klaus and I went down under a plunging low wave. The water tore at my body, covering me completely, tearing at my arms where I had wrapped them around a jagged piece of broken railing. The bow surged up again as she steadied around and began to run due west. The burning patrol boat was two hundred yards behind and fast disappearing into the rain. Klaus and I broke and ran for the deckhouse.

CHAPTER TEN

By dawn, the rain had slackened to a thick drizzle. In little less than an hour, the sky had lightened to a dead gray, lowering down until the clouds seemed barely a hundred feet off the waves, leaving little difference between day and night. There had been no pursuit. By the time the crew of the patrol boat had gotten the fire under control, we were certain to have been long gone from their radar screen. And slow as we were, we would have gained enough of a head start that pursuit would have been impossible in the storm.

Klaus had fallen asleep on the same "bed" that I had made up the evening before, and Mikhail had finally relinquished the wheel to me while he caught some sleep below.

Now, in the dreary light of morning, I could make out the faint Italian coastline off our starboard beam. I had the idea that we had made landfall somewhere north of the port city of Pescara. I had decided in the long hours to dawn that the best approach to the port was bold-as-you-please and straight in. Since Pescara was also home port for a large Adriatic fishing fleet, we might, by sailing boldly in, fool the customs officials into thinking that we were part of that fleet long enough to unload an, disappear.

The closer we came to the coast, the thicker became the fog and rain until it was heavier now than it had been farther out to sea. Mikhail had come up a few minutes before, wakened Klaus and was using the binoculars to examine the coastline. Just as Klaus had gone below to brew a pot of coffee, Mikhail grunted and passed the glasses to me, pointing across the starboard quarter to the low headlands and the breakwater indicating the port of Pescara. We were right on . . . not bad navigating. I nodded back at him, my grin matching his.

Very slowly, sticking to the channel edges, we ran in to find the harbor docks deserted in the lashing rain. The lack of activity puzzled me until I realized that it was Sunday . . . in Italy, on Sunday mornings, nothing stirs except the churches and cafés.

We tied up at the far end of a remote pier, in the shadow of an oil tanker that had come up the Adriatic from the new pipeline terminal at Haifa. The tanker's bulk would serve to hide our battered, gunshot ripped boat from the casual eye . . . particularly one belonging to a wandering customs official. As the morning grew older, rain or no rain, they would be venturing out for their daily inspection tours.

We wasted no time. While Mikhail and Klaus wrestled the ammunition crates up onto the deck, I left hurriedly for the taxi stand at the end of the dock. I had managed to hang onto all of my papers throughout the uproar of the past few days, and twenty minutes later, in spite of my half-drowned appearance, I was leaving the nearest car rental agency with a Ford van.

We loaded the ammunition crates into the van, ignoring the dangerous way it sagged onto its springs, and drove slowly off the dock and into the new city. An hour later, not even stopping for breakfast, we were solidly onto the four-lane highway leading down the coast to Bari two hundred miles south and from there another seventy-five miles to Brindisi. The drive south, in contrast to the activities of previous days, was completely uneventful. Mikhail and Klaus both slept the deep sleep of exhaustion and semi-security.

In spite of a dragging weariness, I was wide awake and too keyed up to be sleepy. The highway was slippery in the winter rain and driving the overloaded van required enough concentration to prevent road hypnosis.

As long as I obeyed the traffic rules, we were not likely to be stopped. It would probably be hours before the fishing boat was found, let alone traced to us . . . if ever. By early afternoon, the rain had all but stopped and the skies were beginning to show rare patches of. blue.

We stopped at a roadside restaurant an hour or so north of Brindisi. Sunday afternoons in Italy are full of quiet relaxing family visits, or with the new affluence, family dinners at favorite restaurants. And when I say family, I mean family . . . grandfather to youngest child and all dressed to the ears. Needless to say, our sea-stained and rumpled clothing and unshaven faces received a few stares and snide Italian comments.

Less than an hour later, we were back on the road, Klaus driving now while I caught some sleep in the back. There was not even a guard on the airfield entrance, although the gate gaped wide when Klaus drove through two hours later. Coming back to the old house that served Pete and me as a combination office and living quarters was a little like coming home after a long absence. It was hard to realize that I had been gone less than a week. Everything was so familiar and sharp that it almost hurt.

On the drive south, we had decided to leave Italy that evening if at all possible. After the incident with the Coastal Patrol boat the three of us wanted to take every precaution possible. When Klaus proposed to fly out of Italy that night, neither Mikhail nor I argued, tired as we were.

As evening settled in, the patchy sky fused into a solid mass of gray cotton and by six p.

m. rain was again falling heavily. I stood by the large bay window watching it splatter on the pavement where it refracted the airfield lights into multicolored crystals. For minutes at a time, it would pour down in a veritable deluge, then as if some giant hand were working a bellows, it would slacken to a steady drizzle of several minutes duration before building up in force once again. The rhythm held me in fascination. Across the apron, the long row of hangars was dark, deserted this Sunday evening except for the lights of the small café. Suddenly, I had the longing for company other than these two madmen . . . sane company . . . I pulled

my raincoat out of the cupboard, the beginning of an idea forming.

"Where are you going," Mikhail asked suspiciously. He crossed the small room to stand by the desk watching me. Klaus turned silently from the window to watch me shrug into the coat and do up the buttons.

"Out," I said briefly and offered no more in the way of explanation.

"We will come with you," Klaus stated promptly.

I shook my head. "No. You'd only be in the way and people would ask too many questions. Both of you wait here until I come back."

I opened the door and pushed out into the slanting rain, hearing a muffled curse as the door swung shut and, not really caring, ran across the tarmac to the coffee shop.

Several people greeted me as I came in and I stopped by the pool table to trade a couple of insults with acquaintances. By the time I reached the coffee bar, the whole place knew I was back. I was also quite certain that the police had not been around looking for me.

Someone would have told me so if they had.

As I settled down at the counter, the noise in the place settled back to its usual dull roar including the click of billiard balls and the staccato conversations in Italian.

Silvannia was working the counter as I thought she would be. A lush, long-legged blonde, from the Italian section of Switzerland. Over the past couple of years we had become quite close friends. Nothing serious, we just seemed to understand one another without the need to make further demands. She greeted me with a smile.

"I thought you were on a charter still?"

"I finished yesterday. Just got back a few minutes ago."

Silvannia bent across the counter to peer out the window for the PBY. As she did, her shirtwaist casually fell away and the view to which I was intentionally treated brought back memories of many comfortable nights.

"I do not see the Catalina. I thought I did not hear you come in."

"Engine trouble again," I half lied. "Left her in Turkey until I can get back over." That much was true . . . barely.

She nodded sympathetically, knowing that I lived a hand-to-mouth existence with that Catalina and that I

took my life in my hands every time I went up; but she knew that I knew and that's the way we left it.

"Is Pete around?" I asked innocently. I really wanted to know where the DC-3 was.

Pete was a hellion. He learned to fly in the service as I had done. Some fifteen years or so older than I was, he made me feel like an octagenarian at times.

"No, he 'has gone to Tintino for the weekend . . . or week, I don't think he was sure which."

"With Tina . . . ?"

Silvannia nodded, grinning.

"Then it's for the week. By the time she gets through with him, he may have to take a rest cure."

She laughed at that and I grinned, more in appreciation of the fine breasts rising and falling unhindered beneath the shirtwaist than the lousy joke.

I stayed for another ten minutes drinking coffee, then slid some coins on the counter and stood up.

"Are you leaving, Chris?"

I nodded and shrugged into my coat. "I haven't checked in with Customs yet and old Scarbrezzi's going to be mad as a wet hen if I don't. Maybe I'll see you later?"

She smiled a careful smile that I knew meant much more than it appeared to promise.

She leaned forward and brushed my cheek with a kiss.

"At ten . . . ?"

"At ten," I lied, felt like hell and left. But at least for the next few hours, I would have an alibi in Silvannia. Anyone asking about me would know that I had come into the coffee shop and made a date with her for later that evening.

The rain was coming down harder now and I wished I had thought to bring along an umbrella. Water cascaded down my sopping trouser legs and into my shoes as I splashed across the apron in the direction of the Customs office where old Scarbrezzi was probably sitting comfortably by his oil-fired stove, a glass of wine in one hand, a Balkan cigar clenched in his teeth and a pornographic novel in the other. The plate-glass window verified the scene. He had his belt and shoes off and his feet propped on the stove, and the paperback in turn propped on his huge belly. Grinning, I kept on, heading for the tumbledown hangar, a relic of World War II, on the far side

of the field. If you looked closely enough at the roof you could see where it had been incompetently patched after an allied bomb had rocketed through and exploded, splattering the girders and walls with shrapnel.

A wind had begun to blow and as I rounded and crossed the open area to the hangar, I could see the orange wind indicator stretched rigidly to the southeast. Obviously, the storm had retained more of its punch than I had expected. But at least it was serving to keep everyone inside and under cover. The dark sky, a mass of heavy black clouds mounted tier upon tier, poured rain down onto the already sodden earth. The center grassy strip of the airfield looked like a rice paddy; a sheet of water with tiny green stalks delicately spearing the surface. The wind blew rippling sheets of rain water down the runway.

I let myself into the old hangar through the office door. The place was so old and uncared for that the bomb that twenty-five years ago had peppered the ceiling with shrapnel had also blown the door out of alignment. It had never been fixed and to get in you only had to smack it hard with your shoulder. But then neither of us worried much about anyone breaking in. There was little to steal.

I didn't dare turn on any lights. Everybody knew about Pete's romance with Tina Luchechissi, the local grande dame. Not only was she rich, but she was also relatively well preserved with a typical Italian figure. Remarkably, that figure should belong to a girl of twenty, not a widow of forty-eight. Needless to say she also had a very passionate nature, and by the time Pete returned to Brindisi he would have deep, black circles of exhaustion under his eyes. Everybody thought he was damned lucky because Tina would probably marry him. Pete did not consider that luck. He had once complained that she would probably kill him in less than a month. I honestly think only that possibility, remote as it was, held him back. Certainly Tina was more than willing.

In any event, if anyone saw a light in the hangar they would immediately have to drive out, rain or no rain, to hear the latest chapter of Pete's amorous adventures with the merry widow; and they would find me stealing his DC-3.

Pete was a good pilot and better mechanic. In spite of

the appearance of the hangar and our working quarters, that old DC-3 was spotless. The two Wright Cyclone engines were in such good repair that the local Curtiss Wright service representative joked about bringing his maintenance crew around periodically for refresher courses. The aircraft was painted the same blue and white and carried the same sober, dignified logotype reading Brindisi Airways, Ltd., in Life magazine display type as the poor old Catalina.

I wasted no time. There was always the chance that the watchman would come by or that Pete would stagger home. I wrote him a note explaining why I was taking the DC-3, explained that the Catalina had. burned off the Yugoslavian coast and that I was a fugitive from justice with just about every European police organization except Interpol—I hoped—out looking for me. This kind of truth Pete would believe since he had always loudly proclaimed that both of us would wind up in a jail cell for life somewhere. But, he would know enough to read between the lines and know me well enough to realize that whatever I had done, it had been necessary. He, too, was a born anarchist.

I spent the next half hour pumping gasoline into the tanks to top them off and hooked up the booster batteries to the portside engine. I dragged the main door open and decided, since it was raining even harder now, that it made no sense to tow the DC-3 outside. The rain would probably short out the batteries.

I tucked the .38 safely beneath the pilot's seat and called Mikhail and Klaus on the phone and told them to drive off the airfield, take the main highway south and re-enter through the main gate. I gave them instructions on how to drive past the parking lot and main hangar, skirt the Customs shed from the back and drive directly across the field and into the last hangar at the far end of the runway.

Twenty minutes later, the' Ford van nosed into the hangar bay and Mikhail and Klaus jumped out. Both grinned from ear to ear and hurried across the hangar. Mikhail clapped me on the shoulder so hard that he nearly knocked me down. Klaus, chuckling to himself, walked around the DC-3 pausing now and then to run

his hands along a wheel strut or the elevator surface as if the airplane were a thoroughbred horse.

Finally he nodded. "Yes, she will do."

"Great," I muttered. "That's fine since it's the only one I can find. Now, let's get busy with that gold."

It took us another twenty minutes to get the four ammunition crates of gold into the aircraft. You could almost hear the van sigh with relief as we took the fivehundred-pound boxes out one by one. Mikhail then drove the van around to the back of the hangar where it would be out of sight. I unshackled the one crate that we had opened at the cistern, it seemed eons ago, and removed a single bar of gold as Mikhail climbed aboard.

"What are you going to do with that?" suspicion ill-concealed in his voice. At that moment, Klaus was coming aft from the cockpit. He heard the tail end of Mikhail's question and came hurrying back to find out what was going on. I carefully put the gold bar on top of the crate and stood up and backed away a step or so. My hand was inside my raincoat pocket and the butt of the Walther felt solid and comforting. I slid the safety catch to off with my thumb and waited.

"What are you going to do with the gold?" Klaus repeated Mikhail's question.

I waved my free hand around the cabin and tried to keep my voice casual and under control. "Pretty expensive piece of machinery. It belongs to my partner as much as it belongs to me. If we make it out of here, I may never be able to come back. If we take this plane, he'll be fiat broke."

"So you are going to pay him with that," Mikhail rasped pointing at the bar.

"Why you selfish sons of bitches!" I roared. Mikhail was so startled at the yell that he straightened and took one involuntary step backward and almost fell through the hatch.

"You asinine morons, you silly sons of . . ." I was practically screaming by now. "You are damned right I'm using your gold to pay for the aircraft . . . what the hell do you think

. . . maybe you get a free ride? I say that this bar gets left for Pete." I paused breathing heavily and shaking with anger.

Each bar of gold weighed fifty pounds . . . $28,000 at United States free-market prices.

That would barely get

Pete out from under the mortgage on the DC-3 and get him set up with a new aircraft.

"I've had all the nonsense I'm going to take from both of you bastards," I snarled. "One of these bars of gold stays behind to pay for this aircraft since Pete is never going to get it back. Even if we get away from here scot free, this bucket of bolts will have to go down at sea somewhere or the police will always be able to trace us through it."

Mikhail nodded his head, slowly, in resignation more than agreement. Klaus said nothing. I swore at both of them again and jumped down from the cargo door and pulled the gold bar out after me. It didn't take long to hide the gold bar and my explanatory note in a spot where Pete would be sure to find it.

Satisfied, I beat it back to the DC-3, still loaded for bear as far as Mikhail and Klaus were concerned. Mikhail glared at me as I came aboard, but said nothing more. I jerked my thumb out the cargo door.

"You close the hangar door when I taxi outside."

Mikhail bristled at the order and glanced at Klaus. Klaus nodded, and scowling, Mikhail jumped down to the floor.

"And stand by with that fire extinguisher when I start the engines," I yelled after him.

I settled into the pilot's seat and studied the instrument panel. Klaus hesitantly took the right-hand seat and when I didn't say anything, buckled in. The port engine kicked over easily and the starboard engine followed suit. The hangar filled immediately with blue exhaust smoke and vibrated to the roar of the engines until they settled into the familiar throaty roar. I had to ride the brakes to keep her steady. After a few moments, both engine temperature needles began to move slowly toward the normal zone and I eased up on the brakes and taxied her out. Rain spattered the windshield and I swung her around to nose down the runway, the engines still running at almost full RPM. In this kind of weather and wind I wanted good hot engines that wouldn't falter on take-off.

I saw Mikhail run out into the downpour, drag the hangar door shut and race for the DC-3. Klaus ducked back into the cargo bay to give him a hand and a few minutes later, slid back into the copilot's seat and nodded.

"He's aboard and the door is closed and latched."

I nodded and headed out onto the far runway, away from the main buildings, particularly the customs shed. Fortunately, this was a small airfield, more of an auxiliary field than anything else, and there was no radar, GCA or fog-dispersal equipment. If it snowed, everything came to a halt until it melted or was scraped away by a lone, jury-rigged farm tractor. Accordingly, I blasted the DC-3 straight down the runway and into the air. The radio remained blessedly free of identification requests. Airborne, I swung sharply around and headed out to sea, staying low to avoid the coastal radar net. I thought sorrowfully of Silvannia and the evening that would never happen.

Klaus settled back and let his head sink down onto his chest, humming an old German children's song that was his favourite tune.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Rain streaked at us in long slashing streamers that set up a steady drumming along the metal fabric of the aircraft until she was vibrating with the force of the rain. The DC-3, being a lighter aircraft than the old PBY, rode the uneven air better than I had expected.

This was the first time I had flown her in heavy weather, and I concentrated on familiarizing myself with her handling characteristics.

Mikhail stuck his head through the door after we had been airborne for an hour. He glanced around the dim, red-lit cockpit, saw that Klaus was asleep and retreated into the back without a word. I suppose that he thought he had found a new and temporary ally in Klaus, which was fine with me for the moment. I knew that it wouldn't last long no matter what happened.

By midnight, I was exhausted. There had been only a couple of hours of sleep the night before by courtesy of the storm and that damned Yugoslav patrol boat. I hadn't thought to bring along coffee and didn't know whether there was any left aboard or not. Finally, having Klaus comfortably asleep in the other seat was too much to take. I whacked him hard in the ribs which brought him upright with a grunt. He shook his head and glared at me.

"I would appreciate it if you would haul yourself out of that seat and go find out if there is any coffee available, before I fall asleep."

He muttered incoherently and struggled out of the seat and clomped to the back. I heard Mikhail's sleepy voice asking a question and Klaus's snarled answer. I just sat there grinning. The alliance was falling apart already.

I only wished there had been someway to contact Ley while in flight. Somewhere in Southern Europe he was still sitting by that radio waiting for a transmission that sure as hell was not coming, and I had no idea what he would think. Certainly he would know about the storm and if he was monitoring the police or marine wavelengths, and if he could put two and two together, would know that we had gotten hold of a boat and promptly been intercepted by Coastal Patrol. Details would be sketchy at best; he might not know about our escape or he might and assume that if I did not contact him within a certain period of time, that we had sunk in the storm. But, I doubted that he would give up without checking out every last possibility. Interpol routinely received stolen auto reports from all European member countries . . . I felt sure that they would also receive stolen aircraft reports. Sooner or later the report of the missing DC-3 would reach his desk, providing Pete did what I had asked, and he would be on the track again.

And that would lead him to a dead end. Unless they had come up with some new wrinkles in radar monitoring that I did not know about, we were flying too low to be seen by the radar surveillance nets that monitored all military and commercial flights. Ley would have to search all of the hundreds of possible landing fields within the range of a DC-3 . . . some twenty-five hundred miles. Interpol was efficient, but not that efficient.

By the time he located the landing field, we would be long gone, our tracks buried so deeply that it would take months of patient work to uncover another trail. Klaus would see to that.

I was torn, I admit, between Interpol and my own self. After all one million dollars has to be considered carefully. India might. not be such a bad place to live; it would be easy enough to lose oneself up near the Himalayan foothills where the uplands began to shade into mountain slopes. The pistol was nestled inside my shirt where I had transferred it from my coat pocket, and the .38 was safely hidden under the seat. I could, I think, have gotten rid of both Mikhail and Klaus easily .. .

could have done it right then by putting the DC-3 on automatic pilot and stepping back into the cargo bay to shoot them both. But then I would have to dispose of the gold and that required an organization. The other problem was that I do not think I could have brought myself to murder, no matter how badly I wanted to.

No, I decided to play it straight . . . providing I could contact Ley. If not, well . . . that bridge would have to be crossed at the proper time.

Klaus came back into the cockpit with two steaming cups of coffee. We drank in silence for a moment. There are few things that I can remember having tasted as good as that particular cup of coffee. With the wind buffeting the aircraft and the rain hypnotically slanting against the windshield hour after hour, I was pretty well toward the edge.

Klaus finished his cup and pushed it into the cubby hole under the seat for loose gear and sat back, folding his hands behind his head.

"How about letting me know where the hell we're going so I can set a proper course," I asked. "At this low altitude and these wind conditions, gasoline is pouring through the engines."

Klaus turned his head without moving his hands and stared at me. "This is difficult. I do not know how far to trust you," he said calmly, as if it were an established fact that brooked no argument.

His bald statement took me by surprise and it was a moment before I could come up with an answer.

"That's too damned bad, friend. If you can't trust me now, you never will be able to."

Klaus nodded. "That is true, still, there are many questions."

"Such as?"

"Such as, how did Vishailly know where we were?" "Better to ask, how did he know what we were doing, and what we were after," I shot back.

"Did he know . . . ?" Klaus demanded sharply.

"Nuts," I snorted. "I suppose he just came out in the middle of the night and tracked us halfway around the island with a boat load of troops brought over from the mainland on the off-chance we were running in Japanese radios without paying duty. With thirty million dollars worth of gold somewhere under that mountain, anyone who goes near it is suspect. Since we arrived by aircraft with a half-phoney excuse about engine trouble, what would you think if you were Vishailly?"

"Yes, well that is all in the past now," Klaus sighed. "And you have to know where we are going because you are the pilot?"

"Hell, man, don't do me any favors just because you have to ..."

"What does that mean?" he demanded.

"It means that if you don't want me along, I'll find someplace to set this crate down, take my share and get lost. Then you and Mikhail can go to hell for all I care."

"That is obviously impractical for several reasons. We cannot afford to land anywhere and I could not replace you with a pilot who would . . . would . . ."

"Be trustworthy," I supplied sarcastically.

"All right then, trustworthy. You at least are a known quantity."

Klaus sat up in the seat and pulled a map from his jacket pocket. He spread it on his knee and angled the red map lamp to light it. With a finger he traced a path from Brindisi deep into Egypt.

"This is our destination," he said. "A spot fifty miles south of Tunaydah in the El Wahat el Dakhla."

Oh brother, I thought, here we go again. This was obviously what Vishailly had meant by

"somewhere in Egypt".

Aloud, I said, "Just like that? How do we manage to avoid being shot down by Egyptian interceptors since we have no flight plan or visas for the country."

"Do not worry about that," Klaus smirked. "Everything is taken care of. You will be asked by Egyptian air defense to identify yourself when we cross the border. You will reply to the traffic controller that you are flying a special mission for the Egyptian Air Force and give him the code number 403-21. We will then have no further problems. Our destination is an oil drilling camp operated by Neufetzel, S.A. They are expecting us and can provide any of the facilities you may require."

So, I thought to myself, a German business concern was involved in spite of Ley's statements to the contrary. I wondered how many others in Germany had been bitten again by the fascist bug . . . or was this strictly a party Operation. The Egyptians had never put many restrictions

on ex-Nazis, so long as they left internal politics alone. A good many ex-Nazis had gone to Egypt from all over the world after Nasser took over in 1948. Many of them were combat troopers from the SS units with long experience, and the Egyptians had used them to train army commando units in the days before the Russians.

"Okay, then. It's up to you. Let me have the coordinates and we'll go upstairs and try and get out of the storm so that I can get some sleep."

"Sleep!" Klaus responded in surprise. "How can you sleep and fly at the same time?"

"Simple. 'If we can find clear weather, I'll turn on the automatic pilot. You sit here and watch the dials. If anything goes wrong, if the compass heading or the altimeter setting changes, wake me up."

"All right," he conceded reluctantly. "Then, we must follow air route UA-14."

I looked at him in surprise. "You must be kidding," I laughed. "If we show anywhere in the vicinity of UA-14, the whole world will know we're the aircraft that left Brindisi three hours ago. Cairo control will notify the Italian authorities, and you can bet your bottom dollar that the Italian customs people will ask Cairo to scramble interceptors to force us down as soon as we reach Egyptian air space."

Klaus smiled. "Please give me credit for some intelligence. As you have already surmised by now, my organization for this project is quite a bit bigger than the three of us. Our flight plan has already been arranged. We will be logged only as a private aircraft on a filed flight plan from Rome. It took one phone call before I left your office."

I didn't argue with him, just hauled out the map case that Pete always carried slung under the pilot's seat and rustled around until I found DOD Flight Information maps L-12 and 14. Pete was a member of the USAF Reserve and so had access to these world-wide maps published by the U.S. Air Force. They were a lot better for my money than the commercially available maps. For one thing, they were updated more frequently.

As soon as we had left Italian air space, I had brought the DC-3 onto a southerly heading to parallel UA-14 air route at one thousand feet, but offset by fifty miles. By keeping my radio tuned to 122.4 kc, I was able to use

the faint signal from Brindisi control in conjunction with the compass to keep us on course. I had already passed two check points, altering course and radio settings successfully each time to pick up the next corridor until we had left the heavily traveled Athenai intersection well behind. Another three hours of flying would see us over Egyptian territory. In thirty minutes we would be crossing Checkpoint Mimi, marking the halfway point across the Mediterranean.

"We'll climb into UA-14 in about thirty minutes then. As soon as we hit the beacon I'll turn it over to you. We should be out of the storm by then and if any problems turn up, you can wake me."

Klaus nodded and I finished my coffee.

Klaus was right. No fighters rose to challenge us as we entered United Arab Republic air space . . . the jumpiest nation in the world when it comes to dealing with unidentified aircraft. They are known to shoot first and ask questions later. But we had sailed right in without a challenge.

By dawn I had recovered four hours of sleep. We had bored on into the night and now, just before dawn, before the sky to the east began to line its horizon with the red and gold trappings of sunrise, I was peering ahead into the velvet darkness of the desert night. We had passed over the scattered lights of Tunaydah some minutes before with Klaus searching the southern horizon for the lights of the oil exploration camp. The full moon was just touching the western horizon, but its cold, feeble light did nothing to help us at twelve thousand feet.

I checked the compass bearing that Klaus had given me once more, and we were smack on. If we didn't spot the lights in the next few minutes, I could then assume that we had missed the camp. I hadn't told Klaus, but we had just enough gas for a wide circle.

Otherwise, down we went into some of the most desolate and inhospitable desert in all of North Africa. The country below us was fine, wind-blown and sand-dune country, mixed with occasional long stretches of coarse gravel marking the bed of some ancient, long, dry lake.

Klaus muttered something under his breath and leaned forward. "There, about twenty degrees to the left . . ." I did not see anything, but then, he had the glasses. I changed course accordingly, glancing anxiously at the fuel gauges at the same time. One tank was completely empty and the other was beginning to nudge over into the empty zone. Ten to fifteen minutes more flying time at the most, I guessed.

Then I saw the lights. They lay clumped together in a semicircle that broadened outwards as we drew nearer. I throttled back and began to lose altitude until we were approaching the site at one thousand feet.

"Have you figured out how the hell I'm going to land this crate? We don't have enough gas left to wait for dawn."

"Yes. Fly in a small circle directly above the lights. On the first circle, turn off your running lights. Turn them back on for the second circle."

"Okay," I muttered. "I hope to God you know what you are doing because we have just about that much gas left."

Klaus ignored me and went back to studying the ground below. I tipped the wing down and dragged the DC-3 around in a tight circle, flipping off the running lights as I did so.

Both engines wound up under the stress but I held the aircraft in a steep bank as we came around into the second orbit. The lights went back on and I straightened her out as we completed the last of the circle and headed north for a moment before turning east in a short circle that would bring us back across the camp below. As I swung out east, a series of tiny pinpoints of light began to blaze up, blossoming along a track that led straight off into the desert.

"This is it," Klaus said calmly, as if he had ever had any doubts. "The runway is marked out for you,"

Feeling extremely grateful, I lost altitude rapidly and came around on a southerly heading to line up with the runway. As I did so, the first indication of dawn flashed over the eastern horizon; a brilliant ruby-red light that blazed in the still air like a laser. By the time I was lined up with the end of the runway and had the wheels extended, the dawn flush was running swiftly along the horizon flooding the gravel and sand surface of the desert floor beneath us with reddish light. The DC-3 Settled down lightly and touched the packed surface of the makeshift runway as gently as a feather. Burning oil drums flickered past and we trundled down the runway and slowed to a more sedate pace. Klaus indicated the turnoff ramp and I swung the aircraft off into the packed sand and taxied over to stop less than a hundred yards from a canvas and corrugated steel hut. Two men were standing on the steps watching and I saw several others running from the row of tents across the way. All were dressed in khaki work clothes and a few wore the Moslem turban wound round their heads. They were a hard-looking lot, I thought, watching through the cabin window as they clustered around the loading doors of the DC-3. Most seemed to be Arabic and the rest could have been German . . . or some other northern European nationality.

Mikhail shoved open the cabin door and poked his head in with an inquiring look on his face.

"We are in Egypt," Klaus informed him calmly. "I hope that you enjoyed your sleep."

The mention of sleep sent Mikhail off into a huge yawn. He stretched to touch the top of the fuselage and wound up shaking himself all over like a dog.

"Egypt!" he shouted, doing a perfect double take. "Why are we in Egypt?" he demanded.

"Refueling for one reason," I said dryly.

Mikhail pushed forward to peer through the windshield. The sight of miles and miles of desert in any direction brought him up short.

"Where in Egypt?" he asked suspiciously.

"We are near the Sudanese border, at an oil exploration camp where I have contacts,"

Klaus snapped impatiently. "We will refuel, sleep and go on tomorrow morning."

Mikhail started to say something but Klaus cut him off. "We are nearly out of petrol, and Chris needs sleep. We have no choice."

He said that curtly and got to his feet, pushing past Mikhail, he swung down the walkway and unlatched the cargo doors and pushed them open. I followed in time to catch the blast of furnace-hot air. The sun was barely above the horizon and already the temperature was above ninety. I glanced helplessly at Mikhail who shrugged and followed Klaus out onto the hard-packed sand. It was clear now that Klaus was totally back in charge and starting to make his move.

Five minutes later, Mikhail and I were sitting in a raging hot canvas hut wondering if this was the way all of their guests were treated. We had no sooner stepped off the aircraft, when four men armed with automatic rifles had rushed up and had us spread-eagled on the sand before we knew what was happening. I lost the Walther P-38 and Mikhail a very small, and very carefully concealed pistol and his pocket knife. Klaus lit up a cigarette and turned to talk with a heavy-set and very unhappy man who appeared to be in charge of the camp. They both spoke German and the conversation was lost to me.

I gathered that it had something to do with us, but that was all.

As soon as they ,had searched us, they marched us over to the hut at double-quick time.

The door was not locked since it is rather difficult to put an effective padlock on a canvas-and-wood-frame door . . . but the presence of an armed guard outside left no question concerning their intent. Since he was Egyptian and at least pretended to speak no English, we had no choice but to sit tight and wait to see how things developed. And they developed fast. Mikhail, a little slow as usual, began to realize what had happened to him. He grunted once, jumped to his feet and was through the door before the poor guard, in turn, realized what was happening. He just had enough time to swing about, rifle held chest high, to take Mikhail's iron fist full in the face. He went down like a log.

Mikhail bent to pick up the rifle, but before he could straighten, another of Klaus's playmates materialized out of nowhere and smashed a carbine butt down on his neck.

Mikhail slumped down on top of his victim. The newcomer called for help and another guard arrived on the run. Together, the two of them dragged his limp body into the hut and dumped him on the floor. Without moving from the cot from where I had watched the little episode, I spread my hands in a gesture of resignation to indicate that I had nothing to do with Mikhail's impetuousness and lay back on the pillow. They muttered to themselves and went out.

I regarded Mikhail unsympathetically. It was useless to try and pick him up since he weighed well over two hundred pounds. I got up and pushed him into a more comfortable position, checked on the guard outside; a new one was there; lay down on the cot and promptly fell asleep.

It was late afternoon before Klaus came into the hut, followed by the heavy-set man who had met the aircraft. He shook me awake and sat down on the other cot while the big German waited near the door. Klaus tore open a new pack of cigarettes and shook one out for me, and lit it.

"Well . ?" he said quietly.

"Well ... what?"

"I am sorry that we had to treat you as we did. But there was Mikhail. There would have been trouble if not."

"There was anyway," I pointed out dryly. "By the way, where is he?" I asked, noticing that he was gone.

Klaus rubbed his forehead. "Yes, I think there was. Mikhail is being looked after and you need not concern yourself with him."

"So what next? Do you take me out tonight and give me a shovel to dig my own grave?"

Klaus smiled. "No, that is not done anymore. The world has become too sophisticated for such crude methods." "I'm glad to hear that."

"By now you must realize that there is more to what we have been doing this past week than . . ." he faltered. "A treasure hunt," I supplied helpfully.

"Yes. There is more involved here than merely the personal greed." Klaus went on. "The gold will be used for other, more salutary purposes than to line the pockets of three useless soldiers of fortune."

"If that's the case, then why did you need the two other soldiers to help you recover it?

Why didn't you just go into Kornat and pull it out with the help of your little organization?" I knew the answer to that one, but was curious to see what Klaus would come up with.

His lip twisted into an unpleasant smile. "For many reasons. This organization to which I belong is well-known to the Yugoslav authorities and, shall we say, not loved?"

Yeah, I thought to myself, after five years of occupation and nearly half a million killed, you could well be described as unloved.

"In any event, Yugoslav authorities reacted a bit more quickly than we had anticipated.

There were times when I was beginning to doubt that we would escape with our lives."

"You were beginning to doubt!" I snorted.

"But, we are here," he finished, smiling broadly. "Where is here? You can't do much with one million dollars worth of gold in the middle of the desert. And I would be willing to bet that if the Egyptians get wind of that million in gold you won't have it very long."

The fat man broke into a series of rippling chuckles. His voice was amazingly high, but pleasant. It did make a strange contrast though with his corpulent body.

Klaus glared at him and he shut up swiftly. "You are very right. We must fly the gold out of here as soon as possible. I can offer you a job . . . with a sizable salary if you will agree to continue as my pilot."

"Quite a comedown . . . a third of a million dollars to a salary."

"Yes, well, bad luck happens to the best of us. In any event, I think that you will find the terms of employment agreeable . . . starting with something even more valuable than two hundred and fifty thousand dollars . . . your life."

"You do have a point there."

Klaus pulled a leg up, planted it squarely across the other, a most unmilitary posture, and settled his back against the wall. Now we were going to get down to business I thought.

"In addition, we will offer you full-time employment as chief pilot and owner, free and clear, of your own charter air line operating through the Middle and Far East. We will supply you with the aircraft, a business already established and located in Cairo, operating expenses until you can get underway and in two years time, subject to satisfactory completion of your charters, the full ownership of the company and its assets including a C-130 cargo aircraft."

My own company, free and clear, no mortgage on the aircraft to cause sleepless nights, enough funds to maintain a decent maintenance schedule, etc., etc. When the full implication sank in, it was a tempting offer.

I finished the cigarette in silence, forcing myself to sit still with great difficulty. Finally, I dropped the butt on the floor and ground it out.

"Who needs killing?"

"Killing?" the fat man asked. "Killing, who?"

Klaus glared and waved him to silence. "No one. In fact, there is very little that you have to do. You must accept all and any charters from this company when called upon to do so. You will be paid for each flight by the company and the cargo will be bonded before being loaded aboard your aircraft. You will have only to fly it to its destination and return by whatever route you desire."

"J ust fly cargo?" I asked suspiciously.

"Yes. Exactly as you have been doing for me for the past year or so."

I nodded. "Uh . . . what was in those cargoes by the way? Most of them were loaded under bond as I recall."

Klaus smiled to himself and took a final drag on his cigarette and also stubbed it out on the floor. Still bent over, he continued, "Most of those cargoes were legitimate. But the rest were supplies and equipment and other goods being shipped here and farther east."

"And those I take it were illegal shipments?"

Klaus nodded. "So you see, for over a year we have been engaged in shipping bonded, but illegal cargoes through small charter airfreight companies like your own. We have had absolutely no trouble. And as you would continue to co-operate, I foresee no trouble.

"

"Well I'll be damned," I muttered. And I was too, if certain police authorities ever caught up with me.

"How do you propose to set me up with my own air-freight line if every cop in Europe is going to be looking for me?"

"Why should they be?"

I glanced over at the fat man standing near the door. He caught the look and nodded to Klaus and stepped outside. A moment later I heard him speaking to the guard.

With a disgusted look, Klaus watched him go then turned to me. "There is no reason why the police of any country should be looking for you."

"Oh? Seems to me there's the little matter of the killing of a Yugoslav policeman, the bombing of a Yugoslav patrol boat, a stolen airplane in Italy not to mention illegal entry .

."

Klaus held up his hand to stop me. "First, there is no evidence of any kind to tie you into the killing of Vishailly. Secondly, who could possibly identify you as one of the two fishermen who bombed the patrol boat . . . the sailors saw only two men at a distance and they themselves attacked that boat in international waters. At the most, we were only defending ourselves. As far as the Italian authorities are concerned, they have no reason to suspect that you entered the country illegally or that you left it in a similar fashion since their records will show that you

filed a proper flight plan and cleared customs formalities in Naples. As for the aircraft, you yourself purchased it from your friend, and right now your agent is waiting for him to return to his office so that he may sign the bill of sale and other necessary papers. So, you see, you have committed no crimes and are, in fact, at this moment, flying a charter for my company."

Outside the hut, the sharp coughing of a gasoline engine began and a moment later was joined by the rapping of an oil-rig drill being lowered into the drill hole. All at once, it seemed as if all of the noise in the world was concentrated in this spot of desert. A large truck started up, the engine whine rising above the other noises.

I nodded. "All right, you seem to have everything laid out properly enough. But why me?

You must have your own pilots who would be a hell of a lot more trustworthy?"

Klaus nodded and lit a fresh cigarette. "That is true. We do have our own pilots. But there are two reasons why I would like to have you involved: First, you are a very resourceful man. There were several times in the past few days when it could have gone very badly for us but for you. I am too old to be as adaptable as I once was. Secondly, you have established a reputation around the Middle East as an honest pilot and businessman. While the customs people do not trust you—indeed they cannot since it is their job to mistrust everyone—they are very much aware of your reputation and record and are therefore willing to make certain exceptions for you. This is very important to us.

We have a good deal of cargo to fly and we must retain a respectable front."

"What about Mikhail?"

Klaus glanced at me distastefully. "About that one, some thought will have to be given."

"What kind of thought?"

"That need not concern you ..."

"Like hell," I interrupted brusquely. "I'm not giving any answers until I find out what you have in mind for Mikhail."

"If you insist." He paused for a moment, then grinned slyly. "We intend to turn Mikhail over to the proper authorities."

I admit I must have looked skeptical . . . and it was on the tip of my tongue to make a sarcastic remark about

nazism and the law when I caught myself just in time. Fortunately, Klaus didn't notice the lapse.

"He did kill the policeman," Klaus pointed out. "Someone must be arrested because the Yugoslav police will not rest until they have found the murderer."

"How do you plan to have them find him? Egypt is a little outside their jurisdiction, isn't it?"

"Mikhail will be found at the proper time and in the proper place. We must be very careful how we handle this situation. You and I both are linked with him in Yugoslavia.

We must first arrange to make it seem that we left the island well before the killing took place and that Mikhail was acting alone. I took the opportunity of asking questions of the villagers while you were travelling to Belgrade. It seems that the trouble between Mikhail and Vishailly was widely known. It was an accepted fact, at least on the island, that they would have to fight for honor. In this situation it may not go hard with him."

"That's his problem," I snorted. "There was no honor in the way he settled it. Mikhail shot him point blank without giving him a chance. What the Yugoslav police do with him is not my worry. I just want to make sure you're not planning to leave him in the desert with a bullet in his head.

"And of course," I continued, "you have figured a way around the fact that as soon as the Yugoslav police pick him up, he'll blab everything he knows about our operation in Kornat?" •

Klaus threw back his head and laughed deeply, happily. "But that is the beauty of it all. It is our word, two respectable businessmen against his, a suspected murderer; one who was not even welcome in his own country, who is known to be not only violent but exceedingly dangerous. Also, who will believe a wild tale of a hidden fortune in gold?

One, finally, who had every reason to kill Vishailly. Who would you believe?"

Klaus did have a point. In fact, he had the whole thing sewed up very neatly. Every angle seemed covered. Mikhail would take the rap . . . one he richly deserved in any case. The two of us would be left in the clear. And, without firm evidence to the contrary, as long as we stayed away from Yugoslavia there really was not a whole lot they could do to us.

"Okay," I nodded, "I'm in."

"Fine," Klaus said. "Fine." He stood up rubbing his hands. "Now, we must have some dinner and then more sleep. By tomorrow at dawn, we will be on our way."

If only Klaus was telling the truth, I thought . . . but of course he wasn't. I may not have known specifically where the lies were, but I knew that there were lies. We left the hut and crossed the quadrangle scratched out of the desert by caterpillar tractors and bounded by scattered tents and loose piles of equipment.

Night falls swiftly in the desert; one minute pale twilight, the next darkness sweeps over the desert. Sitting on the top step of the hut, I had gained a perspective of three, feet and I could watch the line of darkness racing across the incredibly flat sand and gravel plain to the west. I finished my cigarette and went across the informal square to the hut where Mikhail, a wet towel wrapped around his swollen head, was squatting on his heels lighting a cigar.

I dropped down beside him and rested my back against the canvas siding and enjoyed the lingering warmth of the sand and the quiet of early evening.

"How's your head?" I asked.

Mikhail squinted into the darkness for a long while before answering. "It is all right now."

He fell silent again, gazing slowly around the scattered huts and the stars beginning to show clearly in the blackening sky. The last vestiges of sunset had disappeared and full night had fallen. The desert was terribly dark in the absence of the comforting artificial light beyond the pale circle of the encampment and the Christmas tree-like beads on the two drilling platforms. The muted bump and clank of the drilling rigs carried clearly over the half mile intervening distance. To the east, a milky haze suggested the moon lurking below the horizon.

"What is going on here?"

I shrugged in the darkness, but even so, Mikhail must have caught the gesture. Angrily, he muttered, "Why shouldn't you know? You have sold out to that Nazi and his friends.-

Who are they and what do they want?"

"Cut it, Mikhail, I don't know anything about what's going on . . . no more than you do.

All I know is that we got off the plane this morning, and there they were waiting for us. Automatic carbines don't leave much room for argument."

Mikhail turned on me, his voice lashing. "You are lying. You have made a deal with that pig, Maher. Who are these people? Police, or friends of yours . . ."

The guard standing a little way off with a carbine resting on his hip, shifted restlessly and stepped closer to us. Mikhail ignored him and bored on. "Perhaps you have decided that you will kill Mikhail and make bigger shares for you. Maybe these friends of yours do not know that you have an aircraft full of gold and maybe if they did, they would not be so co-operative and . . ."

"Knock it off," I interrupted furiously. "You overgrown windbag. Shut your mouth and try and use your head for something besides an obstacle course for a change. If they were going to kill either one of us, they would have done so immediately. I don't know who these people are, but I do know that they know about the gold, and unless we are very damned careful all we'll get will be bullets in the back of the neck. I know they do need a pilot and I'm it. Why they want you around, I have no idea. Talk to Klaus and straighten out your own messes. I'm not your bodyguard or your nursemaid and I don't intend to start now . . . and whoever they are, they are not police. Now, do what the hell you want .

.." I got up and walked away.

I didn't look back, but I could picture Mikhail squatting on the sand, the cigar dangling from his fingers as he squinted after me. I knew that if he had a pistol or a knife, I would have been dead within ten paces. Obviously the guard knew it, too, because he shifted his carbine into both hands and I could see him bring the muzzle around casually to bear on Mikhail.

The hell with him, I thought. I had considered the possibility of letting him know my reason for sticking with Klaus. But that had been discarded as soon as he began raving.

Even assuming that he agreed to help, he was too damned unstable to be of any use. Give him a pistol and he was likely to start shooting up the camp . . . just to defend his damned honor. I snorted and continued on. Honor and religion; two chief causes of more deaths than all other excuses in human history combined.

The first thing I had to do was to contact Ley. Accord-

ingly, about midnight, I sneaked away from the hut by working the canvas wall loose from the floor. A guard had come to sit in the middle of the square; probably to watch the camp in general. But as I watched him, it seemed to me that he was keeping a closer eye on my hut than anywhere else. At the same time, I could see the guard outside Mikhail's hut pacing back and forth in a valiant effort to stay awake.

The night was silent except for the muffled banging of the drilling rigs and the whispering of wind over the sand . . . and cold as only a desert night can be after the sand has given up all of the day's stored heat. My light windbreaker was no match for the chill or for the bite of the sand. The sky was brilliantly clear; the moon, barely past full, blazed down from near zenith. In spite of the cold, I hugged the sand and worked my way east away from the line of huts deeper into the darkness and the low sand dunes.

Both guards were still busily guarding in the middle of the square. So far so good. From here on it was going to be tougher. I would have felt better with the .38 in my pocket, but perhaps it was just as well that it was still in the DC-3. I had nowhere to go if they spotted me. Without a gun I was downright scared to death and was likely to be a hell of a lot more careful than if supported by the Dutch courage that comes with carrying a pistol.

It took me almost half an hour to work my way around the line of huts to the radio shack and up to the small window set into the back wall. The hut was lit by an oil lantern turned low, and deserted; a surprise until I saw the bell alarm rigged to the radio receiver.

I spent another ten minutes minutely exploring the immediate area. The operator was asleep in the next hut; dead asleep. There was an empty whiskey bottle on the floor beside him and the breeze had not yet dispersed the alcoholic cloud. The graveyard shift on the drilling rigs had settled into the routine, and the swing-shift crew had finished dinner and were soundly asleep by now . . . I devoutly hoped. I took my life in my hands and snuck into the shack.

The smell of alcohol was still quite strong inside; although not as bad as the hut next door. The operator must have been a real boozer . . . as well as having the most erotic taste in literature that I had ever encountered,

judging by the reading matter piled on every available surface.

First, I unhooked the alarm. All I needed was to have that damned bell ring while I was inside . . . even though the chances were against even a truck horn awakening the operator tonight.

The transceiver, a Hallicrafters Model S-40B was a lot more modern than I expected.

The Model S-40B is a civilian version of the latest military single side-bank setup. It can punch a signal farther and through more interference than just about any other rig that I know of. These guys were loaded for bear. With the proper relays, or through one of the commercial relay satellites, they could go just about anywhere in the world.

With one eye on the door, I hunched down in front of the set to study the control panel.

Even though the military makes it pretty easy for you . . . turn green knob on right-hand side of set to "on" position . . . I did know the basic principles and could recognize the band selector and the on-off switch given enough time.

Ley had said that they would keep a twenty-four hour watch on the 127.6 kc band. I tuned down to the exact location, flipped the switch and thumbed the microphone button to transmit, muttered my name twice and flipped the switch to receive and there they were.

"Chris, this is Ley. Do you read me? You are coming through clearly, over."

I chuckled with relief. Just hearing a friendly voice, even though it was at least a thousand miles away was comfort enough.

"Yes, you are coming through clearly. Where are you?" "Never mind that. Where are you?"

"The El Wahat el Dakhla, an oil-drilling camp run by a German firm . . . I can't remember the name. I don't know where we go from here. Maher is too suspicious of me.

I only know that we will leave at dawn and, I suspect, fly east."

I gave Ley the co-ordinates of the oil camp as best I could remember.

"All right, you say you are leaving at dawn. We will be watching and I don't think we will lose you again."

"That's good to hear. It was getting to be a bit lonely running with a couple of loonies.

Now, I've got a whole

camp full. Have you any repercussions from the Yugoslav authorities?"

"Yes. If I ever go back, I'll be arrested on sight. They did trace us to the hotel room in Tobruz. They don't like finding dead bodies, especially dead bodies belonging to policemen. Very strange people. That must be what the socialist system does to you.

Takes all the fun out of work; turns it into a bureaucracy."

Ley's mention of Tobruz jolted me. It seemed like a memory from another era and another world; so much had happened in the past few days.

I questioned Ley on how they were going to keep up with me without giving _themselves away and he told me to watch my radar vector indicator light. They would stay on the trailing edge of my radar coverage. The vector indicator would tell me that he was around. As satisfied as I could be in the situation, I signed off, re-hooked the alarm bell and thirty minutes later was back in my hut and asleep.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Klaus stomped into the hut at dawn, bringing a stiff cup of Turkish coffee with him. It seemed as though I had been asleep for minutes rather than hours. I struggled into a sitting position and gratefully accepted the coffee. Klaus hunkered down by the doorway and watched me torture myself awake with a large gulp of the steaming liquid. I finished the rest of the cup slowly and watched the desert brighten as the sun inched above the horizon to begin another day. As it climbed higher, the fantastic play of light and shadow and color began to bleach from the desert under the intense hammering of the sun. It is only possible to see the desert in full glory at sunrise or sunset.

Finally, Klaus cleared his throat. "I hope you are well rested because today we begin the final stage of the trip. We have a long flight ahead of us, but we will break it into three smaller stages."

Three, I thought. He's overestimating the range of the DC-3 if he thinks he can get to Hong Kong in three hops. Klaus pulled a map out from his pocket and spread it on the floor next to my sleeping bag. A red circle marked the location of the camp. A dotted red line, drawn with a marking pen ran toward the end of Lake Nasser some two hundred miles east, crossed the coastal ranges and the Red Sea, ran on across central Saudi Arabia, and turned north at Masturah. One stop was marked for refueling at Jebel Danah, then continued on across the Persian Gulf, into the Indian Ocean, crossed the coast east of Gwadar into Pakistan where it turned sharply north and continued up the spine of the southern extremity of the Hindu Kush to a small mark on the map in central Pakistan. I bent closer to read the description of the landing site printed in very small letters. The landing site was an abandoned airstrip at Sibi deep in the foothills of the Hindu Kush.

"For God's sake," I exploded. "An abandoned airstrip. After flying nearly two thousand miles, you expect me to land on an airstrip that hasn't been used since World War II?

You must be crazy."

"The airstrip," Klaus replied patiently, "has been cleared and a crew is standing by to refuel us when we land tonight. We will sleep there, aboard the aircraft, and leave tomorrow morning. This site has been chosen as we have no effective contacts in Pakistan to arrange flight plans and customs clearances."

"Where do we go from there?" I asked, not at all Satisfied but knowing there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.

Klaus folded up the map and shoved it into his jacket pocket. "We go east to a certain location which you will be told about later, and then we go back to Brindisi."

"Brindisi? Maybe you have forgotten," I pointed out, "that a certain ex-friend of mine, whose aircraft we stole, will probably be waiting for us. He may not call in the cops, but he will personally beat our heads to bloody pulps . . ." I knew this was not true, but Klaus did not.

Klaus looked flustered for a moment, then said soberly, "An associate of mine called on your friend last night to make sure your friend understood the arrangements and the necessity for you to use his aircraft. He found your friend dead."

I went cold all over.

"Apparently, your friend was returning from another town in his automobile. He was traveling at a high rate

of speed and in the darkness and rain he missed a turn. He was killed instantly."

The sun was well up over the horizon now, nudging the temperature to scorching again, yet I was so cold that I was shivering. I had no illusions this time that Klaus was telling me the truth. Pete was too good a driver for that ever to have happened to him. Mentally I catalogued the names . . . Mistako, Bowen, two unknown assassins. Vishailly and now Pete. How many more? I shook my head and turned away from Klaus, shaking with rage and frustration. I knew damned well that Pete had been murdered on orders. I would never be able to prove it to anyone else, but I knew and that was enough.

I walked away from Klaus. A few seconds more and I would have lost all control; would have killed him with my bare hands, all compunctions to the contrary, lost in the savagery that gripped me. Before this was finished, I vowed that Klaus would pay dearly for Pete's death.

We left within the hour. Mikhail was marched out under guard and handcuffed to a cargo stanchion in the back of the aircraft. Two guards were to remain with him at all times.

Klaus took his customary place in the copilot's seat. The ammunition crates were secured in the center of the fuselage, and for some reason a canvas cover had been thrown over the small stack. I settled myself silently into the pilot's seat and started the engines.

The desert floor fled past the wings and we were quickly airborne. The sky was crystal clear ahead, but off the starboard wing, the brown haze of a sandstorm was walking across the desert, throwing clouds of sand to two and three thousand feet. The early morning sun spread a golden pall on the desert, softening the contours of the sand dunes and rock outcroppings. Shortly, we passed over the southern end of Lake Nasser, one of the largest man-made lakes in the world. The mighty Aswan Dam was barely visible miles to the north. To the south, the sluggish Nile flowed steadily into the lake, a silver bar in the sunlight.

Klaus drowsed in the copilot's seat, oblivious to all .. . the passing scenery and my barely concealed hatred. One of the guards brewed a pot of coffee and brought a cup forward.

With the DC-3 on automatic pilot I relaxed, watched the desert below and went over the events of the past few days, trying to arrange the almost incoherent series of events into some meaningful sequence. The radar vector light winked on.

Bingo! Automatically, I craned my neck to peer out the window . . . Ley would be at least twenty miles behind, completely out of sight.

The radar vector light burned steadily, a bright red eye in the center of the control panel.

I glanced over at Klaus. He had fallen soundly asleep, his head thrown back against the seat rest and one arm dangling along the floor boards.

Stealthily, I unscrewed the 0-ring holding the red glass dome over the bulb and loosened the bulb in its socket until it winked off. Then I tightened it back down until it barely made contact, but stayed dark, then screwed the dome and the 0-ring back on. By pressing on the dome with my thumb, I could make the contact and know whether or not Ley was still with us without attracting Klaus's attention. He had a habit of scanning the control panel periodically and asking about instrument readings.

I sat back in the seat, satisfied, and watched the long blue line of the Red Sea edge over the horizon and stretch out north to south between its lines of fringing mountains rising to six and seven thousand feet. Far to the south ran the sere brown desert of the Sudan while to the north, the same desert in Egypt reached to the Mediterranean. We cleared the coast and headed out over the incredibly blue, clear water. Tiny specks of Arab dhows mingled with flashes of white foam on the rippling surface. Occasionally a freighter bound for Elath or some other Red Sea port passed beneath, trailing a mile-long wake. I had last flown over the Red Sea in 1964, three years before the Six-Day War that closed the Suez Canal. The contrast was startling. Then the Red Sea had been covered with seeming convoys of shipping, following one another politely up the narrow waterway to the Suez Canal and from there to the markets of Mediterranean and coastal Europe. Now, only the Saudi Arabian or Israeli ports welcomed the occasional ship.

By the end of the morning we had settled into the routine of the flight. We passed out of Egypt less than two miles north of the border demarcation with Sudan. I had wanted to avoid the border area by more than that since, in spite of what both Egypt and the Sudan would like you to believe, the border position is not entirely clear. You might even say that in this area relations between two countries are strained.

Sudan administers a large area which the United Arab Republic claims belong to them and the UAR, in return, administers a large area that Sudan claims rightfully belongs to them. And antiaircraft guns enforce the strict rules about violating borders unless you are flying an air corridor . . . which we weren't. I wondered if it had ever occurred to them just to trade "administrative" areas and be done with it.

Maybe today was a holiday or perhaps the Israelis were making it hot up north again; whatever, not one interceptor rose to look us over.

But careful tuning, I managed to pick up the beacon from Medina north and a few moments later, the beacon from At Tä'if south. For some reason, I wasn't able to raise the beacon at Mecca, but At Td'if, some fifty miles east and south gave me the same position approximation. As long as I crossed the Saudi Arabian coast between the two, I would not be far off course.

For some strange reason, Saudi Arabia, one of the most xenophobic of all Middle Eastern countries, maintains no civilian restrictions on flying within its air space, not even nighttime restrictions. There are only a few closed areas surrounding military or industrial complexes. The rest of the Middle East is certainly different. Israel restricts flying within six miles of its borders or maritime territories to air corridors and polices them strictly. Iraq, Syria and Lebanon maintain the same restrictions.

In effect, we were free to come and go across Saudi Arabia as we pleased so long as we checked with Medina Tower or Jidda App. Con. ten to fifteen minutes before entering Saudi airspace. The only other restrictions were against overflying cities and built-up areas. That left you with nearly one hundred percent of the country. They preferred to have you stay on air routes whenever possible, mostly for your own protection, but did not insist on it. Military aircraft, however, were treated differently. While for them, the country was pretty well open, there were numerous restricted, prohibited or danger areas which if violated, could and would bring interceptors loaded for bear. , We crossed the coast at 1100 hours somewhat south of Masturah and picked up the first up-drafts from the baking hills. I knew that it was going to get worse because we would be flying over an ancient lava bed in less than an hour. I had never cared much for desert flying since the plethora of thermals rising from the super-heated surface often remain intact to twelve and thirteen thousand feet.

Klaus slept soundly in spite of the jouncing until we crossed the fuzzy boundary that marked the transition from gravel desert to steppe. The land surface had been climbing easily since the coast, and as it rode higher the gravel began to give way to the vegetation of high desert and finally to grass-covered plains more reminiscent of the midwestern prairies or the Asian steppes. The rainy season was just ending on the steppe and the new grass was sprouting. The terrain was covered with soft emerald-green from horizon to horizon with only an occasional weathered hill rearing bare and worn above the grass.

Klaus stretched hugely and sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"Where are we?" he muttered.

I handed him the map, pointed out the approximate position.

"We are making good time?"

"Yeah. We've picked up a mild tail wind and it's helping us along."

By late afternoon we had crossed the peninsula divide and descending on the far side, had left the grassy steppe far behind. Below, the spare, hard gravel plains of the northeastern part of the Arabian peninsula stretched forever. I picked up the beacon at Karj As San right on schedule and shortly scattered oil fields were below as we approached the Persian Gulf.

Jebel Dhana, our first refueling stop, was hard on the Persian Gulf, and we approached just after sunset over high, white sand dunes fringing the coast to pick up the city lights.

A light rain was falling, lending a magical, futuristic air to the scattering of buildings and brightly lit streets of Jebel Dhana, the westernmost city in the oil rich Trucial States.

Jebel Dhana has only a small airport on the southern end of the city and Klaus had grudgingly allotted two hours to refuel and eat before continuing on. We still had six hours of flying time ahead of us to Pakistan and the abandoned airfield at Sibi. Jebel tower gave us permission to land and I found the airfield with some difficulty. They only turn on the landing lights when the tower has you in sight. Since they have no radar at all, on

a rainy night like this, I almost had to buzz the tower to wake them up. The meager lights finally did come on and I gingerly put down on the packed sand surface.

The ground crew consisted of one old Arab and his grandson pedaling bicycles out to the aircraft to see what we wanted. I tried to explain to the old man that we wanted gasoline and something to eat, but he didn't speak a word of English . . . and from the way he babbled, I'm not too sure that he spoke Arabic either. We finally got the message across with hand signals, and he and the grandson wobbled off across the apron to return a few minutes later in an old truck that must have been left at the airfield by the British, following the war. The old man went creakingly about his business, patting the sides and wings of the DC-3 as if it were a favorite horse .. . or a woman.

By 2000 hours we were airborne again and flying deep into the triangular peninsula of land that juts into the Persian Gulf dividing it neatly from the Gulf of Oman; if you could slice the Arabian Peninsula north some fifty miles to close the Strait of Hormuz, the peninsula would fit neatly into the bight of Asia Minor. Staring at the map, mentally tracing the obvious land cleavages, it was hard to encompass the tremendous forces needed to move an entire sub-continent southward to open a gulf some eighty miles wide.

We left the darkened Persian Gulf behind and flew on again into the depths of the peninsula where the dark bulk of the Al Hajar Al-Gharbi and the Al-Jabal AlSkhadar mountains reared menacingly. The black, wind-tortured peaks and slopes passed silently beneath, falling away rapidly to the narrow lowlands of Muscat and Oman fringing the Gulf of Oman. The eastern slopes of the mountain chain were lit by the moon; flanks painted molten silver for long minutes. Shortly, the land disappeared and we were deep into the Gulf of Oman, flying toward the Indian Ocean beyond. I felt a bit better, having eaten. The coffee was already brewing and through the open cabin door I could hear the quiet murmur of voices. Klaus had not come forward for the take-off as he normally did.

I reached forward and pushed my thumb against the radio vector warning light. It lit up immediately. Good, Ley and his friends were doing an excellent job of keeping track of us. On the ground at Jebel Dhana

I had heard the distant drone of an aircraft passing over the airfield at about ten thousand feet. After a few minutes, the aircraft had returned, looping around from the north. All the time we were on the ground, the aircraft had continued to make long and wide passes around the city. I assumed that they had landed for refueling after we had left.

After a while, Klaus came forward with a cup of coffee for me. He handed it over and climbed into the copilot's seat to sit brooding at the windshield.

"Our friend, Mikhail, has become very quiet," he said after a few minutes. "Very quiet, indeed. He stares out the window and will not answer any questions that we put to him."

"Well, you can hardly expect him to strike up a conversation after the way he's been cheated."

Klaus continued to stare out the window, himself. Finally, "You are probably right. Still, I cannot but help feeling that he is planning something that will ruin our chances even now." ,

I shrugged. "For crying out loud. You have him securely tied and guarded by two men.

He's at twelve thousand feet over the Indian Ocean. What in the name of God could he do to foul anything up? As long as your boys keep their eyes open, he won't have a chance."

"And you?" Klaus abruptly switched the topic. "Are you going to do anything to ruin my plans?"

I turned to stare at him as if he were a madman, putting all the injured innocence into that look that I could muster; it did no good, he was still staring straight through the window.

"Of course not. The deal you offered yesterday is almost as good as having a third of the gold. Almost." "Of course," Klaus nodded.

With that, he pushed himself out of the seat, clapped me on the shoulder and went back into the fuselage. I thoughtfully finished the coffee and drew out a cigarette and sat watching the vast span of the Indian Ocean, broken occasionally by the lights of a ship far, far below. Paranoia, I thought to myself and touched the radar vector light for assurance. It lit up . . . cheerfully.

We crossed the Pakistani coast at 0300 hours some thirty miles east of the port city and air base at Gwadar.

Pakistan requires all aircraft overflying the country to adhere strictly to certain air routes; since we were sneaking into the country, I dropped down to the deck and flew in under the radar nets in a northeasterly direction until the Dasht Kech River passed beneath and the slopes of the Central Makran Range reared above us. There, I climbed for altitude, knowing that the mountains would hide us from the radar, and bored on into the night for the abandoned airstrip at Sibi.

Under the light of the no longer full moon, the terrain flowing past the wings appeared to have been taken straight from hell. Tortuous convolutions twisted and turned across the plains and into the highlands of the Makran Range. Long synclines and folds squeezed up foothills to the bare mountains, and not a light showed anywhere from horizon to horizon. There were small mountain villages of herders and their families below but so scattered and primitive that in the night the land gave the impression of complete desolation.

Dawn was still several hours away when I picked up the beacon from Quetta, a small city high in the eleven thousand foot mountains of the Brahui Range. Quetta was only some fifty or sixty miles distant from Sibi and so I began a careful descent among the towering peaks.

Both Quetta and Sibi lie deep in a valley that separates the two ranges the Brahui and the Sulaiman. Both ranges flow northward to meet in the Toba Kakar range that runs down to end at Fort Sandeman. Both ranges are considered to be southern extensions of the Hindu Kush.

Klaus had come forward again as he felt the aircraft descending and took the copilot's seat. "All right," I said to him, "I have the beacon from Quetta. Now what?"

"Switch your radio to 123 kc. You will pick up a beacon, two short dots and a dash for the center of the route. Follow it right along to Sibi."

I nodded. It would have to be an illegal beacon, otherwise in the darkness, we would never find Sibi in the wasteland below. I took a quick glance through the cockpit window. The moon was descending from zenith, flooding the tortured landscape below with a silvery sheen. Deep rills and mountain rifts seemed to run at all angles.

Occasionally, I caught the flash of a mountain stream in its headlong flight to the Indian Ocean or to the Indus River to the east of us yet another two hundred miles or more. The peaks of the Sulaiman on the starboard and the Brahui on the portside towered above us, snowcapped and ghostly in the moonlight. The entire scene carried a dreamlike quality, brought about by the pale light of the moon shining down on this other-worldly land.

Ten minutes later I picked up the beacon, strong and clear. Klaus estimated that we were some thirty minutes from the airfield; obviously they did not have as much faith as Klaus did in my navigational abilities. We were at ten thousand feet when I began to lose altitude for the landing approach. I went down gingerly. Although the moon apparently provided enough light to show the whole of this amazingly wide and deep valley, I preferred not to be surprised by an odd ridge or pinnacle.

I was able to make a straight on approach to the airfield. A narrow line of oil-drum fires stretched along hard-packed gravel scraped out by British Army engineers during the war to service and refuel cargo planes flying the air routes to India. Then it must have been a busy, active place; now it was just a collection of falling-down huts and hangars that had been beaten by ,the severe winters and the spring rains into amorphous masses of gray concrete and wood that in the darkness were barely reminiscent of their former shapes.

I taxied off the runway, following Klaus's instructions, and headed for a collection of small aircraft standing near one of the tumble-down hangars. Behind us, men were running to extinguish the beacon fires in the oil drums. The old DC-3 banged and bumped its way across the broken tarmac, and I had to watch carefully to avoid some of the larger pot holes that could have snapped an undercarriage.

Klaus pointed out a spot in which to swing the DC-3 around, and when I had brought us to a halt ordered me to stay in the cockpit and went into the back of the aircraft. I shut down both engines and waited, watching through the windshield. Klaus came around the side of the plane, shook hands with one of the men who had hurried toward us from one of the large hangars. They turned and trotted off in that direction. I shrugged and dug in my pocket for a cigarette. I found one but no matches. Muttering, I climbed out of the seat I had not vacated for six hours, stretched and went into the back.

Mikhail was lying across one of the four rows of seats

that formed the small passenger cabin immediately behind the cockpit. On the other side of the aisle sat one of his guards, a swarthy Egyptian who appeared to be half asleep, dead cigarette dangling from his lips. But he wasn't. As I came out of the cockpit, his eyes opened and he stared at me from under thin eyebrows. His hand rested casually on the stock of the M-1 carbine that half lay, half leaned against his seat. In back of Mikhail sat the second guard; this one a tall, painfully thin, European, probably German from his blond hair and square features. He, too, was particularly alert and watched me from the moment I stepped out of the cockpit. Obviously, they had their orders.

Mikhail, the great guerrilla leader has met his match in these two, I thought. And Mikhail seemed to think so as well. As I came up to him and stopped, digging into my pocket for another cigarette, he hooked a thumb at the one in back and muttered sarcastically, "If you talk to me, that will only give them an excuse to beat me with the guns. They are such brave men."

I grinned down at him, but he only turned his head to stare out at the dark mountains.

"How about a cigarette?" I tossed the package to him. Before it could land in his lap, the German dove over the seat and snatched it out of thin air. The Egyptian half rose and jammed the muzzle of the carbine into my kidney, hard. I gasped with the pain but managed to keep from crying out. I noticed that Mikhail had swung back around to watch what was developing, ,tensing himself to jump in.

Ignoring the German, I turned around slowly and bent down and gathered up a handful of the Egyptian's jacket, pushing the rifle aside at the same time; counting, without really thinking of what I was doing, on the fact that he would not shoot me, thereby leaving them stranded. I slammed his head back against the window with the heel of my hand, hard and then banged it again. I dropped him senseless, and swung around to start on the German when Klaus's sharp voice sliced through the cabin. Mikhail, half out of his seat, slid back down again, his face pale with anger.

"Stop! What are you doing?" Klaus stepped into the cabin a small pistol in his hand.

The Egyptian groaned and - raised his hands to his

aching head; the German glared angrily at me, stepped out into the aisle after Klaus had passed and said something rapidly in German.

Klaus turned to me. "Is this true, Chris, that you attacked him?"

"Damned right," I snapped. "He slugged me in the back with his carbine. I just beat the devil out of him for that little stunt and I would have taken on your other buddy here if you hadn't come along."

Klaus turned and shouted something at both guards in German. Fritz looked properly abashed but Ahmed glared at me and stroked the stock of the carbine. I laughed at him, turned my back and followed Klaus into the cabin.

Once inside, Klaus latched the door and went for me in proper fashion. Never have I been so thoroughly tongue-lashed in all my life and by the time he finished, I was grinning with admiration. Seeing that he calmed down and after a moment, began to chuckle. Tensions eased quickly.

Through the cockpit window, I could see the two-man ground crew begin trundling barrels of high octane aviation fuel from a store in the crumbling hangar. With only hand pumps, it was going to be an all-night task. Apparently Klaus knew that, because he settled down and began to talk, a mixture of reminiscences of the war, some of the flights we had made together, plans for the new air-freight line, etc. After a while, when he showed no signs of unwinding, I began to wish that he would get the hell out of the cockpit for a few minutes, so that I could check the radar vector light to see if Ley was still around. If he had lost us, he was going to have a hell of a time trying to find us again in the mountains. I was sure that he had seen us turn and head up the narrow plateau and would figure that we were looking for a landing place. I only hoped that his map showed the abandoned airfield.

Klaus talked on for almost a half hour without saying anything of consequence. He refused flatly to tell me where we were going, only that Calcutta was our next stop and that we would be flying in under a proper flight plan that would be filed for us from Peshawar.

"Why Peshawar, why Calcutta?" I demanded. "For crying out loud Klaus, what harm could it possibly do ..."

Klaus just shook his head, "I am sorry, Chris. I will not tell you where we are going.

Many things can happen

before we arrive. I can only say that before this time to-morrow night, we will be in Calcutta. We will stay overnight, and as soon as we are airborne again I will tell you."

"Another phoney flight plan?" I asked.

"What do you mean?'

"I mean that if we are going farther east across Burma or Malaysia, we will have to declare a real flight plan. And if we cross either by night, we will have to stick to a very strict routing . . ."

"Ah that, yes," Klaus waved a hand. "There is no need for you to worry about that, It is all taken care of. We have done this before, many times. Chris, my friend, my friend.

You worry too much." Klaus's face wreathed itself in his winning grin and he clapped me on the shoulder and left.

Since he wouldn't talk, I figured there was no sense in sitting alone in the dark brooding.

When I pressed the dome over the radar vector light, it stayed dark. I hadn't expected anything else, but it did not make me feel any better. I got up and stretched, laid out Pete'

s sleeping bag against the door and exhausted by almost twenty hours of straight flying, I fell asleep quickly.

Morning came with a foul taste, hard sunlight slanting through the windshield and a roar that passed rapidly and dopplered away into a diminishing snarl. Not really aware of where I was or what I was doing, I struggled out of the sleeping bag in time to see a brightly painted, twinengined aircraft slant up from the runway and climb into the reddish-blue sky to the south.

The old airfield, through the fuzzy haze of sleep, looked more deserted than it had a right to be. I bumbled around until I found my clothes and grimacing at their sweaty feel, pulled them on and kicked the sleeping bag out of the way. The interior of the aircraft was as deserted as the airfield appeared. Outside the wind was sharp and strong. It blew up the narrow valley for God knew how many miles and with it came the scent of ice and water and fresh vegetation. Snow lay on the ground in white shaded patches crusted with ice crystals. My eyes followed the line of hills up the mountain flanks until I lost my balance. The crests towered a good ten to twelve thousand feet above the narrow plateau.

The sheer flanks of the mountain range were sheathed in ice, snow caps groping down level with the plateau. A blinding blanket; the snow so white that you could not look at it even for seconds without tears flooding your eyes. Long valleys and rifts were traced out in black, sharp-edged shadows, all impenetrable. Vast sprays of brown-and-gold rock stretched up toward the lilac sky, lining the summits with jagged giant's teeth to gnaw the sky. The view was similar to the east and again to the west. Only south, down the long valley was the sky relatively barren of mountain ranges. If this was only a sub-chain to a sub-chain, the Brahui to the Hindu Kush to the Himalayas, then I wondered what in the name of God the Himalayas could be like. I couldn't conceive of anything more unworldly than the mountains around me.

And the stillness. Not even the sound of an insect disturbed the intense quiet.

Occasionally the wind would whisper lightly along the dusty, snow-patched ground; the only sign of life in all the apparent universe a hawk, or perhaps an eagle, wheeling above.

I heard the crunch of footsteps behind me on the hard gravel and shivered involuntarily.

"You are cold, come back inside. We cannot have our chief pilot catching cold. You should not be out here without a jacket."

Klaus's voice was friendly and firm. I turned as he took my arm and guided me back to the DC-3. He was right; it was cold . . . colder than I had expected and now that I had seen the tremendous snow-wrapped mountain barrier, I knew why. In my astonishment at the towering peaks, I had taken absolutely no notice of anything else. The air was so crystal clear and the mountains standing in such bold relief that the mind could encompass nothing but the panorama.

I followed him, feeling somewhat like a senile old man who had wandered away from a rest home.

Breakfast was cooked by the German guard who with the slightly-the-worse-for-wear Egyptian came along with Mikhail a few minutes later. Passable bacon and eggs were baked in the pressurized Dutch oven in the galley and lots of black coffee, and I was ready to live for another day . . . although I would have sold my soul for a hot shower and a change of clothes.

An hour later we were airborne, lifting quickly off the

gravel runway and into the fine air of the plateau. I circled for altitude until we reached twenty thousand feet and turned southeast. Shortly, the rugged peaks of the Sulaiman Range were passing beneath the wings and giving way to the foothills of the Pakistani-Indian border. Klaus had been right, someone had filed a flight plan for us because as we crossed no interceptors from either side climbed to look us over. We crossed the broad reaches of the Indus River well north of the city of Sukhar. From the green, steppelike expanse of grassland in Pakistan, the land along the border turned swiftly into the dull browns and reds of the Thar Desert and by the time I picked up the Agra beacon it had begun to rise into the folded and worn Aravalli Range.

The flight across India was uneventful and beacons ticked off one after another; Agra, Kanpur, Allahabad and VOR/Calcutta Dum Dum. And finally Barrackpore Airport on the southeastern side of the city. Even the landing was routine right down to the tower sign-off with a friendly, "Welcome to Calcutta". We came in under Ground Controlled Approach down to fifteen hundred feet due to a combination of rain and fog rolling in thickly from the Damodar River. As the DC-3 touched down, the rain picked up the landing light reflections in the gathering dusk and broke them into mazes of light. On the parallel runway, a long, sleek TU-204 turboprop was beginning its take-off run in the wash of an Air France 747. Waiting patiently was a Pam Am Super DC-8, and behind it, lost in the darkness, were the outlines of four other aircraft, all unidentifiable, but all belonging to some major world-spanning airline. I felt a little out of place in our dinky, World War II, surplus DC-3.

Following Ground Control's instructions, I made the proper turn-off, crossed the west runway and headed for the service area. At the hangar, we were met by an efficient ground crew who had us refueled and checked out in less than twenty minutes. We taxied over to the parking area and I shut down for the night. I figured that we would at least be staying at the airport hotel and I was looking forward to a hot shower, clean clothes, and a good night's sleep in a decent bed. But Klaus put the kabosh on that.

"One more night. Surely you can stand one more night?"

After he left, I got up and dug the .38 out from beneath the seat, checked the chamber, wrapped it in a sweater and

tucked it down in my duffel bag. I didn't know how much good it would do me, but this way I felt I at least had a chance.

I dropped down into the pilot's seat, lit a cigarette and stared through the windshield. It didn't make any sense that I could see to drag Mikhail along, as dangerous as they considered him. And I knew that it was not weakness that prevented Klaus from kicking him out at twelve thousand feet. They were planning something and I wished I knew what the devil it was. I did not for one minute believe that nonsense about taking the fall for the two of us with the Yugoslavian police . . . we were going the wrong way.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

It was still raining at dawn. I was sitting in the pilot's seat drinking the first cup of coffee of the day and wondering whether or not I was awake. Parked next to us was an old, beat-up C-130 that must have started combat duty with the first day of the Vietnamese war and had gone on from there to Laos and Cambodia before being retired from service.

There was nothing remarkable about this weary old airplane; however, the man standing under one wing talking to an airport official was. He was wearing a light, poncho-type raincoat and hood. The' hood was pushed back far enough on his head to clearly show the strong, European features of Herr Frederick Ley.

By God, I thought, the son of a gun has managed to keep up with us. From time to time Ley glanced up at the DC-3's cockpit. I was about to signal him that I knew he was there when I saw the Egyptian wandering around just beneath the nose. He seemed to be keeping an eye on both the Indian official and Ley and me, all at the same time. Every once in awhile, he would step back far enough for a quick glance at the cockpit.

We left less than an hour later. Klaus was in an expansive mood and when I asked what direction, he waved his arms and shouted, "East!" So we went east. Our actual course was along air route 80, well away from East Pakistan.

Within an hour we were into the Bay of Bengal, crossing the off-shore islands that stretch from the mouth of the

Ganges southwest to the Damodar River delta. The rain had turned out to be part of a major storm system moving in from the Indian Ocean and reaching clear to the Burmese coast. The weather reports were calling for periodic rain squalls and cloud cover from two thousand to fifteen thousand feet. They also reported clearing skies over mid-and northern Burma. I relayed this information to Klaus and he frowned.

"That is bad. It will make finding our landing field in Burma that much harder."

"Burma, heh? Some big secret. Why wouldn't you tell me that we were headed for Burma?"

"Because we are not landing at a normal entry port ..."

"Wait a minute," I said. "You're not thinking of trying to sneak into Burma are you?

They don't take kindly to that sort of thing. Even commercial airliners have to file flight plans twenty-four hours in advance and stick strictly to controlled airways.

Klaus extracted a folded air route map from his jacket pocket; a U. S. Military FLIP may for Southeast Asia, covering the Indo-China Peninsula. He unfolded and handed it to me.

The route was marked out in red; a long sweeping curve from Calcutta to avoid problems with East Pakistan's air defense, a turn northeast and a straight run in once we reached the coast. Then a long flight over the Arakan Yoma Range that formed the backbone of the country, across the Irrawaddy River and into Burmese highlands to a red circle marking an airfield deep in the interior. The site was forty miles north of Lashio . . . and it dawned on me. Lashio was an oil town. I turned to Klaus:

"Another oil-drilling camp?"

Klaus chuckled and reached over the map. "Not a camp exactly. Mong Mei is a small village. Our company was asked by the Burmese to reactivate the old British-Indo-Chinese Oil Company lease fields under charter two years ago. This field had lain unused since the withdrawal of the Japanese after the last war. When the British retreated from Burma in 1942, they destroyed most of the equipment and all of the drilling machinery.

The Japanese managed to bring it to operational status again by mid-1945, but they surrendered in August of that same year as you will recall. Just before the surrender was announced,

the Japanese commander ordered the field to be destroyed a second time. What they did not destroy, Communist guerrillas finished in 1947 and 1948. Since then, the field has lain unworked. When the Burmese Government decided to reopen the field, they called on my company. We are now nearing full production."

"Lashio," I murmured. "Seems like I have heard of Lashio before."

"That is very possible," Klaus replied. "Lashio was the terminus of the Ledo Road used by the Allies to supply China until it was captured by the Japanese. During the insurgency troubles it was used in reverse by the Chinese to supply Communist guerrillas in Burma and Northern Malaya."

I remembered then. My father had flown the Hump .. . the air route between India and Kunming, the Chinese end of the Burma Road during World War II. Lashio was the town in northern Burma where the railroad ended and the truck road began. After the Japanese captured Burma, the Allies took to the air to supply China with arms and food.

Klaus handed the map back. It looked simple enough; a straight flight in over the coast; cross the western mountain range and turn north up the Irrawaddy River Valley as far as Mandalay, then turn northeast some eighty miles or so to a small airfield scratched out of the folded hills at three thousand feet.

And it was. We were not questioned once, either by radio or by fighter interceptors.

Klaus's outfit had obviously done this sort of thing before. Either all of the proper flight plans were on file or else certain air traffic controllers were in their pay. From previous experience, I suspected the latter as being the most likely possibility. -

We had managed to stay ahead of the storm after crossing the Burmese coast. All through the late afternoon as we flew up the Irrawaddy valley, the skies had remained a deep winter-blue, but as the ground began to rise, masses of thunderheads began to coalesce in true monsoon fashion until by sunset, the cloud cover was solid. Just at sunset we began to cross the highlands of the Shan plateau. An occasional cluster of lights marked the progress of Burma's electrification program through the villages, and when the milky cluster of Lashio came into view I altered course northeast for Mong Mei.

Darkness was complete when I spotted the lights indicating the location of Mong Mei and the Burma Oil Company. I called Klaus into the cockpit and he watched the lights grow larger with evident satisfaction. Just before I began the landing approach he laughed softly.

"It is certainly a hell of a long way from that damnable Yugoslavian island."

I agreed, fervently!

The airstrip of the Burma Oil Company wasn't much better than the packed sand of the Egyptian camp or the abandoned airstrip at Sibi. I made two passes down the runway as it seemed suspiciously short. It was; less than three thousand feet long. The landing was rough, again made between two lines of flaming oil barrels. As soon as I felt the wheels touch down I reversed both engines and we rocked and shuddered over the wet grass to a halt.

"The Government has agreed to lengthen the airstrip before summer," Klaus apologized shakily after we were down. The relief in his voice was so plain as to be almost ludicrous

. . . and it came from more than the rough landing. Obviously, we had reached the end of the line. And, the picture was beginning to fill in for me. The gold, recovered from caches throughout Europe, was flown here to the Burma Oil Company holdings, probably a subsidiary of some German organization. It was stored here . . . midway between the India/Hong Kong markets. Wherever the price was right at the moment, that'

s where the gold went to be converted to hard currency; American dollars, West German marks, Swiss francs and so on. Here in Northern Burma, Klaus's organization, using the oil camp as a front, would be as free from detection as it was possible to be anywhere in the world today, and they were only hours from the black markets that paid the highest price for bootleg gold, no questions asked. The legitimate business of the drilling site was ample excuse to run regular and not-so-regular flights in and out for supplies, equipment and men. Very nice, I thought to myself. I was willing to bet that a large percentage of the recovered gold wound up in Red China, and since the camp was located less than forty miles below the Chinese-Burmese border, they had a perfect escape route north if necessary, and I did not look for Klaus to have passed up so obvious an arrangement.

Klaus left the cockpit as soon as I brought the DC-3

to a halt. I heard him open the cargo door and shout happily 'to someone. I pulled out a cigarette and settled back, relishing the idea of not having to fly again for the next few days. And surely, somewhere around here, I could find a place to shower and shave.

I slid the wing window open and let the surprisingly mild air of the Burmese night pour in. I had half expected the air to be hot and humid until I remembered that we were on the Shan plateau, a good three thousand feet above sea level, and even though this was the middle of the rainy season, the temperature and the humidity would be bearable.

Staring into the soft night, I could see a waste stack burning natural gas on the far side of the camp. In its pale light, several skeletal pumping rigs were visible over the tops of the trees. Spaced along the runway were two one-story, slope-roofed buildings common to Indo-China, called "go-downs", obviously meant to serve as storage sheds and hangars.

After a few minutes, Klaus came back into the cockpit and asked me to come with him.

As we left the aircraft, I saw the two guards leading Mikhail toward the nearer of the go-downs. Outside, waiting for us was another man who had come from the camp in a pickup truck. As we approached, he straightened up and stuck out his hand for me to shake.

"Chris, I would like you to meet Peter Steinmetz, our camp superintendent," Klaus introduced me happily.

Steinmetz was the hulking man possessed of tremendous physical strength, to which his grip attested. And he probably needed it. Looking past his shoulder I could see two roughnecks or drillers. One was a tall, thin Lascar with a knife scar running from his left temple, down under his chin, across his throat and halfway up his right cheek. Two fingers on his left hand were missing and he walked with a decided limp. The other man was a bit shorter and Caucasian; but no less mean looking. Both stood watchfully behind Steinmetz; both wore pistols. I glanced at Klaus, but he avoided my glance and motioned to the two men.

"Chris, go with them. They will take you to your quarters and you can shower, eat and get some sleep. I'll talk to you in the morning."

Alarm bells went off all over, and a curious sensation

traveled down my spine. "Oh no you won't, old buddy," I said softly. "You will talk with me and go along with me to wherever these two apes want to' go."

I took his arm right at the elbow, squeezed hard and pulled him along at the same time.

After a moment's hesitation, he fell into step, a grimace of surprise and pain on his face.

The Lascar looked for an instant as if he might step forward and knock my hand away. I cocked my free fist to let him have it in his bony throat. Klaus saw the movement in time and motioned him to stay away. I glared and without another word, Steinmetz and his bully boys turned and led us to the pickup.

I had no intention of letting Klaus out of my sight until I found out exactly what the devil was going on and how I fitted into the picture. There was no way that Ley could help me now, not until I could locate a radio. And it hid to be found quickly before Klaus decided he could dispense with my services altogether. I had stopped believing that there was even a grain of truth in any of his fairy tales the morning he told me that Pete had been killed.

Klaus and I climbed into the rear of the pickup with the Lascar and Steinmetz and the other guard got into the cab and drove off through the darkened camp. In the winter darkness a handful of bare bulbs dangled from old-fashioned overhead street lamps to light the intersections. I tried to memorize the way, but in the dark and the maze of tracks and equipment, it was impossible.

During the five minute drive, I received the jumbled impression of oil pumps, derricks in various stages of assembly, huge oil storage tanks, and muddy streets. With the sky clouding over quickly, the moon, just clearing the eastern horizon, was blotted out in the space of a few seconds and the stars disappeared as if snuffed. The Lascar glanced up and muttered something to Klaus in a heavy German accent. His meaning was clear enough. This was the monsoon season and anyone who dawdled in the face of the evidence presented by the sky deserved to get wet.

A few minutes later, we turned off what passed for the main street and stopped. Klaus and the Lascar hopped down and I followed them through a small gate and up a path to a neat little bungalow set well back from the road. The light went on in the main room as the Lascar entered. I judged that we had come only half a mile from the airfield, but I doubted if I could have made my way in the dark if my life depended on it . . . which it just might.

The interior of the bungalow was a complete surprise. The old furniture was neatly arranged around the room. An old-fashioned radio with a wood cabinet stood in one corner. I hadn't seen one of those things since my parents had traded theirs in on a television set in the late 1940s. The rug was worn in spots and the walls were stained by years of neglect. But someone had taken some pains to clean up and restore the place. A fire burning briskly in the fireplace enhanced its comfortable feeling.

Klaus stopped in the center of the room and motioned the Lascar out. He left without hesitation.

"All right, Chris, what is this all about?"

I dropped down wearily onto the overstuffed brown sofa and sighed. "Look, friend, you drag me to Yugoslavia, involve me in a murder and an attack on a government ship on the high seas, then pull me halfway round the world . . . and you want to know why I'm jumpy. Those bravos out there are a couple of the toughest looking characters I have ever seen. Either one would slit my throat for fifty cents and not think twice about it. Then you want me to go off on a nice long walk at night with them. No thanks."

Klaus rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I see." He was quiet again for a moment as if wondering what to say next.

"Chris, have I ever given you reason to doubt me . . . ?"

I groaned. "Yes, Klaus, you have. I don't trust you any farther than I could throw all two thousand pounds of that gold."

Klaus looked pained, and genuinely hurt. But I was no longer buying.

"Chris, if you don't trust me then I cannot afford to have . .."

"Damn it all, Klaus," I said quietly, "knock off that nonsense. I don't trust you, you don't trust me. It's that simple. If we can co-operate in some way advantageous to the other, fine. Let's do so. If not, give me my share • of the gold and let me get the hell out of here.

"

Klaus strode angrily to the door. "There is no reason why we cannot co-operate as you so crudely put it. I was serious, completely serious when I asked you to develop a new air-freight line that would be financed by my company. But now, you are tired and are not speaking sensibly. Please sleep and we will talk about it tomorrow evening.

Until then, you are free to come and go around the camp as you wish. You will not be interfered with. I will need to use the DC-3 tomorrow, but we have one other pilot."

"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 helicopter-borne 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.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

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."

"Good lord," I muttered and fell back into the chair. "You are a damned cynical devil."

"Perhaps, but for now, you will keep your mouth shut and your opinions to yourself.

Also, you will remain within the camp until you receive further instructions. In a few days, you will be on your way back to Italy."

Klaus closed his briefcase, stood up and walked to the door. "Is that understood?"

I nodded and he left without another word. Through the window, I watched him go down the walk. At the gate, he stopped and a figure stepped out of the shadows. They talked briefly and Klaus continued on up the road. The other stepped back again into the shadows. Now, I, too, had a guard.

At midnight, I left the bungalow with the heavy Smith

& Wesson .38 in my jacket pocket. Instead of following the route Klaus had taken, I went over the back fence to avoid the guard out front, and worked my way along a narrow service alley to the warehouse area. I stopped at that point to regain my bearings.

The rain had started in again just after sunset and now was falling steadily—a light but persistent drizzle that made hardly a sound yet had a queer muffling effect. Lights burned fitfully around the installation and the Christmas-tree lights on the derricks were softened and made remote by the rain. I made my way carefully and quietly through the compound to the last stretch of road between the warehouses and the edge of the airfield.

From there, the path was over open ground. I crouched behind a line of hedge and examined the area until I was certain that no one was moving about.

As I neared the airfield, I saw the faint outline of the DC-3 . . . certain to be guarded, I thought . . . parked at the far end of the field from the go-downs. That at least was a small break. The aircraft would be distant enough that any noise would be smothered by the rain. I was also counting on the inclination of the guard to spend his watch inside the aircraft where it was at least dry.

The hardest part was to work my way in close to the go-downs. There was no cover of any kind between the hedge and the airstrip, and the one guard on the nearest go-down—the one in which I was sure Mikhail was being kept—was outside, sheltering from the rain beneath the roof overhang.

I reached the taut cyclone fencing that edged the runway and hastily tucked myself into the meager shelter at its base. A floodlight burned from the roof of each go-down; neither sufficiently powerful to penetrate the misty rain to any great distance.

The ground was cold and muddy; damned cold. Colder than I had expected it to be. The wet grass was a foot high; just tall enough to be bothersome without providing cover. I had little choice. I had to approach the guard in such a way that I could watch him the whole time. I did not dare to come at him from behind the cabin since he might take it into his head to throw away his cigarette and make a round or two like a good little guard should.

I moved carefully along the fence, carrying the .38 in my right hand, depending on the rain to blot out any noise. As soon as I had passed the guard, I sprinted for the building, keeping low and as deep into the shadows as possible. The guard was leaning against the wall, apparently asleep. After all my trouble, I had merely to walk up and clip him behind the ear to make sure that he would continue to sleep.

The first hurdle was past. The second guard would be inside the hut and as it was close to midnight, both he and Mikhail were probably asleep. I picked up the guard's carbine; a nice M-16, almost new. These boys traveled first-class it seemed. I rifled through his pockets and found a small bag of extra clips inside his jacket. In the faint light from the flood mounted on the roof, I could see that he was the thin German who made such good coffee. It seemed a heck of a long way to come from Egypt just to get whacked behind the ear.

I was half right about the second guard; the Egyptian. He was inside the go-down but not asleep. He was reading a paperback by the light of a flashlight when I eased open the door. Fortunately he was so engrossed in what he was reading that he did not hear or see the door open. I stepped inside and he looked up just in time to catch the butt-end of the carbine in the middle of the forehead. He hit the floor like a sack of wet grain. Mikhail came awake instantly.

I picked up the guard's flashlight and motioned with it for him to turn over. He started to object, but I turned it on my own face and he stopped at once.

"Keep quiet," I ordered. "Roll over so I can cut the ropes."

•

He did as he was told and I sawed through the tough nylon. Mikhail rolled into a sitting position and stretched vigorously but silently. I put my fingers to my lips and backed away from him and peered around the door frame. The guard was slumped against the door in the shadows. The rest of the night was silent but for the rain. Satisfied, I closed the door, picked up the Egyptian's pistol and tossed it to Mikhail. He caught it and sat back on his heels.

"So you have finally come to help me . . ."

"Shut up," I snarled. "Keep your mouth shut, listen to what I have to say, then do exactly what you are told."

Mikhail started, then thought better of it as the M-16 came up to meet him. He sank back down on his heels, glaring.

"At least you remember our bargain . .." I ignored him and motioned for him to keep quiet.

"Maher is mixed up with some kind of organization ... I don't know what," I lied. "But whatever it is, it's a damned powerful group. They plan to ship you back to Yugoslavia to take the rap for Vishailly. I'm betting that they were going to plant your body somewhere on Kornat Island and blame you exclusively for Vishailly's death to take the heat off Klaus."

"What kind of an organization?" he insisted quietly.

"I'm not really sure." I stopped for a moment, considering just how much to tell him.

Then I decided that the truth couldn't hurt . . . up to a point, anyway.

"As far as I can tell, they belong to some kind of NeoNazi group that specializes in recovering the gold and other things that the SS Special Detachments left all over Occupied Europe. The cache on Kornat was one of them. I doubt if Klaus was ever really stationed on Kornat, and I'm willing to bet he wasn't in the German Navy either. I suspect he spent most of his war years in the SS, probably one of the Special Detachments."

Even in the meager light from the flashlight, I could see Mikhail's face flush. But he remained silent, hearing me out.

"I also question how much of the gold taken from the Balkans was ever stored in that cavern. Thirty million may have been stolen by the Special Detachments, but how much of that was ever really sent to Kornat, I don't know. Anyway, most of that was probably already in the cistern when your people attacked the base and blew up the cavern. I think Klaus knew this; whether he was there or not. He knew exactly where the gold was. I also think that this is not the first one of these little expeditions that Klaus has conducted.

Somehow Vishailly knew about the gold . . . maybe not exactly where it was hidden . . .

but he knew that sooner or later someone was going to come for it. But I'm positive that he never told his superiors much about us or what we were up to. He wanted that gold for himself."

"Where is Maher now?" Mikhail asked, getting to his feet.

"Somewhere in the compound, why?"

"Because I am going to kill him."

"Now wait a minute ..."

Mikhail started to push past me. He had no intention

of listening to anything and probably had not heard a word I said. But I needed his help in taking that radio shack . . . I reversed the carbine and drove the butt into Mikhail's midsection. He sat down on the bunk with a grunt of expelled air. I followed, thrusting the barrel into his face and forcing his head back against the metal wall.

"Listen, you bastard . . . I didn't break you out of here to have you run berserk through the camp and get us both killed. You and I are going to take on the radio shack next door.

Once we have that, you can do any damned thing you want. Until that time, you stay with me and do what you are told or I'll blow your head off."

If Mikhail ever got to Klaus, there was no question but that I would be next on his list.

But he understood exactly what I was saying . . . and he could judge for himself what his chances were of living beyond the next few seconds unless he agreed to do exactly as I said. Finally, he nodded.

"All right. Get up!"

Mikhail got heavily to his feet and stood waiting, hands at his sides.

"Pick up that carbine and let's see what kind of guerrilla soldier you are," I flung at him.

"Go ahead of me . . . I don't trust my back to you."

Mikhail had bent to pick up the carbine. He stopped and peered up at me. "And you had better not either ..."

Grinning wolfishly, I motioned him to the door. But once outside, he became a different man . . . a professional soldier and all business. I described the installation to him showing how the two go-downs were fairly well isolated on the edge of the airfield. I pointed out the DC-3 at the far end of the field and the third go-down, which we would have to burn to prevent the small aircraft that I suspected it housed from being used.

Mikhail nodded to indicate that he understood and then bent to strip the unconscious guard of his wristwatch. We agreed on five minutes to get into position and faded into the rain.

I hated to let him go off on his own. I had no idea of whether he would shoot me in the back, go after Klaus or show up at the radio shack. I also wondered if he knew himself.

But, I had no other choice. At the very least, he might provide enough diversion if he did go after Klaus to keep the camp occupied until I could raise Ley and get him in here.

The rain was falling harder than ever now; a mad musician drumming the earth.

Visibility was less than twenty feet, which could both help and hinder.

It took me less than the allotted five minutes to reach the front of the tin-roofed go-down.

I could not make out a guard, but then in this rain, he would have to be as foolish as I was to stay outside. I crawled up to a window and peered inside. The room was dimly lit by a kerosene lamp standing in the corner, an incongruous sight among all the sophisticated radio gear. The operator was half lying, half sitting in an old swivel-back chair, sound asleep. There was no sign of a guard anywhere; either no trouble was expected or else the guard had gone off somewhere and would be back shortly. I hoped the latter was not the case and pushed open the door.

I was wrong! There was a guard. He had been dozing against the front wall; peering through the high window I had missed him in the gloom. The opening door alerted him, but as I stepped in a shot blasted out from the back window and caught him square in the chest just as he raised his rifle. He spun around, slammed into the wall and fell to the floor. The operator came awake with a jolt, grabbing for a pistol stuck in a drawer under the radio. I reached him in two steps and brought the carbine butt down on the back of his head, hard. He hit the floorboards with a solid but relaxed thump. Moments later, Mikhail followed me in through the front door and walked over to examine the body of the dead guard.

"Do you suppose anyone heard the shooting?" he asked rhetorically, grinning down at the body.

"I doubt it. The rain is too loud for the sound to have carried far," I answered and sat down at the console and began to study the radio while Mikhail stalked around the room peering through the various windows and examining the contents of a trunk standing against the wall. I warmed up the set and dialed the same frequency that I had used in Egypt, 127.6 kc. hoping that Ley had some kind of radio watch standing by.

I transmitted my identification code twice and flipped to receive. And he was on the air.

"Chris ... where are you? Over."

I gave Ley the co-ordinates as best as I could.'"It will be hard to find in the rain," I said dryly. "The camp is near the village of Mong Mei. There's an abandoned airstrip that was used as an emergency landing field for the air lift into China during the war, over."

"I have a map here and I think we have you spotted. The pilot says that the runway must be marked or he won't be able to find you, over."

"All right, I'll see what we can do here. The runway doesn't have landing lights . . . they used torches last night for our landing, over."

"We won't need to have the entire runway lighted since we will be coming in by helicopter. Just mark the landing area."

"Will do. What kind of help are you bringing?"

"The Burmese Army," Ley replied grimly and signed off.

"Twenty minutes to a half an hour and they'll be here," I said swinging around to face Mikhail.

He was standing against the door with the carbine cradled in his arms, a strange look, the beginnings of comprehension and disgust on his face.

"These are very strange friends you have . . . friends who can persuade the army of Burma to aid them . . ."

I waved a hand tiredly. "Mikhail, I haven't got time to answer your questions. I didn't expect it to turn out this way. I got trapped into it just as you did. This is the only way out for you as well as for me. These people that I am involved with . . . the man I just talked to on the radio ... are part of an organization that is trying to break up the Neo-Nazi party. This is the first big break they have had, the first chance they have had to hurt them badly, maybe even close down the financial pipeline that keeps them going."

"Police," Mikhail sneered, "I'm not going to . . ."

"The hell you're not!" I exploded. "If you stop and think for a minute, you really don't have any choice. Go on, walk out of here. Go tell Klaus that the cops are coming.

Providing they let you live, you can think about how you helped the Nazis for the rest of your life. If I hadn't cut you loose, hadn't have been able to call the police in, tomorrow you would be on your way back to Yugoslavia. You might start the trip alive, but you would end it very, very dead. So, which is it going to be?"

The rain cascaded down in a momentary flood, lending added emphasis to my words. I watched Mikhail make up his mind. I could literally read the struggle in the expressions that flew across his face as he came to the realization that he would have to choose the police. Only with them could he survive.

Finally Mikhail nodded. "I do not have any choice. I will help you. At least I will see that bastard Maher in jail . . . if I cannot kill him first."

"All right," I said, suddenly feeling very old. "Let's get to it."

We rummaged around the go-down and found several bundles of rags and cans of kerosene for the marker lights and dashed out into the rain. It took fifteen minutes to drag four of the heavy oil drums into a rough square approximately one hundred yards across to mark out a landing grid for the helicopters. After the drums were in place, we laid kerosene soaked clothes on the wire screens welded to the insides of the barrels and fired them off with handfuls of soggy matches. Within minutes the rain and darkness were forced back by the brightly burning drums.

I reached the go-down just ahead of Mikhail. He came in more slowly, studying the night beyond the line of trees. I waited for him beneath the eaves and together we both watched the fire signals burning out on the landing strip. They were barely visible through the heavy rain.

"I hope your friends have sharp eyes," Mikhail observed.

I said with considerably more confidence than I felt, "From the air the torches will be brighter. The pilot has the location down pretty close. All he will have to do is spot the barrels from around one hundred meters altitude."

Mikhail grunted and we both turned to re-enter the hut just as the telephone jangled sharply. We stopped just short of the door and glanced at each other.

"They've seen the fires, I'll bet. Whoever is on the other end of that line will want to know what's going on."

"If it is not answered, then they will send someone out to see what is happening,"

Mikhail pointed out. "And they will probably come with guns."

I turned to stare into the rain at the fires. "You can bet your sweet life they'll come armed. And they won't wait to ask questions." I pointed to the line of trees. "A road runs along there. They will probably come by truck and stop about there." I pointed out a break in the cyclone fencing that served as a gate to the airfield.

The phone rang several more times, then stopped. "Here they come," I muttered.

Mikhail grasped me by the arm and pushed me around to the back of the go-down. "Stay here," he hissed, and ran for the other go-down. I saw what he was up to. No matter when they arrived, they would have to come through the opening in the fence, midway between two buildings. We had them in an effective cross fire as long as our ammunition held out.

The monsoon rains lashed down harder and harder. It did not seem that there could be that much water in all Asia. I was worried about the damned helicopters. If the weather was bad enough to keep them grounded, Mikhail and I were strictly out of luck. We would be long dead if the soldiers had to come by the road. I had already decided that if things got too bad and the helicopters had not arrived in the next thirty minutes, Mikhail and I would beat it; either try for the DC-3 or take to the hills. I looked at my watch.

Twenty minutes had already passed since I had spoken to Ley on the radio. I paced back and forth for a moment, and finally chose a spot near the left-hand side of the go-down.

It provided a good angle of fire and at the same time let me keep an eye on the burning oil drums and the landing area. With a sigh, I stretched full length in the soggy grass and waited.

Five long, cold minutes passed before a faint squeal of brakes told me that our playmates were arriving. I felt in my pockets for the spare ammunition clips and laid out three on the bag in front of me. I pulled the M-16 from under my chest, propped it on my left hand, cradled the stock against my cheek in approved military fashion and checked the indicator to make sure it was on semiautomatic. A moment later, I caught sight of the truck's parking lights as it turned and stopped. Then shadows detached themselves and milled about; the confusion lasted only a few seconds and the line of shadows straightened and began to move forward to the gate. The distance could not have been more than thirty yards yet it seemed like a thousand.

Two shots cracked out on my left as Mikhail fired. The shadows disappeared quickly, diving for cover. I dropped my sights slightly and fired twice. A few minutes later, someone shouted in German and I heard Mikhail answer back, also in German. Several shots rang out in his direction, so I assumed that Mikhail had told them in explicit terms what they could do with themselves.

From where I lay, I could, by turning my head see the airstrip and drums of kerosene. So far, they were continuing to burn in spite of the pounding rain. I found it hard to believe that it could rain so hard for so long. I had seen monsoon rains in Vietnam, but nothing like this. It had rained hard certainly, but never for more than five or ten minutes at a time.

I peered hard in the direction of the truck but the blackness and rain were impenetrable.

For all I knew, they could have packed up and gone home—a most unlikely possibility.

I glanced at my watch again; thirty minutes gone. I listened hard, straining to pick up the first faint drone of the helicopters; nothing. The minutes stretched on. No movement of any kind was to be seen around the truck and I began to wonder what the devil they were up to. My curiosity was satisfied moments later as a second truck drove up.

Reinforcements; now we were in for it, I thought. The rain pounded down as steady as ever covering any movement around the two trucks. A beam of light stabbed out, blinding in its intensity and suddenness. Searchlight! Since I had fired last, they started in my direction. The beam swept in high, found the back wall of the go-down and steadied, then began a careful sweep waist high. The glare was so bright that it was impossible to see anything else and under its cover, I knew they would be moving forward.

Mikhail began firing off to my left. The beam did not waver in its search for me confirming that they were not trying to spot but to use its glare to blind me. I supposed that I could consider that a tribute to my marksmanship. I grabbed the spare clips, shoved them into my pocket, wriggled quickly to the left, into the open, away from the wall of the go-down until I was out of the direct line of the searchlight beam. The glare was reduced, but not enough that I could see anyone approaching.

I put the carbine to my shoulder again and sighted in carefully on the fiery center of searchlight, took a deep breath and fired once. Nothing. I resettled the carbine and fired again, shifted slightly and fired once more. Still nothing. I wiped the rain out of my eyes and tried a third time. On the fourth round, the reflector shattered and the light dwindled, hissing and sputtering, as the rain short-circuited the electric arc. Mikhail picked up the firing as I crawled rapidly to the left again and further away from the go-

down. Rifle fire poured around the spot I had just vacated.

Round one to us, I thought. And at almost the same time, a figure loomed out of the darkness, running straight for me. I don't know if he knew where he was going or not, and didn't wait to find out. I fired two rounds almost by reflex and whoever it was jackknifed backward and landed heavily yards off to my right. I waited for several seconds, my heart pounding like a jack hammer, temples throbbing so heavily that I thought they might burst.

I shoved a fresh clip of ammunition into the carbine and decided that I was getting a little too far away from the relative cover of the go-down and began to wriggle back. It felt as though the rain was finally beginning to slacken. It no longer pounded down with quite the same force. Several minutes more passed and it became possible to make out the dim shape of the trucks and occasionally a flicker of movement as someone crouching low, moved from one truck to another.

Points of light suddenly blossomed full grown into flowers of flame and landed hissing in the wet grass. Several more flares followed until the area between the road and the go-downs was lit with smokey red fluorescence through which deathly pink rain slanted down. As the first flares landed, a concerted rush from the trucks began. I heard Mikhail'

s carbine start up and I followed suit. The running, crouching figures were hard to make out clearly in the wavering red light; they had us well spotted and intense fire began to tear up the ground around me.

I fired off one complete clip, sending at least one more man to the ground before I jumped up and dodged away around the corner of the go-down. I saw Mikhail break from the far side of his go-down and head for the fence alongside the airstrip. The same thought had occurred to both of us at once. Our positions had become untenable in the heavy concentration of gunfire There was only one place to go. I swore at Ley and the entire Interpol organization for getting me into this mess, at myself for letting Klaus talk me into it in the first place and at Klaus for talking me into it.

Both of us went up and over the cyclone fencing like scalded cats. I know I hit the fence running, tossed my carbine over, vaulted the top and did not stop until I had covered at least twenty yards on the far side, grabbing up the carbine as I went, all without slowing once. A small channel ran along the side of the runway to carry off rainwater . . . as it was doing now. Both of us splashed down into it some forty yards apart. The water was cold but not deep, and the channel provided cover and however meager, it was better than nothing.

Our friends were right behind us. Mikhail shot at one as he tried to go over the fence and the rest, chastened, pulled back quickly to the cover of the go-downs.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"Chris . . . Chris," Mikhail's whisper was startling in the sudden silence. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm okay. How about you?"

Water and wet grass whispered as Mikhail crawled toward me.

"All right. But we must hold them here. There is nowhere for us to retreat until your friends come."

The fence was outlined by the dim light from the flood mounted on the go-down roof.

Mikhail did not take his eyes from it and neither did I.

"I will kill that bastard Nazi before this night is through," he muttered, half to himself.

"Before this night is through?" I railed at him, suddenly angry and scared at the same time. "Before this night is through we'll both be dead."

Any further argument that Mikhail might have had was cut off abruptly as firing resumed from the other side of the fence. Now they did have us at a distinct disadvantage. The burning oil drums were to our backs, silhouetting every move above the edge of the ditch that we made. Mikhail held his fire and I did likewise and for the moment they were content to probe, apparently not wishing to risk any more men until they figured out what was happening. After a few minutes the firing trickled away. I wondered if they might be interpreting our lack of response as a shortage of ammunition. If so, they were right. I had two clips left and the Smith & Wesson. Mikhail would have even less as he had done more shooting. I was beginning to wonder seriously whether or not we could hold out until Ley arrived when Mikhail shouted something unintelligible and swung around and fired past my ear. A heavy weight lunged across my back and slithered down into the drainage ditch. Mikhail fired again. The second burst of gunfire shocked me out of the temporary paralysis and I dove for the bottom of the ditch. Mikhail sprinted past as I floundered in the muddy water. I had the impression of a continuous muzzle flash as he sailed by, his carbine sputtering away on automatic.

I came to my feet running in the opposite direction. Twenty paces up the ditch, I threw myself sideways and out into a prone position on the grassy lip. Mikhail was boldly outlined in the light of a newly ignited flare. As I brought my carbine up, he swung the butt of his into the chest of a rushing body with features carved in hard shadow. Almost in slow motion, the figure stooped, bent forward with the force of the blow and sprawled over his back and into the ditch. A fourth man was bearing down on him from above, rifle swinging to shoulder when I fired a long burst that hosed through the night to scatter tiny explosions of phosphorescent mist where the bullets went smashing home.

Then it was silent again but for the sputtering of the flare in the wet grass and the muted drumming of the rain. Slowly, exhausted by the berserk reaction, I slid back down into the ditch until I was sitting with my back against one muddy side, too tired and cold to care any longer.

A moment later, Mikhail crawled up beside me and slumped horizontally against the other side, where he peered carefully over the edge. He was breathing hoarsely, gasping for breath.

"You . . . all right?" I managed to get out and found that I was gasping as well.

He didn't answer, just nodded his head and stared toward the fence before he swung around to face me and slid down to the bottom into a sitting position where he ducked his head between his knees. Mikhail gagged several times and then sat motionless while he regained his strength. After a while, he sloshed down the ditch a few feet and scooped up several handfuls of muddy water to

rinse his mouth and he crawled back to where I was sitting, sank down heavily and leaned his head back against the muddy wall.

"I think . . . that . . . I am becoming . . . too old . . ."

"Yeah, ain't we both," I muttered and eased across the ditch and raised my head carefully until I could see over the edge. For a moment, I could make out nothing in the light of the dying flare. The fence was almost invisible in the darkness and rain, and at first I could spot no movement around the go-downs or along the base of the fence. I continued to peer into the semidarkness and then I saw the two men working near the fence . . . at work with long handled bolt cutters. The men who had hit us on the flanks had been a diversion to allow the two with the bolt cutters to rip a way through the fence.

I hissed at Mikhail and shoved my carbine up and over the edge of the ditch. Mikhail changed clips and I waited a moment to give him time to get into position. I pointed out the two men working on the fence and whispered for him to take the man on the left.

"Now!" We opened fire simultaneously and the carbines rapped out sharply. Both men looked up in astonishment, one half rose as if to run and the other just stared for a soundless moment and then both thrashed backwards and disappeared.

Mikhail swore feelingly, I grabbed his arm and swung him around.

"We've waited long enough. In another couple of minutes they'll cut through the fence and we won't be able to stop them. I'm going to make a run for the DC-3. Are you coming?"

Mikhail snatched his arm away and stumbled back. "No . . . I told you, I'll kill Klaus if it is the last thing I do alive."

"So long you sonofabitch," I snarled and sprinted away down the ditch toward the end of the airfield. I ran for nearly fifty yards, bending low in a desperate effort to stay below the level of the ditch. There was gunfire behind me again and as I. ran, a vague feeling of uneasiness began to grow. Were they expecting us to try for the DC-3. If so, they were sure as hell going to be waiting .. .

I jumped from the ditch to sprawl in the wet grass, having decided that there was no sense in racing straight into a bullet when I caught the heavy beat of a helicopter's rotor and saw twin landing lights stab out and race toward the burning oil barrels. Two more beams appeared out of the rain directly behind and twin whirlwinds of water and air pressed down on me in instant succession. Chinooks . .. thirty or more troops each!

Two eye-searing magnesium flares exploded inches from the ground etching every blade of grass, every drop of rain, every human being in white and black; stark razor-edged white and black.

The first helicopter swayed down and the troops poured out in disciplined leaps to disappear instantly in the long grass as firing again erupted from the area around the go-downs. A metal voice yammered suddenly in German, repeated the words and switched to a different sing-songy language; most likely Burmese or one of the local Chin dialects.

Then the first copter was away and the second hovering in and again the figures of battle clad troopers poured out of the double cargo doors. Ley had arrived with the Burmese Army.

I was on my feet and running forward toward the skirmish line of troops and apparent safety, when it occurred to me that I could get myself shot.

Coming up on their flank like that, they could easily mistake me for one of the camp's defenders. I had no wish to find myself blown to tiny pieces and dropped back into the grass.

Battle lines developed quickly. The Burmese troopers poured a heavy concentration of fire into the go-downs, lacing the night with red tracer paths. Two flanking machine guns were set up on either end of a line that curved inward on both edges and began to fire steadily along the fence boundary. The first helicopter thumped back over the airfield and dropped two flares on the far side of the fence before whirling up into the rain.

Desultory muzzle flashes from the other side of the fence indicated that the defenders were beginning to abandon their positions. I could imagine the consternation that must be raging from the go-downs to the center of the camp as they poured back to the administration area. I lay where I was and watched the show.

The Burmese were pretty damned efficient. They could not have been on the ground more than five minutes before they had pushed up to the fence. Five minutes more and two small explosions knocked down three fence posts and ripped the half-cut fence apart. They carried the two go-downs in a rush. I caught the faint sputtering of a truck engine as it started up and drove away. Unless a prompt surrender developed, I knew the evening's work was just beginning. And I also knew that Klaus would never quit now; he would see the world end first.

When I turned back to watch the activity around the landing area, I found a half dozen troopers almost on me. I had been so engrossed in what was going on along the fence that I had forgotten that I could be seen in silhouette. I stayed right where I was and slowly raised my hands, still holding the carbine over my head. One soldier snatched it away, while another began to speak rapidly into a walkie-talkie. The rest just stared at me while they waited.

A brief silence descended over the airfield now and one of the helicopters settled slowly onto the field. The two big rotors swung lazily, catching glints of light from the oil drum markers. The second copter trundled around the far end of the field, lofted two flares into high arcs that sent them up and over the main part of the camp and disappeared again into the rain and darkness.

The big, main cargo doors on the copter that had just landed swung wide and three men jumped down, bending low to escape the flurry of spray and mud kicked up in the wash of the rotors, they clutched their rain slickers about them and scurried toward me. As they drew closer, I could see that two were Burmese, both carrying carbines. The third man, of course, was Captain Frederick Ley, and he was grinning from ear to ear.

Suddenly I was too weary to do more than nod in greeting.

"Chris, you are all right?" he shouted in my ear, grabbing me up in a rib-shattering bear hug in his enthusiasm.

I nodded, grinning in spite of myself. "Yeah, I'm all right. I'd be even better off if you would let go of me."

Ley laughed heartily and set me down.

"I apologize for the delay . . . we must blame the weather," he explained as we walked toward the helicopter. "Never have I seen such rain. The pilots did not want to fly- and when we- finally did take off, we became lost searching for your beacons. You were right, they were not very bright."

"Well, I'll tell you," I muttered. "Another five minutes and you might have had to chase me down country. I was heading for the DC-3 when you arrived."

Ley laughed once more and helped me into the helicopter. The officer shouted in Burmese and a moment later, a soldier handed me a steaming cup of coffee. The officer obviously was in charge of the raiding party because he promptly forgot about me and turned back to the two non-coms standing at a small map table and went to work.

"We must get you dry clothes," Ley said with concern. "In this rain," I laughed in spite of myself, "they'll only get wet again."

Ley chuckled . . . his good humor infectious. This was the end of his crazy chase nearly halfway round the world. Between us we had traced the pipeline to its terminus and it was now being closed off. There was nothing that could be done about the legal and illegal banks and exchange houses in India, Hong Kong and Macao, but at least the flow of Neo-Nazi support money would close.

"How well do you know the plan of this camp?"

"Pretty well. I explored thoroughly this afternoon. They left me on my own and no one seemed to care what I was doing."

Ley nodded. "Very good. Then please look at these photographs and tell us exactly where we are."

He took me over to the table where the Burmese officer had gathered with his staff and was muttering orders in a low voice that peeled them off one by one and sent them dashing out into the rain.

Ley pointed to several large photo maps that were tacked to the writing surface and stepped to the side to let me have a good look.

I took a cigarette from him, lit it and inhaled deeply and bent to study the photographs.

They were relatively old and rather faded. I noticed the legend in one corner that said they were prepared by Royal Air Force in 1944.

At first glance, the details were terrible. The campsite was heavily overgrown and there had been a light cloud cover the day the photos were taken. But as I studied them, I found that I could trace the outlines of the camp proper and the peculiar V-shaped road that divided the camp into two sections. To the northwest was the outline of the airfield, complete with two stubby black shadows marking the go-downs. After a bit more study, I spotted

the round black tops of the oil storage tanks and dots that indicated numerous drilling towers.

"What do you want to know?"

"Where are we right now in relation to the main portion of the camp?" Ley asked.

I nodded and traced out the airfield for him. The Burmese officer nodded and wanted to know where he could expect the largest concentration of resistance to be. A good question. From what I had learned in my afternoon of exploring, I could only guess that the camp inhabitants would congregate at the centrally located administrative buildings when they heard the gunfire and spotted the helicopters landing. Conceivably, in panic, they might run for the main gate and the forest. But party members would stay to fight it out. Klaus had too much at stake here, and at this point he would have no clear idea who was attacking.

No, I guessed that Klaus would stay and fight. I doubted that it would take them long to organize and strike back in earnest. There had to be at least three hundred men in the camp, and from what I had seen so far, most of the Europeans—perhaps close to one hundred—could be depended on to fight. I explained this and then handed my carbine to Ley, the one taken from the German guard.

"Chances are they will be well armed. That's an M-16 carbine. It's also possible that they have heavier weapons as well, machine guns and possibly even mortars."

The Burmese officer frowned. "Where the devil would . . ." Ley didn't finish the question. The three of us knew the answer. After twenty-five years of war in Southeast Asia, any black market worth its salt could furnish military weapons from China, Russia, the U.S. and Australia ranging from hand grenades to half tracks.

Ley and the Burmese officer discussed this for a few moments and decided to call for more troops. An oil field is not an easy place to defend if you are trying to prevent capture and damage. But if you do not care about damage to the installation . . . it then becomes exceedingly difficult to dig out defending forces. There are a million and one places to hide; there are innumerable perches and escape routes for snipers. All in all, the Burmese troopers were facing a pretty tough night.

"Let's go," Ley muttered abstractedly and swung out through the open cargo doors. The Burmese officer followed and even though the invitation had not included me, I picked up my carbine and followed. I wanted to be there when Klaus was wrapped up. There were four murders to his credit, directly or indirectly: Mistako, Bowen, Vishailly and Pete's. I was sorry about the other three, but Pete had been a close personal friend. He was going to answer to me, one way or another, for that.

The rain had begun to slacken as midnight approached. Ley slogged across the quiet airfield, adjusting the carbine that he had slung over his shoulder. Two troopers were just coming out of the second go-down as we approached leading the staggering and disoriented radio operator. The officer stopped to say something to them and Ley and I continued on to join the main body of troops receiving orders and dispersing from there to assigned positions. The scene was one of carefully controlled chaos, picked up in the wavering light of the dying flares.

Ley stopped abruptly and grasped my arm. "All right, Chris, I want you back in the helicopter out of the way. I do not want anything to happen to you . . ."

I jerked my arm away and swung round on him. "Keep your hands to yourself, you dope.

You got me into this mess and you're not going to put me out now."

Before he could reply I turned and walked through the gate. I knew that if I did anything less, showed even a moment's hesitation, he would have me taken back to the helicopter under guard.

Only scattered lights showed from the direction of the administrative compound and these were rapidly being extinguished. Silhouetted against the trees was the trailer-mounted searchlight with its shattered reflector. A heavy truck engine started up in the distance and then shut down abruptly. Over all, the flickering torch of the waste stack burned with its faint, almost lightless flame. The silence was becoming oppressive. I heard an occasional low mutter of a trooper's voice, stilled instantly by a growled reprimand from a non-com. Ley strode up to me, clearing his throat. Before he could get started with his speech, I swung round on him. "One of the four people killed by these bastards was a good friend of mine."

Ley backed up, surprised at the intensity in my voice. "The man who owned that DC-3

was killed by one of

Klaus's people. So, do what you want, but leave me alone, understand?"

Ley nodded and turned away without a word leaving me standing in the rain by the fence, feeling deathly sick to my stomach with sorrow, fear and tension.

A few more minutes were spent in detailing the troopers off to their posts and then I heard the sound of the helicopter starting up its engines. The high-pitched turbine whine was gradually superseded by the thump-thump of the twin rotors and moments later the copter was airborne, climbing for altitude. It swung out and away from the airfield and roared in over the main part of the camp to drop several flares in quick succession. The troopers moved forward in a wavering line. At the same time, the iron voice of the copter-mounted loudspeaker boomed away again first in Burmese and then in German. It repeated the message twice more in each language, dropped more flares until the entire campsite was lit as brightly as dawn and flapped away to the southwest to gather up reinforcements at Lashio. I guessed that the message had called on the Germans to surrender and warned any Burmese citizens remaining in the compound to stay out of the line of fire.

The troopers advanced under the flare-lit sky in silence, moving cautiously from cover to cover. The magnesium parachute flares cast harsh black shadows that hid details in their depths, and the troopers were understandably reluctant to race forward. And it is well that they did not. Klaus, or his staff, had organized an amazingly efficient defense-in-depth. Experience with bandits over the past two years had perfected their system; when hard fighting began it became clear that only superior weapons and overwhelming strength were going to carry the compound.

Completely unexpected, a mortar barrage fell ahead of the first line of advancing troops.

It was short-lived but murderous and brought the advance to a complete halt. Right behind the barrage came the first wave of heavy fire from the defenders as they rushed forward into the fringing trees. The troopers went to ground but refused to give way; instead, inching forward where they could, taking and giving heavy and accurate fire all the while.

It is to the everlasting credit of the Burmese troopers that not once did they give ground in the face of the intense fire to which they were subjected. Their line had stabilized in a long sweeping curve, its middle anchored to the fence separating the airfield from the compound. In all, the line was nearly half a mile long with the heaviest concentrations of troops spotted along the line of the main road leading toward the administration area. The counter-attack, when it came, was from this direction; a brutal, head-on rush with massed firepower and almost no attempt to strike at the weaker flanks.

The mortar fire —there could not have been more than two or three launchers—came from the center of the camp with amazing accuracy. During the next hour, the battle seesawed back and forth. The gunfire from the compound, supported by sporadic mortar fire, was extremely heavy and well organized. The Burmese troopers gained ground slowly and by the end of the second hour had crossed the two hundred yards of open ground to push into the trees fringing the center of the compound. The battle was being fought in almost total darkness. Only the colorless flame from the exhaust stack furnished any illumination at all.

It was close on three o'clock before the first helicopter returned with fresh troops. They spilled from its side and raced across the airfield to take up positions inside the line of trees. As the last trooper cleared the copter and it swung round to lift-off again, a fresh salvo of mortar shells crashed around it. There was a blinding flash and the big Chinook disintegrated as one of the mortar rounds scored a hit. The fuselage crumpled over on its side and began to burn fiercely.

Minutes later, the second helicopter had landed its load of reinforcements on the far side of the field. The mortars followed it in, dropping pattern after pattern of shells, all of which fell short. Again, troopers charged across the field in open order. I saw two mortar crews racing across the field to the concealment of the go-downs. They would have a tough time at best, I thought, remembering the soggy, muddy surface of the field. For accuracy, mortars need a firm footing.

The added weight of the additional troopers began to tell and the rate of advance increased swiftly. The forward line rushed dug-in firing points established along the main road. Burmese bayonets and massed automatic rifle fire did the trick. The way was now open to the main compound, and they wasted no time in taking advantage of the change in circumstances. The major contingent of troops dropped back into the trees alongside the road and moved forward at a swift walking pace.

I found Ley at the center of the line discussing the situation with the commanding officer and peering at a map with the aid of a flashlight. The drizzle had died away but the close-packed rain clouds were still threatening. Ley finished his discussion and turned to me with a grin.

"At dawn, we will have succeeded. They cannot withstand our assaults much longer."

"So why wait here?" I asked. It seemed odd that just as the troopers were beginning to develop momentum they had come to a stop.

"Major Ky fears that any Burmese remaining in the main compound will be used as shields. He prefers to wait for dawn. I am inclined to agree. Patrols have been sent to stop anyone trying to cross the fences to the forest."

I nodded. It sounded plausible even though I doubted that the patrols would be effective; but then I knew Klaus better than he did. Any chance that he was given to retrench, he would use to good advantage. I settled my back against a tree and let exhaustion catch up with me.

A flurry of mortar rounds smashed along the line of trees and a high-pitched scream of agony sent everyone diving for the ground. I clawed my way around the base of the tree and curled up as much as possible; terrified. The concussions tore at my face, pounded my eardrums. Dirt and stones kicked up by the blast whipped across my shoulders and back and I crouched, dreading to hear the solid whump of a round as it bounced high to explode in an airburst to riddle me with steel pellets.

The bombardment died away as suddenly as it had begun. The soft coughing of the heavier Burmese mortar launchers began and explosions blossomed in the center of the compound. Within moments, it had become a duel between opposing mortar teams. Then a tremendous blast shook the ground and split the air as the defending mortar emplacement blew up. Almost as if on cue, the rain began again, a heavy deluge blotting out completely what little could be seen in the darkness.

I had just gotten to my feet to search out Ley when a

brilliant light flared and a tremendous blast of heated air knocked me to the ground again. A spear of pure flame roared into the night sky like a giant blowtorch; the high-pitched hiss clearly audible. A stray round from the mortars must have struck one of the oil storage tanks. Burning debris began to shower around us; flaming oil and pieces of twisted metal from the tank. Above the line of trees and buildings, flames raved insanely.

For a moment I was stunned by the sheer fury of the explosion. Then, I ran for the far side of the compound as fast as I could in the oil-streaked gloom. Branches whipped and snatched at the carbine as I raced through the undergrowth toward the fence skirting the compound. A thunderous explosion in the northwest end of the compound shook the ground again as a second storage tank erupted. Distant figures running toward the first tank with firehoses were knocked to the ground by the blast.

I broke out of the trees and turned to parallel the fence, maintaining a screen of vegetation between me and the side road. If Klaus was going to break for it anywhere, I reasoned, this was the most likely way he would come. North of the compound lay the bluff that I had climbed the previous afternoon. At the end of its long back slope heavy forest stretched away almost unbroken to the border forty miles north. Once he gained the trees he would stand a good chance of reaching the Chinese border where he could claim political asylum.

I reached the midpoint of the compound fence without interference. Ahead, the first of the tanks were still several hundred yards away, but the roar of burning oil was almost a scream; even at this distance the heat was intense. I stopped and crouched behind a large valve for shelter. A third oil tank, located closer to the fence, but only two hundred feet from the first was also in danger of exploding in the hellish heat. I could see blisters of paint rising from its sides. To my left, a web of piping and valving ran from tank to tank, some mounted on racks, some merely laid along the muddy ground. As I watched, one of the pipelines feeding the burning tank ruptured and spewed a jet of flame into the sky. I ducked out from behind the valve and ran as fast as I could back along the fence, away from that hell in the making. By the time I had reached the trees again, the area I had just vacated was flaring into dancing flames as the oil seeped from more broken lines.

I pushed deeper into the trees to a point, where I could watch the now narrowed escape way, and raised the carbine to check the clip in the light of flaring oil. A stunning blow knocked me sprawling into the mud. I twisted, bringing the carbine up just in time to ward off a killing second blow. The rifle butt glanced off the carbine to smash across my shoulder. Heavy feet raced toward the fence and flares of pain exploded like the oil-fed flames through my head. My right arm and shoulder were paralyzed where the blow had fallen and something warm and sticky was flowing down my forehead into my eyes and nose. I managed to raise my head far enough to see a figure with a heavy knapsack and a rifle drop from the top of the fence to the other side and race into the trees and disappear.

When I regained consciousness, it had stopped raining and the sky was beginning to lighten in the east. All three oil tanks were burning, their flaring light wavering among the thick clouds of acrid smoke settling over the compound.

"Are you all right?" a hoarse voice that I barely recognized as Mikhail's demanded.

"What happened ... ?"

Mikhail ignored the question and straightened my arm. I screamed as the movement sent fierce waves of needling pain coursing through my head and down my spine.

"Do you know who it was?" he asked as he worked to tie up the cut in my forehead with a dirty handkerchief.

"Klaus," I managed to gasp out. "He was . . . waiting to go over the ... the fence . '

Mikhail nodded and got to his feet. He picked up his carbine and glanced at the fence almost hidden now by the foul smoke. "Your friends will find you. You are not badly hurt except for the blow to the head and some blood lost. I am going after Klaus."

Without another word, he was gone, running toward the fence and I passed out again.

It was raining again, a fine drizzle tasting of oil. I lay sprawled in the mud remembering where I was and what had happened. The gunfire had stopped and I could hear shouting voices somewhere along the fence. I found that

I could move my head without the deadly pain that had earlier threatened to tear me apart. My right arm was useless, incapable of movement. I got slowly to my knees and vomited, then rested there until the world stopped spinning.

Both Klaus and Mikhail had gone over that fence. Klaus had anywhere from a five to thirty minute lead .. .

I had no idea how long I had been unconscious before Mikhail found me. Mikhail had at least that much over me . .. no matter how long now it was bound to get longer since I had all I could do to climb to my feet. The smoke was as dense as heavy fog. The rain served only to further reduce visibility to the barest minimum. I considered searching for Ley, but discarded the thought immediately. He had found the end of his pipeline. His part in this affair was over as far as I was concerned. Whatever was left was between Klaus, Mikhail and myself, and I meant to see that it stayed that way.

The fence was less than a hundred feet away, yet it seemed a hundred miles. My right arm and shoulder were beginning to ache, and when I dabbed at my forehead my hand came away covered with blood. I can remember throwing away the empty carbine and climbing the tall fence, but nothing else until I stood on the ground on the other side. The pain was so intense that it wiped all else from my mind. Voices approaching along the fence warned me and I hobbled into the trees before I was spotted. A patrol of Burmese troopers passed and disappeared into the dense smoke and rain leaving me in sudden silence. I sank down onto the mossy, pine needle-covered ground and rested for a long time, semiconscious at best. The dawn had come in earnest by the time I moved on. The pain in my head had died away to a pulsating ache that marched in counterpoint to the steady white pain coursing through my neck, chest and arm. I pushed slowly through the trees, not attempting to do more than keep one foot moving in front of the other. I knew that Klaus must first climb the bluff before he could start the long trek north. There would be plenty of open ground where I might pick up his and Mikhail's tracks later.

The first leg of the trek, the climb up the ridge, was accomplished in a haze of pain. I cannot now recall even the slightest detail. I was moving by sheer reflex alone, not sure if it was hatred driving me on, the need to prove something to myself or sheer stubbornness. I remember nothing from the time I pushed into the trees to when I topped the ridge and stumbled down the familiar slope to the tiny stream and sprawled full length in the cool water, aware for the first time of how horribly thirsty I was.

The rushing coolness revived me somewhat easing the numbing pain in my shoulder.

After a while I found enough strength to climb out of the stream and onto the grassy bank where I could stretch out and let the morning sun dry me. Toward midmorning I located a faint trail that continued on into the forest on the other side. A second set of footprints paced up and down the bank, then having located the first set, had crossed the stream into the trees with long, broad strides as if running. I followed and the trail led deeper and deeper into the trees while the sun rode higher, crossed the zenith and hurried toward late afternoon. Time held no significance for me now, and occasionally I awakened with a jolt to find myself standing beside the trail, motionless. Mikhail's heavy footprints were easy enough to spot on the humus-thick ground by their deep toe indentations and clearly defined sole marks. Mikhail was a trained walker, Klaus was not.

By noon, the sun had cleared a path through the clouds, and from below the occasional break in the forest canopy, I could see large blue patches of sky laced with fluffy white clouds. As the sky cleared off, the heat increased; the heat and humidity, wrapping me in a fog of dizziness and sweat.

In midafternoon, I found another small stream, swollen now with the heavy monsoon rains, and washed my head and shoulder thoroughly. I tore a strip off my shirt and made a makeshift bandage and thrust my useless right arm into my shirt front and went on. The trail was easy enough to follow; broken branches and scraped bark adding to the heavy footprints in the soft earth. A blind man could have followed that trail. But it aged as the day drew on, the footprints filling with water and crumbling in on themselves as both Mikhail and Klaus gained ground on me. It no longer mattered; as long as I caught them at last, I did not care what else happened.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Dusk had filtered through the great trees of the forest before I regained my senses. For the first time I was completely aware that I had blindly trailed after two killers with no more means of defense than a single revolver, no food of any kind and only half conscious with pain.

I stopped above a small stream dropping down a series of broad tables to a deep pool directly below. The falling water had carved out a sheltered hollow in the rock from which tall firs reached toward the sun. Half dead with fatigue, I clambered down the rocks to the warm grass and the pool. The water was cool and the air warm, and I took advantage of the lingering sunlight to strip off my muddy clothes and ease myself down into the pool. Immediately, the sharp bite of the water deadened the pain in my shoulder, and then as I grew used to the temperature the slow current eased the other tensions throughout my body. I closed my eyes and leaned back against the bank and fell asleep at once.

It was nearly dark by the time the chill woke and forced me to dress in the sweaty clothes. The air had turned cold. At five thousand feet altitude, the coming night was going to get even colder. It took me far longer than it should have to drag up sufficient fire wood to last a few hours, and then the damp wood refused to burn and I spent another frustrating hour carving with one hand a small teepee of wood shavings to ignite and set the wood burning.

A flat-faced stone jutting from the ground five feet in front of the sheer overhang of the rock wall provided a sheltered campsite. I built the fire against the flat rook', and within minutes its heat was reflecting from both sides of the rock wall. I stumbled about in the dark and managed to drag back several more good-sized branches to make the fire last as long as possible.

It occurred to me that I had eaten nothing in nearly twenty-four hours. A hopeless search of my clothing turned up the remains of a half-eaten, lint-covered candy bar jammed into my pocket sometime during the flight from Italy. I had honestly forgotten when I had eaten the

other half, but contemplating the stale candy bar, things did not seem quite so hopeless after all.

I stretched out on the grass beside the fire. Contrary to all of the outdoor stories that I had ever read, an open fire, no matter how well banked and reflected will not keep both sides of you warm at once. I lay a long time shivering first on one side and roasting on the other, but after a while, sheer exhaustion forced me into a fitful doze. I slept badly that night for obvious reasons and awoke long before dawn, half frozen, starved and definitely feverish. I ached horribly in every bone and joint.

The chase lasted three days; three days of sweltering heat and frozen nights punctuated with periods of delirium when I moved mechanically, stumbling over and around obstacles until sanity returned. I picked what food I could find along the way, fruits and edible roots that I had learned to identify in Vietnam. I also shot a small animal, a type of rodent that I had never seen before. I fired the pistol before it occurred to me that Klaus or Mikhail might hear the shot. That was at the end of the second day and I was half dead with exertion and hunger. The animal was small, smaller than a rabbit but it was one of the few animals that I saw and the only one that gave me a clear shot. I roasted and ate what little meat there was on the damned thing that evening, forcing myself to save a small portion for the next day. My right arm had begun to loosen a little, even though every movement remained hellishly painful. That afternoon I took off my jacket and shirt and let the sun burn down on the huge purple welt that had spread along the top of the shoulder and upper arm as I walked on.

It rained briefly in the afternoon of the second day; a shower that soaked me thoroughly but did not wash away the tracks. All during the afternoon an excitement, that not even the rain dampened, had been growing in me. I was convinced that the tracks were becoming fresher. The dense forest of the intermediate highlands had been left behind and the gradient of the plateau was steepening as we climbed closer and closer to the northern flank of the Shan Mountains separating China from Burma. I judged that I had covered some thirty miles by the end of the second day, and I was sure that Klaus and Mikhail were no more than a few hours ahead of me. How, I'll never know, but apparently I had gained on them. The rain in the afternoon was a parting shot from the monsoon that I could see still ranging the lower plateau to the south. The annual rainfall as reflected by the vegetation, was sparser at this higher elevation. The firs were taller and more widely spaced and the underbush was thick but not as prolific as the fleshy, damp growth of the lower plateau. The grasses on the open savannahs were growing again in the wake of the winter rains, waving gently in vistas of emerald-green across the occasional wide expanses of plateau that lay open to the blue skies piled with towering thunderheads.

Ahead, the plateau came to an abrupt end. The terrain rose steeply to a line of ridges and strode forward several miles to the high peaks. At the base of those peaks lay the Burma-China border and safety for Klaus. Hours deep into that second night, my legs gave out and I slept where I fell; slept deeply, the bitter cold of the high night air unfelt until before dawn and I was awake and on the way again, trudging endlessly into my peculiar fever world.

Klaus had avoided the tiny villages scattered widely through these frontier lands on the Burmese border as almost all had their own tiny police garrison. Occasionally a military aircraft flew endless search patterns along the mountain routes, and I knew that they were only watching the border area and not yet searching for us. I had wondered briefly what Ley had done when he discovered that the three of us were missing; and then dismissed the thought. It made no difference to me . . . he had what he wanted.

The trail was entirely gone now, lost in the deep grass and flinty soil, but it made no difference; there was only one way to go and that was due north. The border snaked south in a deep U, poking into Burma until it was less than sixty miles from Lashio. The oil camp *as twenty miles north and east of Lashio, leaving Klaus with only forty miles to run to safety. Rather than trailing the two of them any longer, I was now moving diagonally across their line of march to reach the border highlands first. There was only one way into China within fifty miles —a pass at nine thousand feet guarded by a border station. There was no other way he could go.

An intense blue sky accentuated the ominous dark

clouds that had drawn up in military order along the southern horizon. An occasional flicker of lightning stabbed the land as if to mark off miles traveled. The northern slope of the ridge slipped away and down some distance to a shallow valley on the far side of which stood a tiny stone hut marking the border between Burma and China. South, the slope dropped much more precipitously to a steep-sided canyon filled with dense stands of fir. A thin watercourse made its hesitant way along the bottom of the valley, occasionally bold enough to claim odd acres for coveted marshes.

From where I sat with my back resting against the bole of a wind-twisted tree on the summit, I could see the toiling figure with the knapsack trudging toward me. Klaus walked rapidly, but with the jerky movements of a man close to exhaustion.

An occasional small meadow skirted a tiny marsh, almost hidden in the black firs that marched up the nearly vertical east and west walls of the canyon. The aspect of the countryside was similar to that of the High Sierras or the Colorado Rockies. Even the trees and the vegetation were similar. Klaus stepped out into the first meadow. I could see him plainly now as he stopped and looked around. He was a tiny stick figure still a mile or more away, but when he peered up the canyon at the ridge I started as if he were staring directly at me. Finally, he shrugged out of his pack and dropped down on the grass in a way that left no doubt as to his weariness.

It occurred to me that I had reached the point where I could wait calmly knowing that within the next few hours I would kill a man I had once considered a friend. But for some reason, I did not feel the same horror at knowing that Mikhail would probably go on living, even though he had killed Vishailly in cold blood. I did not know Vishailly well or the policeman Bowen at all, but I did know Peter Schenk. Did I have to be intimately involved with a person who had been murdered before the repugnance of that death did more than touch me; before it dragged me into involvement? Apparently, because here I was, on the farthest border reaches of Northern Burma, preparing to kill a man who had once been my friend because he had ordered the death of another friend. An "eye for an eye" says the Christian Bible, and though I am not a Christian, the aptness of this directive from the Almighty, however much discredited by the New Testament, served as my justification. I had lost sight of the more universal teaching .. . "do unto others as you would have them do unto you" . . . on the march north.

I watched the long line of black clouds at the horizon moving inexorably .northward while Klaus rested. The storm was covering in hours the distance that had taken us three days. A tiny, silver flash twinkled against the cloud bank. I stared hard at the spot and saw it again. An aircraft! An aircraft moving along the face of the storm in an unmistakable search pattern. I watched coldly, hating its appearance and the person or persons directing it because I knew that they were searching for us. As the minutes dragged on, the aircraft came closer and I could see that it was not an airplane but a helicopter.

The sky above remained cloudless, a startling, almost unbelievable blue. After a while, Klaus picked up his pack and disappeared into the trees on the near side of the meadow.

He was less than an hour away now; plenty of time before the storm would strike I judged.

The ridge at the head of the canyon rose steeply some,- eight hundred feet; a few clumps of trees and scattered boulders clung precariously, but no other cover of any kind.

Directly below the edge of the ridge was a shelf of exposed granite, wind-polished to gleaming smoothness; a natural place to rest before beginning the final, difficult climb to the crest. It was at that point that I intended to kill Klaus.

Time stretched out through the long afternoon like a thread of elastic, tension mounting .

. . and then the abrupt snap. Mikhail stood on the far edge of the same clearing in which I had watched Klaus rest not more than twenty minutes before. He stood unmoving, just barely out of the trees examining every inch of the meadow and the canyon wall that he could see. This was his forte .. . mountain games of hide and seek, search and kill. He knew exactly what he was doing whereas Klaus was merely running for his life. Mikhail knelt down and examined the grass, moved off a few paces and repeated the process until finally he came to his feet and stared at the trees on the far side of the meadow, calculating, planning. Then instead of following Klaus's trail, he struck out across the meadow on a diagonal that would lead him to the east wall. And I knew what he was going to do. The floor of the canyon twisted and turned, not a great deal, but enough to slow a traveler. Mikhail was aiming to climb the east wall, travel along the rim and be in a position at the head of the canyon to shoot Klaus when he emerged from the trees.

But Mikhail, as I had done time after time, had also misjudged Klaus Maher. Klaus did not emerge from the trees at the foot of the north wall at the time I had estimated. I glanced at my watch and waited. Ten minutes more passed and still he was hidden from view within the trees. Mikhail was now climbing above the tree line on the eastern wall just below the rim, moving crabwise along the steep slope.

Damn Mikhail! I wanted to shout, I wanted to scream at Klaus somewhere in the trees below to warn him that Mikhail was waiting for him. Damn Mikhail, damn Mikhail and his stupid honor! He had no business here .. . but I was more than a mile away and even if I could have made myself heard and understood, Klaus would know that I was still ahead of him. There was absolutely nothing I could do except to watch the scene below play itself out.

A quick glance behind showed no movement of any kind in the valley. A tiny trickle of smoke rising from the stone hut made me realize with a start that I was ravenously hungry. As if waiting for that realization, a stomach cramp attacked and left me lightheaded. In just that swift moment of time, the situation in the canyon changed.

Somehow, Klaus had known or guessed that he was being followed. He had also guessed, and correctly, that the open space between the tree line and the ridge crest was a perfect spot for an ambush as there was no cover of any consequence in the entire eight-hundred-foot climb. At any rate, Klaus must have spotted Mikhail scuttling along the eastern rim and waited just inside the tree line for Mikhail to come within range. Mikhail, concentrating on negotiating the steep slope was caught by surprise. He was above Klaus on the slope, still well above the tree line and sharply outlined by the bold sunlight.

Klaus's first bullet knocked him from his feet and sent him rolling down the slope twenty feet to a stand of stunted scrub pine.

The sudden crack of the rifle broke the midday silence, startling myriads of unseen birds and animals into a mismatched chorus of warnings. There was no movement to be seen either from the trees or from the slope:

Twenty minutes went by, twenty minutes during which I forgot about twisting hunger pains and stared painfully about the valley. All I could see of Mikhail was one booted foot. The rest of his body was hidden by the tree. Then Klaus appeared, climbing from a stand of trees several hundred feet behind Mikhail. He was coming up to make sure that Mikhail was dead, leaving no loose ends whenever and wherever possible. To say that I was torn between horror and a fierce joy is an understatement. I was about to witness a cold-blooded murder again, and yet I knew if it happened, I would have my chance at Klaus. If ever the relative value of a human life was in the scales .. .

I saw Mikhail suddenly struggle into a sitting position and fire twice at Klaus. The first bullet spurted dirt behind as Klaus threw himself against the slope and slid uncontrollably down toward the trees. Somehow, Klaus managed to stop himself, somehow he had managed to retain his rifle and as Mikhail came down the slope firing, Klaus coolly ignored the rain of bullets and shot him once through the chest.

Mikhail slithered to a stop and the carbine dropped from his hands. His left hand wavered feebly for balance and he pitched forward onto his face to roll down the slope and disappear into the trees. Klaus got shakily to his feet and reloaded the rifle, retrieved his pack and scrambled back down the slope into the trees once more. So I was to have my chance after all .. .

I watched from above as Klaus climbed the steep north wall. At the far end of the canyon I could see a dark curtain of rain descending from the black cloud mass. Still, above the ridge, the sky was absolutely clear and intensely blue.

As he climbed closer and closer, I could plainly see his red face, bright with exertion. He glanced impatiently back at the curtain of rain bearing down from the far end of the canyon. We both saw it at the same time—a helicopter emerging from the rain. A tiny silver dot at first against the blue-black of the heavy cloud, it hesitated over the end of the canyon and then began a slow search pattern back and forth along its length. The rain was approaching fast but so was the helicopter, and it was unclear yet which would reach us first. Klaus climbed on quickly now, the rifle slung across his shoulder, muzzle downward to free both hands for climbing, but still ready for instant use. He rarely missed a trick, did Klaus.

He was less than twenty feet from the crest when I got slowly to my feet to stand in full view of both Klaus and the helicopter. Silhouetted against the bright blue sky, it was impossible for either not to see me . . . but they didn't. Klaus continued to scramble forward up the slope, desperate to gain the top and its sheltering trees before the crew of the helicopter spotted him. Then a swirling curtain of rain wrapped around the aircraft and hid it from view. Klaus sagged wearily against the rocks to rest a moment and looked up.

An instant's panic showed on his face.

"Chris," he gasped, "how did . . . you get up there?"

I stared down at him for a long moment before I answered. "I walked a little bit faster."

Klaus took a deep breath and straightened until he could look up at me without having to crane his neck. He saw the pistol in my hand and swallowed hard. The rain danced about us for a brief instant, huge drops that soaked us in seconds. The deep beat of the helicopter could be heard somewhere over the valley.

Klaus put his hand to his forehead to shelter his eyes. "They are looking for us," he said in a flat voice. "I have nearly a quarter of a million dollars in German marks in this knapsack, Chris. That's a lot of money. And I know where the rest of it is . . ."

"Quite a comedown from one million dollars," I smiled down at him. "I saw you kill Mikhail . . . so that leaves only the two of us, doesn't it?"

Klaus spread his hands wide and began to climb the slope toward me. He was all reasonableness now. "It was very confused in the camp . . . I didn't know where you were. I had to get out. And then Mikhail was following me. I knew that he was going to kill me . . . I didn't know that you were following."

I kept my eyes on him, watching every move he made. He was dangerous now, a cornered animal.

The rain swirled down harder for an instant, and as I

saw Klaus's hand flick toward the carbine I threw myself flat and the air snapped as the bullet whistled past. I scuttled on my hands and knees to a gully eroded in the rock and swung down into it, ignoring the agonizing pain in my shoulder. The line of the crest was uneven; successive years of winter rains had eroded the soil and rock into a mass of gullies and drains. It was into one of these that I dropped to wait for Klaus to crawl over the top.

The rain quickly died away to a thin drizzle again. Still, Klaus hadn't moved. I slid deeper into the gully and worked my way down slope with the intention of coming up on his flank where the last bit of the climb to the summit was almost vertical. The helicopter; I had almost forgotten. It was closer now, judging by the beat of its rotors, but still invisible in the rain. It was not likely that they had heard Klaus's rifle. The last trace of blue sky winked out as the storm raced north into China, and still Klaus was nowhere in sight. Then, a moment later, I caught sight of him scurrying over the crest far to the right.

Cursing nonstop, I raced back up the gully for the ridge line. The sonofabitch had anticipated me and gained the lead again. Unless I could catch him in the next few minutes, he would be over the edge of the slope and on the long downward run to the border. If he reached the slope, I could never hope to catch him again. I was on the thin edge of consciousness now, pain throbbing in my shoulder and sending waves of reddish mist across the rain-soaked landscape. A pink froth of blood where the rain was washing the crude bandage streamed down my arm. The ground tended to rise and fall in gentle waves as I ran, and the rainy mist was thickened by the red haze.

I scrambled over the top of the crest, clawing through the mud and wet grass and lay gasping for a moment. The dark shape of the helicopter roared directly over me, rushing past as its rotor wash set the grass and stunted trees to waving like madmen. The rain pounded down and rumbles of thunder rocked the valley. I saw Klaus jump to his feet and race across the slope. He was running head down, half crouched, bending low beneath the wash of air from the helicopter.

I forced myself to my knees, the pain wringing shallow

grunts of agony from my throat. Klaus saw me and turned, his rifle swinging around to bear.

He shouted, "You were a fool, Chris . . ." and fired once.

I felt the bullet yank at my jacket but if it touched me I did not feel it. The revolver seemed to rise of its own accord until the sight on the end of the barrel lined up in the V-cut in the rear bench, directly on Klaus's chest. It was as if someone else were holding the gun, as if someone else took a deep breath and gently squeezed the trigger . . .

lovingly like they had taught me. Klaus stopped, clutched at his chest . . . the rifle slid from his hands . . . he took a step toward me . . . then another and dropped to his knees.

His face held a look of intense astonishment as if he could not believe that this had happened to him. He glanced down at his chest where the blood was beginning to flow and pitched forward.

I got to my feet and walked to him, knelt down beside him and turned him over gently, carefully in much the same way I had killed him. Klaus was still alive but the bullet had struck him in the middle of the chest, severing an artery because the blood pumped out in steady spurts. I put an arm around his head and eased his position.

He opened his eyes and tried to say something. I bent down to hear . . . "We had a . . .

bargain . . . Chris . ?" His eyes, filming quickly glared at me in anger.

Yes, Klaus, I thought, we did have a bargain, but I also had two other bargains . . . with Pete and with Mikhail. You broke both of those. I knew he could not hear me and contented myself with nodding agreement.

Klaus stared at me and opened his mouth . . . and died, anger still on his face.

I laid his head down and got up. The knapsack full of German marks was beneath him and I slipped his arms out of the straps and pulled it from under his body. It was full of currency all right . . . and a lot of good it would ever do either of us. There was some food as well, a package of cheese, almost gone, and a single strip of meat. I chewed on the meat as I walked slowly to the crest of the ridge. I found that blood was dripping from a wound in my side . . . where I must have been struck when Klaus fired at me, but it no longer mattered; I could not feel the pain and distantly realized that I was in shock.

The heavy beat of the helicopter was back again

and this time I could see it through the rain. It was hovering over the ridge to land, but even that did not matter anymore. Klaus was dead and I had shot him, and the victory was pyrrhic at best, tasting of the proverbial ashes.

It was nearly eight hundred feet down the face of the slope, and in the wake of the rain there had come a stiff breeze which caught the bank notes as I emptied the pack. This money had come from the same source as the gold. Now it was going back to all those dead who had earned it with their lives. The wind caught at the dark green pieces of paper and whirled them away to the forest below. Maybe some day a wandering border patrol would find one or two rain-soaked and rotting bills .. .

The helicopter had landed and Ley was running across the hump of the ridge toward me.

I tossed the knapsack after the money and turned. Behind came a Burmese trooper with a Red Cross arm band. I went forward to meet them.

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Table of Contents

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN