The Kremlin File

I switched the machine gun to my left hand, shook the stiletto down and stalked him. Ten feet behind him now. Then he turned, bringing up his gun as he faced me. I threw the knife. It buried in his throat, dropped him before he fired, and he crumpled without sound. I went to him and bent to retrieve the knife.

My head exploded.

I came to with drums pounding inside, looked up at the treetops and saw three ugly, happy faces above army uniforms. My arms were underneath me, tied tight. One of the three men was a sergeant, the others privates. The sergeant had my knife under his belt, the privates carried my machine gun and Luger. The sergeant saw my eyes open, came closer and lobbed a boot in my ribs.

“For Belmont,” he growled and kicked me again.

Was it Belmont’s throat that I’d opened? I expected my throat to be next. There was nothing I could do to prevent being shot if I kicked the sergeant’s gut to keep him off me. He was big with a permanent lopsided grin that a scar the length of one cheek pulled up.

He rubbed his hands together, pleased with his catch. “Get up, Mr. One-Thousand-Dollars,” he said. “You going to get me a promotion too.”

I didn’t move. Apparently I was worth more to them alive than dead. If they wanted me, let them do all the work. The sergeant snapped his fingers at the privates and jerked a thumb up. The pair took my elbows and hauled me to my feet. One put the Luger against my shoulderblade and shoved. Either I walked or the gun would break the shoulder. I walked.

They pointed me down toward the beach and the dinghy. The sergeant bellowed to the rest of his team to quit looking, he had me. Two voices answered and the men came thrashing through the tangle. They all gabbled in self-congratulation, then the sergeant delegated the newcomers to bring the dead man along, and we were on our way. The bearers of the corpse were in front of me, the privates on either side, and the sergeant brought up the rear. I didn’t care much for my prospects. I figured I had a date with a dungeon and probable execution on any charge Carib Jerome chose to trump up. And even if Hawk should become aware of my fate, he couldn’t lift a finger. He couldn’t admit we had an agent involved in island politics.

Halfway to the beach, a gun spat from the jungle. A cry behind me turned us all around. The sergeant was no longer walking. He was toppling, a hole in the breast of his jacket.

The privates jumped as if to catch him, missed and swung their rifles, searching the dense growth for something to shoot at. The gun spat again and the private on my left went down, minus the back of his head. The one on my right spun, crouching, looked at the mess in astonishment and fright, and began to run.

I put a foot between his legs and sent him sprawling. I booted him in the head lightly, but it was enough to knock him cold. The remaining two privates threw their hands high over their heads.

Mitzy wriggled through the vines, a revolver in her hand leveled at the pair. She shot one before I could get close enough to shove her wrist down. The other soldier kept his hands very high.

The girl looked at me angrily. “You squeamish, Carter? We haven’t got time for prisoners.” She rubbed her wrist but kept hold of the revolver, training it again on the man.

“Quit it,” I said. “I want them alive. Keep this one covered and see if you can get the twine on my wrist untied with one hand.”

I turned my back and she picked at the knot, got it loose and I worked my hands out of the bond. Working the cramp out of my fingers, I took the cord to the soldiers. With a swift, sure gesture I demonstrated that it would not be difficult to garrote them. They got the message.

My man was coming around, groggy, scared when he discovered he was trussed up, and not in a mood to argue my orders. He got up, clumsy with the load of lead on him, and the two soldiers followed me up the ridge and down to the shore with Mitzy riding herd behind.

The sleek craft still sat on the sandbar. We waded out and I stopped my muscle boys at the bow, took the girl to the stem and hoisted her to my shoulders. Then, with me holding her ankles, she raised herself to where she could get a grip on the lower rail. She chinned up and over and went forward to the cabin.

The engine ground when she tried the ignition, caught, settled into a throaty purr and I waded forward. There was a cough, a sputter, and the noise died. The diagnosis was disaster. And I could thank myself for it.

“Cut the switch,” I called to Mitzy.

I went over to be sure, jumped for the rail, hauled myself aboard and followed the holes traced by my machine gun. Sure enough, the fuel line was cut. Worse, the tank was punctured and dry. I stood looking down, feeling a heavy sag. No fuel, no power. No power, no patrol boat. We were back on the rock and there was no way — no way — to get off.

The girl yelled from the pilot house. “The soldiers, Nick. They’re running away.”