The Kremlin File

He came in just behind me. I placed Tara gently on the ground, and Noah took over. He touched the glands in her neck, touched her wrist, pried her mouth open caught her hands, holding the palms up. I saw blisters on her fingertips before he let them drop.

I had never seen the old man in such a rush before. He dashed for one of the rooms. I started after him, but before I made it to the door he was back, carrying a mat and an armful of gourds. He dropped the mat, kicked it flat and nodded at me to lay the girl on it. I realized he wanted light and couldn’t waste time lighting torches in the dim rooms.

As I put Tara down, I peeled off her dress. Mitzy was suddenly there, curious as hell, but then she saw the blonde’s bloodless lips and was on her knees to help.

Noah had half a gourd invisible in one big hand, shaking what appeared to be water and yellow soap into a foamy liquid.

“Move back.” His words were sharp. When we did, he lifted Tara’s head, pinched her mouth open, and poured the froth down her throat.

“Manchineel,” he clipped out. “A highly poisonous tree. One taste of its fruit can mean sudden, painful death. Even touching the bark can be dangerous. Just look at this poor child.”

Abruptly, violently Tara retched. Noah propped her against a knee and poured her full again. While she alternately swallowed, choked, and heaved, I remembered what I knew of manchineel. It was pretty bad, just like Noah said.

The old man needed help now. He said, “Pour a little of the mixture on her fingers. Don’t rub them.”

I did that. He whipped her up, hauled her over his knee on her stomach and we saw her back. It too was blistered where she had leaned against the bark of the tree. I dribbled the syrupy liquid over Tara’s body and heard a sigh of relief from the old man.

“None of them broken. All right. She will be all right.”

The convulsions eased off. Tara lay limply on the ground. Noah set down the soap mix, reached for other gourds, made a thick emulsion of white powder and what looked like honey, turned the girl and poured that into her. Then he laid her on her side.

“Now you.” He stood up, examined my hands, unfastened my shirt and skinned it off inside out. I had carried her. The cloth was contaminated. He anointed my hands and his own with whatever the neutralizing agent was, giving me a rueful smile. “I should have warned you. Most of the jungle is a friend but a few things are not. Will you take one end of the mat — we will carry her into the shade now.”

Tara opened her eyes as we moved her into a dim room. Fleming was already there with a bed of fresh-cut boughs, hobbling on a crutch. I hadn’t even realized he was around. We laid Tara on the bed and Mitzy brought a bright grass coverlet. Tara was conscious now, but still a very sick girl.

There would not be an exodus from the fort today. We couldn’t carry both Fleming and Tara over the rough mountains. We would have to wait it out.

I stayed crouched beside the blonde girl, chewing on frustration, more worried about Tara than I’d liked to admit. She had gotten to me and her illness made me realize it. If Noah hadn’t recognized the poison, she’d be dead by now instead of sleeping. The old man had delivered on the dot.

Breakfast smells came through the door. I ignored them until Noah called, then I went out to where the others were gathered around the glowing brasier.

I had a surprise waiting. We had company.

A dark young man in a twist of cloth. He brought news. Noah told it to me in a tired voice while Fleming and Mitzy looked depressed. The tribe had been busy through the night, scouting. Carib Jerome’s soldiers had been busy, too. There was now a cordon of them from the shore of the cove all the way to the beach where the third patrol boat lay.

We were encircled. With two people on the sick list, there wasn’t a chance in hell of breaking through. I asked the boy if he could take me out for a try at Jerome when it got dark again. No, he said. He’d come in before the encirclement was completed. Now he couldn’t get through.

Tara hadn’t heard any movements. If I hadn’t slept, I might have — or maybe they’d been too far away. I looked at the silent figures around me, realized what easy targets we made, and lost my appetite.

We ate anyway. It was something to do. Then we sat listening. The wait was not long. I heard it first, a split second before Noah turned his head to look at me. There was the low, lazy drone of planes coming out of the morning sun.

The old man stood up without hurry, sounding as if he were inviting us for tea. “I suggest we repair to the catacombs now. Mr. Carter, will you bring Miss Sawyer.”

As Mitzy had said when I first met him, the old man was full of surprises. So he had a basement under his fortress. I wondered how deep it was, if the rock ceilings could withstand the bombs or if a hit on top would bury us below. Mitzy’s color faded under her lustrous tan and I knew the same thing was going through her mind. But once again there wasn’t much choice.