The Filthy Five (KM 029), page 1
part #29 of Killmaster Series
The Filthy Five
(The 29th book in the Killmaster series)
Version 1.0
Dedicated to The Men of the Secret Services of the United States of America
Chapter 1
PUNTA HIGUERO, halfway between the towns of Mayaguez and Aquadilla on the island of Puerto Rico, is a blunt thumb of land hitchhiking its way out into the jade waters of the Mona Passage. The distance from the Punta to Engano on the Dominican mainland is about a hundred kilometers, and the deep silver blue waters of the Puerto Rico Trench swirl through the narrow gut and about the treacherous coral reefs. The Mona Passage abounds in sea life, both deadly and harmless, and in aqua-green shallows the bones of men and ships lie thick in this lair of hurricanes. The rotting bones of the galleons along this reach of sea have long since been picked by human vultures. There is no gold left, no treasures of any sort, not even flotsam enough to satisfy the least demanding of beachcombers.
And yet, on this quiet evening in mid-August, with the smell of the first hurricane in the air, a solitary beachcomber was making his way slowly along a shelf of golden beach toward Punta Higuero. The beachcomber was a tall man, with football shoulders, a trim waist and powerful legs. These physical assets, at the moment, were adequately disguised by a shambling “poor man’s” walk and a dejected slouch of the big shoulders. He wore a dirty pair of sneakers, one with a toe out, a pair of ragged jeans and a patched sports shirt that had had all the gaiety washed out of it. He had a four-day growth of dark stubble the consistency of steel shavings—it itched without mercy— and on his close-cropped head was a limp and battered straw hat. His face was filthy and he reeked of cheap whisky. But he did not stagger as he made his way steadily along the beach to where a high wire fence, topped with barbed wire, slashed down to the low-water mark in a sharp demarcation.
The beachcomber stopped for a moment to roll a cigarette with makings he took from his shirt pocket. He was carrying an old Army knapsack on his broad back, and over one shoulder he carried a musette bag. In one hand he carried a sawn-off broomstick with a heavy spike on one end. The spike had been filed down to a point.
As he leisurely rolled the cigarette, the beachcomber wandered to the edge of the water, prodding absently with his stick at the lacy pattern of foam left on the brown-gold sand by the retreating wavelets. He lit the cigarette, cupping his hands against the first breath of sea breeze, and listened to the sound of an approaching jeep. A faint smile stirred the black stubble around his firm mouth. First encounter. He had been expecting it.
Puffing blue smoke, innocent of any trouble to come, the beachcomber plodded steadily along toward the interdicting fence. He could see the jeep now, racing over the dunes at an angle and heading for the open end of the fence. There were two men in the jeep. Both were dressed in a khaki uniform of some sort. The driver appeared to be a Negro or an Indian; the other man was white, a short, thick-bodied man wearing an Australian bush hat at a jaunty angle. The beachcomber smiled again in his camouflage of beard. His chief, David Hawk, hadn’t mentioned anything about a masquerade ball. Hawk had simply said: “Be ready for anything. And handle it!”
The beachcomber reached the fence, carefully noting the twelve strands of feral barbed wire that topped it. He also noted that the fence was rooted in concrete footing to prevent digging under it. On the last fencepost was a large white sign bearing red letters: Danger—NO ADMISSION BEYOND THIS POINT—TRESPASSERS WILL BE VIGOROUSLY PROSECUTED. The warning was repeated in Spanish.
The beachcomber spat out his cigarette butt and started to wade out into the sea and around the end of the fence. The jeep slid to a stop in the sand not twenty feet away and the white man leaped out.
“Hold it, cobber,” called the white man. “Just hold it right there! Maybe you never went to school. Or maybe you can’t read either English or Spanish.”
The beachcomber halted on his side of the fence and leaned on his stick, studying the man who was stumping toward him on thick legs. He would, the beachcomber thought, be in his early fifties, well preserved and powerful. He wore thick-soled Army shoes, white knee socks, shorts and a khaki bush jacket. The shorts and jacket were crisp, clean and newly ironed, the jacket open down the front to show a thick bush of grizzled chest hair. Belted around the thick waist was a web holster of the type worn by English and Australian officers. Under a buttoned-down holster flap the beachcomber saw the oily glint of a heavy black revolver. A lanyard ran from the butt plate of the gun up through an epaulet of the bush jacket. Both the web holster and the lanyard were scrubbed to a pristine whiteness.
They faced each other through the fence, matching stare for stare. The armed man was the first to speak. “How about it, cobber?” He pointed to the sign. “You can read?”
The beachcomber allowed the other to stare him down. He looked away and, with what he hoped was a suitable whine, said: “Just didn’t pay the sign heed, mister. I don’t, much. Anyway I ain’t meaning no harm. Just sort of combing around, seeing what I can find.”
The man jerked a thumb toward the sign again. “It means what it says, cobber. And all you’ll find in there is trouble. Better take my word for it.”
The beachcomber glanced at the Negro in the jeep. The man reached into the back seat and came up with a Sten gun. They meant business, all right.
He glanced back at the armed man confronting him, this time letting a hint of defiance, of arrogance, show in his eyes. “Like I said, mister, I ain’t meaning any harm. But I’m an American citizen and I don’t rightly think you got a right to stop me.”
A slow smile began to crease the other man’s face. It was a red face, the color of raw steak, with cold little blue eyes beneath sandy tufts of eyebrow. The nose was badly concave, a nasty break at some time, and the lips narrowed now in a bloodless line. One hand, a big blunt hand with more sandy tufts growing on the knuckles, moved to the web holster.
But when the man spoke his voice was casual, almost friendly. “I’ve got a right, cobber. Believe me I have— right here in this holster I’ve got a right! This is private property. I’m in charge of it. From this fence five miles down the beach to another fence, and ten miles inland, this is all the property of Sir Malcolm Drake. I work for Sir Malcolm. My job is to keep people out. All right as rain, cobber, and just as legal as you please. You don’t believe me, go get yourself a lawyer and ask him, eh?”
The man took his hand away from the holster and put his hands on his hips. He gave the beachcomber a quasi-smile. “I make myself clear, cobber? Am I getting through even to a stupid bastard like you seem to be? I hope I am—it’ll save both of us a lot of trouble. So take off, cobber, back the way you came.”
The beachcomber gazed steadily back at the smaller man. He straightened his big shoulders and appeared to gain a foot in altitude. He was trying it on deliberately now, wanting to see just how far they would go. All the time he was careful not to glance seaward, not to evince the slightest interest in the low island that bulked a mile offshore.
“Seems to me,” the beachcomber said slowly, “that I got the law on my side. I recollect, or think so anyway, that nobody can own anything out beyond low tide mark.” He glanced at the end of the fence. “I reckon your fence ends at just about the right spot. And the tide is near out now. So if I was to go around that fence, mister, and keep out in the water the other side of low tide mark, I wouldn’t rightly be trespassing. Ain’t that about right, mister?”
The beachcomber took a flat pint bottle of whisky from his musette bag and glanced at it. It was half full. Still looking at the armed man he put the bottle to his lips and drank, careful to keep his tongue in the bottle so that very little of the warm rotgut slipped down his throat. He was a good drinker, an excellent drinker, but the whisky was very hot and very cheap. He didn’t want to clobber his whole act by vomiting at the other’s feet.
Harry Crabtree, formerly of the Australian Army and now chief killer and general factotum to Sir Malcolm Drake, watched with envy as the man drank. He was, goddamn it, dying for a drink! He had come off his last tear just a week ago and, after a nasty scene with Sir Malcolm, had been feeling pretty seedy until today. Now he could face a drink, needed one, but the bum had the booze! Crabtree felt his temper starting to go sour. Quite apart from the booze, this sad character was giving him too much lip. And Harry Crabtree wasn’t a man to take lip, except from Sir Malcolm himself.
But before Crabtree could start to chew ass the beachcomber thrust the bottle through the fence. “You want a drink, mister?”
Crabtree seized the bottle eagerly and put it to his lips, letting the brown liquid slide down his gullet in enormous gulps. It was hot and it was cheap and at the same time it was wonderful. Beautiful! It was the stuff that made this stinking life worthwhile. The only thing that did.
He brought the bottle down for a moment, took a breath and wiped his mouth on the back of a hand, then tilted the bottle again.
The beachcomber stood on his side of the fence, watching, a faint smile on his bewhiskered face. His eyes missed nothing. He noted that the bush hat, its brim pinned up to one side of the crown in a rakish flare, bore an infantry badge. The Royal Australian Rifles. A fine regiment. It was obvious that the bush hat was the pride and joy of this thickset man—it was worn thin in places and limp with age, but it was clean and the badge sparkled. Surely a sergeant, thought the beachcomber. Maybe even a sergeant-major. The man had the look of it. He had the look of an alcoholic, too. It might help to remember that.
Harry Crabtree finished the whisky. He flung the empty bottle far out into the softly creaming surf. He stared at the beachcomber and laughed in derision. “Sorry, cobber. But then I was always a greedy cove. Bad habit. My mum never could break me of it.”
The beachcomber laughed nervously. “Shucks, friend. No mind. I got me another jug in the knapsack. Always glad to give a thirsty man a drink.” He laughed again and moved his ragged sneakers in the sand, hoping he wasn’t overplaying it. “Fact is,” he went on, “I’m just the friendly cuss type. Just go my way and don’t do nary harm to anyone.”
Harry Crabtree, arms akimbo, stared through the wire at this oddball bum, this beach loafer. A thought struck him and he repressed a chuckle. The whisky might be gone, but maybe he could still have some fun with this cove.
He scowled at the beachcomber. “That whisky didn’t buy you a thing, cobber. So take off. Beat it. Make tracks—backward!”
Before the beachcomber could answer the Negro called softly from the jeep and pointed to his wrist. They would, the beachcomber thought, have a lot of beach to patrol. Not that they would be the only one—another jeep was probably working from the other end of the posted area.
Before the beachcomber could say anything the armed man turned back to him, after nodding at the Negro, and said in a different tone of voice: “I guess it will be all right, cobber. I’m not such a bad guy when you know me, and I did drink all your whisky. So go ahead. Just be sure you stick to the shore line and don’t linger on the way—here, I’ll give you a chit in case you bump into another patrol.” He wrote something on a slip of paper and handed it to the beachcomber.
As he took the paper the beachcomber looked into the man’s eyes. He did not like what he saw there, nor did he care much for the smirk on the thin lips. But he said, “I’m obliged to you, mister. Save me a lot of walking, this will. I’d sure as hell hate to have to go back and walk clean around this here Sir whatshisname’s property. Thanks a whole lot.”
Harry Crabtree’s smile was enigmatic. “Sir Malcolm Drake,” he said. “But it doesn’t matter—you’ll never be meeting him. So what are you waiting for? If you’re going, go! Before I change my mind.” He started back toward the jeep where the Negro driver waited.
The beachcomber walked around the end of the fence, wetting his sneakers, and started plodding down the strip of beach that stretched for miles. He heard the jeep start and turn, the engine growling in low gear. He did not look back, but every nerve in his superbly conditioned body was alert and his immensely facile brain was busily searching for angles and indications. This was all wrong! The Aussie had changed his mind too fast—and the look on his raw-steak face had been mean. He heard the jeep shift into second, gaining speed as the huge beach tires found traction in the sand. They were following him, but keeping inland about fifty yards, running parallel with him.
Suddenly he heard the Australian shout. “Hey, you! Bum! Watch it!”
The beachcomber spun around, simulating panic. He was pretty sure what was going to happen. The bush hat was going to have a little fun.
The jeep was even with him and fifty yards inland. The Negro, laughing, stepped on the gas and forged ahead, then put the wheel over and came back in a tight circle. The Aussie had the Sten gun now. He was also laughing.
The jeep veered away on an angle and the Aussie shouted to the walking man: “Hey, you cobber, don’t you know you’re trespassing? I’ll teach you a bloody good lesson, I will.”
He let go a burst with the Sten gun. The slugs whipped through sand at the beachcomber’s feet, very close, one nicking the toe of a sneaker. The beachcomber dropped his stick and his musette bag and threw up his hands. “Don’t shoot—don’t shoot! I’ll go back—but don’t shoot!”
Both the Negro and the Aussie were roaring with laughter now. The jeep doubled back toward the beachcomber and another nasty burst rattled from the Sten gun. Sand blasted the beachcomber’s bare ankles and a bullet snicked through the musette bag with a nasty sound.
“Dance!” bellowed the Aussie. He triggered the Sten again. “Dance, you stupid bastard. Dance for your life!” More lead went phftttt-phfttttt around the beachcomber’s feet. He turned and ran back toward the fence, his hands still high in the air, screaming in panic: “Don’t—don’t shoot! D—don’t k—kill me!”
He dashed around the end of the fence and kept going, belting it in a long-legged stride that ate up the distance. They could not see his face now and Nick Carter permitted himself a wide grin. He had found out what he had come to find out—there was something going on in this particular area of Puerto Rico and the smell of it was not sweet. Gallows Cay was, as he had been told, strongly guarded.
A last slug whined over his head. He glanced back. The Aussie was bending over the musette bag. After the whisky, of course. Nick made a second note of the fact that the man was probably an alcoholic. Tough as hell, too. Mean!
Nick kept running as hard as he could, going all out, putting on the act to the last. His grin faded. He was just as happy that his boss, Hawk, could not see him at the moment. It was, anyway you looked at it, a damned inglorious retreat. He had never been in any real danger, not yet, and the only damage was to his dignity.
Yet it was a hell of a way for Nick Carter, top ranking Killmaster for AXE, to start a new operation. An operation, a mission, which Hawk had called Goldgang.
Chapter 2
THERE WAS no moon that night. In his hiding place, three miles from the fence and a thousand yards inland from the coastal highway, Nick Carter noted the ominous quiet that had fallen over the land. It gave the impression of living in a vacuum. The usual nocturnal sounds of birds and small creeping things were missing. The fauna, with their instinctive radar, sensed the disaster that was slowly being spawned in the Lesser Antilles far to the southeast.
Only the clouds that obscured the moon were on the move. They were high clouds, a massive cumulus-nimbus rampart the color of dirty factory smoke that obliterated most of the stars as well as the moon. Nick Carter, frantic to remove the horribly itching beard, had to shave with the aid of a flashlight, using the fender mirror of the decrepit 1949 car he had purchased two days earlier in the Esmeraldo sector of San Juan. The car, creeping wreck that it was, was genuine cover. Long years before it had been stricken by the mechanical equivalents of rickets, TB, palsy and cancer. It had, in fact, expired just as Nick had found this odd niche in the landscape, this little enclave of loneliness, of near desolation, in a desperately overpopulated country. But this was the far west of Puerto Rico, the land to the south was arid and the only village of any consequence was Rincon. This was a land far from the Condado and the drive-ins and the supermercados. Here, in the green limestone hills that were stippled away to the Cordillera Central, people still lived in native thatch houses called bohios.
Killmaster missed the sound of the birds but it did not trouble him. His mind was full of the events of the day, and of the risks to come on the morrow when he must attempt to keep his date with Monica Drake, wife of Sir Malcolm. This, his meeting with the woman, was his true objective, his real reason for being in Puerto Rico at all. Monica Drake was a British agent, a long dormant “sleeper” agent, who at last had sent up a flare. Something big was afoot, something so important that most of official Washington, as well as London, was in an uproar. A discreet uproar, of course, and one not easily discernible by the general public.
Nick took a flashlight and made his way along a narrow path that led to a limpid pool in a shallow saucer of limestone, fed by a tinkling miniature waterfall. The path was fringed by hibiscus, oleander and poinciana; a myriad of flamboyants intermixed with the tall cocoa palms around the pool; in the hills to the east there would be growing wild bananas and strawberries. To the south, back toward Mayaguez, great stretches of sugar cane fringed the narrow coastal belt. It was a fertile land, Puerto Rico, blessed in many ways by the ancient red gods, and the living, if one was happy with bare subsistence, was easy.
Nick put his flashlight on a handy rock and stripped off the cruddy beachcombing clothes. He buried them at the foot of a pink butterfly tree. He scratched himself vigorously—a delicious feeling—then picked up a fat cake of soap and plunged into the little pool. The water was like warm velvet.
