Bamboo Terror Page 17

  Hazzard sat lazily and calmly in one of the creaky bamboo chairs watching Maurice methodically throw darts at the nude poster, and at the same time wondering if this big, likeable Frenchman could possibly be the mysterious spy. He moved his eyes to the table where Kelly was silently playing solitaire with the inevitable bottle and glass beside him, and Hazzard let the same thoughts pass through his mind about the doctor. He glanced at his watch. It was almost seven o'clock. Looking across the room to where Chang was nervously trying to glance at an old magazine, he caught the eye of the Chinese and winked.

  "Well," said Hazzard in a loud voice. "It's just about time for the golden voice of the airways."

  Kelly stopped playing and looked up. "Kate Smith singing, 'When The Moon Comes Over The Mountain.' That was a long time ago. . . ." He shook his head to snap himself out of his nostalgia and went over to turn on the radio. The room became flooded with the singsong of Chinese music and Kelly went back to his cards and his bottle. "We shad now hear ten minutes of glorified, one-sided news," he remarked as he sat down.

  The music stopped, an announcement was made in Vietnamese, and after a short pause, the familiar voice of Hanoi Harry filled the room.

  "This is Radio Hanoi, the voice of the people, with today's news in English. . . . But first, a special message to our friends at Tu-Hao-Tuc. We would like to inform Mr. Michael Hazzard that we have completed ad the arrangements, and have made a reservation for him at Apowan. He will be wed taken care of when he arrives by ship tomorrow evening. . . . And now for today's news. The Soviet Union announced . . ."

  There was a click as Chang switched off the radio. Maurice had stiffened and paused momentarily at Hanoi Harry's announcement, but now he was once again monotonously throwing darts.

  Kelly kept turning over cards without hesitation. "Well, what do you say now, Mr. Michael Hazzard?" he said as he swept the cards together and shuffled.

  "No more than I expected," replied Hazzard in a calm, even voice.

  Maurice stopped his arm in midair and glanced over his shoulder.

  Kelly slowly swiveled around in his chair and squinted at Hazzard.

  Neither of them spoke. Hazzard grinned back and nodded sarcastically at their stupified expressions.

  "I expected them to find out about our plans they always do," he said. "So, I didn't plan on raiding the ammo dump at Apowan in the first place. The men and boats are ad set to go somewhere anyway, and where we go doesn't make much difference as long as we bring back the ammunition."

  Hazzard stood up and went to the bookcase where Kelly kept a supply of bottles and helped himself to a glass of the raw whiskey. Turning around, he found them still staring at him in disbelief.

  "I'm going south—to Fhu-Dien. They'd be waiting for us up north." He raised his glass in a mock toast. "You see, just a matter of being smarter than they are."

  Maurice shook his head and grabbed a steaming cup from the tray that Wong had just brought into the room. The houseboy continued to the center of the room and placed the remaining cups on the table next to Kelly.

  "Well now, look at this," cried Kelly, indicating the cups. Ad kinds of strange things are happening tonight. We've got coffee instead of that damned tea for a change." He tasted the dark liquid and brought the cup down heavily on the table. "Agh! Tastes like cyanide. I'll stick to the locally made poison," and he gulped down a half of glass of whiskey. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he looked at Hazzard. "So—going to Fhu-Dien instead, eh?"

  Maurice threw a dart at the poster. "So, you die at Fhu-Dien instead of Apowan." He threw another dart. "C'est la guerre!"

  Kelly looked over at Chang with a twisted sarcastic smile. "Turn the radio back on," he said. "I'd bet they find out about the switch before I finish this hand," and he went back to his game as though nothing had happened.

  Chang looked across the room at Hazzard, who merely shrugged his shoulders and then belted down a big mouthful of whiskey. There was nothing more to be done. From now, they could only wait and hope that the spy would make a move.

  Hazzard looked from Kelly to Maurice. Neither of them appeared to be upset over the change in plans. They had both been surprised when Hazzard had announced the switching of the raid from Apowan to Fhu-Dien, but this reaction would be normal for anyone. Now, they had accepted it, and fallen back into their usual monotonous pastimes.

  Chang sat down and began to watch the Frenchman throw darts. Kelly continued with his solitaire, pausing only to refill the glass he automatically drained each time he began a new hand.

  Seating himself on the wide ledge of one of the windows that faced the jungle, Hazzard began to amuse himself by blowing smoke through the coarse cotton netting at various inquisitive night insects that were attracted by the light inside of the room. He was becoming overly impatient, and found himself beginning to chain smoke. He looked at his watch. It seemed longer, but only ten minutes had gone by since Hanoi Harry had confirmed the fact that the spy was still getting information out. Would the spy wait until morning? It did not seem probable. Hazzard was supposed to leave in twenty-four hours. If the spy waited much longer, it would become a difficult problem for the Reds to contact Fhu-Dien and set up an ambush in time to meet the raiding party. If anything was going to happen—it had to happen soon.

  Hazzard glanced at Maurice and Kelly. Nothing had changed. Turning toward the window again, he was just about to blow a mouthful of smoke at a large, fat beetle when something passed swiftly across the rectangle of light that streamed from the window. Hazzard cupped his hands over his eyes and leaned into the netting. Someone was moving away from the budding at an angle toward the jungle. It was Wong the houseboy.

  Hazzard crushed the cigarette out on the window sill. How stupid can you be, he thought, as he realized that he had overlooked one of the most obvious suspects. Wong, the ever present but silent houseboy.

  Walking leisurely across the room, he bent down beside Chang.

  "Stay here," he said in a low voice. "I'd be right back." Then straightening up, he continued walking to the door, and out into the night.

  Once outside, he ran toward the trees in the direction that Wong had taken. Coming to the edge of the clearing, he found a small path that led away from the village through the jungle. There was no alternative, Wong must have gone along the narrow trail; the undergrowth on both sides, at this point, was too thick to walk through.

  Pausing only for a moment to listen, Hazzard heard nothing but the night noises of the jungle. Then he started quickly and quietly along the path into the jungle.

  He had been along this trail once before, and remembered that it ended abruptly at an old abandoned farmer's hut that stood in the center of a small clearing about three hundred yards from the edge of the village. The moon was full and bright, and as he approached, he noticed how it gave the small hut a strange ghostly appearance outlined through the dark branches of the trees.

  Once more he stopped to listen. There was no sound except the constant drone of myriad insects—then came a dickering of light. Someone had lit a candle inside the hut, and rays of light danced through the countless cracks in the tattered sides.

  Hazzard reached inside his shirt, and Sam appeared in his hand. Walking carefully across the open space that separated the hut from the jungle, he stopped beside the dried grass matting that covered one of the open windows. Through a wide crack, he could see Wong assembling a portable military transmitter-receiver that was powered by a hand-wind generator. Working quickly, Wong soon had the battery powered receiver crackling with static and odd bits of high-pitched Morse code. As he squatted down on the door and began to compose a coded message, Hazzard knew that it was time to move.

  Here was the one they had nicknamed George. Here was the one responsible for the countless deaths. Here was the one who had indirectly blinded Sturmer. Ad these thoughts jammed through Hazzard's brain at one time, like people trying to jam through Times Square on New Year's eve, but one thought floated up abov
e the rest. In one more minute Hazzard knew that his assignment would be finished. All of this, the hate, the eagerness, the overconfidence, was enough to blind his senses, and his long years of former training, which should have alerted him to another occupant in the hut, now laid half-forgotten in a corner of his brain.

  Ramming his shoulder against the flimsy door, he charged into the small room, and was startled by the unexpected scream of a woman. The distraction was so sudden and unexpected that Hazzard forgot about Wong, and swung about to look into the wide-eyed face of a terrified young native girl.

  The girl turned to run into the night, Hazzard lunged to stop her, and Wong swung an age-hardened ax handle with all the strength he could muster.

  The blow spun Hazzard sideways, and as he fell senseless to the floor, Sam exploded in a blinding flash as Hazzard's hand jerked spasmodically to involuntarily pull the trigger.

  Wong kicked viciously at Hazzard's body, and then, realizing that the immediate threat to his existence had been by-passed for the moment, he returned to the radio. He would deal with the stupid foreigner later.

  The girl was gone. Now, he would have to turn the hand generator with one hand, and send with the other. He finished coding the message and turned his attention to the receiver. Something was wrong. He turned the volume all the way up. There was no sound. Picking up the candle, he bent over for a closer look. There was a neat round hole in one side of the metal cabinet, and on the opposite side there was a large, jagged tear where the expanded .357 magnum slug that had smashed the wires and tubes, had made it's exit.

  He kicked savagely at the useless equipment, then glancing at the still form of Hazzard, his lips curled back from his yellowed teeth as his mind spawned a clever plan.

  In the corner of the hut was a five-gallon can of oil. Wong painstakingly spread it along the bottom of each wall. Setting the empty can by the radio, he walked to the door, stopping only long enough to spit vehemently at the prostrate form of Hazzard. Then grinning with expectation, he held the candle to the dried grass sides of the hut. The oil would not explode like gasoline, and Wong knew that he would be safely back in the village before the fire was discovered.

  This would eliminate the bungling interference of the American, and allow him to escape to the safety of the communist troops encamped off to the north.

  From faraway in the distance, Hazzard seemed to hear the furious ringing of a temple gong, and the louder and closer sound of crackling wood. Consciousness came back with the sudden realization that he was surrounded by fire. Opening his eyes, he saw that one side of the hut was completely ablaze, and that the flames were spreading across the ceiling.

  The door was still untouched by the fire, and dragging himself up, he lurched through the light framework, to go rolling on the ground outside. Getting to his feet, he found Sam still in his hand.

  The hut was burning fiercely now, and the sound of the bed was pealing through the jungle as the guard on the cliff rang out the alarm.

  Hazzard stood for a moment watching the fire and rubbing the side of his head as he tried to collect his thoughts. Then remembering Wong, he jammed Sam in his waistband, and turned to run quickly toward the village. As he neared the clearing, groups of soldiers began to pass him on their way to the burning hut.

  Wong had reached the village just as the alarm bed had begun to ring, and as the people and soldiers came pouring from their huts, he felt panic grip the muscles of his stomach. It was the age old sensation of the cornered wild animal about to be caught. Not reasoning that the confusion around him was due solely to the fire, and that no one besides Hazzard knew of his traitorous activities, Wong, in his own mind, suddenly became the hunted animal, and fear blinded his mind to everything except escape.

  A group of soldiers was running toward him in the darkness, and he leaped quickly into the doorway of an empty hut. The soldiers passed, but Wong remained in his temporary haven of darkness. People began to run by the hut more frequently.

  He looked back at the jungle as the dames shot high above the trees and illuminated the area with an eerie red glow. More people were passing now, and as the dames rose higher, Wong recognized the form of Chang moving quickly along the path directly in front of him.

  Chang shouted, and Wong turned to see Hazzard coming from the direction of the fire. Hazzard grabbed Chang by the arm and pulled him aside.

  Wong watched as Hazzard talked and gestured toward the fire. His mind cleared, and his fear and panic were replaced by evil cunning as he realized that even now, only Hazzard and Chang knew he was the spy. The confusion brought about by the fire would make it impossible for them to organize a search for him. He dropped his hand to the hilt of the dagger at his waist. There was still time to complete one small item of unfinished business, then he could leisurely escape in one of the many motorized sampans that were tied up in the lagoon.

  Once again he was the quick-thinking intelligence agent that he had always prided himself on being. He slipped out of the hut and faded into the shadows of the surrounding buddings. A wicked smile of self-satisfaction curled across his face—but he had failed to see the small form of Moro standing and listening in the darkness behind Chang and Hazzard.

  Ling Ling Yung had stood looking from the large window of the main room of the villa for a long time. The flames of the fire in the jungle had surged high above the trees and were now receding, but still no one came to ted her of the fire or its cause.

  "Go and ask the reason for the fire," she commanded Ming Lee in Mandarin, and as he left, she turned again to the window, a furrow of worry-creasing the smooth skin over her eyes. Without being told, she knew that the dames had something to do with Hazzard. There are some things a woman does not have to be told, and icy fingers laced themselves around her heart.

  The door opened behind her. "Put it on the table," she said in Mandarin, and Wong set the lacquered tray with its teapot and cups on a low carved table.

  Ling Ling gave up her vigil at the window and seated herself as Wong poured the tea. Then, bowing low, he stepped away, and moved silently behind her chair.

  Smiling constantly, he looked up and examined the room before him. He must make sure that Ling Ling could not see him in the reflection of a window or a mirror. Satisfied that his movements would not be seen, he reached inside his gown and brought out a long, slender dagger.

  He had already decided his course of action. He would grab Ling Ling by the hair and at the same instant plunge the blade sideways into her neck. From experience he knew that this would prevent her from crying out, and he also knew that death would be agonizingly slow.

  Concentrating on the movements of Ling Ling's head, and overconfident with the murderous plan in his brain, Wong failed to hear the door behind him open softly. He raised the dagger, and his wrist was seized in a viselike grip of steel. He froze as the cold sensation of panic once more flooded through the muscles and nerves of his stomach. Without looking, he knew that he had bungled his way into the unyielding hands of Ming Lee.

  There would be no reasoning with the blindly loyal giant. No excuses. No mercy. No pardon. Only death.

  Ling Ling had leaped sideways when Ming Lee had grabbed Wong's wrist, and now she stood watching the silent battle. There was no fear in her eyes, only disgust for the cowardly attempt at assassination.

  The pressure on Wong's wrist increased, and just before he thought the bone would snap, he released the dagger. The slow-witted Ming Lee, seeing the dagger fall to the floor, relaxed his grip, and Wong wrenched his arm free.

  Springing to the sliding glass doors, Wong slammed them aside, and leaped over the railing of the veranda. Hitting the ground on all fours, he dashed headlong into the undergrowth that led toward the cliffs. There was no need to hesitate, for Wong had spent many hours here, eluding the guards so he could listen at the windows of the villa. There was but one thought in his mind now, the boats in the lagoon and escape.

  Ming Lee had gone as quickly as his large frame w
ould permit him to the village. By now, the search was on. The fire had ceased to be of any importance, and Chang had organized a systematic search of ad the buddings and surrounding area.

  Ming Lee, unaware that Wong was anything more than a deadly threat to Ling Ling Yung, grabbed everyone who came within his reach, picking them up and peering intently into their faces. Satisfied that they were not Wong, he dropped the terrified individuals, and continued on his rounds.

  Hazzard had thought of the boats, and had stationed himself by the trail leading down to the lagoon. He had waited silently in the foliage beside the path for sometime when he heard the exhausted breathing of someone hurrying toward the cliffs.

  Stepping from the bushes, he spun the dark figure around. It was the girl who had been in the abandoned hut with Wong. She struggled silently, trying to bite and scratch, but Hazzard held her arms pinned to her sides.

  "Where's Wong?" he asked in English, hoping that the girl could understand.

  At the sound of his voice, she stopped struggling and relaxed. Thinking that the girl had now decided to stop fighting him, Hazzard released his grip on her arms, and found out immediately that he had made a mistake, for suddenly he saw the dash of a steel blade, and felt it's sharpness against his forearm.

  Hazzard made a lightning-fast grab at her small wrist and wrenched the dagger from her fingers before she could do any damage.

  Holding her tightly by the wrist, he was about to repeat the question when a short cry of terror echoed up from the darkness of the lagoon. It was followed by a long scream that could only come from a person in mortal pain. The sound of it made Hazzard's blood run cold, and the girl stiffened in wide-eyed fright.

  Shoving the girl aside, Hazzard ran blindly down the sloping path toward the lagoon.

  Coming to the stone wharf, Hazzard stopped. The figure of a man was rising slowly from a kneeling position at the far end. Hesitating for a moment, Hazzard shifted the girl's dagger in his hand, and then began to walk slowly toward the man.