Bamboo Terror Page 19

  Again he misjudged. The next building was closer than he had expected, and even though he had his hand up to protect himself, he slammed heavily into the wooden side. Working his way to the left, he reached up, and feeling the construction of a window, satisfied himself that this was the hospital.

  There were twelve windows along the side, and the main line to the charges came out of the ground in the center of the building. Walking carefully and running his hands along the wall, the German began to count the windows. He had come to the fourth window when a communist soldier came around the corner of the building and stopped in surprise at the strange antics of the German. Then slowly the soldier brought his rifle to his shoulder and took careful aim.

  The sharp report of the rifle startled Sturmer by its nearness, and he froze against the wall, listening intently. No further sound came, and relaxing, he continued to feel his way along the side of the building.

  Being blind, Sturmer had no indication that Moro had followed him, and the small Oriental, not wishing to make his presence known, was very quiet as he drew his dagger from the side of the soldier and eased the body to the ground. Wiping the blade on the dead man's shirt, Moro picked up the soldier's rifle and silently followed after Sturmer.

  Coming to the sixth window, the German bent down and awkwardly crawled underneath the building. Moro could not understand what the German was trying to do, but silently he followed, crawling underneath the building and taking up a position where he could not only observe Sturmer's actions, but could protect him as well.

  Crawling on his hands and knees, Sturmer began his grueling search for the wires. Turning on his side, he inched his way along, running one hand along the beams above him. Cobwebs, dust, and dirt fell from the rotting wood and gagged him. Sweat poured from his body and drenched his clothes. He had not realized how weak he had become, and every few minutes he was forced to stop and rest as he became dizzy with fatigue.

  Finding no resistance now, the communist troops were filtering into the village, and as they realized that the area was deserted, they began to enter the buildings, looting, breaking windows, and smashing furniture.

  Sturmer had finally made his way to the center of the building and found the wires that came up from the ground alongside an upright. He knew that there was a junction box fastened to the beams somewhere above him, and as his hand traced the wires, he found where one of them had been cut. Now, he had to find the other severed end, and being sightless complicated the task a thousandfold.

  Moro had been watching the progress of the German, and as Sturmer reached the wires and began to grope about with one hand, he realized what the German was searching for. Looking past Sturmer in the dim light, Moro could see the end of a wire coiled around another beam. Slowly, inching himself along on his elbows and knees, Moro wormed his way to the other end of the wire. Carefully he unwrapped it from the beam and moved toward Sturmer.

  A hand grabbed the German's arm and he started in surprise. He reached out, felt the hand on his arm, worked his fingers up to the shoulder and over the unresisting face.

  "Moro!" he gasped, and the Oriental grunted.

  Grabbing Sturmer's wrist, Moro pressed the end of the wire into the German's hand.

  "Moro," Sturmer whispered slowly in French. "Go to the boats. . . quick! I will give you time to get out of the village."

  "Non," said Moro, speaking in broken French. "We do this together."

  Sturmer hesitated, and feeling the tensed muscles of Moro's arm under his hand, he nodded his head and sighed. "Very well. We will do this together," and each one took a broken end of the wire and began to strip the insulation away from the heavy copper strands.

  In the compound, the communist officers were directing the looting of the village. A large pile of objects was forming before them as the soldiers carried chests, pottery, furniture, clothing, and bottles from the buildings.

  Groups of soldiers were tramping back and forth across the hospital door above the heads of Sturmer and Moro as the Reds carried the remains of Doctor Kelly's supplies into the compound. Each time they heard footsteps, the German and Moro paused and waited until the soldiers left the building.

  Finally the ends of the wires were clean, and taking one in each hand, Sturmer waited. The sounds of soldiers moving about among the buddings were increasing, and he knew that the Reds were coming in from the jungle in ever increasing numbers. A few minutes wait would make his and Moro's efforts all the more rewarding.

  Sturmer's hands began to shake as he slowly brought them together. He needed courage more now than ever before in his life. Pausing, he took a deep breath, and for some strange unknown reason, he suddenly thought of the last passages from A Tale of Two Cities—". . . it is a far, far better thing I do . . ."—then suddenly he laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of his wandering mind, and jammed his hands together.

  The heavy charge of TNT that had lain buried beneath where Sturmer and Moro lay went off simultaneously with the many other charges, sending clouds of smoke and debris high above the village, and a penetrating sound reverberating for miles through the jungle.

  The deafening roar of the explosion fell heavily upon the long line of boats that stretched southward along the coast. Hazzard and the others watched silently as a great cloud of smoke and dust rose slowly over the cliffs, and drifted inland. There were no words for times like these. Hazzard knew that he had just witnessed one of the greatest acts of sacrifice and heroism that man had ever seen and yet it was but a small and insignificant event in a world that seemed to be rushing headlong into self-destruction.

  Hazzard lighted a cigarette, leaned back against the gunwales of the sampan, and stared at the small white clouds that pock-marked the sky. The events of the past few weeks would take a lot of forgetting—and he wondered how one went about forgetting images that had been indelibly burned into the memory.

  20 The End of a Beginning

  ". . . and that, my little Oriental princess," concluded Hazzard, as he sat with Michiko at the Champs Elysée, the only sidewalk cafe in Tokyo, "is the story of Michael Hazzard, boy detective."

  Michiko giggled, and Hazzard smiled. She was amused by the silly reference to himself, but Hazzard was reminiscing over the parts concerning Ling Ling Yung that he had neglected to tell her. He still remembered the husky whisper of her voice in his ear as she had said good-by.

  "We shall meet again," she had murmured, and her fragrance had come up to meet him as she pressed her body into his. For a fleeting moment her eyes had stared hard into his, trying to penetrate his innermost thoughts, and they seemed to say, 'No matter where you are, or what you do, you are mine.' At least Hazzard flattered his ego by making himself believe that this was the unsaid meaning of that last look of Ling Ling Yung.

  Then it had been a long ride by junk along the coast and up the Mekong River to Saigon. A plane to Manila, and the short jet flight to Tokyo. The next morning there had been a short telephone call to Hazzard's office from Mr. Brown, in the best of Greenstreet voices. Hazzard was to meet him at noon at the tables outside the Champs Elysee, and Brown would pay him the balance of the ten thousand dollars.

  "What time is it?" asked Hazzard.

  "Almost twelve o'clock," sighed Michiko.

  "Are you sure he said to meet him here?"

  Michiko looked at Hazzard and shook her head wearily back and forth. "He said to meet him at Champs Elysée sidewalk cafe, and this is only sidewalk cafe in Tokyo, and it is called Champs Elysée. Mike-san, this is third time you ask me same question in ten minutes."

  Hazzard looked at his watch. "Well it's twelve o'clock now. Where is he?"

  And the voice of Greenstreet-Brown replied from directly behind Hazzard, "I am right here, my dear Mr. Hazzard, and good afternoon to you, Miss . . . ah . . .?"

  "Matsumoto," prompted Hazzard.

  "Ah, yes, Mr. Hazzard's capable, and I must say extremely pretty secretary," and Brown wedged his large frame between the tables and sat
down luxuriously on the chair beside Hazzard. The inevitable brief case was clutched across his lap, and he smilingly glanced about, seemingly in the very best of spirits. "My, but it is a fine day, isn't it?" he said to no one in particular. "You know, other than the abominable rainy season, I do believe we have about the finest weather in the Orient, don't you?"

  "Yes, I guess so," said the impatient Hazzard. "Now, Mr. Brown, about our business arrangement . . ."

  "Ah, yes, business," sighed Mr. Brown. "It is such a lovely day I am inclined to forget about business matters," and reaching into his brief case, he produced two fat envelopes. "Which will it be this time, Mr. Hazzard?"

  "Japanese yen, if you don't mind," replied Hazzard.

  "Here you are, Mr. Hazzard," and Brown handed one of the envelopes across the table. "The balance of your retainer. And it will not be necessary to sign a receipt."

  "And not necessary to count it either," smiled Hazzard as he quickly slipped the envelope into his jacket pocket. "Wed, now that that's over, we can relax and become friends. Would you care for a drink, Mr. Brown?"

  "No thank you, I seldom touch anything," replied Mr. Brown, with a slight bow of his head. "But I do have a slight request."

  "Yes, sure—anything at ad," said Hazzard, who was now feeling generous with the whole world.

  Once again Mr. Brown dipped his hand into the brief case, and when he spoke, he placed a small wooden box on the table. "I have something here that I would like you to . . ."

  "Oh, no you don't. Not again," cut in Hazzard as he stood up and grabbed Michiko by the arm. "Come on, Michiko," and dragging her quickly through the tables, he ran to the edge of the street, flagged a passing taxi, and zoomed off in the best of kamikaze styles.

  Mr. Brown, as outwardly unpreturbed as an English gentleman lounging on the veranda of the Raffles Hotel, sighed and calmly lifted Hazzard's untouched, and now warm cocktail from the table. After an exploratory sniff, he relished a small mouthful, replaced the glass on the table and sighed once again.

  A very slick-looking, dark-skinned Oriental slid noiselessly into Hazzard's vacant chair, and folded his hands together on the table. His white sharkskin suit, dark tie and Panama hat, though strikingly clean and well pressed, seemed out of place with the background of modern Tokyo.

  "What was his answer?" asked the man in the sharkskin suit.

  "I really don't know," said Brown as he tasted the warm cocktail again. "I didn't even get the chance to ask him." His eyes fell on the unopened wooden box. "And I shall have to visit his office shortly. Ling Ling Yung would never forgive me if I failed to deliver her small present to Mr. Hazzard."

  He set the empty glass on the table.

  "I shall ask him in a few days. I have no doubt that he would enjoy working with us." Then he turned his head and beckoned to the waiter. "Bring me another one of these, whatever it is you call them, and one for Mr. Woo, here. Oh, and yes, do not use any ice. They are delightful when they are warm."

  —THE END—