Bamboo Terror Page 7

  "That is the difficult part," said Chang wearily. "We know absolutely nothing. We suspect everyone, and yet no one in particular. How the information gets out is a mystery. The information itself is usually common knowledge among the men at least a day before a plan is put into operation. Believe me, Mr. Hazzard, we have tried everything. As a last resort, we asked Mr. Brown in Tokyo to help us. He recommended you."

  "Why did you ask Brown?" said Hazzard. "Just who is he?"

  "I am sorry, but this is something I cannot tell you," said Chang. "We have the same rules that you lived under during your twelve years as an intelligence operative for your country. It is called, 'the need to know' or 'eyes only,' and you do not need to know about Mr. Brown."

  Hazzard sat down again and shook his head in thought. So now they won't say who Brown is. At present, Brown is not important. Find the spy. What spy? Who spy? Where spy? Information—only that a spy exists. Impossible situation? One chance in a million. No evidence. No suspicions as to whom the spy might be, or how he—or maybe she—operates. How can you take an assignment willingly that is ninety-nine per cent doomed to failure from the start. Refuse and go back to Tokyo? Stay and make a fool out of yourself?

  "Mr. Hazzard, will you help us find this spy in our midst?" urged Chang.

  "Chang, I'm going to lay my cards on the table. I've been through things like this before—many times. What you are asking me to do is almost impossible. Even if I could find out who it is, it might take a week, six months, six years, or maybe forever."

  "But will you try? pleaded Chang. "We ask no promises. You can have as much time as you need, and a completely free hand. We will cooperate with you in any manner you deem necessary. We are already aware of the difficulties of the task we are asking you to do."

  No promises—completely free hand—full cooperation, the intelligence agent's dream. How many times in the past had Hazzard thought how much better he could have done his work if he had not been constantly hampered by stupid rules and regulations made by idiots who knew next to nothing of an agent's troubles in the field. This time there would be no pompous colonel of cavalry whose only worry was making general. No green infantry officers thrown in for a quick tour of duty in the intelligence branch. This is the type of chance you always wanted Hazzard old boy. Maybe.

  "How do you propose I go about this, if I should decide to do it?" asked Hazzard "You can't very well advertise that you've just hired yourself a cloak and dagger snooper."

  "You have come here to help train our soldiers," said Chang. "This is not strange. You will merely be a newly hired foreign mercenary."

  Hazzard thought of his parachute training for OSS. The door is open, the wind is tearing at your clothing, you grip the sides with a strength you have never known before, then the green light goes on, you're falling, and there is no return—Geronimo!

  "Okay, you win, Hazzard decided. "You now have a secret service. Only don't forget that I operate in my own way—and on this one, no guaranteed results. Agreed?"

  "Agreed," said Chang with a relieved smile. "More sherry?"

  "Yes," said Hazzard, and he held up his glass. "Fill it up. This one I need.'' He raised the glass and drained it in one gulp. "By the way, I suppose this Ling Ling Yung character, and that crazy password were also part of the little fairy tale about the beads, eh?"

  "No," said Chang. "Ling Ling Yung is very much alive, and the password is real. It was to be used if you doubted my story of why you were brought here."

  "All right, then," said Hazzard. "The next thing I want to do is meet this Ling Ling Yung. If we're going to play games, we might as well go all the way."

  "Of course," said Chang, and his face and eyes lit up with amusement. Then, without taking his eyes off Hazzard or raising his voice, he said, "Ling Ling, Mr. Hazzard would like to meet you."

  Hazzard looked queerly at Chang as though the Chinese had just gone completely out of his mind. Then, suddenly, the massive seven foot high folding screen slammed shut against the wall. Hazzard jumped up in astonishment.

  Sitting in a high-backed ornate chair was the most beautiful woman that Hazzard had ever seen. She was not just beauty herself, she was a monument to it. Her facial features appeared to have been carved from the purest tan-colored ivory, each detail a masterpiece of perfection. The smooth molded forehead, the sparkling eyes encased in their almond-shaped frames, the eyelashes that swept excitingly like delicate miniature folding fans, the sensitive finely formed nose with sensual nostrils, the soft moist lips of natural red, the regal chin, the perfectly set jet black hair, and her penetrating look of interest made Hazzard's senses reel with the same effect you receive from a pipe in an opium den.

  Behind her stood a gigantic Chinese. Almost seven feet tall, with a flat apelike face, distrustful eyes, ears that were bent and scarred, and thick muscular hands as big as meat platters. He was dressed in a long flowing Chinese gown, and from the size of him Hazzard guessed that he must weigh over three hundred pounds, all bone and muscle. It was this giant of a man who had slammed the heavy screen to the wall without effort.

  As Hazzard turned his stupefied gaze once more on the woman, he vaguely heard Chang's voice, "This is Madame Ling Ling Yung. She is the one who controls our group here at Tu-Hao-Tuc. And standing behind the chair is her bodyguard, Ming Lee."

  Hazzard heard the words, but this lovely creature sitting there so calmly in the chair defied all description, and he could neither move nor speak.

  "Mr. Hazzard," said the throaty voice of Ling Ling Yung. "I am told that in your country it is considered impolite to stare."

  Hazzard snapped his gaping mouth shut and stumbled for words. "Why I—I never expected to find a woman—a woman like you—in a place like this."

  Ling Ling smiled at him. Hazzard thought his knees would melt. "And just what type of woman did you expect to find in a place like this?" she asked.

  Hazzard knew if he opened his mouth again in his present confused state, he was sure to put both feet in it. The next thing he knew, Ling Ling was out of the chair and walking toward him. The long Chinese dress fitted her like a glove, and as she moved, he could see beautifully shaped legs flash by in the slits at the sides. She stopped directly in front of him and looked up through half-closed lids. This was about the sexiest look a woman could possibly give a man, and Hazzard had the uneasy feeling that she knew it also. He had the sudden urge to grab her and crush her mouth in a violent lustful kiss—to hell with beads, spies, and pirates. The temptation faded as he caught sight of the seven foot Ming Lee, who now stood right behind her. No wonder she could act sexy, she had all the protection any girl would ever need.

  "Now, Mr. Hazzard," she said in a husky whispering voice. "I believe you were paid to bring me something. A small Buddhist rosary. Is it not so?"

  Hazzard snapped out of the sex cloud he had been floating on and came back to earth.

  "Just a minute," he said. "How do I know you are really Ling Ling Yung."

  "If we are going to play games, we might as well go all the way," she said, mimicking Hazzard's own words. "There is terror in the bamboo only for the wicked. Now, may I have the beads?"

  Hazzard reached inside his shirt to get the beads. To Ming Lee, who could not understand what was being said, this action appeared to be a threat to Ling Ling, and he started to reach out to defend her. As Hazzard saw the movement and the look in the giant's eyes, he froze.

  Ling Ling placed her hand lightly on Ming Lee's arm and shook her head. The giant stopped, but continued to regard Hazzard with hostile, suspicious eyes.

  That was a close one, thought Hazzard. The big man was amazingly quick for his size, and blindly loyal. He must remember to be very careful of his movements in front of this king-size bodyguard from now on.

  He brought out the beads, held them up in plain view and carefully passed them to Ling Ling.

  She took the small string of beads, examined them very carefully, and then said, "Thank you, Mr. Hazzard, for bring
ing the beads, and thank you for agreeing to help us. We shall forever be indebted to you. Now, if you will please excuse me, I know you have many things to talk about with Chang." Then, she turned abruptly and left the room with Ming Lee.

  "You have passed the final test," said Chang, as the door closed behind them. "If you did not have the beads with you, she would have thought you too careless to be trusted."

  Hazzard was still staring at the door. "She's magnificent," murmured Hazzard. "Who is she?"

  "You are not the first one who has ever said that," replied Chang. "She is the last remaining descendent of one of China's ancient war lords. Her mother and father and the rest of her family were killed by the communists during the war. She managed to escape with some trusted friends and came to live in Vietnam. When the communists brought war and terror to this country, she decided that it was everyone's duty to fight against this Red menace. She organized and equipped a small guerrilla band here at Tu-Hao-Tuc. The people worship her because she has never turned anyone of them away when they were in trouble. She is a very brave woman, and has devoted her life to one thing—fighting the communists. There isn't a person here who would not gladly give up his life to save her."

  "Well you wouldn't need many people to protect her," said Hazzard. "If you had two or three more guys around like that Ming Lee. He doesn't even trust me."

  "He trusts no one but Ling Ling and himself," said Chang. "Many years ago Ling Ling's father found Ming Lee in the streets of Peking, a dirty, simple-minded boy. Her father had dropped a packet containing money. Ming Lee found it and ran after him to give it back. An unheard of thing among the lower class people, who usually went into things like begging and robbery. The honesty of the boy so struck her father that he took him into his house and adopted him. Ling Ling was a very young child at the time, and Ming Lee soon appointed himself her protector. It has been this way ever since. The reason he trusts no one is that Ling Ling's parents were killed after one of the family's closest friends informed on them to the communists. Ming Lee, although simple minded, realized that even a trusted friend could be dangerous, and now believes that the safest way is to trust absolutely no one, including myself."

  "As long as we're getting case histories, how do you come to be here?" asked Hazzard.

  "I was organizing the people in the back countries to defend themselves against being forced into the communist guerrilla bands when Ling Ling sent for me. I have since set up training plans here, and have traveled over most of the world looking for experienced fighting men to come and help us. There is one other thing that I will tell you, as you will probably hear it soon enough anyway. People sometimes call me The Cobra."

  Hazzard looked puzzled. "The Cobra?" he said.

  "Yes," smiled Chang. "It is a myth that we have fabricated to help keep the morale of the people up. The vast majority are simple farmers, uneducated, and very superstitious. We have planted the idea that The Cobra has come to avenge them. Everytime we stage a raid on the enemy, we circulate the story that The Cobra has struck again. We also give The Cobra credit for any calamity that befalls the Reds. The recent famine in China was even attributed to The Cobra. The people believe it mostly because they want to believe it. Every oppressed people in the world must have something tangible to believe in as a savior. It is not so difficult to understand if you know the basic psychology of the Oriental, and some of our history. In the last war General Chennault practiced this in China with his famous Flying Tigers. Each fighter plane was painted to resemble a shark coming in for the kill. Someone had to be elected to play the living image of The Cobra, and I must tell you that the rumors I hear about myself are sometimes incredible."

  "I guess you're right," agreed Hazzard. "The Christians have a savior in Christ, the Moslems have their Mohammed, and now you give your people The Cobra. It makes sense." He brushed all of this from his mind and changed the subject back to himself. "Now, about this spy bit. Where do we go from here?"

  "There is nothing more I can tell you," said Chang. "You now know as much about the spy as we do, which, I am sorry to say, is nothing. As far as everyone else is concerned, from this moment on, you will be just another mercenary soldier hired by myself. Only Ling Ling Yung and I know the real reason you are here. As Ming Lee does not understand a word of English, you need not worry about him. Now it is time to take you around and introduce you to the others that you will be working with, and let me add, that no one, including the remaining foreigners here, is above suspicion."

  Chang rose, started to walk to the door, and paused. "Oh, yes, I had almost forgotten," and reaching inside his shirt, he brought out Sam and handed the gun to Hazzard. "Your revolver, Mr. Hazzard."

  Hazzard grinned as he took Sam. Then, inspecting the revolver quickly, he stuck it inside of his shirt under the money belt, and followed Chang from the room.

  7 The Mercenaries

  THEY LEFT THE villa, and Chang led the way down a well-worn path that wound inland through the jungle. Hazzard began to hear the hoarse cries of men, and someone shouting in French as they neared the top of a small hill. Before them, in a small clearing, a group of men were training on a bayonet course under the direction of a short, heavy, bull-necked foreigner who was screaming at them in French.

  A man charged out from the group and attacked a life-sized dummy. The bayonet went in low and deflected toward the ground.

  The booming voice of the Frenchman ricocheted through the trees. "Non, non, non, non, non!" he screamed in French. "Keep the bayonet up! If that were a real man, you would now be a young corpse."

  "That is Maurice Paquet," explained Chang. "He was with the underground in France during the Nazi occupation. He is a hard task master, but his men worship him. After the war he came here, fell in love with the country, and put his life savings into a small plantation."

  "Do you trust him?" asked Hazzard.

  Chang ignored the question, and went on with the history of the Frenchman. "His plantation was overrun in the first days of conflict in my country. His wife was killed by a roving band of the so-called People's Volunteer Army, and his only son died hi his arms in the jungle because the bandits had also destroyed the medical supplies."

  "His son was sick?" asked Hazzard.

  His son suffered from diabetes, and without insulin, the disease is fatal," replied Chang.

  "So you do trust him."

  "As I would my own brother," and Chang called out to the Frenchman. "Maurice!"

  The Frenchman turned toward them, shouted some orders to his men, and as he came closer, he studied Hazzard with interest.

  "Maurice, I would like you to meet Mr. Hazzard," said Chang. "He is a new member of our group."

  Extending his hand, Maurice's face broke into a cordial smile. "Ah, welcome to zis paradise of ze Orient Monsieur Hazzard."

  Hazzard felt the strong friendly grip and a sudden liking for this rough and tumble Frenchman. "My friends call me Mike," he said, looking straight into the unwavering eyes of Maurice.

  Maurice liked what he saw in the strong lean lines of Hazzard's face and replied, "Zen, I weel call you Mike. We shall be friends, non?"

  There was a sudden shout from the men, followed by gales of laughter. On the bayonet course, a young man, who had just attempted to parry the wooden rifle of a dummy, had tripped and fallen in such a way that the dummy's rifle had cracked him across the top of the head, and he was now sitting on the ground looking very foolish.

  Maurice shrugged his shoulders in the typical French gesture that covered so many meanings. "Excuse moi, but my children, zey need me," and he walked back down the hill.

  A mighty shout in French from Maurice brought silence instantly to the area. Walking up to the clumsy young man, he pulled him roughly to his feet, grabbed the rifle from the man's hands, and sent him reeling back to join his comrades.

  Raising the rifle over his head, he lectured them in French. "What is this? This is not a toy. This is a rifle."

  Then Hazzard
was initiated to the eccentric teaching methods of the Frenchman. If it had not been for the seriousness of the subject, death by the bayonet, it could have been classified as comic opera. Yet regardless of the humor, the Frenchman got the point across very clearly.

  Maurice pointed delicately toward the muzzle of the rifle.

  "Zis, mon ami, is a bayonet, and when the fight comes—what do you do, eh?"

  He approached the dummy on tip toes, took a comic stance and bowed.

  "You stand so?"

  Then he addressed the dummy.

  "Pardonnez moi, monsieur, but your rifle eez in my way. Votre Permission . . ."

  And he pushed the wooden rifle to one side with a finger.

  "Would you mind holding still for just one moment, monsieur? Merci, you are very kind."

  Putting the point of the bayonet against the chest of the dummy, he closed his eyes, turned his head away and slowly pushed the rifle forward into the dummy.

  The change came so fast it was startling, and the smiles of the men disappeared as quickly. Maurice pulled the bayonet from the dummy and leaping around, ran back toward the men like a demon from hell.

  "Non!" he shouted. "Watch me, and remember!"

  With a large war cry, he charged the dummy with a quickness and agility that was amazing. It all happened at once with perfect timing. He was at the dummy, parried the wooden rifle, bayoneted it in the chest, withdrew and followed through with such a powerful vertical upper-butt stroke that the head of the dummy tore off and sailed high into the air.

  He came back to the cowed group of men, threw the rifle to its owner, and standing with his hands on his hips, he shouted, "Like so—proceed!"

  And the men ran through the bayonet course with a strength they had never known before, loud cries on their lips, and a hate in their hearts for what the dummies represented; the image of the killers who came from the north to pillage, murder, and rape their women.

  "He's quite a boy," said Hazzard with admiration.

  Chang, who was already aware of the fact that Maurice was 'quite a boy,' merely grunted. "Come, Mr. Hazzard," he said. "There is still much for you to see."