The Balkan Assignment (7 page)

"Two days," Mikhail answered promptly. "We will need one day to drill sinks for the explosives and one day to clear away the debris."

"You're going to blast ... ?"

Mikhail nodded. "I've checked the walls of the tunnel. The shoring is quite good and there are no flaws in the walls."

"What about the aircraft?" Maher asked.

I shrugged. "I don't know for sure without checking, but it's probably the fuel pump. It will have to be replaced most likely."

"And you do not have a spare," he said acidly.

I hesitated before answering, angered at this unnecessary rebuke. "No, I don't. It's not often that I'm called on to change fuel pumps in the middle of the Adriatic." The frown on Maher's face disappeared. "I apologize for speaking so sharply. Of course not. There are many things that can go wrong with an aircraft this old. It is impossible to expect to be prepared for all of them. How long do you think it will take to fix it then?" Somewhat mollified by Maher's apology, I backed down. "It depends on how fast I can locate another fuel pump. Once I have it, a couple of hours should be enough. The problem will be to find another. I'll probably have to have Pete hunt one up in Italy and fly it over."

Maher started at that. "No . . . we do not want Schenk to know that we are here . . . he might start asking questions. We are supposed to be in Turkey." I snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. We had engine trouble and had to land in Yugoslavia. That's all that Pete will see. It's happened before . . . you always watch for emergency landing fields when you lay out a flight plan. And Pete knows that PBY as well as I do. He certainly is not going to think it strange that we had to land here."

"I don't care," Maher said stubbornly. "If there is another way to get hold of a fuel pump, then find it. I do not want to take the chance."

I shrugged. "All right then, I'd better take a look at the engine to be sure it really is the pump."

Maher nodded. "Mikhail will help you. I will see about getting the equipment to the tunnel."

In the few minutes we had been talking, the wind had increased sharply. The surface of the bay had turned a hard steely, gray mirroring the overcast sky, and here and there whitecaps were beginning to break.

Maher turned to Mikhail. "Is there anywhere that we can rent a boat large enough to move all of the supplies .. . one with a dependable engine?" Mikhail stared speculatively across the bay before answering. "There is a fisherman in the village. He will not want much if you fill the petrol tank on your return. His house is at this end of the village, the second in the row on the left side. Tell him I sent you." Maher nodded and I handed him my passport. "As long as you are going up, you might as well take care of these."

Maher grunted and took the passport. Usually the customs duties were my little chore, but this trip I was a partner, not a hired hand. He pulled his hat down tighter and without a word, left the dock.

Mikhail and I watched him go. I don't know what was in the big Yugoslav's mind as we watched our German partner's figure disappear up the long flight of steps climbing the impossible slope to the village, but I was glad he was gone. Ever since we had completed the planning for this grand adventure, Klaus had become another person; calculating, impersonal, cold. Mikhail snorted and swung up onto the wing. With night approaching, we decided to dismantle the starboard landing light and rig it out to light the engine

mount. I had about three hours of work ahead to drain and dismount the fuel pump before I could check the diaphragm. We were in the process of removing the nacelle when trouble appeared on the shore end of the quay. Mikhail saw him coming and nudged me. I looked up to see a man, dressed in an old military-style greatcoat that flapped around his ankles and officer's cap, walking slowly towards us. About fiftyish, he had that bearing and tight casualness that spelled experienced cop.

"Trouble," I muttered. "Know him?"

"Yes." Mikhail's face was grim. "He is deputy head of the Federal Security Police in Dalmatia. He arrived on the island two days ago. I have already had one bit of trouble with him."

Mikhail didn't get a chance to explain just what kind of trouble before the man had reached the aircraft and was looking up at us.

"Good day, gentlemen." His English was heavily accented but understandable and his face said plainly enough that he knew all about us . . . or at least enough to make some pretty shrewd guesses.

I sat up on the engine, wincing at the stiffness in my back. "Good evening. You speak English?"

"Obviously."

I coughed and tried again. "We're having a bit of engine trouble. Perhaps if you know the island well enough, you could tell us where we could find a mechanic?" He stood looking up at me for a long moment before he answered and when he did, he shifted his gaze to Mikhail. "No. I am afraid there is none. Your friend should know that. He has been on the island for several days now."

Mikhail grinned wolfishly down at him and then turned his head and spat into the water.

"Yes, I have been. Long enough to know what is what and who is who . . . or at the least, those who are worth knowing."

The two men locked stares long enough to make me uncomfortable, and angry as well. Angry at Mikhail. He knew damned well what was involved. And he sure as the devil knew better than to have a run-in with the local law, no matter what the provocation. There was something between the two of them, and whatever it was I did not like it at all. Finally, the policeman broke off the silent battle and

turned back to me. "Permit me to introduce myself. I am Major Orez Vishailly, Prefecture of Police. In turn, I would be very much obliged if you would show me your passport and other paper." He smiled slightly, "I find that the most part of my job concerns who is coming and who is going through and within my area of responsibility."

"And with what, heh, Major!" Mikhail snorted.

Vishailly's head snapped around so fast that I thought it would topple right off his shoulders. His eyes went wide and he almost snarled in his anger. I glared at Mikhail's grinning face. For God's sake, I thought, what in hell was he up to.

"I am sorry, Major," I interrupted hurriedly, "but my passenger, Klaus Maher, has taken the papers up to the customs house to clear us through. We are flying a freight run for his company, Imports du Italia. He should be back shortly if you would care to wait." Bemused, Vishailly stared vacantly at me for a moment, then turned to Mikhail.

"This is Mikhail Korstlov. He saw us land and noticed that we were having trouble and offered to give me a hand . . ." I let the silence trail off because Vishailly had turned and was walking back up the dock. As soon as he started up the steep flight of steps leading to the town and was out of hearing, I wheeled on Mikhail.

"You idiot, what in hell are you up to? Are you trying to louse up the whole deal? If you bring the Security Police down on us we'll . . ."

I shut up because Mikhail had shoved the spanner he was holding into my face.

"You do not talk to me that way," he said very quietly and very slowly. "Do it again and I will kill you." And undoubtedly he would. I shut up.

Mikhail settled back down on his haunches and tapped idly at the engine mount with the spanner.

"Now, I will tell you. Our friend Vishailly arrived on the island two nights ago. As is his habit, I am told, he went to see a certain friend of his in the town. They were once very good friends, if you understand my meaning. Only this time, he found me there. We did not fight, although we came almost to blows. He will never forgive me, and I in his place would do the same. It is something that cannot be helped. Something that a foreigner cannot understand . .. a matter of honor. Now I must play it through or he will suspect there is something more here than one man taking away his mistress."

It made a certain amount of sense. Maher told me that if Mikhail had a weakness, it was women. But he was damned sure that that weakness did not also run to a loose mouth.

"All right. Do what you have to do. Maher isn't going to be very happy about this at all. Just stay as far away from Vishailly as you can."

Mikhail shrugged and went back to work:

It was just after sundown when we heard the sputtering of an engine over the steadily rising wind and saw Maher nosing an ancient calque into the quay. Fishing boats in the eastern Med. are pretty much all of a style, a very ancient style that, but for the addition of an engine, had hardly changed in two thousand years. This one looked like it had been handed down from generation to generation since the days of the Turks. She was fat with one mast stepped far toward the bow and the other far astern. The original coat of paint had long since washed away, but streaks of unnamable liquids had sunk, or eaten, I don't know which, far enough into the oak lapstreaking to relieve the dull monotone of sunburned wood. A square boathouse perched gloomily on the stern and was pierced by the mast. A long, slender spar was lashed to the foremast and extended back to the foot of the mizzen. The roll of moldy canvas bundled around it suggested that we check the engine carefully. Each time the piston descended, it belched a cloud of blue smoke followed by a drawn-out rumble. As it rose again and the pressure backed off, water gurgled into the exhaust in a way that was almost obscene.

Maher came up onto the wing carrying a thermos of hot coffee. The coffee made an excellent excuse to stop work for a few moments.

"Where the hell did you dig that up?"

Maher climbed up onto the engine mount with me and handed over the thermos. "The best I could do. She looks terrible, but doesn't leak . . . too much."

"I suppose that's the most you can ask for out here," I admitted. Seen closeup, the fishing boat was even worse. Once, long ago, to judge by the way the wood was weathered to the same shade of gray, the calque had smacked something mighty hard. A rough patch had been applied to the forepeak, about halfway up from the water line, and the edges sealed with pitch. The deck was littered with poorly coiled lines and two empty water barrels leaned drunkenly against the foremast. I could almost smell the scum coating their sides.

"No wonder the owner doesn't ask questions. With that for rent, I wouldn't care if it was ever brought back."

"It will serve," Maher said shortly. "Have you found the trouble yet?" I nodded. "It's the fuel pump. The diaphragm and housing are both cracked. The whole thing will have to be replaced. I'll go up to the village after I put it back together and find a phone."

Maher nodded slowly. "That will take more time." "Why, any trouble?"

"No. Not as yet. We are issued a three-week visa, which should be more than ample. They were a bit sticky at first until I mentioned that we were having engine trouble. After that, it was no trouble at all. In fact, they were quite interested in the aircraft."

"Who is they?" I wanted to know, suddenly apprehensive. I glanced at Mikhail, but he was sipping his coffee, unconcerned with the conversation.

"A Major Vishailly . . . the head of the Customs Department, I suppose . .."

"Oh, hell."

Maher scowled. "Why do you say that?"

I hooked a thumb at Mikhail. "Ask your trouble-prone friend. He can tell you all about Vishailly, beginning with the fact that he is not a customs official, but the deputy head of the Security Police for the Dalmatian district."

Maher stared at me for a minute and then turned slowly to Mikhail.

"Is this true, what Chris is saying?"

Mikhail peered into the bottom of his cup and then tossed the dregs into the water before answering. "Yes. He is the Prefecture of the Security Police for the district of Dalmatia."

"How do you know?" Maher's voice was taking on a steel edge. "How do you know that?

" he repeated.

"I had a small bit of trouble with him a few days ago. Nothing that will interfere with us here. It is strictly of a personal nature."

"How personal?"

When Mikhail did not answer right away, I put in sat-castically, "He took the nice policeman's girl away while the nice policeman was out of town. And, the nice policeman didn't like it at all."

"What else?" Maher demanded without taking his eyes from Mikhail.

"That's all I know. Vishailly was down here earlier this evening to look us over. When he saw Mikhail, he turned all different kinds of red and purple and went away in a huff." Maher sat staring very hard at Mikhail for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and poured his own cup of coffee. "Then perhaps it is purely personal. There is nothing to worry about if it just woman trouble. It is a way of life in the Balkans."

"Like hell it is, Klaus," I snorted. "Anything that brings the cops down on us at this particular time means trouble up to and including five years in a Yugoslav prison. Like you also said, feuds over women are a way of life around here. And usually someone gets himself killed. No! We haven't got time to spare while Mikhail and this Vishailly square off in some dark alley. We have to be out of here inside of a week . . ."

"All right, Chris, drop the subject."

"Come on, Klaus, something . . ."

"I said drop it, Chris." Maher was angry, and right. If there was one thing we did not need then, it was fighting among ourselves.

"All right," I agreed. "I won't say anything more. But I think it best if Mikhail steers clear of both Vishailly and his girl friend."

"I will decide if that is necessary," Mikhail rasped. "Mind your own business and I will take care of mine."

Maher swung round on Mikhail for the second time and now his voice did have an edge to it, a cutting edge. "You will stay away from Vishailly and this woman. Do you understand? You will not go near them for the rest of the time we remain on the island. Do you understand?"

Mikhail had come into a half crouch, one knee under him, ready to spring. One big hand shot out and gathered up a handful of Maher's jacket lapel and he shook him, very gently, but enough to set the wing to bobbing. "No one, no one, especially you, Nazi, tells me what I will do and what I won't. Do you understand? I take . . ." Mikhail's voice cut off abruptly and for a moment, I