Casca 12: The African Mercenary (3 page)

Laughing, Casey asked his huge friend, "Gus, where the hell did you learn to whisper?
In a steel mill?"

"No,"
came the immediate response. "As you well know, it was in a Tiger tank on the Dnieper Line."

Fresh drinks were brought for all, and Van was helped back to his chair, though he did move it a bit farther away from the long, friendly reach of
Beidemann. The old German soldier smiled benevolently at all present. "This is good. Besides which, the son of a bitch Dzhombe needs killing. It's always good to take on a job that rewards the soul as well as the purse. Now, enough of this talk! Let us drink and party tonight. And I, Gustaf Beidemann, former corporal by the will of God and a part time house painter whose name escapes me at the moment, will teach you poor Untermensch sub-humans in English how to really, as the Americans say, `get down.'

Another bottle of Stolichnaya vodka had him spending the rest of the evening trying to teach Van how to sing the marching songs of the Legion.

Morning found Van, Casey, and Yousef trying to decide whether it was worth it to continue living. Van was in the john, doing his best to survive a case of the dry heaves, the kind that feels as if your stomach is doing its best to turn inside out and finally crawl out of your open mouth. Casey's eyes held a remarkable resemblance to two olives floating in a glass of stale tomato juice. The three men's states were further aggravated by the fact that
Beidemann was doing his daily routine of push-ups and sit ups. That, compounded by his singing something filthy about a girl named Lorelei, did nothing to make the day seem any more welcome.

While the others were trying to pull themselves together,
Beidemann went down to the Telok basin to find some steak and fresh raw oysters for breakfast. Yousef was too ill to go with him and simply sat in a corner holding his head between his hands, repeating over and over that he now knew why Allah, in His infinite wisdom, prohibited the drinking of alcohol by the faithful, which he now swore to become. He promised to make a pilgrimage to Mecca and Medina if he lived through the rest of the day. Why had he been cursed with having to follow that monstrous barbarian around the world? What was his great sin that Allah should punish him so?

By noon, contrary to all expectations, Casey and the others discovered with a certain amount of amazement that they would survive. A few gallons of coffee later, plus some home remedies, and the worst was over.

Shortly after noon, Beidemann returned, belching contentedly and mumbling something to himself about how a few drinks at night aided the morning's digestive juices. Casey had to keep Van from throwing a butcher knife at the German's unsuspecting back.

It was with a sense of relief that Casey told
Beidemann that he and Yousef would be going to the plantation in Malaya to start getting things laid out. Giving them each some pocket money but not enough to party on he told them to find the limey pilot, Harrison, who had a full time girl-friend not too far from the old Buddhist temple. He'd fly them over to Kuala Lumpur, and from there Beidemann and Yousef would have to take Casey's Land Rover, which had been left at the airport, and drive on up to the cool beauty of the Cameron Highlands.

Beidemann
asked if Casey's woman would be there. He had never met Yu Li, but he knew of her and how she and his old friend had come to be together. A Major Shan had contracted Casey to take some men and go into Cambodia to bring out a family of Chinese merchants that had been left behind when the Khmer Rouge took over. The mission had not gone down as smoothly as it should have. From the very beginning the Communists had been on their asses, and it had been a running fight all the way to the sea, where Yu Li's father had died when he exploded a can of gas in the hold of the pursuing Cambodian gunboat that had caught them. They had been sold out and knew who had done it. Beidemann had not been on that job, but he knew that whoever it was that had informed on Casey and his men would not go without his just reward.

Beidemann
grumbled a bit when Casey told him to get his and Yousef's gear together and do as he was told. He finished his packing and, with one last wounded look before he left, asked, "Are you sure that we can't help?" He knew that their being sent on ahead had something to do with what had happened in Cambodia.

Van interjected with a terse, "No! This is our debt to pay! You were not there. This must be handled by us. It is a matter of
honor." Accepting Van's statement, Beidemann bade them farewell and, with Yousef in tow, left the apartment for the streets below. He was attempting to hail a taxi when a voice called out his name.

George was getting out of a rickshaw. He had taken the morning shuttle from Kuala Lumpur. He had only met
Beidemann once before, but that was enough; the giant was not easily forgotten. To Beidemann, the small Montagnard did not look all that well. He'd been wounded pretty badly during the Cambodian excursion with Casey, and it had taken months to get his strength back and to get used to his new artificial eye. Beidemann thought the effect of having one green eye and one brown quite striking, though he could see how it might be a bit disconcerting to the less sophisticated. Nevertheless, he thought it gave George a certain
elan
that went quite well with the gold teeth set with green plastic hearts in the centers.

Beidemann
explained to George that he and Yousef were on their way to the plantation to get things ready. He promised him that when they got together again they would have a proper party.

A taxi responded to
Beidemann's hand signal and pulled over to the curb. The shocks groaned on the old Citroen as the huge man lowered himself into the back seat. George waved good bye to him and the still pale Yousef. The Moroccan said nothing, merely looked pathetic and gave a weak grin as the taxi pulled out into the throng of carts, trucks, cars, bicycles, and people from a dozen bloodlines and cultures.

Van answered George's knock on the door, letting in the bandy legged
Montagnard. George was a near perfect example of the rugged men of the hill tribes of Vietnam. A little taller and stockier than most Vietnamese, his teeth had been filed down during puberty rites. Those in the front were the ones that had been replaced with gleaming gold caps. He had fought with Van and Casey in Vietnam, and before that during the days of the Viet Minh and the French. He hated all communists no matter what their nationality. To him they were all either Cong or Viet Minh.

The old friends greeted each other. Casey felt a swelling of emotion at the sight of the tough little warrior, all one hundred and thirty pounds of him. George smiled, showing his oral gold mine. To foreigners, it seemed strange that gold teeth should have inlaid decorations such as hearts or diamonds of
colored plastic, but it was a common practice in parts of Southeast Asia.

George and Van wasted no time. Looking at Casey, Van said quietly but with deep feeling, "It is time we visit Ling
K'ai and pay our bill. It has been too long." Casey knew he was right. Only the honorable Ling K'ai, pimp, dope dealer, and smuggler had known of their mission into Cambodia. It was he who had contacted the Kamserai rebels who aided them in their mission. K'ai was the only one who had a big enough ax to grind, and now it was time to balance accounts. He had been warned not to interfere, so what happened was now on his head. Casey had wanted to go with them to settle with Ling K'ai, but when they were on the run and holed up in the old temple in the swamp, he had given K'ai to George and Van. A deal was a deal.

From one of the rear bedrooms Van brought out a U.S. Army duffel bag. From the canvas sack he withdrew a custom built, ten
round, twelve gauge automatic shotgun. The barrel was sawed off to fourteen inches, with a collapsible wire stock and pistol grip. This was for George. Van selected his own favorite, a 9mm Walther P 38. Each man checked the clips, put extra ones in his pockets, and stood ready. They looked long and hard at Casey, knowing he wanted to go with them. They went silently to the door, moving as if they were embarrassed at not taking him with them. But they knew it would be best for him to remain behind while they took care of business their way. Singapore was not a place for Caucasians to be involved in murder.

Casey had a strange sense of being very much alone when they had gone. He knew that for some months after they'd returned from Cambodia, Ling
K'ai had men watching them. He didn't know if that was still the case, but in any event, there was little hope that George and Van would catch him by surprise.
Goddammit!
he thought.
Why the hell did I agree to this thing? They'll probably walk right into a trap!

Van and George walked out into the brilliant daylight, taking their time. They were in no rush. Each
savored the day in his own way, each preparing himself for the confrontation that had been so long delayed. From Sou Phoung, the Kamserai chieftain, they had found out the truth of what they had already suspected. On their behalf, Sou Phoung had questioned a half caste Portogee Chinese who worked for Ling K'ai. The Portogee had, on K'ai's orders, informed the Khmer Rouge of their mission, and was responsible for the deaths of several Kamserai men and Yu Li's father.

Sou
Phoung paid part of the debt by staking out the half caste over a bed of freshly cut, green bamboo and leaving him there. In the tropics bamboo thrives and can grow a foot or more a day. By the third day the half caste was raised six inches off the ground with several long green shoots of bamboo extending from his chest and abdomen. The half caste's screaming had stopped sometime during the second night, when one of the shoots of thrusting bamboo inserted itself into his lungs. He'd drowned in his own blood. At least it had ended the unbearable agony of the green blades of death pushing their way through his stomach and intestines.

Sou
Phoung played the game the way the jungle demanded it be played. Compassion for an enemy was an unknown commodity, completely alien to his thought processes.

George understood him perfectly, Van less so but with perhaps more sophistication. His hatred was on a more intellectual level and because of that, perhaps even more deadly.

The Golden Lotus Club sat on piles over the brown, murky waters of the basin in front of them. It was Ling K'ai's restaurant, and the headquarters of his drug and prostitution ring. It was here that Casey had killed K'ai's number one boy earlier in the year. Today they would kill the master, not the dog.

Entering through the front doors, Van and George made their way into the dark, silent interior, stopping for a moment to give their eyes a chance to adjust from the glare outside. Only the bartender was visible as he cleaned the bar and made preparations for the evening crowd. The Golden Lotus Club was open only for dinner and the late night trade. They headed for the rear of the restaurant where
K'ai's office was, the sound of their heels loud on the polished tiles.

Out of the shadows, just in front of the office door, a new presence made itself known. "What is it you wish here?" The voice was soft, almost feminine. "What do you want here?" it asked once more.

Van spoke his answer nearly as softly. "We come for your master. Go away and don't involve yourself in that which is none of your concern."

The voice laughed quietly, easily, and the figure made itself visible. A pleasant looking young man in loose, black peasant clothes bowed to them. "I am Sung II Kim "

The light from an open doorway behind them showed the smiling face of a well
-built man, one supremely confident of himself. "I know who you are, Van Tran Tich, and you I have also heard of, savage," he said, speaking to George. "We have been watching you. I knew when you left your rooms. Know this: In me you see your deaths." The words were spoken without bravado, almost absentmindedly. "Are you prepared for your deaths?" Not waiting for an answer, Kim motioned to a couple of vague forms concealed in the shadows. Only their pistols were visible, pointing at the two intruders. Kim walked forward a step closer. "Drop your weapons or die now," he ordered. Van and George did as Kim instructed, the pistol and shotgun clattering to the tile floor.

Kim stepped in front of them and bowed, straightening himself into the
ap chak ay
preparatory position. Obviously enjoying himself, the young man made several leaping passes and fake strikes at his stationary targets, his movements proclaiming him a master of Tae Kwan Do, the Korean style of the martial arts. When he finished his demonstration, he stood still in front of his victims while the men with the guns watched silently.

Holding his hands clenched, the knuckles touching at the
center of his solar plexus, he bowed once more, saying, "It is time for you to die." Drawing into his abdomen a long, deep breath, he began a rasping exhalation, pumping adrenaline into his system. Kim prepared to strike.

Before he could move, he hit the ground with a scream. At what seemed to be the same instant, a double echo reverberated through the club. Both of Kim's kneecaps were shattered, and his legs bent back under him at impossible angles.

The two figures in the shadows detached themselves from the darkness. One stepped forward. "
Ach! Meinen Freunden
." A wisp of smoke came from the action of Beidemann's Mauser HSc .380 automatic.

"Ali and I couldn't find the pilot we were supposed to find, and we got back to the hotel just as you were leaving. I saw men watching you, so we talked to Casey, found out where you were going, and got here in time to take care of the two men the young karate expert thought would be backing him up. Right now they are practicing to see how long they can hold their breath underwater. By now I believe they have set a new world record. They have been down at least fifteen minutes."

Sung Il Kim continued to moan in pain and shock, realizing what had happened all too clearly.

George walked over to the Korean. Bending over, he said softly, "Foolish one. D
o you not know that everyone does not play the game by the same rules? If the big nosed one here had not stopped you, we would have." George showed him the Colt .32 automatic he had hidden in a sleeve holster.

The young Korean looked up with pleading eyes. George stepped over him and picked up his shotgun as Van retrieved his P 38. The two Asians entered Ling
K'ai's office, closing the door behind them.