Istanbul (16 page)

He examined his ankles, bleeding badly. He unwound the dirty cloths from his wrists, thinking that this was one Kurdish custom that made sense, and quickly bandaged each ankle. That done he swiftly set about collecting the tommy guns and ammunition of the dead Kurds.

Nick's horse had risen, apparently unhurt, and was now quietly cropping at the short grass nearby. The goats had vanished over the Kardu.

Burdened with the weight of four tommy guns and their ammunition, N3 finally managed to mount the horse. He
chucked
softly to the animal and patted its neck. "Bear up fella. I know it's heavy but it won't be for long. Just about a mile."

A mile to the west, where there was another ford and the Basque would be trying to cross. Nick honed. Maybe a patrol would show up and maybe it wouldn't, but the Basque was going to have a hot reception. As hot as the man from AXE could make it.

The sun was a golden ball impaled on a towering white spike of mountain when Nick reached the ford a mile to the west. Here the Kardu ran broad and wide and shallow, the crystalline water rippling around huge smooth boulders. Squarely in the midst of the ford was a tiny island. A natural fortress with a solitary rock formation fringed by willows and tamarisk. Nick urged the tired horse into the stream and made for the island. The rocks and foliage would provide good cover. With any luck he should be able to hold of the caravan until a patrol arrived or, at the very least, make the Basque turn back.

Swiftly he made his dispositions. He could hear the groaning of camels now and there was a light cloud of dust to the north. The Basque was going to attempt the crossing in daylight. Nick could understand the man's reasoning — no patrols had appeared, and it was unlikely that this ford would also be mined.

Most important was the fact that the opium the caravan was carrying would be worth millions of dollars when processed into heroin and cut. The Syndicate was dollar conscious, just as any business organization. The Basque would do anything, literally, to get that opium safely across the border and dispersed. So N3, with his four tommy guns and eight long clips — each Kurd had carried a spare — made ready his little ambush.

He did not have to wait long. Five minutes passed, then the head of the caravan came into view. It wound down a little slope out of a pass in the cliffs and approached the ford. Nick made himself very small behind the rocks and held his fire.

Bringing up the rear of the caravan was the Land Rover and the trailer, and the two half-tracks. Nick saw the Basque, again mounted on the roan, but hanging back and giving orders to the chief of the Kurds. If the Basque was worried by the report the two fleeing Kurds had brought back he gave no sign. Possibly, thought N3, he thinks I'm dead. Or that I've had enough and am running for my life.

The agent smiled grimly. The Basque would know different in a few minutes now. He rested the barrel of the tommy gun on a rock and zeroed in on the approaches to the ford.

Half a dozen tribesmen spurred their mounts into the shallow stream and halted to let them drink. One of the Kurds dismounted and began to fill water bottles. Nick sighted carefully.

He let go a long searing burst, aiming at the Kurds, trying to miss the horses. He got four of the Kurds at the first burst. One horse went down kicking and squealing. The other two Kurds spurred frantically back to the bank. Nick let go another burst and brought them both out of their saddles. Six fewer to reckon with. He ceased fire and waited.

The caravan was in utter confusion. Camels bolted in every direction. Nick saw the Basque stop, stare at the little island, then rein his horse around and gallop for the rear of the caravan where the half-tracks and Land Rover had now halted. The Basque leaped off his horse and disappeared into the trailer. A moment later, as Nick watched with interest, the man came running out with a pair of field glasses in his hands. The two Chinese were with him. Together the three ran for the rock formations bordering the pass from which they had just come.

The chief of the Kurds went dashing back to the pass, carrying a long rifle. He spurred his horse in among the rocks and disappeared. Nick felt a moment of uneasiness. It was the first rifle he had seen, and it had looked like a modern weapon with a scope. Very like the weapon he had left with Mija.

Mija! Those six Kurds that had gone back? If only she had obeyed his orders and stayed in the cave for six hours! If so the Kurds would have searched the back trail without finding anything, then rejoined the caravan. She would be safe. And certainly she would hear the gun fire and take cover.

Nick saw the glint of sun on glass high in the rocks flanking the narrow pass. He forgot the girl. The Basque was up there, using the glasses, searching for him. The Basque, in time, would figure it out. Know that he was up against only one man — the hated AXE man who was turning out to be such a thorn!

The bullet scored a white gash on the rock six inches from Nick's head. He ducked away deeper into his little crevice. Damn! It hadn't taken the Basque long to locate him and open fire.

Whinggggggg —
the high velocity lead danced around the rocks in a crazy ricochet. Goddamn! Nick wriggled to his right, into the long morning shadow of a tamarisk tree.
Zinngggggg — whangggggg
— lead did a whanging rigadoon about him. Nick lay as still as the boulders. The Basque hadn't really spotted him yet, not to pin-point him. He knew where Nick was, but not exactly. It would take a very lucky shot to get the AXE man.

The rifle fire ceased. For the moment it appeared to be stalemate. But only for the moment. Nick parted some weeds and peered across the stream. The Kurds were galloping off to left and right, riding hard, shouting and bloodying their spurs. Nick watched as they rode well out of gun shot, then turned and plunged their mounts into the Kardu, which ran deeper there. They were swimming their horses over. They were going to flank him!

So the Basque was going to fight it out! Nick felt a moment of near admiration for his adversary. He wasn't running! He must know who, and what, was holding him up at the ford. One man. Four guns with a very sparse supply of ammo. And no sign of a patrol yet. It must seem like a fair gamble to the Basque.

Cautiously he picked up a long piece of dead tree branch which lay at his side. It was about ten feet long. He snaked it through the weeds and undergrowth to a tall clump of
saw
grass He poked with it until the grass swayed and moved back and forth.

Whingggggggggg
— a bullet tore through the grass and spattered on a rock. So that was it. They were going to keep him immobile while the tribesmen came in on the flanks and behind him. Good tactics. Too good!

When Nick had killed the first Kurd, amid the goats, he had taken the man's long curved dagger. Now he began to dig in the soft earth with the weapon. He would have time to carve only a shallow fox hole. He scooped as fast and frantically as he could. He dared not even raise himself with his elbows.

As he dug he could hear the moaning and complaining of camels again in the pass. N3 dug faster. If the Basque was thinking along the Same lines that Nick was — then those camels would be coming across the ford in a furious stampede!

Nick grinned. Even at this desperate moment he could summon a little wry humor. The scene was out of a thousand western movies! With camels for cows and Kurds for Indians! He might be Custer himself — Custer at the Little Big Horn! But he was damned if he wanted to end the way Custer had — there must be some way out of this!

A far off mosquito buzzing sounded overhead. Nick rolled over on his back and searched the blue arch. After a moment he spotted it in the west, a toy plane droning steadily toward them. As it drew near Nick saw that it was an LC 4, one of the old artillery spotting planes from World War II. It bore Syrian markings.

N3 wriggled into his shallow fox hole and watched the plane begin to circle. Suddenly, came a rattling fusillade of machine gun fire. The wild Kurds were whooping and firing in a frenzy of hate and excitement.

A stray slug or two must have nicked the little craft, because it began to climb sharply and veered away. A moment later it was buzzing back to the west. No doubt it was already in radio contact with the nearest patrol. That meant nothing to him at the moment — the nearest patrol might still be hours away!

Then time ran out and there was no more thinking — a band of the tribesmen charged from the Syrian bank, straight at the island. Nick ripped them with the tommy gun until the barrel scorched his hands. The charge broke and melted just as the gun ran out of ammo. Nick seized another gun and turned to meet the charge from his right flank. The Kurds were splashing down into the ford, urging their horses on with short fierce cries. Some fired at Nick, missing wildly, but most held their fire. He saw why and felt an instinctive cringing. Not cowardice, not the AXE man, but these Kurds were carrying long lances! He had never liked the thought of cold steel in his guts!

He let go a long scorching burst. Horses and men went down into the river, screaming and cursing. Still they came on.

N3 turned to meet a new charge on his left flank. Nick blessed their poor marksmanship and tried to disappear below ground level as he raked them fore and aft. He felt a slug twitch at his shoulder, another tugged at his knee. Slugs hit the rocks around him and whined in fierce banshee screaming rebounds. Nick fired and fired — the fight now one great indistinguishable moment of hell!

The remaining Kurds broke and spurred across to the Turkish side of the Kardu!

There was to be no respite. The camel stampede was coming straight at the ford, the frantic animals being beaten and driven by the angry Kurds. Nick caught a glimpse of the Basque. The man was driving the vehicle himself. Behind him came the other half track and the Land Rover with the trailer. The two Chinese were riding the Land Rover. On they came, all of them in a frantic rush. The camels, more than a hundred gaunt angry beasts, were pounding along with long strides, squealing and grunting and snapping at everything in sight with their long teeth.

They were going to smash him! Crush him and grind him and mangle him!

Nick reached down into the baggy Kurdish trousers and came up with his one remaining weapon. Tiny Tim! He twisted a dial on the lemon-sized bomb and drew his arm back and tossed it far and high into the oncoming stampede. Then N3 dove for his shallow hole and burrowed deep into it. He pressed his face against cool dirt and wondered if this was it? He had lived through one such blast — could he manage it again?

The ground rocked under him! There was a tremendous growing, incessant, blasting roar! Near him a boulder weighing thousands of pounds leaped into the air, hovered a moment, then crashed down within a foot of his head. The world let go a great sigh that became a rushing, gusting, blasting wind! All the cymbals in the world crashed in the AXE man's ears. A great hand picked him up and flung him hard against stones that seemed to melt. He felt scarlet darkness close in for a moment — then it was over. The blast had tossed him a good thirty feet into the waters of the Kardu.

Very slowly, N3 turned over. He drank deeply, he drank as though he had never seen water before and never would again. Finally he managed to stand up and survey the charnel scene around him.

Nothing moved. Nothing lived. Here were only bits and pieces of Death! Men and horses and camels were fused in one great horrible jig-saw puzzle of arms, legs, heads and snake-like pinkish entrails.

He saw that both half tracks were upended. The Land Rover was on its nose and burning. The trailer, oddly enough, appeared to have suffered little damage. His weapons! Maybe he could recover them!

As he got to his feet he noticed movement near the trailer. Someone else was alive!

It was the Basque! As Nick stared, hardly believing, the man staggered from the trailer. He was carrying something in a bag. Nick moved after the man as he went wobbling off toward the rocks around the mouth of the pass. He did not once look around, just trudged doggedly along, stumbling and falling, always getting up again, always holding tight to the bag he carried.

Money, thought Nick. Money! Even when they're half dead they'll try to salvage money!

N3 yelled at the Basque. An insane and most incautious thing, but at the moment he was so near insane himself that it did not seem to matter.

"Hey — Basque! Basque! Wait for me, you sonofabitch! I'm going to kill you!"

Nick went toward the Basque. He could walk a little straighter now, almost normally. Nick began to gain on him.

The Basque reached the foot of an overhanging cliff and suddenly collapsed. He lay prone, clutching the bag to him. He went to where the Basque lay. Nick reached with an unsteady foot and turned the man over. The Basque rolled over with a groan.

Half his face was burnt away. The remainder was a great black blister. Nick stared down at him. The bastard was still alive, somehow. He flexed his hands, felt strength returning to them. He would strangle the bastard with his bare hands! He would take care of the Basque once and for all!

The Basque opened his eyes. He stared up at Nick and recognition flickered in the piggy little orbs surrounded by raw flesh. He fought for breath, fought to speak. He made a little motion toward the bag beside him. "I... not my orders... I... they..." A long, long pause. Nick waited. What was the man trying to say, to tell him?

He pushed the bag toward Nick with a feeble motion. "You... you take! Bury. I not responsible for... my Kurds, wild men. I did not order... I..."

Nick's granite strength was flooding back now. He reached for the bag. As he pulled it from the Basque's grasp the neck of the bag opened and something rolled out. It came to rest at Nick's feet.