Operation Flashpoint Read online

  The volume of the beeping tone had leveled off. “He’s pushing it, too,” Erikson said gloomily. “And we’re getting close. I’ll have to call the tower and stop all outgoing flights while we look for Bayak in the terminal. The hell of it is that he’ll have a chance to make some other disposition of the AEC package the second he suspects anything is wrong.”

  “Why didn’t the package go up when the grenade went off?” I asked.

  “It takes heat,” Erikson explained. “Tremendous heat at close range. A simple explosion won’t do it.”

  “Lucky me,” I said.

  I could see dawn breaking in the eastern sky. A gray world was emerging from the blackness. We were on a six-lane highway, but I didn’t know where. The majority of the traffic lights were still on early-morning blinking-yellow patterns. Those that were on red Erikson ran as if they were green. Each time I tensed in the front seat beside him, expecting the crash that somehow didn’t come.

  A huge gray mass drifted past on our right. We were past it when it occurred to me that it must be Shea Stadium. We were almost at Kennedy, and there was still no sign of Bayak although the volume of the beeper pings had again increased substantially.

  “How many with Bayak?” I raised my voice above the electronic sound.

  “He’s alone,” Erikson replied, swerving around a cab and cutting it off sharply. I turned my head in time to see the driver roll down his window and yell something after us. “He can’t be more than a couple of hundred yards ahead of us from the sound of that thing, but we’re running out of time.”

  He edged over to the right lane as a sign said KENNEDY INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT with a pointing arrow. We were still doing seventy when we hit the turnoff. We passed another car that I looked over closely, but it was the wrong type and color. Our tires squealed wildly as Erikson alternately hit the gas and the brakes on the curves.

  A dark-colored sedan appeared ahead of us as the passenger car and taxicab access road widened to a broad area in front of the loading and unloading platform. “There he is!” I exclaimed as I saw the bulbous outline of Bayak’s head. A slow-moving bus threatened to separate us from the sedan, but Erikson hit the horn, bullied his way with inches to spare between bus and sedan, and curbed the sedan a hundred yards short of the terminal entrance amidst a shrieking wail of blended fenders.

  I stared across four feet of space into the pasty, strained features of Iskir Bayak. The doors on my side of the car and Bayak’s side were jammed together. The fat man clawed his way across the front seat of his car to the other door which he opened. Beside me Erikson bounded out of our car. The Turk straightened up on the sidewalk as Erikson started around the car after him. When he saw Erikson so close, Bayak, with a roundhouse swing of his arms like a two-handed discus throw, sailed a gray miniature casket-shaped object out into the thickening crush of cars and cabs where it bounced, rolled, and slid.

  “Get the package!” Erikson yelled as I slid across the seat to get out on the driver’s side. “Get the package!”

  I hit the macadam, gun in hand. Erikson was already halfway to the casket-shaped object, dodging traffic. I started after Bayak who was waddling rapidly toward the entrance, his obesity in jellylike motion in his haste. The Turk turned at the sound of my running footsteps, and he had a small derringer in his right hand. I shot him in the wrist, and he howled as the gun clattered to the sidewalk.

  “Money—in car!” he panted, wringing his bleeding wrist as I confronted him. “All—yours!”

  I shot him in the throat twice.

  He went over backward and literally bounced when he landed. His eyes were more froglike than ever in their bulging as his groping hands tried frantically to shut off the blood spurting from his torn-out throat. Never again would Iskir Bayak condone the knife-torture of a girl. No doctor could put this Humpty Dumpty together again, but he’d linger long enough in the going not to enjoy the passage.

  Erikson thundered up alongside me, the casket under one arm. “Goddamnit, Earl, I wanted him alive!” he rasped at me. “Talk about an international incident!”

  “You said it yourself,” I told him. “Once inside the terminal and claiming diplomatic immunity, he’d have walked aboard his plane thumbing his nose at us.”

  “Get out of here!” Erikson ordered. “Get lost, fast! Meet me at my office in two hours. Beat it before the terminal police arrive.”

  I took a final look at Iskir Bayak writhing at my feet, dropped the.38 into my jacket pocket, and walked the fifty yards to the cab stand just beyond the terminal entrance. A group of bus drivers and cabbies were standing beside their vehicles looking along the sidewalk toward Erikson and the recumbent Bayak. I opened the door of the first cab in line and got into the back seat.

  The driver leaned down to look in at me through the open window. “What’s with the guy on the ground, Jack?” he asked.

  “Stepped off the sidewalk into a car,” I said.

  “Oh. We thought we heard shots but it must’ve been backfires.” He walked around the cab and got under the wheel. “Where to?”

  I gave him the number of the Turk’s apartment building.

  I had a little unfinished business in Bayak’s penthouse.

  Sunlight was bathing the tops of the skyscrapers when we reached midtown Manhattan. We passed Talia’s apartment building two blocks from the Turk’s. I wondered how she was making out at the clinic. Even in the short run her prognosis was probably no better than Bayak’s.

  I handed the cabbie a five-dollar bill in front of the Turk’s apartment building and walked into the ornate lobby. At first I thought it was empty as I headed for the penthouse elevator on whose bronze doors I could see two bright-red wax seals with trailing ribbons. “Hey!” a voice said from behind me. “You can’t go up there! The government closed it up!”

  I turned to see the same uniformed doorman. When he recognized me, his eyes rolled upward in a “here we go again” routine. I took out my.38 and with its butt smashed the wax of the seals. “Get aboard,” I told the doorman. As before, I couldn’t leave him behind to sound an alarm.

  We rode up in the elevator. He had nothing to say but I could hear him breathing. “Sit,” I told him in the black-and-white foyer, pointing to a chair after I removed the elevator’s fuse from the box. He sat, and I descended the stairs to the sunken living room and entered the liquor storage closet.

  It took me five minutes to sort and stack the loose bills I’d pulled through the hole in the side of the safe with the medical forceps and stuffed behind the wine rack. There was nothing smaller than fifties in the collection, and the total came to a tidy $193,000 including Hazel’s $75,000.

  I left the closet and ransacked the Turk’s mahogany desk. I found a book of address labels and a roll of stamps which I appropriated. In the butler’s pantry I scrounged heavy wrapping paper, twine, and cardboard stiffener. Back in the closet, I fashioned a snugly wrapped package of the money after setting aside one thousand dollars in fifty-dollar bills. I tied the package securely, using double knots and affixed an address label after making it out to Mrs. Hazel Andrews, Rancho Dolorosa, Ely, Nevada. Last of all I stuck two dollars worth of stamps to the package.

  I climbed the steps to the foyer, with the package under my arm. “Forget what I looked like and get rid of this before they ask you what happened to the seals,” I told the doorman, handing him the thousand in fifties. His eyes widened at the feel of the crisp bills.

  I replaced the fuse and we descended to the lobby. I had to wait while a man and woman passed through it, and then I walked through the heavy glass doors out onto the sidewalk. I had to walk five blocks before I found a mailbox with a wide enough opening to accept the wrapped package. It hit the bottom of the box with a satisfying thump.

  I looked at my watch.

  I had twenty-five minutes to have breakfast before I was due at Erikson’s office.

  Erikson would know what happened to the seals when he heard about it.

  On that
count and several others I was due to get plenty of jawbone from Karl Erikson, but for once I didn’t care.

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  Copyright © 1970 by Fawcett Publications, Inc.

  Copyright Registration Renewed © 1998 by Robert Ragan

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  This is a work of fiction.

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  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-4117-9

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