Blue Gold

Chapter 32

Paul Trout lay in his hospital bed with his chest and nose wrapped in bandages, cursing him self repeatedly for not being more alert to danger. When he and Gamay were dodging the arrows of headhunters their survival instincts were at their sharpest. But their return to the so-called civilized world had dulled their senses. They had no idea that the eyes watching from the van parked outside their Georgetown townhouse were far more savage than any they had encountered in the jungle.

The letters painted on the van's doors, identifying it as be longing to the District of Columbia department of public works, were still tacky to the touch. Inside the vehicle was the latest in communications and electronic snooping equipment. Bent over the TV monitors and speakers that probed the brick walls of the house were the Kradzik brothers. Watching and waiting did not come easily to the twins. In Bosnia they used a brutally simple routine. They picked their target of choice. Then they and a couple of truckloads of paramilitary troops pulled up to the house in the dead of night, bashed the door in, and dragged the terrified occupants from their beds. The men were taken away and shot, the women raped and murdered, the house systematically looted.

Getting into the Trouts' townhouse presented a different problem. The house was on a back street, but it was well traveled with pedestrians and car traffic. The street had been even busier than usual since the Trouts returned. The discovery of a white goddess by two NUMA scientists and their dramatic escape from bloodthirsty savages was the stuff of an adventure movie. After CNN released the story a number of journalists had tracked down the Trouts. Enterprising reporters and photographers from the Washington Post, the New York Times, the national television networks, and a handful of disreputable supermarket tabloids had gathered outside their door.

Gamay and Paul took turns politely telling them that they were trying to catch up on their rest and would answer all questions at a press conference to be given the next day at NUMA headquarters. They referred inquiries to the NUMA press section. The photographers took pictures of the house, and the TV people gave reports with its facade as a backdrop. Eventually the river of attention dribbled to nothing. The same news coverage that had fascinated people around the world drew interest from more malignant sources.

Paul was in his second-floor office typing a summary of their experiences into a report for NUMA. In the downstairs study Francesca and Gamay discussed how to put the desalting project back on track as quickly as possible. After Francesca announced that she had delayed her return to Sao Paulo the Trouts had offered her a haven from the hordes of media attention. When the doorbell rang Gamay sighed heavily. It was her turn to answer the summons from the fourth estate. The TV crews were the most persistent, and as Gamay expected she was greeted at the door by a reporter with note book in hand and a cameraman with his Steadicam balanced on a shoulder. A third man carried a flood lamp and a metal suitcase.

Gamay resisted her first urge, which was to tell these characters to buzz off. Instead she forced a smile and said, "You evidently haven't heard about the press conference tomorrow morning."

"Excuse please," said the reporter. "No one tell us about conference."

That's funny, Gamay thought. The public affairs people at NUMA were well plugged into the press scene. They were well respected by reporters for being up front with the amazing stories that came out of NUMA. This guy in the ill-fitting suit was nothing like any of the coiffed pretty boys who read the news. He was short and stocky, his hair cut down to the scalp. Al though he was grinning, his face was feral and thuggish. Besides, since when had the networks been hiring news readers with thick eastern European accents? She looked past him, expecting to see a TV truck with disk antennas sprouting from the roof, but saw only a city work van.

"Sorry," she said, and went to close the door.

The grin disappeared, and he shoved his foot in. Startled at first by the move, Gamay quickly recovered from her surprise. She put her weight against the door until the man winced with pain. She drew her elbow back, preparing to stiff-arm the intruder in the face with the palm of her hand, but the other two men lunged forward and threw their shoulders against the door. She was knocked aside and went down on one knee. She quickly regained her footing. By then it was too late to run or fight. She was looking down the barrel of a pistol in the hand of the so-called reporter. The cameraman had put his video gear aside. He came over and grabbed her by the neck until she could barely breathe. Then he slammed her up against the wall so hard that a nineteenth-century gilded mirror crashed to the floor.

Anger surged in Gamay's breast. The mirror had cost weeks of hunting and thousands of dollars. She put her fear aside and brought her knee up into the man's crotch. The grip on her throat loosened for a second before he came at her again with a killer's gleam in his eyes. She braced herself, but the reporter yelled something and the attacker retreated. He drew his finger across his Adam's apple in an unmistakable gesture. Gamay glared at him, which was all she could do, but the significance of his sign language was not lost on her. She knew instinctively that he'd slit her throat in an instant.

Her instincts were right on the mark. Although the Kradziks preferred to work on their own, from time to time they needed help from some old compatriots. When Brynhild Sigurd had eased the exit of the Kradzik brothers from Bosnia, they had insisted that she do the same for ten of the most loyal and cold-blooded of their followers. Together they called themselves the Dirty Dozen, after the American movie of the same name. But this group made the movie misfits look like Cub Scouts. Collectively they had been responsible for the death, maiming, torture, and rape of hundreds of innocent victims. The men were scattered around the world, but could be assigned to an assassination or called in for an operation within hours. Since going to work for Gogstad they had approached their work with unbridled enthusiasm.

Francesca had heard the mirror crash and come from the study into the narrow front hall. The man in the suit barked a command, and before Francesca could make a move she was seized and shoved against the wall next to Gamay. The man who had been carrying the suitcase popped it open and drew out two Czech-made Skorpion machine pistols. The phony reporter opened the front door, and a moment later another man stepped inside. Gamay's first thought was that he looked like an over grown troll. Although the day was warm he wore a long black leather jacket over a black turtleneck and slacks and a black military-style cap on his head.

He surveyed the situation and said something to the others that must have pleased them because they leered in response. Gamay had been around the world for her work, and she guessed that the language he spoke was Serbo-Croatian. He barked an order, and one of the men armed with a Skorpion moved down the hallway, the folding wire butt tight against his biceps. The man peered cautiously into the rooms leading off the hallway, which went to the back of the house, then continued on. His comrade climbed the stairs that led from the first level to the second floor.

The leather-clad man walked over to the mirror, surveyed the broken glass, then turned to Gamay.

"Seven years bad luck," he said with a grin that looked as if it had been forged in a foundry.

"Who are you?" Gamay said.

He ignored the question. "Where is husband?"

Gamay truthfully told the leather man that she didn't know where her husband was. He nodded, as if he knew something she didn't, and spun her around to face the wall. She expected a blow to the head or a bullet to the back. Instead there was a sharp bee-sting in her right arm. A needle. Bastards! They had jabbed her with a hypodermic. She looked over in time to see the syringe plunge into Francesca's arm. She tried to go to the aid of the other woman, but her arm went dead. Within seconds the numbness spread to the rest of her body. The room whirled, and she felt as if she were hurtling into an abyss.

Paul heard the mirror crash to the floor and from the top of the stairs saw the man throttle Gamay. He was about to spring from the staircase when the creep in the leather coat came in. Paul went back into his office and tried to call for help. The phone was dead. The lines must have been cut. He crept silently down a narrow back stairway to the kitchen. He kept a revolver in the study, but the only way to get to it was along the hallway. He saw the two armed men split off, one heading upstairs, the other coming his way, and ducked back into the kitchen.

He looked around for a weapon. Knives were obvious, but they were messy and wouldn't stand a chance against the ma chine pistol. Even if he got the upper hand the others would come running to finish him off at the slightest noise. He needed someplace where he could dispatch the man with a minimum of racket. The last time he and Gamay remodeled the house they had sunk a year's salary into the kitchen. All new oak cabinets had been installed along with a restaurant type stove. The biggest change was a walk-in cooler whose ceiling was high enough for Paul to go inside without bumping his head.

Seeing no alternative, he slipped into the cooler and left the door ajar about six inches. He unscrewed the light bulb, placed it just inside the door, and plastered himself into the recess next to the heavy door. Just in time. Through the frosted glass he saw the man come into the kitchen, his gun ready. He stopped and looked around, and the open door caught his attention. He approached it warily, pushed it open with his elbow, and stepped inside. The toe of his shoe sent the bulb skittering noisily across the wooden floor. The gun barrel swung around, and his finger tightened on the trigger. Then the roof fell in on his head. His knees buckled, and he crashed to the floor.

Trout put down the frozen smoked Virginia ham he had used as a club. He grabbed the machine pistol and stepped out into the kitchen, well aware that he and the women weren't home free. First he checked the stairs that led from the kitchen to the second floor. He could hear the other man moving around up stairs. He'd deal with that after he made sure Gamay and Francesca were safe. He slowly eased himself into the hallway. The machine pistol only gave him limited leverage. He didn't want to catch the women in the pistol's scattershot spray.

As he stepped into the hall he saw the other men bending over the prone figures of his wife and Francesca. He brushed caution aside and moved forward, so intent on the scene that he never saw the man come up behind him.

He felt the cold steel of a knife between his ribs and tried to turn to face his attacker only to have his legs turned to scram bled eggs. He fell to the floor, smashing his face on the rug and breaking his nose.

Melo had been covering the back door for a possible escape when he saw Trout emerge from the cooler. Seeing blood pool around Paul's body, he stepped over him and went over to pat his brother on the back.

"Your suggestion to cover the rear was a good one, brother."

"It seems so," the other twin said, looking at the sprawled figure. "What should we do with him?"

"Leave him to bleed to death."

"Agreed. We can take the women out the back way without being seen."

He called to the man upstairs to come back down. Then they carried the unconscious women to a waiting Mercedes four wheel drive, stuffed them in the back, and drove off, followed a few minutes later by the fake DPW truck. The initial shock of the knife wound had turned to pain, and Paul regained consciousness for a few moments. Using every bit of strength at his command he dragged himself to the study, where he had a cell phone, and called 91 1. He awoke in a hospital bed.

His cursing wore him out, and he fell asleep again. When he awoke he was aware someone else was in the room. Through gluey eyes he saw two figures standing by his bed. He grinned feebly.

"What took you so damned long?"

"We hitchhiked with a couple of fighter planes out of Elendorf and came east as fast as we could," Austin said. "How do you feel?"

"The right half of my body isn't so bad, but the left feels as if it's being pinched by red-hot pliers. And my nose doesn't feel great."

"The knife missed your lung by this much," Austin said, pinching his thumb and forefinger. "It will take a while for the muscle to heal. Good thing you're not a southpaw."

"Figured it was something like that. Any word on Gamay or Francesca?" he said apprehensively.

"We think they're still alive, but they were kidnapped by the goons who did this to you."

"The police have checked airports and stations, the usual stuff," Zavala said. "We're going to start our own search."

The pain in Paul's blue eyes was replaced by a look of steely determination. He swung his long legs out of the bed and said, "I'm coming with you." The painful effort made him dizzy, and he stopped as his stomach roiled for a few seconds. He jiggled the IV tube. "I may need a hand here, fellas. Don't try to talk me out of this," he said, catching Austin's concerned expression.

"The best thing you can do is spring me from the joint. Hope you've got some pull with the floor nurse."

Austin knew Paul well enough to realize he would drag himself from the hospital if he had to. Austin glanced at Zavala, who was smiling, and knew he'd get no help from that quarter.

"I'll see what I can do." He shrugged. "In the meantime, Joe, maybe you can get our friend here something more modest than that hospital johnny," he said. Then he turned and headed for the nurses' station.