Nick Carter: The Death’s Head Conspiracy

The island of Mumura was like a tiny green jewel set in the deep blue velvet of the South Pacific. Tucked away in the corner of the Tuamotu Archipelago, Mumura was one of the few Polynesian islands not subjected to missionaries and civilization. The Mumuran people were still free in the fullest sense of the word. No one had put constricting shoes on their feet or covered the fine brown breasts of their women. Some five hundred of them in all, they were unaware of the paradise that was their island, for they had known nothing else.

Almost the entire population waited now on the golden beach as a motor launch sliced through the gentle breakers toward their shore. In the bow of this foreign craft stood Atu, tall and straight and unafraid of the speed of the craft or the roaring engine, as befitted a chief.

As the launch swerved to a standstill a few yards off shore the men ran down to their chief, while the women remained up on the beach laughing excitedly among themselves and cautioning the children not to get in the way.

Stepping from the boat, Atu took a large suitcase from a crewman and waded into the water, holding the case chest high to keep it dry. The launch roared to life and sped back toward the white yacht riding easily half a mile out.

Atu strode up the beach bearing the suitcase proudly before him. He laid it on a stone his ancesters had used as a sacrificial altar, but which was now used as a rostrum.

The Mumurans crowded around. The musical cadence of their language rose with excitement.

Atu raised his hand for silence, and at once the only sound to be heard was the sighing of the late afternoon breeze through the palms. The white-haired chieftan smiled upon his people affectionately, and bent to open the clasps of the suitcase the way the white men on the big boat had shown him.

He ran his hand over the glossy brown material of the suitcase. It was like nothing he had ever touched, and Atu caressed it with wonderment. Then, seeing the impatience of his people, he grasped the lid at the two corners and raised it.

He brought the treasures out one at a time, letting the people savor each one. A length of cloth, unbelieveably pliable, and splashed with spirals of colors unlike any flower in Polynesia. Necklaces strung with marvelous stones that caught the light of the sun and shattered it into a rainbow. Little oblong packages of paper-wrapped strips that were sweet to the taste. Atu slipped one into his mouth and chewed to demonstrate as the white men had showed him. He passed out the other strips, seeing that as many children as possible got them. The wonders continued to come from the suitcase. There were things that bounced, things that glittered, things that made sounds. Each new treasure brought a pleased murmer from the crowd.

This would surely be a day long remembered on Mumura.

Aboard the yacht, now steaming away from Mumura, two men stood at the rail watching the receding island through binoculars. One was heavy and bear-like, with a tangle of black hair that needed washing. The other was taller, and thin as a whip, with silver blond hair brushed straight back from a high, smooth forehead. Although the men wore civilian clothes, there was something military in the way they held themselves. Behind the taller man sat an enormous German shepherd and a muscular black Doberman pinscher glaring at the world with hatred.

Fyodor Gorodin, the heavier man, spoke. “Why don’t we get it over with, Anton? We must be far enough from the island by now.” His voice was a harsh growl that increased his resemblance to a bear.

The silver-haired man, Anton Zhizov, lowered his glasses and nodded slowly. His tiny dark eyes were hidden in deep sockets beneath straight black brows. “Yes, I think the time has come.”

Zhizov turned to a third man who paced the deck restlessly behind them. “What do you say, Wamow? Are you ready?”

Knox Warnow was a slight man with stooped narrow shoulders that made him seem even smaller than he was. He had the pale, unhealthy skin of a man who seldom went outdoors.

“Yes, yes, I’m ready,” Warnow snapped. “I’ve been ready for the past twenty minutes.”

“Undue haste can be very costly,” Zhizov said smoothly. It should make quite a pretty picture now in the rays of the setting sun.” He turned to a young man in the uniform of a seamean. “Boris, tell the captain to hold us steady, I want to get photographs.”

The young man braced at attention. “Yes, sir.” He started to move forward to the bridge, then hesitated. “Sir?”

“What is it, Boris?” Zhizov asked impatiently.

“The people on the island. Will they have had time to evacuate?”

“People? You mean those brown-skinned savages?”

“Y-yes, sir. They seemed quite, well, harmless.”

Gorodin whirled from the rail, muscles bunching in his huge shoulders. “What are you whimpering about, boy? You were given an order!”

Zhizov held up a manicured hand. “Boris is young, Fyodor. He retains a touch of humanitarianism, which is not always a bad thing.”

He turned to the young seaman. “If we are to attain our goals, Boris, it is necessary that some lives be sacrificed. As you know, conditions for all the peoples of the world will be much improved by the changes we will make, so these simple natives will have given their lives for the good of mankind. Do you understand, my boy?”

“Yes, sir,” Boris replied, though doubt still lurked in his eyes. He marched forward toward the bridge.

“I don’t know why you bother to explain things to that one,” Gorodin growled. “An order is to be obeyed instantly. That is the way you and I were taught”

“We must recognize that the times are changing,” Zhizov said. “We will need the bright young men like Boris when we are in power. It would be unwise to alienate him now.”

The pitch of the engines changed, and the yacht slowed. At the slight shift in equilibrium the two dogs braced their legs and snarled, confused by the unsteady footing. Zhizov snatched the end of their double leash from where it was looped over the rail and lashed both dogs across the muzzle. They cringed back against the cabin bulkhead, black lips drawn away from the strong white teeth in soundless snarls.

“I don’t know why those dogs don’t tear you apart, the way you treat them,” Gorodin said.

Zhizov gave a short, barking laugh. “Fear is the only thing these beasts understand. They would kill for me on command, because they know I have the power to kill them. You should learn more of psychology, Fyodor. With a young man like Boris, one must be patient. With these pretty devils, only cruelty works.” Once again he lashed the leather cord across the faces of the dogs. They made no sound.

“If you’re through playing with your pets,” Warnow said with heavy sarcasm, “I will get on with the demonstration.”

“By all means. Let us see if all the time and money we have invested in you will pay dividends.”

Warnow dug a hand in his pocket and pulled out a black leather case. From this he took a thin cylinder of metal, six inches long and tapered to a point at one end. “This is the electronic stylus,” he explained. “With this I manipulate the triggering mechanism, an intricate series of adjustments that only I know”

“Do we need all this talk?” Gorodin complained. “Let’s see the action.”

“Be patient, Fyodor,” Zhizov said. “This is Mr. War-Bow’s big moment We must let him enjoy it to the fullest After all, if his project should fail, what remains of his life will be most unpleasant” “It won’t fail,” Warnow said quickly. “You must remember that this is one of my less destructive devices. Still, it will be more than adequate for an island the size of Mumura.” Holding the electronic stylus in one hand, he began to unbutton his shirt. “The beauty of it is that even competent customs inspectors would never have found a bomb in that suitcase, because there is no bomb there.”