Джон Болл - The First Team

There was only one door to the room where his men were gathered, waiting as he had been himself for something to happen. Carlo could not see as it was burst open and two alert men charged in. He heard the shots that were fired and from their sound and number reconstructed what was taking place; his men were good and not enough challengers could get through the doorway to prevent some of his people from opening fire. That meant casualties on both sides, and possible confusion. He watched with concealed intensity for the first hint of diverted attention on the part of the two men who had him in possession, but their eyes did not move from him and their pace did not change.

In the rear yard of the building he and his men had been occupying Carlo felt thg texture of the soil underneath his feet and appraised the strength and exact angle of the sunlight. He hoped that there would be enough brilliance to cause the men who had captured him to react to it, but if they did, they did not show it. He was backed against the wall and then his opponents stood one on each side of him, well away and where they could watch him directly while he would have to view them at an angle.

Things were not looking too good.

Then others began to come out of the building, men of the opposing team and his own men, for the moment overpowered and two of them visibly bleeding. One of the attackers had been shot in the arm, but he appeared to be ignoring that. It was his left arm, which meant that the procedure had been correct, but the aim too hasty.

There were nine men in the attacking team; himself and twelve of those assigned to him opposed. The morale of his own men was bad; they were confused and not as alert as he was. But there were enough of them to provide confusing targets, and he still had three potent weapons concealed on his body.

The man with the wounded arm was the leader of the attackers. With a single gesture, he signaled that the seized men were to be lined up against the wall, on the opposite side of the doorway from Carlo himself. They were turned face inward, forced to spread their feet, and to lean forward until they depended for their balance on their hands resting against the brickwork. In that position they were expertly searched; Carlo turned his head and watched in the hope that his own captors would do the same, but the maneuver was not successful. He saw his men disarmed and sensed what was about to happen. He had no plan yet, but his racing brain was still weighing every possible factor, seeking, searching for the slightest opportunity.

When his men were all disarmed, they were turned and inspected, one at a time. One man from the capturing team looked into their faces and motioned three of them aside. Then Carlo knew: two of his men had been replaced since the day that he had disposed of the student underground cell; the three who had just been picked out had not been with him on that small operation. This was the revenge squad, not purely for that, of course, but to reply to Colonel Rostovitch. He, Carlo, was to be sacrificed to make good a simple power play. The futility of it hit him and for a bare instant his alertness was clouded.

He had himself back in hand almost instantly — that was the kind of mistake he was waiting for his captors to make. He could not afford to relax for the tiniest fraction of a second or he would pay with his life for a lost opportunity.

Then he heard the first words that had been spoken since he had been surprised in his office three minutes before. In his own language, or in one which he spoke fluently, he heard the death sentence pronounced. “This is for the students you killed. You will now die exactly as they did.”

He saw the fright on the faces of his men, the despair, and the dull acceptance of the inevitable. Then the guns began to speak. The first of his men screamed and hit the ground. The scream had been training, but it did not for a moment divert the attention of the men who held their guns trained on him. Time was growing short now and he would have to make his move within the next several seconds.

Six of his men died before he could think of a thing; he knew that no bluff, no fake would work with his captors — they were not amateurs.

The seventh man dropped, his face a sudden mask of blood. Damning sweat broke out on Carlo’s brow.

The eighth man died with his face twisted in agony and hate. The ninth was his best torturer, who preferred to vary the manner of his killings. As Carlo watched he was seized by the arms and held hard against the wall. Then the leader of the attacking team drew his own pistol, turned it around, and measured the butt end against the man’s skull. Carlo did not care how his men died, but that showed that these men had unexpectedly good intelligence, for that was exactly how his man had chosen to kill the student turned over to him. The gun rose, the arm that held it was cocked back, then it crashed down with concentrated power. The man’s head did not crack with the first blow and the movement had to be repeated. When the execution was over, only Carlo himself was left.

And then his concentration broke. The ability to maintain a razor edge in the face of every desperate emergency had saved him time and again, but he suddenly could not stand the sight of death. He turned to face the men who held him at gunpoint and knew that his own weakness was in his eyes. For fear was beginning to build inside him, sickening, debilitating fear he could not control.

Sweat stood out on his forehead, and his lips began to move. He had killed so many times himself he knew every aspect of men facing sudden violent death and he found them all within himself. His brain, his expertly trained reflexes, betrayed him, fear took command of him.

“And now you.” He heard the words and he opened his mouth to protest. But it was dry and his tongue would not move. In one last, frenzied effort to regain control of himself he snapped his arm inside his coat to get his own weapon, but he was too late. He felt the bullets as they tattooed his abdomen, but the pain was nothing beside the fear that seized him, and in the grip of that fear he died.

Colonel Gregor Rostovitch received the news with a cold and tight-lipped understanding. The death of the man Carlo he had expected for some time; the rest of those who had been killed were of no special importance. What did matter was that he had been challenged on a face-to-face basis, that was the message and there was no mistaking it. It was also, remotely, a threat to his own person, and he understood that too. The world was full of people who wanted to see him dead and he did not care. But he had been challenged and that he knew would be to a finish. The high diver, and those who were associated with him, had asked for what they were about to receive.

His mind was clear as he planned his response. The people against him had tried terror, knowing that he was probably the greatest expert in the use of terror anywhere on the international scene. And behind him he had awesome military power. Against him he had a so far unseen foe, which made the game more interesting. Also against him he had the clock and the calendar. The conquest of America had been perhaps one of the greatest coups in history, but it had unexpectedly also proven to be one of the most costly. The government he had left behind him was growing increasingly unstable and uncertain; unless he could return home as the new premier within a fairly short time, there could be very serious consequences. The Actor had about run his course and, wily as he was, his performance was beginning to pale. Gregor Rostovitch knew that he badly needed a personal triumph of his own to build his stature up to an apex. Now he had been presented with the opportunity to achieve one, which accounted for the fact that he was not enraged in the least. Instead he began to lay his plans with the gfim satisfaction of a gladiator who knows that no man living can stand up to him and that another contest for him will mean another sure kill.