Гарри Гаррисон - The QE2 Is Missing

“You felt that, didn’t you, Sergeant? The kneecap, all injuries there are particularly painful. And you have another kneecap, don’t you, Sergeant? And many other delicate parts of your body. Perhaps I shall cut your balls off, take away your manhood. Would you like that? Think of all the places where I can hurt you and, believe me, I shall. Perhaps, yet, the other kneecap next. I shall not kill you, not for a long time, and then perhaps only if you beg me for death because the pain will be so great. Now answer my questions, do not delay.”

Pradera looked up at Wielgus, his face expressionless again. But his lower lip was between his teeth and a slow trickle of blood ran down over his chin.

As the two Tupamaros were maneuvering the heavy sack through the door of Hank’s suite, the room steward, Robert appeared behind them.

“What’s happening here? I’m sorry, this is very extraordinary…. “ His words were cut off as Concepcion came up and jabbed her gun into his kidneys, forcing him into the suite behind the others, then closing the door. Robert could only gape around at the armed men. It was Uzi who took in the situation and acted fast; pointing his gun at Hank.

“Who is this man? Do you know him?”

Hank picked up the cue. “He’s the room steward — don’t harm him.”

“That’s up to you, Mr. Greenstein.” He waved Robert forward with his gun. “We have taken over this suite. You are a prisoner, the same as Mr. and Mrs. Greenstein. If you do what you are told you will not be hurt, nor will they. Into the bedroom.”

Like Hank, Frances had been woken by the tumult in the adjoining room. She was tired, it was just dawn, but she knew that more sleep would be impossible. She was dressed and sitting on the edge of the bed when Uzi opened the door and pushed Hank and Robert in before him, waving a pistol.

“If you do exactly as I say you will not be hurt. Lock this steward in the toilet. Your husband’s life will be controlled by his good behavior, as well as your own. You will keep absolutely silent.” He bent and tore the telephone from the wall and threw it the length of the room, then forced the trembling Robert into the bathroom and closed the door.

“Thanks, Uzi,” Hank whispered. Uzi nodded and put the gun away.

“Jesus!” Frances said. “What a way to start the day.” She dropped down on the edge of the bed. Uzi spoke loudly.

“Your husband will be with us, Mrs. Greenstein. Be careful.”

“Yes, sure. Does anyone mind if I lie down and close my eyes and make believe I’m asleep? I really can’t believe that all this is happening.”

The sitting room was turning into an armed camp. Ammunition boxes had been broken open and clips distributed, while the sack had been dumped on the floor and a bulky object was being dragged out of it. It had two tanks, a harness of some kind, and a hose leading to a gunlike nozzle. One of the Tupamaros lifted it and held it up so Josep could slip his arms through the straps.

“A flame-thrower!”

Hank gasped the words aloud and Josep glared in his direction.

“I want silence now. You will all listen to me. We are going to take those Germans now before they find out any more about our plans or discover that we are listening to them. Do you understand? If we do it right we won’t get hurt and we’ll have fought the last action. We have the diamonds, right here in this bag.” He pushed the bag in Hank’s direction. “Watch these until we get back. Don’t do anything foolish.”

“I’ll try not to,” Hank said dryly. “They’ll be here when you get back.”

“They had better be.” He turned back to the others and in that instant’s silence the murmur of voices in the adjoining suite, relayed by the eavesdropping circuitry, could be distinctly heard. Also, loudly and clearly, a single shot. Diaz had been bent over, listening, and he straightened up. His face was drawn and pale.

“Sergeant Pradera. They shot him in the other knee.”

“We have no time to waste,” Josep said. “There are six of us. That’s all we can spare from guard duty. It will be enough. They have about the same number of people. But they will not be expecting this attack. Because of the storm we cannot go in through the window from the verandah. Anyone who tried that would be swept away. Therefore, we have to take them through the single door. It can be done. Fortune was on our side when we found this flame-thrower during the Mexican raid. Now we can turn it to good use. Here is what we will do.” He raised the black muzzle of the weapon.

“I’ll be on the floor outside the door — with this ready. Concepcion and Esteban will stand against the wall to the left. She will shoot the lock away, he will kick the door open. I will then put in a two-second burst. Aimed up and to the left. We have determined that Sergeant Pradera is tied to a chair on the right-hand side of the room. He has bought us time. We must spare him if we can.”

“When I turn off the flame you will all go in over me. Shoot anything that moves. If you are close enough to knock them down or knife them, fine. We need prisoners, but more important — we need to win. Do you all know what you have to do? Any questions?”

“Just one,” Uzi said. “Are you familiar with that weapon?”

“Very much so. I put in hours with it in the hills after we captured it. Beautiful. I’ll roast those Germans like the pigs they are. We go.”

They moved out efficiently and silently, spreading down the corridor. “Lights,” Josep whispered. They moved quickly and pulled loose the fluorescent tube, unscrewed the light bulbs. Now, the only light was the glow from the open door of Hank’s suite. Josep eased himself down on the deck in front of the adjoining suite while his men took their positions. He waved to Hank, who closed the door.

In the darkness of the corridor there was only expectant silence.

“NOW!” Josep shouted.

The submachine gun hammered echo to his command, the muzzle flare crackling like lightning. A boot slammed out and the door swung open.

Sight of turned, shocked faces, men….

Gone in an instant behind a wave of rolling flame, a roaring violence that died away almost as soon as it had begun. In the silence that followed, a man’s shrill screaming was heard. Drowned out by the shots that followed as the attackers stormed in.

Through a cloud of water as the automatic sprinklers came on, activated by the flame.

It was a battle in hell. Clouds of sickening smoke poured out from the charred walls and carpeting, to be beaten down by the spray. Figures stumbled through it and there was the sharp crackle of gunfire.

Uzi was the last one in, stumbling over Josep, who had wiggled free of the flame-thrower and was trying to stand. Uzi shoved him aside, and pushed his way along the wall. There, just before him, was Wielgus, firing his pistol over and over. Uzi did not shoot, but instead hurled his own gun at the man, catching him on the jaw and sending him staggering backwards. Before he could right himself Uzi was upon him, chopping at his wrist, seizing the gun, burying his fist deep in the roll of fat over his solar plexus. Wielgus dropped, falling over Sergeant Pradera who was lying sideways on the floor, still tied to his chair. He had hurled it over when the shooting had started.

“What kept you?” the Sergeant said.

The brief battle was over. Above their heads the sprays of water died away to a trickle, then stopped. Most of the lights were out and someone opened the drapes. Gray light of dawn filtered in on the carnage.

“We have them,” Josep said happily.

Diaz looked around at the carnage, the charred flesh of the man next to the door, then turned and threw up.

They had indeed won. At a bitter price to both sides. Admiral Marquez was dead, a bullet through his face.