Warren Murphy - Coin of the Realm

I meant how we're going to do it, not if," Dirk Edwards said. "You got us into this fool operation."

"I hired you. I gave you all my money."

"Your mistake. Besides, we aren't in this for the money. We're soldiers. We have a soldier's pride. How the fuck do you think this operation will look written up in the pages of Soldier of Fortune?"

"Not so hot if it comes out that you murdered your employer," Shane pointed out.

"Exactly. Not to mention all the screwing around these islands we've done. Gus, find something we can use as a plank. "

"Plank?" Shane said blankly.

"Yeah, it's traditional during mutinies to make the captain walk the plank. And I'm a traditional kind of guy."

"I don't think you guys are considering the karmic repercussions of this."

"You're right. We're not."

"Look, I can pay you more money. Just don't kill me."

"We got all your money. You just said so."

"Then I'll cut you in on the treasure. Did I tell you guys about the treasure? Half for me, half for you guys to split up."

"We don't need you to find any treasure."

"Sure you do. Only I know what the girl looks like. And the two with her."

"A white guy and a gook in a party dress. How many of them can there be in the South Pacific?"

"You never know. Synchronicity is one of the great misunderstood forces of the cosmos."

"So are sharks. Hey, somebody see if there's any red meat left. Throw it in the water. It'll be more fun if we toss him into a mess of man-eaters."

"No, not that. Anything but that."

"No, not that," Dirk Edwards mimicked. "Anything but that. You sound like a pansy. I hate pansies. I gotta kill you for that reason alone."

"And for the cheese," someone joined in.

"Yeah. For the damned cheese. I should never have signed on without checking you out more carefully."

"There's no more meat," a voice called up from below.

"Damn. I guess it's back to the cheese."

Shane Billiken resumed kicking wildly. "No, no, no!" he screamed.

"Hey, shut up! Shut him up." It was Gus. His voice was excited.

Dirk Edwards dropped into a crouch and clamped a dirty hand over Billiken's wide mouth. "What is it?" he hissed.

"I see an island."

"Steer clear of it. The Hawaiian authorities probably have the whole South Pacific on the lookout for us."

"Maybe. But not this island."

"Say again?"

"There's a junk lying at anchor on this side."

Dirk Edwards replaced his hand with a boot and stood up. Shane Billiken tried to shake the boot out of his mouth, but that only made the boot press down harder. He stopped struggling.

"Yeah, yeah," Dirk said, his voice rising.

Shane Billiken felt the boot go away and two hands yank him to his feet.

"That the junk?" Edwards demanded, pointing.

Shane Billiken said, "Yes!" He would have said yes if he had been asked if Peking was the capital of Alaska.

"Change in plans," Dirk said. "We ain't going to kill you. But you gotta do everything we say from now on."

"Done," said Shane Billiken. "Thank you."

"We ain't doing this for you. We can't kill you without noise and I ain't blowing our chance to salvage something from this miserable operation."

"Whatever works," said Shane Billiken gratefully.

"Okay. Pull down the sails. Cut the engines. Douse the lights. And everybody listen up. You too, Billiken. You play your hand right and we'll cut you in for a piece of the treasure."

"Half?"

Stone faces stared at him. "A quarter?"

"Aww, Dirk, why don't we just strangle him and get it over with?" Gus drawled.

"We need every hand. Provided we get cooperation."

"Ten percent!" Shane called out. "Ten percent works for me."

"You get five-if you pull your weight."

And Shane Billiken found his hands being untied and an M-16 placed into his trembling fingers. This was his last chance and he knew it. He promised to pull his weight from now on. He used his most convincing voice. Anything to avoid the sharks. Shane knew everything there was to know about sharks. He had seen every jaws film. Talk about unevolved.

Chapter 36

Michael P. Brunt's voice was jaunty over the long-distance line.

"Brunt the Grunt," he said. "You point and I do."

"This is Brown," Harold Smith said. "Have you completed your assignment?"

"Mission accomplished."

"You have recovered the tea service?" Smith asked blankly.

"What if I said yes?" Brunt asked. Smith could hear a raspy scratching noise. It sounded like Brunt was scratching his beard stubble.

"Please stop talking in circles. What did you find?"

"Nothing. No tea service. No furniture, unless you count a TV and a bunch of boxes. If you want my opinion, the guy took it on the lam, as we detectives like to say."

"Boxes? What kind of boxes?"

"What do you care?"

"What was in them?"

"Got me. They were padlocked. For all I know, they were booby-trapped too.

"Could you describe them?"

"Oh, about four or five feet long. Kind of like footlockers. Some of them had brass handles and fittings. They came in an assortment of colors. Gaudy, too. Designer luggage they definitely weren't."

"And you did not open them?"

"My job was to go in and recover the tea service without disturbing the domestic environment, correct?"

"Yes," Smith admitted glumly.

"Those babies were secured with monster brass padlocks. Not the combination kind, which I could have cracked, but the kind you open with a key. A big brass key. Get it?"

"Clearly," Smith sighed. "You dared not open them."

"Not without the big brass key, which I did not find, or a hammer and cold chisel, which I must have left in my other suit. Did I do right?"

"Yes, of course," Brunt suggested, "for more bucks, I could take another whack at it. Maybe you want your tea service so much you don't mind if I make a mess."

"I do mind. The occupant must never know his dwelling was penetrated."

"Burglarized, you mean. Only CIA types say 'penetrated.'"

"Yes. Burglarized."

"So now what?"

Smith considered. The scratching came over the line again.

"If I need you, I will call you again," he said at last.

"Sounds like a kiss-off to me."

"You have your check."

"Cashed and spent already. I could use more. My secretary keeps asking for a raise."

"Good-bye, Mr. Brunt," said Smith, hanging up. He swiveled in his cracked leather chair, his gray eyes regarding Long Island Sound through the office picture window.

"Boxes," he muttered. What could these boxes contain? Armaments, perhaps. Brunt had described them as footlockers. Assault weapons were often shipped in similar boxes. Or weapons components. Stinger missiles, for example. Or in the case of a more complex device, such as a portable rocket launcher, the components were often transported in several boxes of the type Brunt described.

Was the house being used as a weapons-storage site? Was Smith the target of terrorists'? If so, why hadn't they made their move? If not, who was their target?

This was too critical now for a broken-down private investigator. Smith would have to get into the house himself, despite the risk. He must learn the contents of those boxes.

The time for waiting was over. Smith went to his file cabinet and from a folder deep in back extracted an Army-issue .45 automatic and two clips. He inserted a clip and sent a round into the chamber to check the action. Then he placed them in his briefcase, where they nestled in a false compartment under the telephone hookup.

Dr. Harold W. Smith left his office, a gray man with a cold white face and a purposeful stride that made the guards in the lobby dispense with their usual tipped-hat acknowledgments. They had seen that look on Smith's face before. It usually foreshadowed someone getting fired.