treetops. Again to the right.
Fields.
If there were horses – and there were horses – and stables -and there had
to be stables – then there were fields. For the animals to graze and race
off the frustrations of the wooded, confining bridle paths.
The spaces between the descending trees were carved-out pasture lands,
there was no other explanation.
North by northeast.
He shifted his thoughts to the highway two miles south of the marble steps
of Habichtsnest, the highway that cut through the outskirts of Lujin toward
Buenos Aires. He remembered: the road, although high above the river at the
Habichtsnest inter-
409
section, curved to the left and went downhffl into the Tigre district. He
tried to recall precisely the first minutes of the nightmare ride in the
Bentley that ended in smoke and fire and death in the Colinas Rojas. The car
had swung out of the hidden entrance and for several miles sped east and
down and slightly north. It finally paralleled the shoreline of the river.
North by northeast.
And then he pictured the river below the terraced balcony, dotted with
white sails and cabin cruisers. It flowed diagonally away … to the right.
North by northeast.
That was his escape.
Down the bridle path into the protective cover of the dark woods and
northeast toward the breaks in the trees – the fields. Across the fields,
always heading to the right – east, and downhill, north. Back into the
sloping forest, following the line of the river, until he found the
electrified fence bordering the enormous compound that was Habichtsnest.
Beyond that fence was the highway to Buenos Aires. And the embassy.
And Jean.
David let his body go limp, let the ache of his wound run around in circles
on his torn skin. He breathed steadily, deeply. He had to remain calm; that
was the hardest part.
He looked at his watch -his gift from Jean. It was nearly eleven o’clock.
He got out of the bed and put on the trousers and the sweater. He slipped
into his shoes and pulled the laces as tight as he could, until the leather
pinched his feet, then reached for the pillow and wrapped the soiled shirt
from the outback ranch around it. He replaced the pillow at the top of the
bed and pulled the blanket partially over it. He lifted the sheets, bunched
them, inserted the ranch hand’s trousers and let the blankets fall back in
place.
He stood up. In the darkness, and with what light would come from the
hallway, the bed looked sufficiently full at least for his immediate
purpose.
He crossed to the door and pressed his back into the wall beside it.
His watch read one minute to eleven.
The tapping was loud; the guard was not subtle.
410
The door opened.
‘Seftor? … Seftor?’
The door opened further.
‘Seftor, it’s time. It’s eleven o’clock.’
The juard stood in the frame, looking at the bed. ‘,tl duerme.’ he said
casually over his shoulder.
‘Sefior Spaulding I’The guard walked into the darkened room.
The instant the man cleared the door panel, David took a single step and
with both hands clasped the guard’s neck from behind. He crushed his
fingers into the throat and yanked the man diagonally into him.
No cry emerged; the guard’s windpipe was choked of all air supply. Re went
down, limp.
Spaulding closed the door slowly and snapped on the wall switch.
‘Thanks very much,’he said loudly. ‘Give me a hand, will you please?. My
stomach hurts like hell. . . .’
It was no secret at Habichtsnest that the American had been Wounded.
David bent over the collapsed guard. He massaged his throat, pinched his
nostrils, put his lips to the man’s mouth and blew air into the damaged
windpipe.
The guard responded; conscious but not conscious. In semishock.
Spaulding removed the man’s Lilger from his belt holster and a large
hunting knife from a scabbard beside it. He put the blade underneath the
man’s jaw and drew blood with the sharp point. He whispered. In Spanish.
‘Understand me! 1 want you to laugh I You start laughing now I If you
don’t, this goes home. Right up through your neckl … Now. Laugh!’
The guard’s crazed eyes carried his total lack of comprehension. He seemed
to know only that he was dealing with a maniac. A madman who would kill
him.
Feebly at first, then with growing volume and panic, the man laughed.
Spaulding laughed with him.
The laughter grew; David kept staring at the guard, gesturing for louder,
more enthusiastic merriment. The man – perplexed beyond reason and totally
frightened – roared hysterically.
Spaulding heard the click of the doorknob two feet from his
411
ear. He crashed the barrel of the Ulger into the guard’s head and stood up
as the second man entered.
, Qu9pasa, Antonio? Te re-‘
The Lilger’s handle smashed into the Argentines skull with such force that
the guard’s expulsion of breath was as loud as his voice as he fell.
David looked at his watch. It was eight minutes past eleven. Seven minutes
to go.
If the man named Asher Feld believed the words he spoke with such
commitment.
Spaulding removed the second guard’s weapons, putting the additional Miger
into his belt. He searched both men’s pockets, removing whatever paper
currcncy he could find. And a few coins.
He had no money whatsoever. He might well need money.
He ran into the bathroom and turned on the shower to the hottest position
on the dial. He returned to the hallway door and locked it. Then he turned
off all lights and went to the left casement window, closing his eyes to
adjust to the darkness outside. He opened them and blinked several times,
trying to blur out the white spots of anxiety.
It was nine minutes past eleven.
He rubbed his perspiring hands over the expensive turtleneck sweater; he
took deep breaths and waited.
The waiting was nearly unendurable.
Because he could not know.
And then he heard it I And he knew.
Two thunderous explosions! So loud, so stunning, so totally without warning
that he found himself trembling, his breathing stopped.
There followed bursts of machine-gun fire that ripped through the silent
night.
Below him on the ground, men were screanung at one another, racing toward
the sounds that were filling the perimeter of the compound with growing
ferocity.
David watched the hysteria below. There were five guards beneath his
window, all running now out of their concealed stations. He could see the
spill of additional floodlights being turned on to his right, in the
elegant front courtyard of Habichtsnest. He could hear the roar of powerful
automobile engines and the increasing frequency of panicked commands.
~12
He eased himself out of the casement window, holding onto the sill until
his feet touched the gutter.
Both LOgers were in his belt, the knife between his teeth. He could not
chance a blade next to his body; he could always spit it out if necessary.
He sidestepped his way along the slate roof The drainpipe was only feet
away.
The explosions and the gunfire from the gate increased. David marveled –
not only at Asher Feld’s commitment, but at his logistics. The Haganah
leader must have brought a small, wellsupplied army into Habichtsnest.
He lowered his body cautiously against the slate roof; he reached out,
gripped the gutter on the far side of the drainpipe with his right hand and
slowly, carefully crouched sideways, inched his feet into a support
position. He pushed against the outside rim of the gutter, testing its
strength, and in a quickspringing short jump, he leaped over the side,
holding the rim with both hands, his feet against the wall, straddling the
drainpipe.
He began his descent, hand-below-hand on the pipe.
Amid the sounds of the gunfire, he suddenly heard loud crashing above him.
There were shouts in both German and Spanish and the unmistakable smashing
of wood.
The room he had just left had been broken into.
The extreme north second-floor balcony was parallel with him now. He
reached out with his left hand, gripped the edge, whipped his right hand
across for support and swung underneath, his body dangling thirty feet
above the ground but out of sight.
Men were at the casement windows above. They forced the lead frames open
without regard to the handles; the glass smashed; metal screeched against
metal.
There was another thunderous explosion from the battleground a quarter of
a mile away in the black-topped field cut out of the forest. A far-off
weapon caused a detonation in the front courtyard; the spill of floodlight
suddenly disappeared. Asher Feld was moving up. The crossfire would be
murderous. Suicidal.
The shouts above Spaulding receded from the window, and he kicked his feet
out twice to get sufficient swing to lash his hands once more across and
around the drainpipe.
He did so, the blade between his teeth making his jaws ache.