SKYRING WATER
 Chapter
One
(may be
abridged)
SKYRING WATER CHAPTER 1 Spain, 1961 . . . The rear
end of the Lancia skidded sideways. Muddy gravel
roared in the wheel wells and rattled off the
undercarriage. Mike Fowler counter-steered, then
held the accelerator steady, letting the torque of
the six-cylinder engine do its job. As the
tachometer hit five thousand rpm, he shifted into
third gear. Ahead of him the rugged peaks and
ridgelines of the Pyrenees were obscured by low
gray clouds. On one side the slope fell away with
not much more than a slushy berm between his tires
and the treetops; on the other rocks nearly clipped
the sideview mirror. Watery wind-driven snow
smeared under his wipers, blurring his view of the
rutted road. It didnt matter. In this machine,
under these conditions, nothing could touch him.
The car was a 1955 Aurelia B20. Though a few years
old, it remained a wonder of Italian engineering.
It was owned by Fowlers business partner, Anton
Voss, a man who had an unerring instinct when it
came to anything mechanical. The fact that it was
another mans car would not go over well if the
Spanish police stopped him, and the situation was
sure to go from bad to worse if they decided to
search the trunk. But Mike Fowler had a
considerably more serious problem than being pulled
over by the Guardia Civil. And that was why he was
tearing up a twisting mountain road headed into a
storm that was sure to close the passes into France
before morning. Nearly thirty tons of gold bullion.
Thirty tons lost to history, its existence the
stuff of myth or the colorfully illustrated cover
of a mens adventure magazine. A legendary treasure
hidden in one of the most inaccessible places on
the planet. Men were willing to kill to discover
its location, and now some of them believed that
Anton Voss knew where it could be found. As the car
roared past a stand of trees Fowler saw what he was
looking for: a long straight grade and, at the top,
a tight curve disappearing behind a shoulder of the
hill. He took it as fast as he dared while keeping
an eye on the rearview mirror. There was no sign of
pursuit. He hit the brakes as he rounded the curve.
The car slewed across the road, coming to a stop
with its nose buried in the brush. Cutting the
engine, he climbed out and, moving to the back of
the Lancia, opened the boot. Pulling away a greasy
tarp, he removed a Sturmgewehr 44 assault rifle and
a pair of pouches holding six curved magazines.
Fowler dodged up the slope inside the elbow of the
turn. Stopping at an outcrop of rain-slick rock he
took cover behind the dead branches that had fallen
from a small oak. He spotted them a mile off. The
driver of the black Mercedes was pushing it hard,
fearing his quarry was escaping and desperate to
catch up. Mike Fowler smiled grimly. He knew these
mountains from long experience. He could outdrive
his pursuers as long as he had petrol in his tank.
But he couldnt allow them to know where he crossed
the border. If they were as organized as he
suspected, they could have a team waiting not long
after he reached France. What the men in the
Mercedes didnt realize was that he hadnt been
running, not since hed left Barcelona. He had
driven far and fast, but his plan had been to gain
just enough distance to set a trap. Adjusting the
sights on the StG 44, he raised the gun. When the
black car was about two hundred yards out, he
fired. Once. Twice. The first bullet went into the
tank at the top of the radiator, the second lower
down. The oil pan on the Mercedes was relatively
well protected, and the 8mm Kurz cartridge would
not penetrate like that of a full-power rifle, but
he figured hed try for it anyway. Steam burst
through the grill and the gaps around the hood. The
tires locked up and the Mercedes slid to a halt,
the vague form of the driver craning forward trying
to see what had gone wrong. The two men in the car
didnt realize they were under fire. Fowler
squeezed the trigger again, putting a round through
the windshield. Then he took out the left front
tire and punched a pair of holes in the pontoonlike
fender, searching for the distributor or fuel pump.
The engine died. There was a muffled shout of
alarm. The front door on the far side of the
Mercedes popped open and the men dove for cover
below the edge of the road. There was flicker of
movement just past the trunk lid and then pistol
shots cracked up from below. He couldnt tell where
the gunfire was aimed but it wasnt coming anywhere
close. Beyond the car, through a screen of wet,
wilted grass he made out a black shape . . . the
shoulder of a trench coat. Fowler fired a single
shot. The man in the black coat twisted and cried
out. Cursing in German, he crabbed sideways,
painfully searching for better cover. Fowler turned
away from the road and bellowed, On the slope!
Theyre on the slope! His voice echoed off the
hill behind him, hopefully obscuring his location
and confusing the men below as to how many
attackers they were facing. It didnt work as well
as he would have liked. One bullet and then another
ricocheted off the rocks just to Fowlers left.
Mike decided he had played with them long enough.
Thumbing the fire selector over, he loosed two
three-round bursts. The bullets chewed up rock and
weeds and mud. A ricochet whined off into the
depths of the canyon. After that there was no more
return fire, and he could no longer see either man.
Good. The plan had been to draw their pursuers
attention, giving Voss an opportunity to get away.
Fowler wanted them to think that he and Anton were
together, and he wanted them to report as much to
their superiors. But if these men showed any more
resistance, he would hunt them down and kill them.
The shadowy group they worked for had destroyed
everything he and Anton Voss had struggled to build
over the last decade. Fowler blasted a line of
bullet holes down the side of the Mercedes. He
shredded the left rear tire. He changed magazines
and blew out the windshield and side windows. Take
this as a warning, he thought. Dont make me come
after you. He changed magazines again and again,
firing long undisciplined bursts. A pile of spent
shells grew as he turned the grill into a
pockmarked ruin and shot out the headlights, the
mirrors, and then one of the door handles. When the
stamped metal of the gun steamed and the foregrip
scalded his hand even through his driving glove,
Fowler stopped. Below him the almost new 1960
Mercedes 220 was a complete wreck. Only one patch
of sheet metal remained bare, the drivers-side
door. He stood, a gesture of his contempt,
challenging the men below to try something. You
want to stop us? he yelled. Nows your chance!
His voice echoed off the hills and cliffs. Nothing
happened. He hoped they were listening but, if they
were smart, they were halfway down the canyon. He
slung the rifle and slid a handgun from his belt.
It was a 9mm SIG 47/8, a gun their enemies knew was
favored by Anton Voss. Fowler found a position
lower on the hill. He raised the pistol and fired,
putting a tight group of bullets into the door and
a few more into the rest of the body. He moved
slightly, spreading out the pattern of ejected
cartridges and smearing his footprints until they
were hard to read. The gun locked open. Grabbing
the heel release, he dropped the distinctive
magazine on the ground, doing what he could to
suggest there had been two shooters. He didnt know
how convincing the ruse was. But since he left
Barcelona none of their enemies had come close
enough to see in side the car. If he was lucky,
they might not be aware that Anton owned a yacht or
where, until just recently, it had been moored. He
was risking his life and his freedom on what could
very well be a fools errand. Deep in the mountains
he pulled over at a wayside above a brush-choked
ravine. Taking out the assault rifle, he removed
the buttstock, recoil spring, and bolt carrier. He
swung the barrel and receiver of the gun in an
underhanded arc, sending it pinwheeling into the
depths to his left. He tossed the remainder of the
parts in the other direction. A moment later he had
disposed of the SIG in a similar fashion. Fowler
opened a garment bag and a leather Gladstone. He
changed out of his dirty clothes and into a
three-piece suit of brown tweed. Then he replaced
his muddy combat boots with pair of handmade shoes.
In the last light of day, he combed his hair in the
reflection of the car window. He wasnt sure who he
saw looking back: a nondescript forty-year-old man
with a lean, disciplined body and a face that
betrayed little. A man who had fought his way to
the top of a profession that he could not discuss
in polite company. And now he suspected he couldnt
claim even that: his business was a smoking ruin
that would probably be seized by the Spanish
government. He was a wanted man. There was no way
of going back. He took a slow look around.
Catalonia had been his home as long as anywhere on
earth. If he ever returned it was likely he would
be arrested for murder. He slipped into the
mud-streaked Lancia and fired up the motor. There
was a storm coming, and he still had a long way to
go. FRANCE, three hours later . . . Mike Fowler
crossed the border at a lonely outpost on a
snow-frosted pass. Any traffic would be
well-remembered, but it was also manned, on both
sides, by members of an ancient family who had been
in the profession of smuggling since the time of
the Romans. They knew Fowler from the days when his
business had not been quite so legitimate. His
documents, along with a duplicate passport
belonging to Voss, were accepted and stamped in the
normal manner. However, the official record of
their passing would be delayed by exactly
twenty-four hours. Neither of the officials more
than glanced outside at the Lancia with its
breath-fogged windows. They remained behind their
desks and warmed themselves while counting the
piles of 1,000 peseta and 100 nouveau franc
banknotes Fowler left with them. Snow chased the
little car down through the mountains, eventually
changing to rain. Earlier in the day he had
discovered that the airport and train stations in
Barcelona had been staked out. It was not only the
police; some of the men Fowler spotted were
certainly private detectives in the employ of the
group that pursued him. Now that he was in France
his first impulse was to ditch the Lancia and get
to Paris. From there he could find a flight to
London or the U.S. At some point the fiction that
Voss was with him would dissolve, but the longer it
took, the better. In a crowded airport it would be
a lengthy process to verify that they hadnt
slipped away on separate flights. Fowler was
betting everything that he could still find a way
to vanish even as he provided the distraction that
allowed Voss to cover his own trail. A cautious
reconnaissance of the palatial Toulouse-Matabiau
train station suggested that getting to Paris
without the car might be difficult. There were no
cops, but instead of the grubby middle-aged
gumshoes he had seen in Barcelona, the men covering
this station were young, fit . . . and distinctly
Aryan. No doubt they had come in overnight, alerted
as soon as it was clear he had escaped Spain. The
scope of the manhunt was a frightening indication
of the size of the organization he and Voss
suddenly found themselves up against. And if they
had the train stations covered then the airports
would be, too. Holding to the shadows, Mike Fowler
pulled back to where he had parked. As he saw it,
there was only one option left. If he could arrive
in time, it would completely foil his pursuers. On
the other hand, it might also put the whole
operation at risk. He started the car and headed
for the coast. Fatigue clouded his vision and
dulled his mind. If his adversaries were alert,
they might realize what he was up to. It all
depended on how much they had bothered to learn
about Mike Fowler and Anton Voss. One thing at a
time, he thought, and drove faster. Before dawn the
Lancia grumbled through the gray, rain-wet streets
of Marseille. Beyond the railyards at Gare dArenc,
Fowler found the street blocked by a line of
freight cars waiting on a set of tracks that led to
the docks. Looking quickly around, he pulled
diagonally off the street beside a pile of
discarded packing materials. Opening his bag, he
lifted the false bottom. He removed a flat sap,
black leather stitched around nine ounces of lead
shot with a spring steel handle, and a compact
Remington automatic. He tucked the blackjack inside
the waistband of his trousers and dropped the
pistol into a specially tailored hip pocket. Two
loaded magazines went into his coat. Mike left the
car unlocked and the keys in plain sight. It would
certainly be stolen before noon. He slipped the
strap of the Gladstone over his shoulder and across
his chest. Then he followed the boxcars to where
the rails passed through an archway in a building
and ran straight down the pier that was his
destination. The passage smelled like a latrine
but, standing in the shadows of the entrance and
with the dark mass of a railcar behind him, Fowler
could observe the activity along the quayside with
little chance of being recognized. It wasnt five
minutes before he saw them. Two tall young men
appeared out of the confusion of trucks and
laborers on the pier. In contrast to the stained
denim and leather aprons worn by the burly
longshoremen and warehouse workers, this pair
seemed dressed for a day at the country club. One
of them even wore an argyle sweater under his
blazer and held a raincoat draped over one arm. His
companion sported a windbreaker and a drivers cap.
Just across the street from Fowlers position, a
low-slung Opel Kapitän pulled out of the flow of
traffic. Inside, two dark silhouettes peered down
the dock. Over the roof of the car Fowler could see
the man in the drivers cap catch the eyes of those
in the Opel and spread his hands. It was not the
elaborate shrug of a Frenchman, just a quick signal
to communicate that something expected had yet to
occur. Was he the something they expected? Did they
have men all along the waterfront, or were they
aware of which ship he planned to take? If he
waited, would they go off to search another pier?
The trouble was that he didnt have long. Beyond
the roofs of the warehouses, he could see the
signal mast of a freighter. A Blue Peter, the
flag indicating imminent departure, was hanging in
the moist air. Maneuvering a ten-thousand-ton cargo
ship out of port was a slow and tricky business.
They would leave on schedule, and he had better be
aboard. There was a crunch of gravel behind him,
and Fowler whirled. But it was just a startled pair
of railroad employees in white vests and peaked
caps. Pardon! Pardon, monsieur . . . le train.
Dégagez la voie. The man pointed, indicating that
they were going to back the train down the pier . .
. It was an opportunity, if his luck held. The
railroad workers walked out into the thoroughfare
along the quay, motioning for traffic to stop.
There was a heavy clank as the slack went out of
the couplings and the air brake cleared its throat
with a hiss. The line of boxcars began to back
slowly toward the pier. Mike Fowler was in luck;
the men with the Opel had parked and gotten out,
but they were on the far side of the tracks. One of
them had a powerful build that looked familiar but
a bandage like a pirates eyepatch obscured much of
his face. One, two, three railcars rumbled past,
and Mike began to walk, pacing the train.
Canvas-sided lorries and horse carts moved out of
the way. The people on either side of the dock were
forced more tightly into the space between the
tracks and the warehouses. He looked around; he had
lost sight of the two men ahead of him. That was
not good, but he dared not slow down. Mike checked
off the numbers above the doors. It looked like he
had about a hundred yards to go . . . Then came the
prolonged blast of a ships horn. There was no time
left. Mike Fowler broke into a run. He cut off a
man with a hand dolly, cleared the end of a truck
carrying blocks of ice and racks of meat, and
dodged around a cursing Frenchman like a football
player who had just received an unexpected pass.
Halt! the bandaged man from the Opel shouted.
Over the bed of a flatcar Fowler could now tell it
was Heinrich Hartmann, last seen a little more than
a day ago in a blood-spattered hallway back in
Spain. Hartmann raised a pistol but was cut off by
the slowly rolling tank car that was next in line.
Mike was almost there, almost to the door he
needed. Expecting a bullet in the back, he made it
into the echoing dimness of the warehouseand came
to a dead stop. The athletic young man with the
windbreaker was just inside the doorway, crouched
and ready to take him. His companion was shaking
the folded raincoat off his arm to reveal a Walther
P38. Fowler leaped to one side, palmed the sap, and
swung, chopping with its thin edge across the
muscles of the gunmans bicep. The man gasped and
dropped the pistol. He staggered back, his face
white with shock. The one in the windbreaker
grabbed at Fowler from behind, but the Gladstone
got in his way. Mike turned with the momentum of
his blow, twisting inside the shoulder strap. He
blocked a punch, shifted his heel behind his
attackers foot, and smashed the base of his palm
up into the mans nose. The German grabbed at him,
and they went down together. But as he fell Fowler
brought up a knee. It smashed into the mans
diaphragm, the breath exploded out of him, and ribs
broke. Fowler never stopped moving. He rolled to
his feet. The guy in the argyle sweater was
scuttling after the gun. Fowler swung the sap
backhand across one side of the mans head and
then, as he went down, forehand across the other.
Mon Dieu! There were exclamations as the
warehouse workers turned to stare at the sudden
violence. Fowler didnt look back, didnt worry
about the men or the gun. He knew the damage a
properly wielded blackjack could do. He ran out of
the warehouse on the far side. Across the wharf two
men from the MS Orna had just begun to winch up the
collapsible stairs leading to the deck. At the bow
a tug was churning the debris-flecked water, edging
the ship back, away from the pier. Mike jumped,
grabbing the folding stairway and pulled himself
onto it just as Heinrich Hartmann appeared in the
warehouse door. There was an instant where it took
all of Fowlers self-control not to draw the
Remington and attempt to kill Hartmann on the spot.
He could see the German was caught in the same
dilemma; his pistol held half-concealed at his
side. But a shooting now would solve little. It
would not allow Hartmann to discover where Voss had
disappeared to, and it would turn Fowlers getaway
into an exploration of the French justice system.
Fowler relaxed. Then he lifted one hand in an
ironic wave. Maybe next time, he thought. Maybe
next time Ill have a clear shot and no witnesses.
Hey, you! What are you doing there? An officer
frowned at him from the railing. Fowler clambered
up the stairs toward the deck. As he reached the
top, he pulled a business card from his vest
pocket. Mike Fowler. I represent Sistemas Militar.
I am going to need to accompany my cargo. He was
safe. This ship carried over half a million
dollars worth of goods that were being sold by
Sistemas Militar Internacional S.L. or
International Military Systems, a company owned,
courtesy of a minor manipulation of Spanish law, by
Anton Andreas Voss and Michael Fowler. The cargo
was made up of one million rounds of ammunition,
seven Austin K2 ambulances, an assortment of
surplus medical supplies, and five hundred tons of
steel chevron-type track units for the M4 Sherman
tank. It would be a week before they made port. He
could rest, gather his wits, and come up with some
kind of plan. The one thing he would certainly need
to do was to have his story straight when he
arrived. He might be getting himself into a whole
new sort of trouble. Only time would tell. The men
chasing him were Germans, part of an organization
that seemed to have the capacity to influence
politicians and private businesses all over the
world. They were, not to put too fine a point on
it, Nazis. Calling themselves the Brotherhood or
the Invisible Reich, they had lost the war but
somehow won the peace. There was one place,
however, they could not go, a place where they were
deaf and blind . . . Above him a flag fluttered and
snapped in the wind. White and blue with a star and
stripes. It was the flag of Israel.
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