An American Spy

by An American Spy (retail) (epub)

  Dundee climbed onto the gangplank and made his way up it to the riverbank. Russell followed and then the kid. Coming out from the enclosing cover of the willows Dundee was vaguely aware of a small meadow-like pasture set with a stone wall on one side and a high, thorny hedgerow on the other. There was a small group of sheep in one corner of the field, looking like a drift of old snow. The air was ripe with the heavy, wet odour of their wool. They moved skittishly to one side as Dundee and his companions stepped into view. A hundred yards up a gently rising slope a tree lot stood like a dark, shadowy line blotting out the stars.

  ‘Follow the path,’ said Russell, gesturing to the hedgerow. At the base of it Dundee could now see a faint, dark line in the clover, leading up into the trees. He stumbled forward, guiding himself haphazardly across the uneven ground, surprised at how difficult it was to keep his balance without the free use of his hands. All thoughts of making an escape on foot vanished; the hedgerow on one side and stone wall on the other were impenetrable barriers to a man in steel bracelets.

  They moved into the trees and instantly the breeze fell off and then died and the close air was full of the smell of the brown cedar boughs that blanketed the forest floor. Peering ahead Dundee saw that the path continued through the trees in a meandering fashion that probably meant rabbits. He had a sudden memory of a trapline of snares he’d set one summer with his cousin Paulie in the hills above their summer place in Santa Barbara and his horror at actually catching one; strangled, throat torn and eyes glazed over with a reproachful expression on its dumb, dead face, ants crawling into the mouth and out again.

  No more than five minutes later the trees abruptly ended and Dundee saw there was a second meadow running along the slope of the shallow hill they’d been climbing. It was barely a meadow at all, more like a scar in the side of the hill, and Dundee could see where it had been artificially widened, the white of freshly cut tree trunks gleaming in the faint starlight. At the far end of the narrow pasture he could see the bat-like shape of a small aircraft. It was a high-winged monoplane like the Fairchild 24s his father used for land surveying in California, except this one was painted olive green and fitted out with USAAF stars and a serial number on the tail. The trio walked towards the waiting plane. Upon reaching it, Dundee heard a faint tumbling sound that steadily grew in volume. A moment later the air was full of the sound of pounding, powerful engines as dozens of aircraft thundered over their heads, no more than two or three hundred feet overhead. Looking up he picked up their familiar shapes like cardboard cut-outs against the carpet of stars.

  ‘B-17s,’ said Russell needlessly. ‘Practising night raids. Newton Abbot airfield is only a few miles south of here. We take off and land here all the time; no one notices.’

  ‘Where did you get the plane?’ Dundee asked.

  ‘Now that would be telling,’ said Russell. Suddenly the air was full of the smell of ether again. Dundee felt the rag pressed over his mouth and nose and then he didn’t feel anything at all.

  Chapter Sixteen

  She’d never been good with heights and this was no exception. Jane Todd stood on the bridge abutment and looked out over the valley of the Tweed, trying not to think of how she’d gotten herself into this mess. Here she was in a country you could fit three or four times into the state of New York and she might as well be with John Carter on the sands of Mars. She wasn’t quite sure how such a small place could look so desolate and empty.

  And high.

  The slope was a good seventy-five degrees, not quite a cliff but close enough not to make any difference to her. Her stomach flip-flopped like one of Aunt Jemima’s flapjacks when she got close enough to look over and she backed up, head swimming after one brief glimpse. Even with her eyes shut she could see the long fall of bare, stony ground and bits of vegetation barely clinging to the earth and the grey-black outcroppings of stone ready to smash her skull like an eggshell if she were dumb enough to come too close and fall over. It was still too dark to see very well but Jane was pretty sure she could make out the river glinting a good three or four hundred feet below.

  She bent her head into the collar of the overcoat and lit her second to last cigarette. She’d been walking steadily along the tracks for the past hour and so far she hadn’t seen a single fence, village, building or path. Except for the call of the occasional night bird and the sighing of the wind there had only been the heavy silence of the empty moor. It was as though McSeveney’s Halt had been the end of the world and she’d just stepped off it. Except for the railway track unravelling in the inky dark there wasn’t the slightest sign that civilisation had ever thought of coming this way.

  ‘Hadrian’s Wall,’ she muttered to herself, remembering a shred of poetry from somewhere in her past. Something about a lost legion of Roman soldiers. She drew deeply on the cigarette and stepped a little closer to the edge of the concrete bridge mooring. Lost legion was right. If the Germans ever decided to invade they’d be wise to stay away from this godforsaken place, too.

  The bridge itself wasn’t much better than the edge of the cliff; one track, with perhaps three feet of clearance on either side and no handrail, stretching into the distance – at least five hundred yards to the other side and solid ground. In the gloom she could make out a complex web of old iron girders that looked as though they dated back to Queen Victoria’s time and didn’t look strong enough to support any kind of weight at all, let alone a heavily loaded passenger train. She edged a little closer and swallowed hard, her mouth gone dry. The track wasn’t even on some kind of solid foundation; looking downward she could see the rust-blighted support girders making shadow patterns between the sleepers.

  Turning away from the bridge she looked east and west. Eastward there was a faint line of lighter purple marking the arrival of dawn sometime in the immediate future, rising up out of the English Channel, announcing a new day and a renewed effort by Occleshaw. Westward, into the darkness, the cliff went on as well. Which made some sense. Why build a bridge four hundred feet in the air if there was an easier place to cross the river? Jane laughed sourly around a bitter mouthful of smoke. She had no idea where she was going but she was taking the most direct route. She turned and looked behind her; still black as Carter’s Ink. If she retraced her steps she’d make it back to Selkirk, or whatever the place was called, about sunrise – just in time for breakfast and a quick trip to the lock-up.

  The thought of food was almost enough to tempt her into taking her chances with jail but then she remembered their trip to Shepton Mallet and thought again. She’d done a tour of the women’s prison in Los Angeles for Life magazine a couple of years back and it had scared the hell out of her; there was no reason to think Occleshaw would do any better.

  She flicked her cigarette into the darkness and wished she hadn’t. Her eyes following the brightly glowing butt as it sailed out into the abyss and then spiralled down, disappearing finally, swallowed up by the all-consuming darkness; the same darkness she’d have to cross if she were to have any chance at all of staying out of Special Branch’s clutches.

  ‘Stop being a baby and get going, Jane, or you’ll never hear the end of it back home.’ Which was exactly where she wanted to be right now, playing poker at the Plaza in one of the rooms ‘reserved’ by Pelay, the diminutive senior bellman, drinking Rusty Birdwell’s Old Grand-Dad, watching Noel Busch demonstrate how to deal from the bottom of the deck without anyone noticing – except everyone else at the table – and smoking Spuds and telling dirty jokes until dawn finally put Broadway to sleep and woke up Fifth Avenue.

  Putting one foot in front of the other and thanking God and anyone else she could think of that she was wearing flats and not heels, Jane stepped out onto the bridge, not quite sure where to let her eyes come to rest and finally deciding on straight ahead, peering into the dark at her invisible destination, counting each sleeper as her foot came down on it, resisting the terrifying impulse to look left, right or down because she knew, beyond the deepest, darkes
t shadow of a doubt, what would happen.

  Her head would start to spin or she’d be sick or, the worst horror of all, she’d freeze where she was, turned to stone in the middle of the bridge, unable to go forward or back and inevitably taking the only option open to her: falling, tumbling endlessly, the last thing in her ears her own petrified scream and her final vision the river rushing up to meet her. Far above her an early-rising curlew screeched in the last of the night and Jane quietly cursed its mindless ability to fly.

  By the three hundred and twenty-eighth sleeper Jane was reasonably sure she’d gone about a third of the way and with every step she was equally sure she was never going to make it to the other side; the one factor she’d failed to take into consideration was the wind, no more than a soft breeze standing on terra firma, but out here it was a blustery, tugging gale, whirling the hem of the overcoat around her legs and taking air like a sailboat, sending her into a teetering tightrope walk, arms spread to keep her balance. Twice she slipped on the dew-damp sleepers, and once her leg went into the space between the heavy wooden blocks and she spent a terrifying minute dragging herself upward. She crawled forward on her hands and knees for a few feet, tearing her stockings, forced to look downward into the canyon-like depths below, her breath now coming in desperate gasps as she gathered up the courage to stand again.

  She finally managed to regain her feet, fighting off the urge to simply stand there for a moment, knowing that if she did she might never start again.

  ‘One foot in front of the other,’ she panted, fixing her eyes on the far side of the bridge. She’d lost count of the number of sleepers so she simply picked up where she’d left off. ‘Three hundred twenty nine, three hundred thirty…’ She was close enough to the opposite side to make out some detail. The bridge foundation here was rock instead of concrete, the way it had been behind her; a natural cutting made by two jutting humps of rock that rose like twin stone whales surfacing on the edge of the slope leading down to the river in the depths below.

  Jane was vaguely aware that the slope on the far side wasn’t as steep but that wasn’t going to do her any good now. The first light leaking out of the east was painting the upper edges of the two stone hills a faint pinkish purple. While keeping her eyes glued to that strangely optimistic sight, she missed the two winking dots of red between the massive stones.

  Her first warning came with a faint vibration like rolling, distant thunder announcing the coming of a storm. An instant later the wild shrieking of a steam whistle froze Jane where she stood – a bolt of mind-numbing terror running down her spine and turning her bruised and aching legs to jelly. She saw the twin signal lights now, burning like unblinking eyes in the darkness on the far side of the gorge; the Robbie Burns was coming back and she was directly in its path.

  There was no time to think or even panic; she had to act in the next few seconds. Left and right there was only that rust-stained three-foot ledge of iron and cement; if she lay down there the train would either hit her a glancing blow if any part of her came too close or its passing would shake her off her perch. Her body was too wide to fit between the sleepers and, unlike the subway in New York, lying down between the rails would be suicide. Her only chance was to reach one of the old inspection ladders set onto the side of the bridge every fifty yards, the rusted hooplike safety rails the only thing between her and a plunge to certain death.

  She ran forward, barely keeping her footing on the slippery sleepers, praying that no one could see her in the lifting darkness. She reached one of the rusted old ladders and immediately saw that there was a semi-circular iron fitting roughly bolted onto the topmost railing, probably intended for some kind of old-fashioned safety harness; a safety harness she didn’t have. She stopped and stared, almost sure she’d seen the swinging beams of flashlights arcing out from the rear of the train. If Occleshaw or his men were on the rear platform of the coach they’d almost surely spot her crouching in the small, open well of the ladder.

  She went down a step, ducking down out of view, and in the same moment her feet came out from under her as the corroded rungs pulled away from the main struts and sent her hurtling down to the foot of the ladder, her hand shooting out and gripping the last of the surrounding hoops and stopping her headlong fall into the chasm. She could feel the whole ladder giving way, wrenching out of its supports. Her right arm felt as though it was tearing out of its socket. She brought up her left hand and gripped the hoop, putting all her weight on the fragile band of weathered metal.

  She pulled upward, managing to swing her leg onto the nearest beam, and then her whole body, until she was lying along its length. In the distance, on the far side of the narrow valley, the train reached the bridge and moved upward, the bridge’s entire length shivering and groaning with the weight. The last of the loosened rungs of the ladder gave way and went twirling and twisting down out of sight. Even if she wanted to give herself up to Occleshaw it would be impossible now; there was no way back up onto the bridge.

  She lay petrified on the beam, the erratic gusts of howling wind picking at her coat and sending her hair flying in all directions. Her fingers gripping the rough, rusted edges of the iron were stiff with cold. Every movement forced by the blustering wind brought panic closer. She knew that if she didn’t make a move soon, she’d fall. The Robbie Burns was closer now, the locomotive panting and snorting with a steamy mechanical sound like some gigantic horse.

  The bridge shuddered with its approach and Jane bit back a scream.

  Out of the corner of her eye she could see the swinging beams of the approaching flashlights; Occleshaw’s men were getting closer with each passing moment. Blindly, she began to inch down the beam on her back, using the heels of her shoes to propel herself and her hands gripping the wide flanges on each side of the beam to guide her body on a downward-sweeping arc that she knew would eventually take her to the bolted joint to one of the upright support columns.

  Eventually her feet struck a metal obstruction and she managed to lift her head a few inches and get her bearings; one of the support columns stood in her way. From above the flashlight beams were almost on top of her and she could hear the shouting voices of Occleshaw’s men. They’d found some evidence of her being on the bridge and had come to a stop. She forced herself forward with her hands, now scraped and bleeding, her knees bending as she pushed along. Finally she could go no farther and she was forced to plant her feet and reach out with her hands, grabbing the upright by its outer edges and hauling herself into a standing position, hugging the vertical iron beam as though it was a long-lost friend.

  Above her the flashlights were concentrated on the dilapidated remains of the inspection ladder. She clearly heard a voice saying, ‘Down here!’ They’d found out where she’d gone and it wouldn’t take them much longer to pinpoint her position; if she wanted to avoid being found she’d have to be quick about it.

  She eased her body to the left, shifting her feet in a shimmying movement that allowed her to move without lifting her feet. Fixed to the left side of the vertical beam was a curving horizontal girder that arced across to another, wider beam like the one she was standing on. She could see in the lifting darkness that the pattern was repeated over and over again until the beams ran out at the end of the bridge; the whole system of vertical meeting horizontal was mirrored on the right.

  Moving as quickly as she dared, and still hugging the vertical beam in front of her, Jane felt her way with her feet, biting her lip as a piece of rusted iron gave way under her prodding shoe, almost making her lose her balance. Finally, her foot reached the horizontal girder. With her eyes squeezed tightly shut and her pounding heart beating in her throat, she swung her way across. She realised she’d been holding her breath the whole time and let it out in an explosive gasp. From above, over the sound of the train, she could hear more calling voices, much closer now. Arching her neck, she stared upward into the tangle of iron. The flashlight beams were stronger, circles of bright light now cutting i
n and out of the girders all around her. She had no choice; she had to move.

  She edged out onto the next girder and this time she scuttled forward in a crouching, headlong run, arms outstretched like a tightrope walker, keeping exactly in the middle of the narrow iron path, then grasping the next upright beam like a long-lost lover. The wind was still tearing at her clothes and hair with its invisible, clawing talons, trying to dislodge her from her precarious eyrie, but she knew how to beat it now; the iron beast was tamed. She grinned in the stormy, angry air, eyes squinting, and edged quickly around the next vertical girder. Terror was still at her back and whispering in her ear but now at least she had a chance. She repeated her rush along the steadily curving beams again and again, leaving the swinging, searching beams of the flashlights far behind her. As she made her way around each vertical, she neared the far side of the valley and her spirits soared; it was beginning to look like she might actually make it.

  The bullet struck no more than six inches in front of her face as she reached the next iron upright, sending out a clanging explosion of sparks, burning her cheeks and half blinding her. She stopped, ducked and, grabbing hold of the beam at her feet, wobbling and almost falling, she finally dropped to her knees and managed to steady herself in the instant before she toppled. She whirled, searching for the bullet’s origin and found it almost immediately as her assailant fired a second time, coming so close the projectile actually singed her hair. She swung around to the right this time, putting the narrow width of the vertical iron post between her and the goon with the gun. The attacker had come down one of the inspection ladders closer to the far side of the bridge and had simply waited for her to make her appearance. He wasn’t interested in capturing her either; he was aiming to kill.