Hell Gate

by Jeff Dawson

  ‘But to address your point,’ Delgado continued, ‘your average white supremacist is not averse to a black man at all, or a brown man or a yellow one or a sky-blue goddamn pink ’un, just so long as he doesn’t get ideas above his station. For a black man that means cook, clean, toil in a field. Or be part of the house entertainment – the minstrel… singin’… dancin’… boxing. A Chinaman…? As long as he’s doin’ your laundry… For them it’s all about upholding a so-called “natural order”…’

  He shook his head in frustration.

  ‘Bunch o’ fuckin’ assholes is all it says to me.’

  ‘Then how about Teetonka? Where does he fit in?’

  ‘That, my friend, is an interesting question. Funny thing is, the German purists venerate the Native Americans. They consider them honorary Aryan, especially the Sioux. The “noble savage”. Uncorrupted. The very essence of man.’

  He puffed on his cigar and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Personally, I think it’s just horseshit. Politics is about expediency, it’s about control. You know, promise the Injuns their land back, get ’em onside. That’s a powerful political card to have up your sleeve… For the American National Party to have up its sleeve.’

  ‘Where is he…? Teetonka. I don’t see him.’

  ‘And you won’t at things like this.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Coupla reasons. One: See that fella over there…?’

  There was a happy-looking man in round spectacles with the inevitable full moustache.

  ‘L. Frank Baum, the author.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Uh-huh. In town from Chicago. His show version of The Wizard of Oz has been a big hit here on Broadway. All nicey-nicey with your Scarecrow and your Tin Woodman and your little fuckin’ Dorothy. ’Cept cuddly Uncle Frank is also the author of an infamous newspaper editorial advocating the wholesale extermination of the American Indian.’

  ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘Yup, you’d have to keep our Injun brave off a-scalpin’ him right there – something which might have put a crimp in the evening’s proceedings.’

  ‘And two? The second reason?’

  ‘Sad fact is, Redskins and liquor just don’t get along. Situation like this? Not good at the best of times. Tends to skip out. But in light of the above…’

  ‘I see.’

  He issued a sardonic grin.

  ‘Funny thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘For all that you’ve said, you’re overlooking something.’

  Finch didn’t get it.

  ‘Muller… He isn’t actually German at all.’

  ‘He isn’t?’

  ‘No, sir – a colonial. Hails from Windhoek, from a family of settlers in what is now German South West Africa.’

  ‘So, he has a chip on his shoulder?’

  ‘Possibly… I mean, he wouldn’t be the first. There’s a long tradition of nationalists coming from someplace else, wanting to demonstrate they should be a few more rungs up the ladder. Alexander the Great wasn’t Greek but Macedonian. And Napoleon? He was from Corsica – the island was only ceded to France in the year of his birth. Ethnically he was Italian – minor nobility – Napoleone di Buonaparte.’

  Finch topped up their glasses.

  ‘George Washington was a British citizen,’ he reminded Delgado.

  The NBI man winked.

  ‘At first.’

  They clinked again and swigged.

  ‘Not to put this sonofabitch in the same category but to give you the brief history – Muller came to the States in his teens, got involved in the local rackets and swiftly progressed through the ranks to become a high-end operator. Which is code for “thinks nothing of eliminating opponents”. Though of course we can’t ever pin anything on him.’

  ‘That agent you mentioned before… Kimmel?’

  Delgado downed his drink in one. The nerve was still raw.

  ‘Don’t be taken in by anything you see here tonight. This is all for show. Kimmel’s corpse was dismembered and wound up as a series of appetisers in the lion cage at the Bronx Zoo. They had to sew him back together before they could bury him in Green-Wood Cemetery.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  Delgado nodded.

  ‘I know… Wife and two kids.’

  He poured himself another.

  ‘Muller fronts his criminal activity with public good works,’ he continued, ‘in this case a charitable foundation for city boys called the St Mark’s Youth League… Actually a bunch of “street Arabs” as they call ’em – waifs, strays, orphans, shoeshine boys – all now living in a nice new lodging house he had built. Our Good Samaritan ended up going on some sponsored philanthropic mission to Europe where he disappeared for a few months, came back an ardent German nationalist… and, we think, a spy, acting for Nachrichten-Abteilung, the intelligence branch of the German Imperial Navy.’

  ‘Navy?’

  ‘The N-Abteilung’s arguably superior to their Army’s Sektion IIIb espionage operation. Currently, anyway…’

  He gave another wry smile.

  ‘One thing in our favour is that Germany’s military High Commands spend as much time trying to outdo each other as actually gathering intelligence.’

  ‘Why can’t you just arrest Muller? Even on suspicion.’

  ‘It’s a powder-keg situation, Mr Collins. We’re talking possible race riots and a political stand-off. Tompkins Square’s seen its share of revolt in the past. The German population is too big, too sensitive after the Slocum Disaster.’

  Delgado waved across the room again, trying to catch Katia’s eye.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘Down to business…’

  She worked her way back towards them, conveying a certain sense of irritation at being hailed like a common waitress. Finch made sure to keep his eyes lowered.

  ‘About that audience,’ said Delgado, nodding towards Muller. ‘Your fellow over there said something about setting the record straight. It’s why we’re here.’

  Finch wondered if he wasn’t being too blunt.

  She turned back to give a signal. Muller checked his watch and nodded, then stood.

  ‘He’ll be here in a moment. People to attend to. In the meantime, please, make yourselves comfortable.’

  She reached up. They hadn’t noticed but the booth had a velvet curtain on a rail that could be drawn around it for privacy.

  It was then, out of the corner of his eye, that Finch saw it. The red-headed man at the bar, the NBI minder. He was being carried out unconscious by a pair of bouncers.

  And the others…

  Finch went to warn Delgado but it was too late. His lips moved but the words wouldn’t come. He tried to stand but his legs were numb.

  The curtain came round.

  ‘Collins… Mr Collins,’ he heard Delgado groan.

  In their isolated velvet pod, everything was now swirling.

  Chapter 11

  Finch felt a dryness in his mouth… a bitter taste… a grogginess. It was dark but there was a smell… of pine… and smoke.

  He was in woods somewhere – a forest – deep in the dark of night.

  But no, it couldn’t be. The ground was hard… cold… boards.

  And the darkness… the constriction… the condensation of his own breath…

  He blinked as the sack was pulled off his head.

  He was lying on a floor. There were people… pinpricks of light… They swirled as he tried to find a point of convergence.

  ‘Stand.’

  The voice was deep, resonant, commanding. It was close. And it echoed.

  Shaky but conscious, Finch tried to reel his thoughts back into the realm of the logical. He knew from bitter experience that remaining calm, assessing his environment, was his surest means of staying alive.

  There was no pain in his body, other than the dull habitual one in his knee. He had not been physically injured. Although he was encumbered in some fashion. Yes, his hands were tied. But in front o
f him, not behind – that was always preferable.

  The medical man within him tried to figure out what the drug might have been. It was wearing off quickly and its after-effects were not crippling, which meant it was not excessive in dosage – a knockout drop to incapacitate him for, at most, two, maybe three hours. A sedative – diphenhydramine? An opiate?

  He tried hard to remember – the Bierkeller Club… the champagne… Yes, it was in the champagne. And Delgado…

  Delgado, where are you?

  The voice came again, stronger.

  ‘Stand!’

  Finch slowly manoeuvred himself. His wrists were bound with twine – no, not twine… some kind of fibre… a vine. He managed to press down with the heels of his hands and edge himself onto all fours.

  There was a murmur, a whispering as he did so. From how many voices, he couldn’t tell. But there were several. Again, they echoed, meaning the space was large. But there were no windows he could see. They must be underground. A basement.

  ‘Silence…!’ boomed the man for a third time and those same voices became still.

  His knee hurt too much from the effort, making the last thrust to his feet beyond him. It didn’t matter. Suddenly there was a figure either side, hoisting him upright. As his focus became clearer, the lights, winking through the smoke, became candles. And the woodland smell…?

  Around the room was foliage, the hue by candlelight a dark green. There were cloaks, hoods, robes… What the hell?

  Beware the occult.

  The voice came again. It was addressing the room… announcing.

  ‘It is our purpose to uncover the intentions of the “Ausländer”.’

  Ausländer… foreigner…

  The men about him stood in a circle, in a closed rank. They kept their heads bowed, covered, like monks, so as not to reveal their faces. On the left breast of each robe was a symbol, in gold – like a cross, but with each arm bent perpendicular at midway. It reminded him, curiously, of a Catherine wheel, pinned to a post, that had just burnt out…

  He had seen the emblem and tried to recall where. Indian troops in South Africa had carried good-luck charms bearing something similar. Hindu… Something from ancient mythology.

  The man giving the orders was sitting in a huge chair – a throne – fashioned from wood. He behaved in the manner of a high priest… like some kind of Druid elder. In his hand was a huge staff carved in the style of vines creeping up a gnarled branch; around his neck a laurel-leaf garland, the ongoing theme pagan, elemental.

  He banged the staff three times on the floor – a resounding, ominous thud.

  ‘Declare yourself, Ausländer.’

  ‘Declare myself?’

  ‘DECLARE YOURSELF!’

  ‘I rather think it’s you who should declare yourself.’

  There came a hard blow to the backs of the thighs and Finch’s legs buckled. He just managed to break his fall. He was jerked to his feet again.

  ‘I say again, declare yourself.’

  ‘I’ll do no such thing… And where the hell is Delgado?’

  There was no preamble, no drama, the action was swift.

  The man nodded. Two men swept Finch up and dumped him on a large wooden slab behind him. He hadn’t noticed it.

  An altar?

  His bound wrists were wrenched up and over his head leaving his midriff utterly exposed. There was no point in struggling. It was a waste of energy. It would also concede to them the psychology of victory – that they had broken him. Something bad was about to happen but he had to think his way out of it, not fight.

  Another robed figure strode over from beside the throne and grabbed Finch’s left hand. While the first two held him down, the third came behind him, took his little finger and, with a consummate ease, as nonchalantly as pulling a wishbone, yanked it back as hard as possible.

  CRACK!

  Jesus fucking Christ!

  The pain was like an electric jolt that ran from Finch’s hand, up his arm to his brain. He fought to control it, to contain it, to keep it within. It took a minute for the white-hot stab of agony to recede to mere excruciation.

  Then the damned voice rang out again.

  ‘I am hoping that we now have your full attention, Mr Collins. Think of it as an education, an experience from which you will have learned something. Your discomfort will serve as a reminder of the consequences of failing to treat our enquiry as a concern of the utmost gravity.’

  He felt his torturer grab the next finger, the ring finger… not that he’d ever worn one.

  ‘I must stress that the truth is something that will ultimately be elicited regardless of any attempt on your part to play this out as some sort of game. Of that you can rest assured.’

  Finch looked upwards to his hands. He had seen enough battlefield carnage in his time – injuries to turn the hardiest of stomachs and to which he had built up a solid professional immunity. The sight of his own little finger jutting outwards at ninety degrees at the first knuckle was another matter. It looked curiously like the arm of the cross they wore on their robes. His head began to spin.

  Focus, damnit. Focus!

  And then he saw… the hand of his torturer was female… just the shape of it, the nails, its softness, its poise, if not its strength. He couldn’t see within the hood, even with his upward vantage – she had been careful not to betray that.

  The two assailants held him tight while the torturer gripped the next finger, ready to continue her handiwork.

  He looked forward to his interrogator again. This time he yelled out, not in pain but defiance.

  ‘Delgado… Release him… He’s done nothing wrong. Let Delgado go and you can address everything to me!’

  The voice was eerie in its calm.

  ‘Mr Collins, the fate of Mr Delgado is none of your concern. But the fact that this gentleman is a known operative of the National Bureau of Criminal Identification marks him out as someone hostile. This, coupled with the detail that you are a British subject, newly arrived on our shores, as well as being in league with him, leads us inexorably to the conclusion that you are working for an intelligence organization, most likely “Military Operations 3”.’

  Finch wasn’t going to let them have the satisfaction.

  ‘Well, that would be news to my employer, British Nitrate.’

  ‘You were observed in the company of Mr Delgado and a detective of the New York Police Department at a warehouse in the Meatpacking District this very morning.’

  ‘Like I say, my company is in the business of nitrates – meat preservatives, animal foodstuffs. You are welcome to check my credentials if—’

  The voice cut across him – admonishing, domineering.

  ‘Need I tell you that the presence of an outside espionage agency, especially one with such a nefarious agenda, is injurious to the cause of our people.’

  ‘Your people? The local fancy-dress association?’

  SNAP!

  The next finger went too. He blacked out. A hard slap to the face brought him back – stunned, stinging and, for a moment, diverting from the agony. He panted hard.

  ‘I would caution you a second time, Mr Collins, that this is no time for jest. It is in your interest to divulge everything about your mission on our continent. Everything.’

  Give them nothing. Give them absolutely bloody nothing.

  ‘I’ve told you all you need to know.’

  ‘Very well…’

  The man nodded a signal.

  ‘…if physical persuasion has no effect, then maybe this will concentrate your mind.’

  The men restraining Finch released their grip. He was prodded back to his feet and lowered his bound hands. The blood rushed to them in a flood of pain.

  His torturer came back round to resume her place by the throne. The height, the movement… there was no doubting who it was. This time there was the briefest glimpse of a soft chin.

  The high priest nodded to a lieutenant who made a summoning gesture. Fro
m behind the wall of cloaks, a further group of four or five bodies squeezed their way through. They were dressed the same as the others but seemed younger to Finch – adolescent in their movement, gangly, cocky, eager to please. One of them, with both hands, was cradling a green velvet bag tied with a drawstring. It contained something weighty, round… a ball, a spherical object of some sort.

  On a further nod, a second youth untied it and the first one tipped its content across the floor. It thudded towards Finch, rolling asymmetrically, till it came to a halt at his feet.

  It wasn’t a ball… It was a head… a human head.

  MacLeish’s head.

  The dead eyes and the open mouth leered up at Finch. As if in some twisted joke, they had put his spectacles back on.

  Finch’s own head swam. The scene was so surreal, the act so utterly barbaric, that it defied any sense of rational opposition. He felt his own vision go, his legs collapse under him.

  He was picked up again, another slap delivered.

  ‘The fool had been insinuating himself into matters of which he had no concern,’ came the high priest’s voice, the decapitation as casual as the swatting of an irritating fly.

  There was no logic for Finch any more. In not even 24 hours he had been removed from a pampered VIP existence and plunged into a world which no longer conveyed any civilized meaning.

  ‘WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE? YOU SAVAGES!’

  The words being fired back at him meant nothing – drivel about harmony in nature and of purity and impurity and his own unreasonableness. The man was quoting Friedrich Nietzsche, something about ‘beautiful surfaces’ betraying a ‘terrible depth’. But Finch could think only of something else Nietzsche had said.

  God is dead.

  There were German sons and daughters being sacrificed, a persecution, the man was now lecturing. There was a debt of blood owed in return.

  Finch was willing himself to be present, but his legs were buckling again.

  The others began to chant in unison… what he did not know. But it was resonant, visceral, disturbing… issued at a low frequency that seemed to unsettle his guts.

  ‘We can only conclude by your presence amongst us that you mean harm,’ the man was ranting over the top. ‘The English and the Germans share Anglo-Saxon blood – so did the Americans until their mongrelization. Fortunately, the ruling classes maintain their purity.’