Hell Gate

by Jeff Dawson

  ‘Thank you.’

  He could still feel the hot barrel poking into his ribs.

  At the end of the street they were back on the shoreline again, the Hudson Piers. There, along the quays to the north, almost beckoning him to step aboard, was the good old Baltic, cranes over it, loading provisions. He had taken its luxury for granted.

  They were soaking wet, without coats. There was a wooden booth nearby, unattended, the clerk in huddled conversation with one of the drivers queuing to get his wagon onto a ferry. In it hung some black oilskins. Without breaking stride, she whipped two off the peg.

  ‘Hurry, before they see.’

  They weaved in and out of the carts, wagons and pedestrians with luggage destined for the Jersey shore. They took shelter behind a stack of packing crates and shrugged on the coats.

  ‘Here,’ she said.

  It was his wallet and passport. She had retrieved them from North.

  ‘Go to the kiosk. Buy a ticket to the Penn Station. The next ferry.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘Then you must be terminated too.’

  ‘Is that what you said to Freddie Delgado?’

  Her hand came hard and flat across his cheek. It stunned him.

  ‘You can walk away any time you like, Mr Collins. But now…? After what’s just happened? As far as Muller’s concerned, on top of everything else, you just killed a trusted lieutenant and abducted his mistress… in his own house. Not to mention those two extra bodies that’ll turn up in the trash. You’ll be hunted down. You won’t last an hour. Who are you going to run to… the police?’

  ‘There are other places I can go.’

  ‘Like DC, the British Embassy?’ she mocked. ‘You think they won’t have that staked out?’

  ‘What makes you think I…?’

  She cut him off.

  ‘And don’t assume Canada’s any safer.’

  Up close, he could feel the gun against him, but she stepped back. She showed both hands. He was not a captive. He was free if he chose.

  ‘I’ll do as you say on one condition,’ he said. ‘That you explain to me what the hell’s going on.’

  He thought he detected the faintest flicker of a smile. Almost imperceptible.

  ‘You really are in no position to negotiate,’ she scoffed. ‘One signal from me and you’re done for.’

  She turned to go.

  ‘Track 28. The Missouri Express. Bound for St Louis… There is a reservation for you in the name of Travers.’

  And she was gone.

  He went after her but she had merged into the ticket queues. Just another figure in black, hunched against the driving rain. He was on his own.

  Finch stood and thought. This was his moment. If he could make it to Grand Central Station and his precious locker…

  He mulled over alternative escape routes beyond the obvious… of forest trails into Canada and a steamship out of Halifax; of a way out via a Southern port – Charleston, Savannah, Mobile, New Orleans; to the British Bahamas via Florida; maybe even through Mexico… on to the West Indies.

  But something compelled him to do as she bade.

  The Hudson’s southern quays were for the ferries to the railway terminals lined up next to each other on the opposite shore – the Jersey Railroad at Communipaw; the Erie Railroad at Pavonia; the Delaware, Lackawanna & Western at Hoboken. Between them stood the dominant station, Exchange Place, home of the Pennsylvania Railroad, the ‘Pennsy’ as the ticket seller called it.

  It seemed strange that, for a city the size and importance of New York, it had no direct rail service to the rest of the country, other than north up into New England via the Hudson Valley. But such were the restrictions of being an island.

  The ferry was large and reasonably busy. Though it was covered, he stayed on the open deck for the short crossing. He wondered what Katia had meant by her ‘kidnapping’. She had got him out of a jam, all right, through this pretence, but altruism was never a motive in this game. She was using him for something.

  The Hudson was grey and choppy, different to yesterday. As the towers of Manhattan retreated, shrouded in murk, so the Jersey shore loomed. The ferries ran straight into the station complex, which sat next to the giant works of the Colgate company. He recognized the name. Their dental cream came in a tube. There had been some in his cabin on the ship – ‘toothpaste’.

  Catching a train to the West was a well-executed routine. The ferry pulled in next to a covered walkway, which channelled passengers all the way up to the kiosk windows and platforms.

  He did as she had asked and picked up his ticket.

  A cheery black porter appeared, dressed in a maroon suit and cap, though he abandoned his luggage trolley when he realized that Finch, unusually, carried none.

  ‘Gen’man’s travellin’ light today,’ he mused. ‘This way, Mr Travers…’

  Having had one alias already, Finch was now going to have to get used to answering to another.

  Exchange Place was as busy as any station in London and with the usual hubbub of activity – the whistles, the hisses of steam, baggage everywhere, the thrill of excitement or the numbness of boredom, depending on the familiarity. There were cafés, stores, a bookshop, newspaper stands and enough shoeshine boys to keep New York commuters polished till Doomsday.

  He was limping, he realized. The adrenaline had masked the pain, but now his knee was up to its usual tricks. He was tired, aching and, above all else, hungry.

  This was the point, he realized, where the continent truly began, as if New York were just a way station, a halfway house between Old World and New. There were trains for destinations he was yet to discover, deep in the heart of the Middle West – locomotives to Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Michigan; to Cleveland, Indianapolis, Chicago, Detroit. And, on Track 28, sat the great steaming behemoth of the Missouri Express, bound for St Louis.

  The carriages were sleek and silver, unlike anything back home, and the platform was low, such that one had to mount steps to climb aboard, lending a sense of size and power that one normally didn’t appreciate.

  There was a blast of compressed air and a hiss of steam. She was primed and ready.

  They moved up the corridor. The porter showed him the way.

  ‘Sleeper’s right up here, sir. Yo’ wife’s already on board.’

  ‘My wife?’

  He knocked the door for Finch. He turned the handle.

  ‘Yessir.’

  And there she was.

  Chapter 16

  She was sitting on the bunk. When she saw him, she rose and brushed his cheek with her lips.

  ‘Hello, darling. I was getting worried.’

  She pulled him in close. She smelled not of perfume, just clean – soap, a hint of cedarwood. But he felt the Luger silencer again, just below the ribs, just out of sight.

  The porter gave a knowing smile at the apparent display of affection.

  ‘Gotta be goin’. You folks have a good trip.’

  Finch rooted in his pocket for some change and, with a ‘thank you’, but without breaking the embrace, pressed some coins into the man’s hand.

  ‘My pleasure, Mr Travers. If you folks kin be waitin’ a few minutes, one of my colleagues gon’ be here with the dinner menus.’

  As the porter departed, Finch resisted, but she jammed the barrel in hard.

  ‘I’m going to tell you for the last time. If you want to live, you’ll do as I say.’

  Outside, there came the cry of ‘All aboard!’ and the vibrations of a powerful locomotive ready to take the strain of its carriages. Soon there was a conductor’s whistle and a great hiss of steam.

  ‘Do you understand me?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘Yes… I understand.’

  Katia eased off, but only a fraction. He felt her move the gun to one side as a safety measure – his ‘accidental’ killing, he figured, not part of her plan. The chains clanked and the wheels began to creak
. Then came a judder as the great Missouri Express began to pull away.

  The staccato jolt was Finch’s moment. With the unexpected lurch, he took a chance and struck a blow to her wrist. To his surprise, he smacked the weapon clean out of her hand.

  For a second the gun lay on the bed, incongruous on the gold satin quilt. Thrown off balance, caught off guard, she failed to right herself in time. Finch scooped it up, turned and shoved it straight back at her.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Now I’d like some answers.’

  The stare came back at its most resolutely steely, as if this were only a minor setback in the greater struggle. She threw a contemptuous look down to the gun. Finch snarled back.

  ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re up to but, the way I see things, you’re nothing but a sadistic killer. Last night, for Christ’s sake, you were torturing me! And don’t even get me started on that crazed fancy-dress ritual you were part of. I think I deserve an explanation for what the hell’s going on!’

  She issued a snort of derision.

  ‘You call that torture? You haven’t been in this line of work very long.’

  ‘You broke two fingers. And rather professionally, might I add.’

  He waved the bandaged hand for effect.

  ‘It was the least damage I could get away with,’ she said. ‘And your left hand at that. It had to look convincing. I even let you get a glimpse of me, remember?’

  Finch felt his blood rise.

  ‘You tell me what I need to know right now or I swear to God…!’

  He jabbed the gun at her again and, for a fleeting moment, he thought she looked scared, something he hadn’t yet witnessed.

  ‘…I mean, you go from being my tormentor one minute to my helper the next… my saviour? Why?’

  She let out a sigh.

  ‘Because I need something from you.’

  ‘Need something?’

  He could see her brow wrinkle slightly as she assembled her thoughts.

  ‘For one there’s the codebook,’ she said.

  ‘The codebook…?’

  He issued a wry smile.

  ‘Not that again… I’d half imagined it was you who took it.’

  His response confirmed something for her. She spat out a name and cursed it to herself.

  ‘Delgado.’

  ‘And where the hell is he… Delgado? What have you done with him? Poor bastard. I assume he’s being held by Muller… if he’s not dead by now?’

  ‘You assume a lot of things—’

  Assumption is our enemy.

  ‘—Captain Ingo Finch.’

  His own name. It threw him.

  ‘How do you…?’

  ‘I’ll come to that in a bit… And as for Freddie Delgado? Rule number one, Finch. Trust no one.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  She gestured to the bunk. It was a pull-down double bed, a narrow one.

  ‘Look, do you mind if I sit?’

  ‘Keep your hands where I can see them.’

  She kept her palms up and facing him as she perched on the edge of the mattress.

  ‘You should sit too,’ she said.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  As the train picked up speed, it began to rock. He braced himself against the wall. He kept sufficient distance in case she was hoping to seize an opportunity and reverse the balance of power – a sudden swing of the leg perhaps.

  The cabin was cramped, not unlike that of second-class ship accommodation, from what he’d witnessed on a mooch around the lower decks at sea. It had all that you needed in miniature – a small en-suite bathroom, shelves, a tiny dresser. There was nothing visible that could be used as a weapon immediately, though he didn’t doubt her ingenuity.

  He tried to read her but she was as yielding as a statue. That she had placed herself in a seated position seemed a deliberate act of submission… perceived or otherwise.

  Through the window, the sun was setting and it bathed the room in an orange glow. They were rumbling out across the New Jersey flats and its meandering creeks, past the silhouettes of Newark.

  ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me that Delgado planted the bomb, too?’

  ‘Actually he did… plant the bomb… It was me who telephoned you – got you away from the blast.’

  ‘What?’

  He rubbed the back of his neck, incredulous.

  ‘Then how about you killing North? Whatever the circumstances, that was a sheer cold-blooded execution.’

  She issued a hiss of disdain.

  ‘The least he deserved. He was Muller’s factotum, with more than enough blood on his hands, including the torture and dismemberment of Agent Kimmel.’

  ‘Kimmel?’

  ‘I’m guessing you’ve heard his name.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Why was Kimmel murdered?’

  ‘Because he was close to something. And so was MacLeish. And it’s why they’ll try and kill you too.’

  ‘So where does Delgado fit in?’

  ‘Unlike North, Delgado is NBI. But he’s on Muller’s payroll. You didn’t know it, but you were in Muller’s pocket the minute you stepped off the boat. Delgado led you right to him – the fly to the spider – after he failed to have you blown up, that is… Your death was to be pinned on the Cosa Nostra, the Irish or Chinese gangs, anarchists, or whoever else they found expedient. I wouldn’t get too beat up about Delgado either. Once he’d drugged your drink he went home to a warm feather bed. Possibly even his own.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘That’s too bad.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘You’ve still got a lot of explaining to do.’

  There was a knock at the door. Finch cracked it open, keeping the gun trained on Katia the whole time. It was a steward with the menus. Finch took them and shut the door again.

  ‘When was the last time you ate?’ she asked him.

  The question threw him.

  ‘I can’t remember,’ she added.

  ‘Aside from a mouthful of three-cent hot dog… me neither,’ said Finch.

  ‘The key to this is to keep up appearances,’ she told him. ‘We don’t know who’s on this train.’

  She nodded to the gun in his hand.

  ‘The dining car. I promise. I’ll tell you there.’

  * * *

  They were shown to a table in the restaurant wagon. It was busy but not full. With his free hand, Finch had done his best to sponge off his jacket. He held his left arm down to conceal the rip in the seam that proceeded south from his armpit. The waiter went off to fetch their cocktails: a gin and tonic for him, a whisky and vermouth concoction for her – a ‘Manhattan’.

  Finch kept his right hand inside his jacket on the Luger. Outside, lights drifted by in the twilight as the Missouri Express dipped south-west now to Philadelphia, the first major stop on the route, before the track turned west again across Pennsylvania, on to Harrisburg, then Pittsburgh.

  There was force in her whisper.

  ‘Are you really going to shoot me right here, Captain Finch?’ she taunted.

  He had the gun, but there was no doubting who was still in charge.

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘All in good time.’

  He offered her a cigarette. She took it. He lit hers then his.

  ‘But you should really do something about that lighter,’ she said.

  Its monogrammed initials were there for all to see – ‘I.F.’ He really was an amateur he knew, a lamb to the slaughter.

  You’re completely expendable.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, and, out of the view of others, lay the pistol down, covering it with a crisp white napkin, close enough to hand should he need it. It was a peace gesture. At the very least it gave a pretence of conviviality, their cover of man and wife.

  The drinks arrived – hers reddish brown with a black olive, his with too much ice. All drinks in America came with too much ice, in hi
s opinion.

  She toasted him.

  ‘Chin-chin, darling.’

  He clinked his glass against hers.

  ‘Cheers…’ And then sarcastically: ‘…darling.’

  The waiter asked if they’d had a chance to look at the menus. They hadn’t, but were hungry enough to choose on the spot – steak and fries as the main.

  ‘Look,’ said Finch, ‘can we at least reach some truce where we’re honest with each other – within the bounds of reason?’

  She sipped her drink.

  ‘That would be acceptable.’

  ‘You said there were two things you wanted from me,’ he continued. ‘One was the codebook… So, what was two?’

  He could see her thinking how to couch her answer. She could clearly only reveal so much. She put her glass down.

  ‘Look… Five years ago, in the South African War, the Boer War as you British call it, you got yourself involved, inadvertently, in – shall we say – a case of espionage.’

  ‘How do you…?’

  She raised a finger to her lips.

  ‘Please… I need you to listen.’

  He nodded his understanding but didn’t like her knowledge of his affairs any the less.

  ‘During the process of this – “adventure” – you came across some classified information, documents. Those documents pertained to the evident use, testing, by British authorities of a new weapon, poison gas… gas to be used in a battlefield scenario should – when – another war comes. Am I right so far?’

  ‘I’m forbidden to comment.’

  ‘Then I shall continue… Acting in a freelance capacity you and an accomplice—’

  Annie. He’d been trying not to think about her.

  ‘—chose to ignore any semblance of military protocol and mounted your own independent mission to expose this, successful as it turned out… a qualified success at any rate.’

  ‘I do not regret anything that may or may not have happened.’

  Way up ahead, the train’s whistle gave a series of blasts.

  ‘At a critical juncture, you outsmarted your adversaries by forwarding these documents on to England. Facing imminent charges, however, you employed a bit of cunning – you stashed this evidence in a security deposit box. You used it as leverage – collateral – to secure your acquittal at a secret court martial convened by the British military authorities.’