Cast No Shadow

by Peter Alderson Sharp

  “So instead of aiding Socarras you are working with the communist groups to consolidate them and to train them?” he asked.

  The sneer on Vladeshenko’s face told of problems and trouble. In a flash Kelly realised that things were not going well for Vladeshenko. The Cuban communists were not playing ball, and the whole operation was probably in jeopardy.

  “Too many questions, Mr Kelly,” said Vladeshenko flatly, his face a mask. “It is we who need to ask the questions. I want you to meet an old friend.” He pressed a bell push near the desk and within seconds a door to the rear swung open and a short man in a grey suit entered. It was a few seconds before Kelly recognised the man behind the evil grin.

  Botvinik! The political officer from the ‘Ekaterina’.

  Kelly had felt extremely uneasy about being the captive of Vladeshenko, but now he felt it doubly so. He had, after all, humiliated both men in the past. A fact neither of them was likely to have forgotten.

  “You remember Commander Botvinik I think?” Vladeshenko asked, the sneer returning to his face. “You have information which he needs. I will leave the two of you to talk about old times. Please excuse me.”

  He rose and started towards the door. Stopping midway he turned to Kelly, the menace unmistakable in his voice, he said, “You mentioned earlier that we were ‘even’, Mr Kelly. That is far from being the case. Your actions caused a setback in my career and led to poor Lieutenant Botvinik, as he was then, being demoted to Second Lieutenant.” He paused, chewing the knuckle of his first finger as if pondering something. “Do you know?” he continued, pointing at Kelly, and wagging his finger, “I do believe he still bears you a grudge. Goodbye, Mr Kelly.”

  With that he turned on his heel and strode from the room.

  Botvinik took Vladeshenko’s place behind the desk and stared at Kelly for a full minute without speaking. Finally, however, he did speak. “Where are they, Mr Kelly?” he asked.

  “Where are who?”

  “Agent Drinkwater and the student Negrin of course,” Botvinik persisted.

  “Is that who those two students were?” asked Kelly. “I just gave them a lift. I didn’t ask their names. They were on their way to the hills for a picnic. Do you know, I think there might be something between those two. They seemed awfully close.”

  “Don’t play with me, Mr Kelly. Where are they?” For the first time the smile had disappeared from the Russian’s face.

  “I don’t know,” Kelly answered flatly. “I just gave them a lift.”

  “What were you doing in the hills?”

  “I was on my way to the American base at Guantanamo and became lost. I am expected. They will be curious to know where I am.” His response seemed to catch Botvinik off guard. The thought of the Americans becoming curious about a lost English agent was worrying. Clearly, thought Kelly, he hasn’t considered that possibility.

  Botvinik rose and paced the floor for a moment, then rang the bell and left the room as one of the guards came in to take his place. It was several minutes before he returned, but now he was smiling.

  That issue is now resolved, thought Kelly. He didn’t dare dwell on what solution Vladeshenko had suggested, but it probably revolved around him having an accident, which would undoubtedly be traced to the local communists.

  “Now Mr Kelly, enough play, I want some answers. Where is the rebels’ camp?”

  “Are you telling me that you do not know where it is?” asked Kelly quizzically.

  Botvinik looked puzzled. “Of course we don’t know. Why else would I ask?”

  “But that means you haven’t made contact with them, which suggests that they do not want to meet with you, which in turn means that your entire mission here is a failure!”

  Botvinik’s face changed gradually in aspect and colour. He staggered to his feet glaring down on Kelly. Without warning he started banging the table with his clenched fist, shouting, “SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!”

  He’s lost it completely, thought Kelly, as he watched saliva dribble down Botvinik’s face. The door at the back of the room opened just a fraction and Botvinik immediately stopped. Shaking he sat down and wiped his face. The door closed again.

  Botvinik sat for some minutes in silence as he battled to regain his composure. He tried to smile again but was only able to offer a ghastly grimace.

  “You will come with me, Mr Kelly,” he said eventually, pressing the bell and summoning two of the armed guards into the room. Botvinik spoke quietly to one of the armed men, who indicated that Kelly should follow him. He was taken up another flight of stairs and pushed into a small room, no larger than a cleaning cupboard. The room was completely devoid of any furnishing and had no window. A high intensity bright light beamed down from a recess in the ceiling, on either side of which there were two speaker grills. Kelly knew what was coming.

  White noise at a deafening level was suddenly emitted from the speakers. Kelly hunched himself down against the wall using the right angle in the corner to support himself, clasped his hands over his ears and waited. There was no option than to prepare his mind to endure the discomfort until Botvinik wanted to see him again.

  Time passed. Kelly had no idea how slowly or quickly. He deliberately didn’t look at his watch, as he knew time would seem to stop if he started doing that. It had been a long night and he was tired. In spite of the intense discomfort he was feeling, he felt himself starting to doze.

  There was a crash as the cell door burst open.

  A guard stood over him. “Wake up! Wake up!” he shrieked, pouring a bucket of ice-cold water over Kelly. Kelly jerked to his feet and the guard stepped back to the door. Kelly could clearly see another guard waiting just outside the cell door, his small machine gun at the ready. The door slammed shut and he was alone once more, but now cold and wet as well.

  He was left alone until he again started to doze when the whole episode was played out again. And again. Kelly was beginning to feel disorientated, unsure whether he was starting to doze or hallucinating. After an eternity, the door crashed open and Kelly hunched himself ready for the iced water.

  When none came, he looked up. It was Botvinik with that insane grin all over his face.

  “Stand up!”

  Kelly complied.

  “Where is the rebel camp?”

  “I don’t know!” said Kelly resignedly. Botvinik made a signal to the guards, who half dragged, half carried Kelly out of the cell along the corridor and into another room. The room was bigger than the previous cell, but just as stark with no windows and no ventilation. The only furnishing was a metal box, about the size of a large horse trough in the centre of the room. It was filled to the brim with water, and beside it lay a metal lid.

  “Get in!” said Botvinik. Kelly tried to resist, but the two guards were joined by two others who manhandled him into the container. The lid was placed on top and fastened down.

  Kelly found himself in a metal coffin, immersed in tepid water, in pitch-blackness. He forced his head upwards until his face came in contact with the metal lid of the tank. He had about one inch of air above the water. He fought against his rising panic, forcing himself to stay calm. If he could remain with his head in this position he would at least survive for some time. However, if—as he suspected—because of the total lack of light the container was air tight, then the amount of air trapped in the pocket would not last for too long.

  The strain of keeping his head in the air pocket was beginning to tell on his back and shoulders. Kelly took a deep breath and submerged for a while allowing his muscles to relax, then maintained his strained position again. He repeated this manoeuvre several times, but the strain was worse each time. He was beginning to lose hope. Botvinik was sick enough to let him die slowly like this, but Kelly clung to the hope that he desperately needed information on the rebel group in order to save face with his superiors in the Soviet Union.

  At last, the rattle of the fasteners being released was transmitted dully through the wat
er. The lid was raised, and Kelly almost sprang into a sitting position breathing in huge lungfuls of air as he did so. He was roughly grabbed by the arms and hoisted out of the tank and dragged before Botvinik.

  The Russian spoke slowly and deliberately. “Where is the rebel camp?”

  Kelly breathed in deeply several times before answering; he needed to purge his lungs of carbon dioxide in case, as was likely, he was returned to the tank. With an elaborate display of patience, Botvinik repeated the question.

  “I don’t know,” Kelly answered, but he allowed a trace of hesitation to enter his voice. His only hope of staying alive was to convince Botvinik that he really did know. Botvinik’s face was purple as he slapped Kelly across the face. He screamed in Russian at the Spetsnaz guards who dragged Kelly back to the tank. As he was lowered, Kelly kicked and thrashed around wildly, his aim being to displace as much water as possible from the tank to provide as large an air pocket as possible.

  As the lid was lowered, Kelly again fought against the feeling of hopelessness and panic he felt deep inside. Perhaps the easiest solution was just to sink into the water and end the torment. Then he remembered he’d experienced that exact feeling in the icy waters off Norway but look at all the things that had happened since. He mentally resolved to fight on.

  He repeated the process of submerging at regular intervals and again this gave him some relief, but the torture seemed to have gone on much longer this time. He wondered if this was just a trick of his tormented mind. When he began to find breathing difficult, he knew the air in the pocket was turning bad. One way or another it couldn’t go on.

  Kelly found himself starting to black out for short periods. He would awaken suddenly, inhaling water and rise quickly choking and coughing. He knew this would quicken the loss of oxygen in the air, but there was nothing he could do.

  The third time it happened, he surfaced into the pocket, but found himself gasping for air, unable to breath. He heard the fasteners being released. Even with the lid lifted he was still gagging and struggling for air. Again, he was lifted out of the tank and dragged before Botvinik and asked the question and again he denied any knowledge.

  He was breathing deeply but was still semi-conscious and unable to stand unaided. Botvinik made a sign to the two guards who released Kelly allowing him to slump onto his knees. Botvinik brought a baseball bat from behind his back and, placing one end under Kelly’s chin, he lifted his head so that he was fully aware of what was to happen next.

  Botvinik said something to the two guards, but they seemed reluctant to comply. The Russian looked in disbelief and screamed at them, pointing to the door with the baseball bat. Reluctantly it seemed, the two guards left the room, closing the door behind them.

  Kelly was regaining his composure all the time and he felt his strength returning, however he remained in a slumped position, his head had fallen back on his chest and his whole aspect said ‘helpless’. A slim chance, a very slim chance had arisen, and Kelly didn’t want to waste it.

  With the guards gone Botvinik set about Kelly with the baseball bat. Kelly took the beating and waited for the opportunity to arise, but the beating was taking it out of him. He managed to ward off some of the blows with his arms and deliberately took others on the fleshy part of the legs when he could manoeuvre himself to do so.

  Botvinik stopped for breath; it was the moment Kelly had waited for. He crawled on all fours into a corner, his back towards Botvinik, then, unseen by the Russian, forced two fingers down his throat until he gagged. He could feel the bile rising in his stomach. Slowly he struggled around on his knees to face Botvinik, for all the world a dejected and beaten man. Then he struggled slowly to his feet, gagging as he did.

  Botvinik advanced, the baseball bat raised, the look on his face said that the game was over. As the baseball bat descended, Kelly vomited bile and stagnant water into the Russian’s crazed face.

  Skadi

  The down swinging bat missed Kelly by a sea mile, but Kelly’s lunge at Botvinik with his fist found the Russian’s midriff with unerring accuracy. The punch, delivered with all the force Kelly could muster, winded the Russian and doubled him up. As his head came down, Kelly clasped Botvinik’s neck with one hand, forcing the head down while at the same time bringing his knee up sharply.

  Botvinik’s rapidly descending nose met Kelly’s rapidly ascending knee with a sickening crunch. Botvinik crashed to the floor. It was his turn to crawl away on all fours, whimpering and choking in his attempt to call for help, but the combination of broken nose and lack of wind prevented any sound above a wheeze. Even so, Kelly needed to act fast. He quickly caught the retreating Botvinik and swung his left arm around the Russian’s neck. Clasping his right bicep with his left hand, he then placed his right hand onto the side of the Russian’s head and with all of his strength jerked his arm downwards. There was a sharp crack and Kelly was left holding the dead weight of the Russian.

  Quickly he picked up the bat and moved to the opening side of the door. Flattening his back against the wall he adopted the pose of an all-American baseball star, the bat poised high in the air. With his left heel he banged sharply on the door. The door swung open and the guard took a step inside. He spotted Kelly immediately, but too late to evade the swinging bat which caught him square on the temple.

  The big man was sent wheeling against the wall. He staggered a few steps before collapsing onto the body of Botvinik. Kelly quickly closed the door and advanced on the downed Spetsnaz soldier with his bat raised. The man was unconscious. Kelly wondered about the sub machine gun that had clattered onto the floor when the guard was downed but decided against it. Too conspicuous. Instead, he rolled the big soldier off the dead Botvinik and searched Botvinik’s body. With a grunt of satisfaction, he found a small 9 mm Beretta, already loaded, cocked and on safety. He tucked it into his waistband and advanced to the door.

  He had taken a chance that the curt dismissal of the two guards would result in one of them standing down and it had paid off. Now he hoped that no one else was in the corridor. Opening the door a crack, he peered down the passage. A figure had just passed the door and was heading along the corridor. Even from the rear the fat man was easily recognisable as Diego Diez.

  Kelly watched as Diez entered a room. He waited for the door to click closed. The door was pushed to, but there was no click.

  Kelly hesitated for a moment, but only for a moment. He had to move. He could be discovered at any time. He decided against the stairs that he had previously ascended knowing these led directly to Vladeshenko’s lair. Instead, he moved in the other direction, along the corridor in the hope of finding an alternative staircase. This route took him past the room Diez had entered. Fortunately, although the door hadn’t fully closed, there was only a slight crack. Kelly paused and listened for a moment. There were voices speaking in Russian, laughter interlaced with conversation. Diez was clearly at home here; that would explain the information that the Russians had on himself and on Jenny Drinkwater and the student Negrin.

  Kelly eased past the door and continued quickly down the passage. To his delight, a spiral staircase led down to the floor below. However, as he descended, he could see that it brought him up abruptly to a heavy wooden door bolted on this side. Kelly prayed it wasn’t also locked on the other side. As quietly as he could he slid the top and bottom bolts across, then grabbed the old iron handle and turned. The door swung open an inch and Kelly peered through the gap. A museum!

  He opened the door just enough to allow himself to ease through, then closed it behind him. The room was full of cases displaying artefacts relating to Cuba’s past. It was quite busy with tourists, but he still caught several people glancing at him, made conspicuous by his wet clothing and general state of disarray. Ignoring the curious stares, he looked around for a staircase that would take him down to the ground level. There! He spotted it on the opposite wall.

  Kelly made his way around the room as unobtrusively as possible, taking his time an
d glancing at the exhibits arranged against the walls. On reaching the staircase he walked down at a casual pace and found himself in the entrance foyer. There was a throng of people at the entrance desk, and Kelly felt comfortable about walking past them and out of the exit. He smiled at a bored security guard as he passed, and apart from giving him a quizzical look, the attendant did nothing to impede his exit.

  Once outside, Kelly quickly scanned the area. A bus had pulled up to the entrance of the castle and passengers were just starting to disembark. About five yards to the left of the bus, under the shade of a lilac tree, was the American car that had brought him to the castle. Beside it stood a single guard. No weapons were visible, but his blond hair made him stand out. Kelly continued to scan. He could see no alternative form of transport other than the car. Trying to make it on foot was out of the question, he would be picked up in no time.

  Kelly circled the bus, hidden by the passengers emerging from it, and moved into the garden area keeping undercover until he was within a few feet of the Russian guard. Without further ceremony, Kelly broke cover, walked up to the guard and tapped him on the shoulder. As the Russian turned, Kelly hit him with a vicious right hook, connecting on the point of the chin. The soldier stiffened and fell like a tree, completely poleaxed, crashing into the gravel face first without his arms ever leaving his sides.

  Kelly jumped into the driver’s seat, noting the sub machine gun resting on the passenger’s seat, no doubt the property of the recumbent Russian guard. To his great relief the keys were in the dash. In one fluid movement he started the engine, shifted into drive and spun the car around. He started down the drive, scattering a number of bus passengers as he did so. Through the side window he saw Vladeshenko, Diez and several of the Spetsnaz scurrying out of the side door in a clearly agitated manner. They are bound to have other cars nearby, thought Kelly.