Seek and Destroy

by John Glasby

  Seek and Destroy

  John Glasby

  © John S Glasby 1968

  The right of John S Glasby to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  First Published in 1968 by John Spencer & Co.

  This edition published in 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Agents of Fear

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Bait

  CHAPTER THREE

  This Drug Is Dangerous!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  DEATH OF AN AGENT

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Night Holds Danger

  CHAPTER SIX

  A Web of Shadows

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Tortures of the Damned

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Big Gamble

  Introduction

  The man behind the desk had been silent for a long time. Now he looked up from the papers in front of him. Placing the tips of his fingers gently together, he gave Carradine a penetrating glance but his tone was quite casual, matter-of-fact, as he said:

  “We know the Reds have been pouring money into South America at a fantastic rate for the past two years. These reports of secret work going on down there indicate they are building launching sites for intercontinental ballistic missiles with which they obviously hope to force a shift of military power against NATO.”

  Carradine gave a tight smile, settled back in his chair: “And the nuclear warheads for these missiles, sir?” he asked.

  “So far as we know,” was the chilling reply; they have just left Russia and are on their way. Your job will be to prevent them from reaching their destination — wherever that may be ...”

  Unknown to Carradine, a trap had already been laid for him; a trap which had been cunningly baited with a beautiful lure — a girl called Valentina.

  Introducing Steve Carradine, occupation Special Agent ...

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Agents of Fear

  The house stood alone. On either side of it, and behind it, was the great area of the city. The two possessed a certain affinity; an air of well-being, of peace and suburban serenity. Even though it was situated on the outskirts of Montevideo in the Treinta y Tres, the house had been subtly altered over the past eighteen years, so that now it had a Gothic air about it, a way of remembering the past for the man who lived there.

  His real name was Gunther Henkel; but for the past eighteen years it had been Carlos de Silva, a man of independent means, extremely wealthy, and of a curiously retiring nature, seldom seen in the city, living with his daughter and a single manservant. He was a forgotten man, forgotten since the end of the war which had ravaged the whole of Europe, since the perpetrator-in-chief had died in a brief blaze of petrol fire with his mistress Eva Braun.

  It was because of his pre-war work on high-altitude rockets that he came to the notice of Reichmarshal Goering and he was uprooted from his studies at Zurich and transferred under conditions of top security to one of the secret rocket establishments fifty miles from Berlin. The transfer could not have suited Henkel better. The work at the University had been hampered by lack of funds. Now, for the first time in his career, funds were unlimited. The work had the direct approval of the Feuhrer himself.

  Seven months after the Allied invasion of Europe, and following the failure of the VI and V2 rockets to turn the tide of war in Germany’s favour Henkel realized that the course of the war had already been decided, that the Third Reich was finished, and as one of the topmost rocket experts in Germany, his own position after the war could be an extremely precarious one.

  Accordingly, he had secretly and carefully changed all of his wealth into diamonds and when the war ended, he had been ready. Like many others, his plans had been laid well. It had been difficult to obtain diamonds in Germany during the last few months of the war; it had been almost ridiculously easy to get out of Europe with his daughter Gerda, on to the ship which had brought him to Uruguay. By the time he had sold most of the diamonds, to dealers who asked no questions as to their origin, he had sufficient money to ensure a life of ease and comfort

  Now, eighteen years later, Henkel, staring out of the window of the house, looking down on to the wide, spacious grounds, gleaming faintly in the glow of moonlight, smiled contentedly at his own reflection in the clear glass.

  From the outside, the house had its atmosphere of peace and quiet and serenity, from the single lighted window on the ground floor, to the shadowed gables, dark against the night sky. But the quiet and the serenity were false.

  The light from the window brought its own shadows, it touched the outer fringes of the bushes but left the rest of them in darkness.

  Half an hour earlier a car had purred into the plaza some twenty yards from the entrance of the grounds. With the engine switched off and the interior in darkness, it sat unnoticed, well away from the nearest lamp, in the pool of shadow thrown by the tall trees. The man seated behind the wheel checked the watch on his left wrist. It was the first movement either of the two men in the car had made for ten minutes.

  Vslevov, seated beside him, gave a quick glance. It was almost time. Inwardly he was glad that on this occasion their orders were to take this man alive. He was sick of murder. For the past eight months he had enjoyed his stay in this country, so different from the bitter cold of Russia. It was part of his work to kill, to destroy. He did not enjoy doing it. He scarcely ever had, but there were occasions when it had to be done and he did it efficiently and without trying to think too much about it.

  Kronovitch now, was different in every way. Jenko Kronovitch was an exceedingly dangerous member of society, even in Russia where a great deal of killing had to be done, all justified by the need to rid the country of those who were considered to be enemies of the State. Ordinarily, he might have been put in a place where he could do no harm, but the M.G.B. were always on the lookout for men capable of carrying out orders without question, completely trustworthy.

  “You are sure that he will be alone in the house?” Kronovitch did not turn his head as he spoke.

  Vslevov nodded quickly. “His daughter left two hours ago. She will not return until after midnight.”

  “After midnight?” There was a slight lifting of the thick brows. “Please be more exact, Comrade.”

  Vslevov swallowed. He began to tremble a little inside. He knew it would be a waste of time to apologize. This vagueness was contrary to discipline. “She will arrive back at the house between twelve-fifteen and twelve-thirty.”

  “And the servant?”

  “This is the night when he goes into the city. He will not return until morning.”

  “Excellent.” Kronovitch opened the door of the car, stepped silently out, closing it behind him. Together they made their way along the wide street, keeping to the shadows thrown by the trees. Soon, on their right, barbed iron railings stretched along the street. Beyond them, half-hidden behind the trees stood the well-proportioned brick house with its Gothic gables, all in darkness except for the window on the ground floor. Kronovitch glanced up, almost idly, noticing the rolls of barbed wire which ran along the top of the railings. Obviously Henkel had taken certain precautions in spite of the fact that he probably believed himself secure here, hiding behind the new name, the new life, he had made for himself.

  The tall gates were securely locked. There was possibly some hidden warning system fitted to them anyway. Thirty yards further on the railings merged with a high stone wall and it was here that he found what he had been looking for. The gap in the railings was wider at this point, wide enough for them to ease their bodies thro
ugh. Warily, they moved through the trees towards the house. There was an open courtyard in front of the house. Vslevov moved out into the open, bit down on the gasp of pain as Kronovitch’s hand closed about his upper arm in a grip of steel. Two shadows padded across a patch of moonlight, stood for a moment with their massive heads lifted to the sky as if scenting the presence of the two men among the trees. A moment later they came forward at a swift lope, lips drawn back over the snarling fangs.

  There was the padding of feet on the smooth concrete. Then Kronovitch had taken the tiny weapon from his pocket. Smaller than a normal gun, it seemed dwarfed by his ham-like fist. The dogs were less than twenty feet away when he pressed the trigger. There was scarcely any sound but the two tiny darts had each found its mark, each tipped with sufficient curare to kill a score of dogs.

  Kronovitch scarcely paused to give the two bodies a second glance as he stepped over them. Keeping to one side of the wide swathe of light that spilled from the downstairs window, they reached the bushes growing close to the wall of the house. Henkel would be expecting nothing. After all, eighteen years had gone by since he had escaped from Germany, carrying in his head much vital information regarding the science of rocketry. By now, thought Kronovitch grimly, much of that information must surely be out of date. But the orders direct from M.G.B. Headquarters in Moscow had been explicit and he was in no position to question the reason behind them.

  The French windows were open; another sign that Henkel relied on the defences he had set up in the grounds. Vslevov switched on his torch at a signal from Kronovitch and stepped through the windows, going carefully into the room beyond. The light of the torch showed exquisite furniture, a Persian carpet, and paintings around the walls which even he recognized as original masters. Silently, the two men moved towards the door on the far side of the room. It opened noiselessly. There was a faint light in the corridor, coming from the strip of yellow that showed beneath a door halfway along it. Vslevov nodded and the other man motioned him forward.

  Pausing for a moment outside the door, Kronovitch listened intently. When he heard nothing, he closed his fingers gently around the handle of the door, twisted silently. In the steady, singing silence, a small noise came from inside the room. The sound a man might make as he shifted his body into a more comfortable position in his chair. Kronovitch gave a quick nod, pushed hard at the door, forcing it open and in the same movement, he was inside the room, eyes slitted against the harsh glare of the lights.

  The man seated at the desk in the middle of the room looked up sharply, the eyes behind the steel-rimmed bifocals widening in stunned surprise. Almost automatically his right arm cut across his body, swivelling in his chair.

  “Stop!” called Kronovitch sharply, his voice cutting like the lash of a whip across the stillness, “or I shall be forced to kill you.”

  The other’s hand had not travelled far. Now it stopped, as if frozen, a couple of inches from his pocket. “Who are you? How did you get in here and what do you want with me?”

  “You are to come with us,” Kronovitch said softly. His voice was uninterested in the other, or in any threat of the other. At the moment Henkel did not exist for him except possibly as a target if he did not do as he was told.

  “Where?” For a moment there was the beginning of fear showing through on the other’s face, a faint sheen of perspiration, glistening in the light. It was the reaction of a man who was beginning to guess that fate, the fate from which he had been hiding these past eighteen years, was now catching up with him.

  “You will discover that soon enough, Herr Henkel.”

  “Henkel? But my name is de Silva. Carlos de Silva. I have papers to prove —”

  “Papers can be forged and will prove nothing. Your name, your record, everything about you is known to us.” While he had been speaking, Vslevov had moved around to me back of the other’s chair. Reaching into the other's pocket, he took out the gun and thrust it into his own. Almost automatically, Henkel swung round. Fear seemed to have given him a reckless courage which he would otherwise never have possessed. Vslevov’s stiffened right hand travelled less than six inches, fingers spread out for rigidity, but the blow sent Henkel’s head jerking back on his neck, his body sliding from the chair. He was unconscious before he hit the floor. Bending beside the body, Vslevov felt for the pulse, glanced up at Kronovitch and nodded his head slowly.

  “He is still alive,” he said tonelessly.

  “Very well. Get him down to the car.”

  Vslevov picked up the unconscious body, carried it out of the room, along the corridor and through the parted French windows. In all, less than three minutes had elapsed since they had entered the house. A car passed as they reached the gates. It drove on without slowing. Kronovitch glanced up and down the quiet street. There was no one. Working quickly, he forced the lock on the gates, knowing that even if a warning mechanism had been rigged there, it would now be sounding its warning to an empty house.

  Sliding the unconscious man into the back of the car, Vslevov got in beside Kronovitch.

  Starting the car. Kronovitch said softly: “Keep an eye on him. He may come round and give us trouble on the way.”

  Vslevov took the gun he had removed from Henkel’s pocket out of his own, checked carefully that it was loaded, that the safety catch was off, then settled himself back in his seat as the other let in the clutch, moving the high-powered car away from the kerb and along the deserted street.

  A hundred yards along the street, a car suddenly swung around the corner, the powerful glare of the headlights sweeping over them, half-blinding Kronovitch as he pulled hard on the wheel, tyres bleating along the edge of the pavement. He swore fluently in Russian, swerving violently to avoid the oncoming vehicle. For a moment, he could see nothing, aware only that the other car had somehow scraped past him with only inches to spare. Whoever had been in that car would have seen them both clearly in that blinding light. Even though there seemed no possible way in which they could be connected with Henkel’s disappearance, it was something which his tidy and meticulous mind did not like. No sooner had the other car gone past them, straightening up now that the danger was past, than Vslevov said sharply: “The driver of that car, Comrade. Did you see who it was?”

  “How did you expect me to see who was driving that car when I could not even see the road ahead of me?” snapped the other tightly. His voice was cold. “Was it of any importance?”

  “It was the girl — Henkel’s daughter. I’m sure of it.”

  Kronovitch’s heavy face was suddenly suffused with anger. “You are sure of this? She was not due back at the house for another hour — if your information was correct.”

  “Perhaps she decided to return earlier. It has never happened before and I have watched the house for more than two months.”

  Kronovitch was silent for a long moment, concentrating on the road which was leading them out of the city, into the dark country to the west of Montevideo. Then, stretching his lips back over his teeth, he spoke in short, clipped syllables, his voice coming out in a sort of sibilant hiss.

  “We must assume that she saw us and that she could recognize us again. That could be extremely embarrassing, particularly if she gives our descriptions to the police.” He paused to allow time for the significance of his words to sink in. “I shall take Henkel the rest of the way. Ten miles along the road there is a garage which is open all night. You will hire a car there, drive back into the city and take care of the girl. You understand?”

  An inaudible sigh came from Vslevov’s lips as he straightened abruptly in his seat. His fingers tightened around the pistol. “You want me to take her alive, keep her somewhere where she can do no harm.”

  Knowing what was in the other’s mind, Kronovitch paused for the barest fraction of a second, then said in his softest voice: “Comrade, I have to tell you that this mission is one of the utmost importance as far as M.G.B. is concerned. Unless we act correctly and without hesitation, there will be
trouble.” He sought for some final phrase which would express the full threat, convey the terror to his companion, without actually defining it in so many words and at last he added: “If we fail and the girl causes trouble for us, there will be questions asked in Moscow, questions which will have to be answered here.”

  “I understand.” Vslevov said tautly. As they drove swiftly into the night along a section of the road which seemed to be badly cambered, he was feeling oddly dissatisfied. Back to murder again. But he knew the rules. Sitting in the hurtling car beside Kronovitch, he felt touched by some of that strangely indefinable fear he had known first of all in Moscow when he had realized for the first time that one day he might make his first small mistake which could have the most dreadful consequences for him. He lit a cigarette and tried to see into the darkness which shrouded them on all sides, except where the headlights of the car, rising and falling in front of them, touched briefly on the surface of the road as it wound and twisted through the quiet countryside.

  * * * * *

  The car had arrived punctually on time outside the entrance of the hotel exactly three minutes earlier. The chauffeur, elegantly clad in a dark blue uniform with no distinguishing marks on the lapels, hurried forward to open the door as Steve Carradine stepped out into the street, then crossed the pavement and lowered his head as he stepped into the car, settling his long body down in the soft upholstery. At least everything was always done in style whenever he received an urgent call to Headquarters. The chauffeur settled in behind the wheel, took the car away from the kerb, out into the main stream of traffic. As they drove across London, Carradine turned over in his mind the various possibilities which could have been behind the telephone call he had received the night before. He reached into his pocket for the slim cigarette case, extracted a cigarette, lit it. The pistol in the shoulder holster made a barely perceptible bulge in the expensively-cut suit. There was no outward indication of the other weapons he carried on his person. The slim, long-bladed throwing knife strapped to his wrist, not a hint of the razor-sharp blade in the heel of his right shoe. His other attributes were equally invisible, and equally deadly.