Seek and Destroy

by John Glasby

  The guard returned for the empty tray fifteen minutes later, then left. Carradine sat back. He longed for a cigarette, but all of them had been taken from him. Acting on impulse, he checked his pockets. Empty, every one of them. His shoes, however, had not been touched. One was empty, the knife blade which had been concealed there having been lost sometime during the past few hours. But the other was still intact. He listened at the locked door for a moment, then sat down on the chair and unscrewed the heel from the shoe. The small, but sharp blade nestled snugly in the palm of his hand, the finely-tempered steel gleaming in the light. With this, he still had a chance, he thought. But how to use it to its best advantage? Donovsky had decreed that he was to stay alive for the time being. Therefore it meant there would be more questioning to come. Before that happened, he would have to act. Kill the guard when he next came with food? The man would be doubly alert now and for all Carradine knew, there could have been a second man standing out there in the passage in case he made any move like that.

  His mind raced around details of a handful of pitifully desperate plans, assessing and rejecting them almost at once. None offered him any hope of success. It was as if he had had his chance, and having failed, fate had decreed that he would never get another. His head ached and the mere act of thinking made it worse.

  The beating he had received had been too much for him. His only chance was to sleep on it and trust that something would come to him once his mind was capable of thinking more clearly and precisely. Everything in him warned him that there was not time for that, that every second wasted could mean the difference between success and failure. In the end, however, common sense prevailed and he lay back on the bed, closed his eyes, and surrendered himself to sleep.

  He woke with a start, the light from the lamp near the ceiling shining down into his eyes. Lifting his arm, he brought the watch on his wrist close to his face and peered down at it. Almost ten o’clock. Night or morning? he wondered. Down here in the bowels of the earth, there was no way of telling. He blinked, sat up, rubbed a hand over his forehead, wiping the faint sheen of perspiration away. What was going on outside that door which shut him off from the outside world? Were they discussing how to get rid of him? Had they already decided what his fate was to be.

  A little while later, the door opened abruptly, without any warning. A guard stepped in, followed a second later, by Donovsky. Carradine watched the other’s face closely as the man came forward, seated himself without a word on one of the chairs facing him.

  The other looked searchingly at him for a long moment, then said in a pleasant tone: “I have been informing Moscow of developments here. They are extremely perturbed at the turn of events, particularly the death of Lieutenant-General Vozdashevsky.”

  “I thought they would be,” Carradine said softly.

  The cold eyes narrowed a little but beyond that, the other gave no indication that he had heard a word Carradine had said. “They have given me certain instructions which I shall see are carried out. Fortunately what has happened has not interfered with our work here. Nevertheless, it is obvious, both to them and to me that you will have to be eliminated. Naturally, they wish to have any information they can get. Accordingly, I am prepared to offer you a choice. Tell me everything I want to know. And I will personally ensure that your death is both quick and painless. Refuse, and you will scream for death to come and release you from your agony.” His tone was suddenly businesslike. “Now, which is it to be? The choice is yours.”

  “If there was anything to tell, I would have told you.” Carradine said sharply. “I assure you I don’t like the way your man tried to break every bone in my body.”

  “That is exaggerating things a little, but it was nothing to what he can do given the opportunity. It is very seldom that he had to exert himself. Even the most stubborn people talk before that stage is reached. I would advise you to think over very carefully what I have said. In — ” he consulted the watch on his wrist as he spoke “ — an hour’s time, you will be brought for further questioning. During this period of reflection, I trust that you will go over these things and reach the right decision.”

  “Surely you don’t think that you can get away with killing me,” Carradine said tightly. “There will be others looking for me and once they find my body, they will get on to you and this little scheme of yours will be blown sky-high.”

  Donovsky’s smile broadened. “I’m sorry to have to disappoint you. But unlike the others who attempted to run away from here, I mean to ensure that your body will never be discovered. You seem to have found out quite a lot about our plans. Since you know so much, knowing a little more can do no harm, and it may serve to show you how futile any effort on your part will be. One of our submarines is bringing the nuclear warheads from Russia. It will stand off the coast in twenty-four hours from now and the cargo will be brought ashore and then transported here in a small fleet of trucks which we have for the purpose. When the submarine leaves again, it will have one additional passenger. Whether you are killed here or on board the submarine is of no material consequence. Once dead, your body will be fired through one of the torpedo tubes.” He ran the tip of his forefinger down the side of his face, his voice amiable. “Perhaps you have never seen a human body once it had been subjected to the action of such pressure. I assure you that it is not pleasant. Your remains will be deposited somewhere on the floor of the Pacific and that will be the end of it.”

  Carradine tried to repress the shiver than went through him. What a way to die, if he was doing to die. And the trouble was, that most of this was due entirely to his own stupidity, through trying to do too much. Instead of trying to get his hands on those papers and code books, he should have made straight for the plane. That way, at least, he would have been able to warn the FBI of the Russian submarine which was bringing in those warheads.

  Donovsky got easily to his feet. He stood for a moment looking down at Carradine. His lips curled into a faintly sneering smile. “Whoever you are,” he said thinly, “you made a big mistake when you tried to fight us. We are too big an organisation for you. Your only hope now is to be sensible and choose the quickest death.” Turning sharply on his heel, he went out. The guard closed the door behind him.

  An hour. That was all the time he had. Somehow, he had to think out that plan he needed so desperately. No matter how slender the chance, he would have to take it, for once they got him back in that ghastly room with the blazing arc light shining down into his face, all hope would be gone, lost irrevocably. His mind spun. There was only once chance left to him. It would all depend on how many men Donovsky sent to fetch him when the time came for more questioning, more interrogation. By now, the other may have decided that there was nothing more to fear from him; that now they recognised the danger, they could deal with him quite easily. If that was so, if Donovsky sent only the one guard to take him from this cell, this pitifully thin plan of his might conceivably work.

  He settled himself down to wait. The slender knife nestled in the palm of his right hand. At least he still had this. It had not been discovered in the process of searching him for concealed weapons. That was a start anyway.

  Thirty minutes. Forty-five. It seemed the longest hour that Carradine had known in the whole of his life. Evidently, Donovsky intended he should have the full sixty minutes in which to ponder his fate and make his decision. The other must surely have known what it would be when he had offered him that alternative, yet he was playing this game out to the full. Possibly they were trying a war of nerves with him, hoping that he might break under the strain.

  Exactly on the dot, the handle of the door rattled. As it swung open, he got slowly to his feet, stood in the middle of the room, waiting. The guard stood there, the rifle at the ready. He motioned Carradine to move out of the room, stood well to one side of the door as the other moved forward. With an effort, he concealed the feeling of relief as he noticed that the corridor was empty except for this one man. So Donovsky was n
ow absolutely sure of himself. The guard thrust him forward with a sharp movement of his hand, swung the door shut behind him. Without moving his arm, Carradine eased the blade into position in his palm, gripping it tightly with his curled fingers. Now the other was beside him, motioning him along the corridor in the direction of the main tunnel which lay some thirty yards ahead.

  Carradine moved reluctantly, hanging back. The guard swung impatiently towards him, lips thinned, one arm lifted towards the butt of the rifle. His face was twisted into a grimace of angry warning. But the sideways movement had swung the man off balance. Only slightly so, but it was enough for Carradine. In a sudden savage motion, he swung the knife, brought it arcing down on the other’s back, just on top of the lungs. His knuckles struck the rough cloth of the man’s uniform as the knife blade went in all the way, driving down through the flesh with all of his strength behind it. A ghastly sucking moan came from the man’s lips. For a second he remained on his feet, arms swaying, pawing at the air in front of his contorted face as if trying to grab something invisible which hung there. Before he could fall, Carradine had caught him around the middle, lowering the body to the ground. Apart from that brief bleating gasp for air, there had been no sound. Quickly now, he thought tensely; get out of here and up to the surface before Donovsky became tired of waiting and realised that something was wrong. Panting through clenched teeth, he ran swiftly for the end of the corridor. A small diesel locomotive, hauling a couple of trucks, moved smoothly along the tunnel. He glimpsed the man at the controls as the train moved past him. Then it was gone and he was sprinting along the tunnel, the breath rasping in his throat, lungs heaving with the strain. There was the best part of a quarter of a mile to go, and all of it uphill. Long before he had covered that distance, his legs were on fire with the tremendous exertion. Several times, he half fell and only succeeded in keeping his balance by a desperate grab at the side of the tunnel. The light glared in his eyes, light from the overhead lamps, from the glittering metal which lined the tunnel on both sides, from the rails which stretched all the way to the surface.

  There was no sound from behind him. How long he would have before there was any pursuit, he did not know. In front of him, the upward slope ceased. The bright lights were all behind him. There was the smell of the jungle in his nostrils and the cold rush of air in his face. Staggering as he ran forward, he reached the end of the tunnel and collapsed into the wet undergrowth that grew thickly in front of him.

  It was night, a dark night with no trace of a moon and any stars which might have been visible were completely hidden from view by the thick canopy of leaves and branches which formed an impenetrable blanket over his head. He lay quite still, unable to do anything while the breath gushed in and out of his lungs and the sweat on his body sent a shivering spasm through his limbs. Then he forced himself to his feet. Cautiously, he made his way through the jungle, moving the small branches and creepers out of his way, taking care to make no more noise than was necessary.

  The trees thinned. Soon he would be out of the jungle and on the edge of that vast area which had been cleared, bulldozed flat. Thrusting himself through a wall of vine, he almost pitched down the steep slope in front of him. In the faint shimmering of starlight, he was just able to make out the contours of the ground. Six inches from his feet, it dropped for perhaps ten feet, then continued smooth and level all the way to the long, concrete building perhaps a quarter of a smile away, a dark shadow that thrust itself up from the artificial, man-made plain. Just beyond it and a little to one side, he made out the silhouette of the DC-3. At least it was still there. During that long, heart-breaking run through the tunnel, he had been haunted by the fear that it might have gone.

  The stretch of ground between the jungle and the control block was a heap of tumbled rocks and huge boulders. Evidently the bulldozers had pushed most of the surface roughness out here when they had cleared the airstrip itself. Now these same rocks afforded him the cover and protection he needed. For all he knew, there were still guards watching the airfields and the buildings here, even though the initial scare had faded.

  He paused instinctively as he came within sight of one of the small wooden buildings nearer at hand. The squat shape loomed up at him from the dimness almost without warning and he crouched low in a small hollow as he scanned the area carefully. At first, he could make out nothing, but his instinct told him there was danger here and it was a feeling he had never ignored in the past. With his knees bent under him, he turned his head slowly, then paused abruptly. A faint orange spark had appeared briefly near one of the huts. It was gone as he swung back and tried to pick it out again, but he felt sure that he had not been mistaken. It was the glow which might have come from the tip of a cigarette as a man drew deeply on it. Cautiously, Carradine lifted his head and surveyed the area around the hut once more. He felt a tiny prickle of sweat on his forehead.

  The orange pinpoint of light showed once more and this time he fixed its position accurately, knew exactly where the man was standing. Now why had they posted a guard on that particular hut? Because it housed something of vital importance? It was not large enough to hold any of the complex equipment. If it had been any other piece of machinery, surely they would have kept it underground, instead of out here.

  Then what else was there? His brow furrowed in thought for a moment as he turned the various possibilities over in his mind. When it finally came to him, he cursed himself silently for not having thought of it before. That German rocket expert who had been kidnapped from Montevideo — Gunther Henkel. It seemed likely that he had refused to co-operate with these people and they were keeping him prisoner here until he changed his mind. He recalled that he had not seen Henkel down below, although he had seen a photograph of him back in London and would have recognised him instantly if he had come face to face with him None of the other men had mentioned him by name either. It was as if he did not exist here.

  Carradine turned the thought over in his mind. This meant that he might be able to alter his plans a little if he could get Henkel out of there, and if the other could fly that plane. Cautiously, he edged his way through the rocks, placing his feet carefully so as to make no sound. He approached the small hut from the rear, out of sight of the guard. A gust of cold wind sighed around the corner of the wooden building. He heard the sound of the guard’s boots on the rocky ground as the other shifted position. It would be cold work standing guard during the night, he mused. No wonder the other had risked punishment to smoke a cigarette.

  He still held the knife which had killed the other guard in his hand. Instinct had enabled him to run and forget all about it, while still retaining a grip on the weapon.

  Risking a quick glance around the corner of the building, he made out the shadowy figure of the guard less than five feet away. The man was staring directly in front of him, the cigarette dangling from his lips, one hand on the rifle slung over his shoulder, the high collar of the greatcoat he was wearing turned up around his neck against the cold. He looked uncomfortable, evidently wishing his turn of duty was over and he could get next to some warm radiator.

  He was round the corner of the hut and on the other before the man was even aware of his presence there. The other swung back, mouth opening to yell a futile warning, one hand clawing desperately for the rifle, fear written all over his face as he realised that death was very close. Almost automatically, Carradine kicked out with his left foot, the toe of his shoe catching the other just inside the knee, knocking his legs from under him. As he went down, his left hand swung at the man’s neck, caught him with a sickening thud just behind the ear, the force of the blow almost lifting the guard clean off his feet, hurling him against the wooden wall of the hut. His scream died in his throat before it could reach his lips. His head jerked back on his neck like that of a puppet, or a marionette with the controlling strings suddenly snapped. It was a deadly blow which could have killed instantly had there been just a little more savage force behind it. As it wa
s, the man lay slumped against the base of the wall, unconscious, and likely to remain that way for a very long time. Carradine stared down at the knife held between the fingers of his other hand, then thrust it into his pocket. Murder was sufficient when there was no other alternative. He did not wish to kill this man who now represented no danger to him. Donovsky might do that when he learned how the guard had allowed himself to be taken by surprise at his post.

  The door of the hut was locked, but Carradine put his shoulder to it, thrusting at it with all of his weight. The lock held the first time he tried, but the second blow snapped the lock with a faint screeching of metal and the door fell in with an abruptness that almost sent him off balance. He recovered instantly, went inside cautiously. His voice was a low whisper as he called:

  “Henkel! Are you in here?”

  “Ja!” There was surprise in the low voice which came from the far corner of the room. “But I do not understand. Who are you and how did you know I was here?”

  Carradine caught the other by the arm as the man moved forward. “There’s no time to explain things now. We have to move fast,” he said tersely. “The guard is unconscious, but at any moment, others might come once they find I’ve escaped from down there.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the tunnel. The other nodded his head quickly to show that he understood.