He knew what these were instantly. They were the mechanical smoke generators that pumped out the smoke billowing from the chimneys.
On the battlefield they were used, usually on tanks, to generate a smoke screen over a wide area for tactical deception, to screen troops, to foil reconnaissance and surveillance. The British used crude versions of them, called smudge pots, to hide the Vauxhall Motors plant at Luton from daytime enemy bombers. The Germans used these more sophisticated devices by the thousands to conceal the oil refineries they’d seized at Ploiesti, Romania.
The machines ran on diesel fuel that flowed from the attached oil drums. Here they furthered another type of deception: they created the illusion of a working factory.
He heard footsteps, two sets now! Obviously Nolan’s German partner, the SD assassin, had heard the noise and rushed over.
Swiveling his head around, Metcalfe saw that there was just one entrance; it would not be safe to exit there, since his pursuer or pursuers were surely entering that way. He ran behind a storage cabinet, out of sight, just as Chip’s voice boomed out: “You’re a cornered rat, Metcalfe. No way out of here. Throw down your weapon, hands in the air, and we can talk!”
Talk funeral arrangements, maybe, Metcalfe thought. One of the smoke generators was within reach, connected by hoses to both a fuel drum and the chimney directly above.
He shot out his hand, yanked off the smoke exhaust hose. At once a great cloud of white smoke began billowing into the enclosed space, creating a low, white cloud.
But Chip had already reached the other side of the cabinet. Metcalfe could see him through a crack in the cabinet; the FBI man was limping. Chip had been shot in the leg. But his concentration seemed unaffected. He was looking from side to side, obviously considering which direction to turn.
Metcalfe did not want to give him the benefit of the choice.
He drew out his dummy Luger revolver and suddenly leaped out, aiming the weapon at Chip’s face. Chip flinched, raised his gun as well.
The fog was filling the structure, already having risen to the level of the men’s knees.
“I told you, Stephen, you’re gonna die today,” Chip said.
“After you, asshole,” Metcalfe replied. “Looks like a standoff to me.”
Chip’s eyes locked on Metcalfe’s, but there was a flicker of uncertainty on his face. The fake gun had worked. It did not have to be fired to be effective.
Metcalfe continued with bravado, as if the gun were loaded with 9mm cartridges, “So what’s your move, Chip? Who’s gonna win?”
“Depends on who has the bigger balls,” Chip snapped. He attempted a smile.
Metcalfe saw in his peripheral vision the German assassin slipping in through the entrance from outside. “Or who least minds dying,” Metcalfe said. “I’m just a small fish, right? One of many field operatives trying to fight the battle. Whereas you’re a major cog in the machinery. One of the Nazis’ favorite turncoats. If you’re killed, it’s a big loss for the fascist world—isn’t that right?”
The violinist stepped silently through the thick white haze. He could see nothing. Worst of all, he could smell nothing. The acrid smoke burned his delicate nasal membranes, blunting his olfactory sense, his finest weapon.
Without it, he felt lost. He felt a curious disorientation verging on panic. He wandered cautiously through the fog, his hands outstretched, his left hand clutching the violin string.
He thought he heard something.
Rattlesnake-fast, he struck. Grabbing the other end of the violin string to form a loop, he lashed out, drew it tight around his victim’s neck—
And then he realized that he was garroting something hard, something wooden.
A mannequin.
In disgust, he loosened the string and forged ahead through the cloud.
Without his olfactory weapon, the violinist knew, he was disabled. But that would not stop him, he vowed, from completing his assignment.
The smoke had reached their shoulders already. It was an eerie sensation, as if they were standing immersed in a cloud, just their heads sticking up. The smoke, denser and more opaque than any naturally occurring fog, stung Metcalfe’s eyes. Where was the second man, the one Nolan had called Herr Kleist? Must be alert—must not let the other one sneak up on me while I’m engaged in this standoff with Chip.
“Actually, I don’t plan to be killed. You, on the other hand . . .” Chip hesitated, lowered his gaze to the weapon in Metcalfe’s hand. “I didn’t give you a Luger,” he said.
Metcalfe shrugged. “You’re not my only source of armaments.”
“A German gun, huh?”
“Strange thing,” Metcalfe said glibly. “The Jerrys only seem to have Jerry guns. Can you beat that?”
“It’s an antique!”
“You take what you’re offered. Wartime privation, and all that.”
“That’s. Jesus, that’s . . . that’s a goddamned fake! The goddamn borehole’s plugged—!”
Metcalfe did not wait for Chip to react. He lunged, slamming himself against Chip with all his weight, knocking him backward onto the dirt, the two of them enveloped by the oily smoke. Metcalfe’s eyes burned as he wrestled with Chip for the gun.
His body was wracked with pain, which diminished his strength markedly. But Chip seemed equally weakened. Still, he reared up with enormous strength, roaring in anger, unwilling to relinquish his grip on the weapon, even as Metcalfe gradually forced it backward so that it was pointing back toward Chip himself.
“Hey, Yale boy—it’ll be Skull and Bones at last!” Chip Nolan panted, a sneer on his lips, his right hand and arm trembling with muscular exertion as Metcalfe forced the other man’s hand back toward himself. It was some grim variant of arm wrestling. “Your skull and bones.” The gun, firmly in the FBI agent’s grip, pointed first toward Metcalfe, then back at Chip, back and forth like a child’s toy. With a sudden furious surge of strength, Chip shoved the gun toward Metcalfe as he began to squeeze the trigger. His hand spasmed; the gun shook violently. Yet Chip had overestimated his own strength, and he could not withstand Metcalfe’s counterforce. At the very instant that Chip’s finger squeezed the trigger, the FBI man’s wrist gave way, snapping backward, the gun pointing up at Chip’s eyes, which widened in terror as the realization dawned of what was about to happen.
The explosion filled Metcalfe’s ears as he saw the horrifying sight of the back of Chip’s head coming off. Blood spattered his face. He collapsed, sinking back to the ground, utterly spent. Acrid white fog surrounded him entirely; he was blind, immobilized by the pain of his wound, gasping for breath.
He heard a scuffing noise.
A whispering, slithering sound, like a snake in the sand.
Some vestigial instinct made him reach a hand behind him. He felt something touch his neck, his wrist, something cold and metallic, and suddenly draw tight around his neck, constricting it with immense force. He was being strangled—and with a ferocity ten times greater than before! He lurched upward, whipping his body to one side and then the other, summoning reserves of strength he didn’t know he still possessed. He roared, but all that came out was a gurgle.
A few fingers of his right hand were trapped against his neck by the wire, or whatever it was, rendering his right hand useless. He thrust out his left hand, balled into a fist, swinging around until he connected with his attacker.
They have people who do the . . . housecleaning.
This was the man who did the housecleaning.
The assassin from the Sicherheitsdienst was going to finish his assignment. The vicious killer who had garroted the men in Paris and Amos Hilliard and his good friend Roger Martin . . .
And who intended to garrote Metcalfe.
Images of the dead men flashed across his eyes as the metal wire sliced into his neck, only the fingers of his right hand keeping the garrote from severing his carotid artery, slicing through the delicate tissue of his neck. He couldn’t see, his stinging eyes blurred by the
dense smoke, everything around him a blur. He was surrounded by opaque white smoke; he couldn’t see more than a few inches in front of him! He arched his back, furiously rolling over, kicking at his would-be murderer, punching, connecting with the other man’s body. But this time the strangler was standing too close for his blows to have any force. The wire drew ever tighter against his neck, cutting off the circulation until Metcalfe felt light-headed, pinpoints of light flashing in the opaque white haze. He couldn’t breathe!
No, he couldn’t give in to the killer; he couldn’t let the man from the Sicherheitsdienst vanquish him. There was Lana, always Lana. She would be arriving momentarily, in a car driven by Kundrov, and a few minutes after that a British Lysander plane would land and he and Lana would climb in and be flown to England and then back home, home to safety. Lana would be saved; she would be free, and all the work they had done, the documents she had given von Schüssler, would be legitimized, believed by high-level Nazi officials.
Lana would be safe, and the Nazi war machine, embroiled in a conflict it could not hope to win, would be defeated. It had to happen; it would happen! Everything hinged on Lana arriving and the two of them getting on that Lysander and being spirited away to safety. The fate of two people hung on it; the fate of millions hung on it.
He could not be killed now!
With his only free hand he grabbed hold of one of his attacker’s hands at the back of his neck, a hand that was pulling the garrote so unbelievably tight against Metcalfe’s throat. As Metcalfe arched his back again, struggling with all of his body, he seized several fingers of the killer’s hands, separating two of the fingers, peeling them apart from the iron grip, pulling, pulling against them. Now the killer was drawing the wire even more tightly against his neck, tighter than Metcalfe thought possible, and he was on the verge of losing consciousness. His trapped, gashed right hand was useless in the struggle—though it was at the same time saving him, for without his fingers there, the wire would have already sliced through his neck.
Metcalfe’s whole body was trembling, shuddering with exertion. He would not let go of his grip on the killer’s fingers; finally, he was able to grab hold of the fingers fully, pulling them backward until he felt, heard, a snap. He had broken the fingers! The killer screamed in pain and fury, and the choke hold went slack. Metcalfe took in a gulp of air. His feet swung around, hitting something, a hard object he couldn’t see but realized was one of the two-hundred-liter fuel drums.
Yes! The fuel! The oil . . . slippery oil!
If only he could knock over the drum, let its viscous, greasy contents pour out.
He scissored both of his feet forward, letting go of the assassin’s broken fingers with his only free hand, lunging to one side even as the garrote pulled tighter . . . and then he shoved hard against the barrel. It tipped over, the hose tearing free of the opening, and the liquid began to gush, to spray out freely.
But it was not engine oil, it was gasoline! It was not greasy; it would not work.
Suddenly the wire at his throat came loose.
The assassin screamed as the gasoline sprayed into his eyes, temporarily blinding him; drenched, the German jumped back, out of the way. Metcalfe broke free, lurched forward. He stumbled into a hard object, shrouded in the opaque fog. One of the smoke generators: he could see the blue flame at its base still burning the gasoline that remained. Metcalfe shoved the machine toward the German. It crashed into him and fell noisily to the floor by his feet.
And then there was a flash of light.
An orange flash that, a split second later, exploded into an immense, blazing fireball. Metcalfe heard the bellow of a wounded animal, and he saw the sphere of flames moving toward him.
The pain was incalculable, extraordinary, even exquisite. The violinist knew he was being burned alive. He screamed with every fiber of his being, as if screaming would diminish the agony, though in fact the agony was unbearable.
It was not as unbearable, however, as the knowledge that he was not going to complete his assignment—that the American would not be killed.
He screamed until his vocal cords gave out, as the flames engulfed his body. He knew he was going to die; he was unable to snuff out the flames by rolling in the dirt. The fire was too great, too consuming, and he could no longer move, in any case.
But then he was pleased to notice that his sense of smell had returned. His nostrils were filled with a distinctive overpowering odor, which he identified at once. It was, he realized, the smell of burning flesh.
His own burning flesh.
Through the penumbra of the fireball, Metcalfe saw the man’s limbs flailing. The scream was shrill, weirdly high, a horrible keening, an animal noise. In another couple of seconds, the fireball had stopped moving; it roared, shooting flames high into the air, licking against the wooden frame of the decoy structure, which immediately caught fire as well. Metcalfe turned back around and ran, just as the entire building burst into flames.
He did not stop running until he had reached the pavement, and then he sank to the ground. The plywood-and-canvas structure was now a massive, roaring fire. He could feel the heat, even a hundred feet away.
The killer was dead.
Both killers were dead. But where was Lana? Where was Kundrov? He looked at his watch. The plane was scheduled to touch down momentarily, and he hadn’t even set up the flares. If the pilot saw no flares, he would assume the rendezvous had been scrapped and he would not land.
As Metcalfe headed toward the field, which was now illuminated by the orange light of the burning structure, he heard the screech of brakes. He turned and saw Kundrov behind the wheel of a black automobile. The door was flung open, and Kundrov jumped out.
“Bozhe moi!” the Russian shouted. “Pozhar—the fire!” He ran closer. “You—you’ve been shot! What happened?”
“Where is she?” Metcalfe said.
Kundrov, grim-faced, shook his head.
Metcalfe grabbed him by the shoulders. “Where is she?” he repeated. Kundrov’s eyes were red-rimmed. “You were supposed to pick her up at the schloss—what happened? What have you done with her?”
Kundrov shook his head again. “She wasn’t there.”
“What do you mean she wasn’t there?”
“Von Schüssler was there. She was gone.”
“Gone? What the hell do you mean, gone? The NKVD came early, is that what happened? God damn you, did they come for her early? How could this happen?”
“No!” Kundrov shouted. “She told von Schüssler that there was an emergency in Moscow, that she had to return at once. She asked to be taken at once to the railroad station.”
“But that was the ruse, she understood that!”
Kundrov spoke in a feeble monotone as if he’d been hypnotized. He shook his head slowly. “Von Schüssler was distraught, but he said she insisted on being taken to the station immediately. He agreed to have his chauffeur take her to the Ostbahnhof. The chauffeur found that the Daimler was missing—I can see where it went—and took her in another vehicle.”
“Did they kidnap her?”
“I seriously doubt it. She went voluntarily.”
“But why?” Metcalfe cried. “Why did she do this?”
“Let me tell you something. I have amassed probably two thousand dossier pages on this woman. My observations of her have been more extensive than any other surveillance ever conducted on a Soviet citizen. I have watched her closely, intimately, for years. Yet I cannot say that I understand the woman.”
Metcalfe looked up at the moonlit sky. A faint high-pitched whine in the distance, which he’d been vaguely aware of for the last minute or so, had become the distinctive buzz-saw drone of a Lysander. It appeared just over the horizon.
“The flares!” Metcalfe shouted.
“For what?” Kundrov called back. “Without her, what’s the point?”
“Jesus Christ!” The two men stood there frozen, staring up into the sky as the Lysander made a slow loop above the
field. In a moment it was gone.
Metcalfe glanced at his watch again. “In less than half an hour, the train stops at the Ostbahnhof. If we drive at top speed, we can just make it there.”
They arrived at the Gothic cathedral-like railroad station, its grimy facade unlit, sodium-yellow light coming faintly through the tall windows. The station was deserted; their footsteps echoed as they ran, stopping only to look up at the timetable sign to locate the platform number.
The platform was empty. The train waited there; sleeping passengers could be seen through its darkened windows. A final alarm tone was sounding as they raced down the platform.
A small group of men in dark suits were clustered at the far end of the platform, the only people boarding the train. Metcalfe ran as fast as he had ever run, running through the pain, seeing only Lana’s face ahead of him. But the men had gotten on the train by the time he got there, and he could see no woman among them. Was she truly here? Was she already on the train?
Where was she? He wanted to scream out her name; he was screaming inside. His heart raced, fear flooding his body.
Where was she?
Kundrov caught up, panting. “Those men were NKVD. I recognize the type too well. She must be on the train. They’re escorts, the followers.”
Metcalfe nodded. He stared into the train compartment that the men had just entered, walking by slowly, looking into each one, desperate, terrified.
Lana! he screamed silently.
Then he screamed aloud: “Lana! Lana!”
With a pneumatic hiss of the brakes, the train came to life and started moving. He ran alongside the train, looking into each window, screaming her name. “Please, Lana! Dear God!”
Then he saw her.
She was seated in a row with the dark-suited men on either side of her; she looked up. Their eyes met.
The Tristan Betrayal Page 48