Running Blind / The Freedom Trap

by Desmond Bagley

  Obediently he stood, still clutching the newspaper. I said, ‘Walk straight forward to the wall in front of you lean against it with your hands high and your arms held wide.’

  I stepped back and watched him critically as he went through the evolution. He knew what I was going to do; this was the safest way of searching a man. Being Slade, he tried to pull a fast one, so I said, ‘Pull your feet out from the wall and lean harder.’ That meant he would be off-balance to begin with if he tried anything—just enough to give me that extra fraction of a second that is all-important.

  He shuffled his feet backwards and I saw the telltale quiver of his wrists as they took up the weight of his body. Then I searched him swiftly, tossing the contents of his pockets on to the bed. He carried no other weapon, unless you consider a hypodermic syringe a weapon, which I was inclined to do when I saw the wallet of ampoules that went with it. Green on the left for a six-hour certain knockout; red on the right for death in thirty seconds equally certainly.

  ‘Now bend your knees and come down that wall very slowly.’ His knees sagged and I brought him into the position in which I had had Fleet—belly down and arms wide stretched. It would take a better man than Slade to jump me from that position; Fleet might have done it had I not rammed his rifle in the small of his back, but Slade was not as young and he had a bigger paunch.

  He lay with his head on one side, his right cheek pressed to the carpet and his left eye glaring at me malevolently. He spoke for the first time. ‘How do you know I won’t have visitors this afternoon?’

  ‘You’re right to worry about that,’ I said. ‘If anyone comes through that door you’re dead.’ I smiled at him. ‘It would be a pity if it was a chambermaid, then you’d be dead for nothing.’

  He said, ‘What the devil do you think you’re doing, Stewart? Have you gone out of your mind? I think you must have—I told Taggart so and he agrees with me. Now, put away that gun and let me stand up.’

  ‘I must say you try,’ I said admiringly. ‘Nevertheless, if you move a muscle towards getting up I’ll shoot you dead.’ His only reaction to that was a rapid blinking of the one eye I could see.

  Presently he said, ‘You’ll hang for this, Stewart. Treason is still a capital crime.’

  ‘A pity,’ I said. ‘At least you won’t hang, because what you are doing isn’t treason—merely espionage. I don’t think spies are hanged—not in peacetime, anyway. It would be treason if you were English, but you’re not; you’re a Russian.’

  ‘You’re out of your mind,’ he said disgustedly. ‘Me—a Russian!’

  ‘You’re as English as Gordon Lonsdale was Canadian.’

  ‘Oh, wait until Taggart gets hold of you,’ he said. ‘He’ll put you through the wringer.’

  I said, ‘What are you doing consorting with the opposition, Slade?’

  He actually managed to summon up enough synthetic indignation to splutter. ‘Dammit!’ he said. ‘It’s my job. You did the same; you were Kennikin’s right-hand man at one time. I’m just following orders—which is more than you are doing.’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ I said. ‘Your orders are very curious. Tell me more.’

  ‘I’ll tell nothing to a traitor,’ he said virtuously.

  I must say that at that moment I admired Slade for the first time. Lying in a most undignified position and with a gun at his head he wasn’t giving an inch and was prepared to fight to the end. I had been in his position myself when I had got next to Kennikin in Sweden and I knew how nerve-abrading a life it was—never knowing from one day to another whether one’s cover had been blown. Here he was, still trying to convince me that he was as pure as the latest brand of detergent, and I knew that if I let up on him for a fraction of a second so that he could get the upper hand I would be a dead man in that very second.

  I said, ‘Come off it, Slade. I heard you tell Ilyich to kill me. Don’t tell me that was an order passed on from Taggart.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, without the flicker of an eyelash. ‘He thinks you’ve gone over. I can’t say I blame him, either, considering the way you’ve been behaving.’

  I almost burst out laughing at his effrontery. ‘By God, but you’re good!’ I said. ‘You lie there with your face hanging out and tell me that. I suppose Taggart also told you to ask the Russkies to do the job for him.’

  Slade’s exposed cheek wrinkled up into the rictus of a half smile. ‘It’s been done before,’ he said. ‘You killed Jimmy Birkby.’

  Involuntarily my finger tightened on the trigger, and I had to take a deep breath before I relaxed. I tried to keep my voice even as I said, ‘You’ve never been nearer death than now, Slade. You shouldn’t have mentioned Birkby—that’s a sore point. Let’s not have any more comedy. You’re finished and you know it quite well. You’re going to tell me a lot of things I’m interested in, and you’re going to tell it fast, so speak up.’

  ‘You can go to hell,’ he said sullenly.

  ‘You’re a great deal nearer hell right now,’ I said. ‘Let me put it this way. Personally, I don’t give a damn if you’re English or Russian, a spy or a traitor. I don’t give a damn for patriotism either; I’ve got past that. With me this is purely personal—on a man-to-man basis, if you like. The foundation for most murders. Elin was nearly killed in Asbyrgi on your instruction, and I’ve just heard you tell a man to kill me. If I kill you right now it will be self-defence.’

  Slade lifted his head a little and turned it so that he could look at me straight. ‘But you won’t do it,’ he said.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No,’ he said with certainty. ‘I told you before—you’re too soft-centred. You might kill me under different circumstances; if I were running away, for instance, or if we were shooting at each other. But you won’t kill me while I’m lying here. You’re an English gentleman.’ He made it sound like a swearword.

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ I said. ‘Maybe Scots are different.’

  ‘Not enough to matter,’ he said indifferently.

  I watched him look into the muzzle of the pistol without a quiver and I had to give the devil his due. Slade knew men and he had my measure as far as killing was concerned. He also knew that if he came for me I would shoot to kill. He was safe enough while lying defenceless, but action was another thing.

  He smiled. ‘You’ve already proved it. You shot Yuri in the leg—why not in the heart? By Kennikin’s account you were shooting accurately enough across that river to have given every man a free shave without benefit of barber. You could have killed Yuri—but you didn’t!’

  ‘Maybe I wasn’t feeling in the mood at the time. I killed Gregor.’

  ‘In the heat of action. Your death or his. Any man can make that kind of decision.’

  I had the uneasy feeling that the initiative was passing from me and I had to get it back. I said, ‘You can’t talk if you’re dead—and you’re going to talk. Let’s begin by you telling me about the electronic gadget—what is it?’

  He looked at me contemptuously and tightened his lips.

  I glanced at the pistol I held. God knows why Slade carried it because it was a .32—a popgun just as heavy to lug about as a modern .38 but without the stopping power. But maybe he was a crack shot and could hit his target every time so that wouldn’t matter much. What would matter when shooting in a populous place was that the muzzle blast was much less and so were the decibels. You could probably fire it in a busy street and no one would take much notice.

  I looked him in the eye and then put a bullet into the back of his right hand. He jerked his hand convulsively and a strangled cry broke from his lips as the muzzle of the pistol centred on his head again. The noise of the shot hadn’t even rattled the windows.

  I said, ‘I may not shoot to kill you but I’ll cut you to pieces bit by bit if you don’t behave yourself. I hear from Kennikin that I’m a fair hand at surgical operations too. There are worse things than getting yourself shot dead. Ask Kennikin some time.’

  Blood ooze
d from the back of his hand and stained the carpet, but he lay still, staring at the gun in my hand. His tongue came out and licked dry lips. ‘You bloody bastard!’ he whispered.

  The telephone rang.

  We stared at each other for the time it took to ring four times. I walked around him, keeping clear of his legs, and I picked up the telephone whole and entire complete with base. I dumped it next to him, and said, ‘You’ll answer that, and you’ll remember two things—I want to hear both ends of the conversation and that there are plenty of other parts of your fat anatomy. I can work on.’ I jerked the gun. ‘Pick it up.’

  Awkwardly he picked up the handset with his left hand. ‘Yes?’

  I jerked the gun again and he held up the telephone so that I could hear the scratchy voice. ‘This is Kennikin.’

  ‘Be natural,’ I whispered.

  Slade licked his lips. ‘What is it?’ he asked hoarsely.

  ‘What’s the matter with your voice?’ said Kennikin.

  Slade grunted, his eye on the gun I held. ‘I have a cold. What do you want?’

  ‘I’ve got the girl.’

  There was a silence and I could feel my heart thumping in my chest. Slade went pale as he watched my finger curl around the trigger and slowly take up the pressure. I breathed, ‘Where from?’

  Slade coughed nervously. ‘Where did you find her?’

  ‘At Keflavik Airport—hiding in the Icelandair office. We know her brother is a pilot, and I had the idea of looking for her there. We took her out without any trouble.’

  That made it true. ‘Where now?’ I whispered into Slade’s ear and put the gun to the nape of his neck.

  He asked the question, and Kennikin said, ‘In the usual place. When can I expect you?’

  ‘You’ll be right out.’ I pressed the muzzle harder into his fat and felt him shiver.

  ‘I’ll leave straight away,’ said Slade, and I quickly cut the contact by depressing the telephone bar.

  I jumped back fast in case he tried to start something, but he just lay there gazing at the telephone. I felt like screaming, but there was no time for that. I said, ‘Slade, you were wrong—I can kill you. You know that now, don’t you?’

  For the first time I detected fear in him. His fat jowl developed a tremor and his lower lip shook so that he looked like a fat boy about to burst into tears. I said, ‘Where’s the usual place?’

  He looked at me with hatred and said nothing. I was in a quandary; if I killed him I would have got nothing out of him, yet I didn’t want to damage him too much because I wanted him fit to walk the streets of Reykjavik without occasioning undue attention. Still, he didn’t know my problem, so I said, ‘You’ll still be alive when I’ve finished with you, but you’ll wish you weren’t.’

  I put a bullet just by his left ear and he jerked violently. Again the noise of the shot was very small and I think he must have doctored the cartridges by taking out some of the powder to reduce the bang. It’s an old trick when you want to shoot without drawing notice to yourself and, if done carefully and the gun is fired at not too great a range, the bullet is still lethal. It’s much better than using a silencer which is a much overrated contraption and dangerous to the user. A silencer is good for one quiet shot—after that the steel wool packing becomes compressed and the back pressure builds up so high that the user is in danger of blowing off his own hand.

  I said, ‘I’m a good shot, but not all that good. I intended to put that bullet exactly where I did, but only you know the accuracy of this popgun. I’m inclined to think it throws to the left a bit, so if I try to clip your right ear you stand a fair chance of stopping one in the skull.’

  I shifted the gun a little and took aim. He broke—his nerve gone completely. ‘For God’s sake, stop!’ This sort of Russian roulette wasn’t to his taste.

  I sighted on his right ear. ‘Where’s the usual place?’

  There was a sheen of sweat on his face. ‘At Thingvallavatn.’

  ‘The house to which I was taken after Geysir?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘You’d better be right,’ I said. ‘Because I have no time to waste in chasing about Southern Iceland.’ I lowered the gun and Slade’s expression changed to one of relief. ‘Don’t start cheering yet,’ I advised. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m going to leave you here.’

  I went to the stand at the bottom of the bed and flipped open the lid of his suitcase. I took out a clean shirt and tossed it to him. ‘Rip some strips off that and bind up your hand. Stay on the floor and don’t get any smart ideas such as throwing it at me.’

  While he tore up the shirt awkwardly I rummaged about in the suitcase and came up with two clips of .32 ammunition. I dropped them into my pocket then went to the wardrobe and took out Slade’s topcoat, the pockets of which I had already searched. ‘Stand up facing the wall and put that on.’

  I watched him carefully, alert for any trickery. I knew that if I made one false step he would take full advantage of it. A man who could worm his way into the heart of British Intelligence hadn’t done it by being stupid. The mistakes he had made weren’t such as would normally have discommoded him and he had done his damnedest to rectify them by eliminating me. If I weren’t careful he could still pull it off.

  I picked up his passport and his wallet from the bed and pocketed them, then threw his hat across the room so that it landed at his feet. ‘We’re going for a walk. You’ll keep that bandaged hand in your coat pocket and you’ll behave like the English gentleman you’re not. One wrong move from you and I’ll shoot you dead and take my chances, and I don’t care if it has to be in the middle of Hafnarstraeti. I hope you realize that Kennikin did exactly the wrong thing in taking Elin.’

  He spoke to the wall. ‘Back in Scotland I warned you about that. I told you not to let her get involved.’

  ‘Very thoughtful of you,’ I said. ‘But if anything happens to her you’re a dead man. You may have been right about my inability to kill before, but I hope you’re not counting on it now because one of Elin’s nail parings is of more importance to me than the whole of your lousy body. You’d better believe that, Slade. I protect my own.’

  I saw him shudder. ‘I believe you,’ he said quietly.

  I really think he did. He knew he had encountered something more primitive than patriotism or the loyalty of a man to his group. This was much more fundamental, and while I might not have killed him because he was a spy I would kill without mercy any man who got between me and Elin.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Pick up your hat and let’s go.’

  I escorted him into the corridor, made him lock the door, and then took the key. I had one of his jackets draped over my arm to hide the gun, and I walked one pace behind him and to the right. We left the hotel and walked the streets of Reykjavik to where I had left Nordlinger’s car. ‘You’ll get behind the wheel,’ I said.

  We performed an intricate ballet in getting into the car. While unlocking it and getting him settled I had to make sure that never for one moment could he take advantage and, at the same time, our antics had to look reasonably normal to the passers-by. At last I managed to get him seated and myself behind him in the rear.

  ‘Now you’ll drive,’ I said.

  ‘But my hand,’ he protested. ‘I don’t think I can.’

  ‘You’ll do it. I don’t care how much it hurts—but you’ll do it. And never for one moment will you exceed thirty miles an hour. You won’t even think of putting the car into a ditch or crashing it in any other way. And the reason you won’t think of such things is because of this.’ I touched his neck with the cold metal of the pistol.

  ‘This will be behind you all the way. Just imagine that you’re a prisoner and I’m one of Stalin’s boys back in the bad old days. The approved method of execution was an unexpected bullet in the back of the head, wasn’t it? But if you do anything naughty this is one bullet you can expect for sure. Now, take off, and do it carefully—my trigger finger is allergic to sudden jerk
s.’

  I didn’t have to tell him where to drive. He drove along the Tjarnargata with the duck-strewn waters of the Tjörnin lake on our left, past the University of Iceland, and so into Miklabraut and out of town. He drove in silence and once on the open road he obeyed orders and never let the speed drift above thirty miles an hour. I think this was less out of sheer obedience and more because changing gears hurt his hand.

  After a while he said, ‘What do you think you’re going to gain by this, Stewart?’

  I didn’t answer him: I was busy turning out the contents of his wallet. There wasn’t anything in it of interest—no plans for the latest guided missile or laser death ray that a master spy and double agent might have been expected to carry. I transferred the thick sheaf of currency and the credit cards to my own wallet; I could use the money—I was out of pocket on this operation—and should he escape he would find the shortage of funds a serious disability.

  He tried again. ‘Kennikin won’t believe anything you say, you know. He won’t be bluffed.’

  ‘He’d better be,’ I said. ‘For your sake. But there’ll be no bluff.’

  ‘Your work will be cut out convincing Kennikin of that,’ said Slade.

  ‘You’d better not push that one too hard,’ I said coldly. ‘I might convince him by taking him your right hand—the one with the ring on the middle finger.’

  That shut him up for a while and he concentrated on his driving. The Chevrolet bounced and rolled on its soft springing as the wheels went over the corrugated dips and rises of the road. We would have got a smoother ride had we travelled faster but, as it was, we climbed up and down every minuscule hill and valley. I dared not order him to speed up, much as I wanted to get to Elin; 30 mph gave me the leeway both to shoot Slade and get out safely should he deliberately run the car off the road.

  Presently I said, ‘I notice you’ve given up your protestations of innocence.’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me no matter what I told you—so why should I try?’

  He had a point there. ‘I’d just like to clear up a few things, though. How did you know I was going to meet Jack Case at Geysir?’