Complex 90

by Mickey Spillane

  That young guard with the burp gun, the first guard I’d seen here at Butyrka Prison, saw me coming with the Makarov in my left hand and I guess there was blood spatter all over me and just maybe my expression was a madman’s. He must have heard the sound of muffled gunfire behind the door at his post and he had gotten very badly scared. So scared the front of his pants was darkly damp. He looked like he was going to cry.

  Had he fired that burp gun the second he saw me, he might have had me. But he hesitated and my finger had almost squeezed the trigger on another perfect head shot when he knelt and laid the burp gun on the ground as if in offering, raising his hands.

  I leaned down, got the burp gun, and motioned with my head for him to get to his feet. He did as I indicated, and he understood when I handed him the key ring that he was to unlock the door for me.

  He did, and was glad to see me go, and I didn’t mind not killing that kid at all. It wasn’t his fault he was born in this goddamn country. He wasn’t responsible for killing a sweet girl called Zora. He was more like the soldier boyfriend she had lost in Hungary.

  Call me a sentimental slob.

  The sounds of gunfire hadn’t made it to the parking lot, and no alarm bells were ringing or sirens screaming, so the driver— having yet another smoke—was just leaning casually against the Zim. Unfortunately for him, when he saw me, he decided to go for his gun, and the damn thing was under his topcoat, buttoned away. He didn’t even have one button undone when he died.

  The keys were in the ignition and the wire-mesh gate was still open when I peeled out in the Zim. I was three blocks away, somewhere in Moscow, who the hell knew where, when the bells and sirens started.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “It took a week to get out of the city,” I said, “and start heading west.”

  Rickerby asked, “Did you have help?”

  “You know I did.”

  “Be specific.”

  “At first, when nobody knew me, and I was just an American in trouble, certain people turned away, while others pulled me in. By the time the heat was on, and I’d been identified in their press, I’d been drawn into the anti-Red underground railroad. It surprised me to find how many people over there aren’t in sympathy with that philosophy. I owe a lot of favors. One of them is that I don’t mention their names—even to you.”

  “You said, ‘By the time the heat was on’...”

  “You think the K.G.B. isn’t well-organized enough to effect a chase? They knew when they picked me up what kind of tiger they had by the tail. That bunch went into high gear the minute I skated out of Butyrka. I was lucky enough to have a head start.”

  “There must have been numerous attempts...”

  I cut him off. “Sure. They knew where I’d head for. One team was tracking me, but others went into areas where I might well appear, and set up a net. I knew they’d work it that way, but I didn’t have much choice either. I pulled every stunt I knew and got them to expose themselves. When they did, they got themselves knocked off. And I got through. Twice, it got too hot—it’s not hard to out-number one man—and I had to backtrack.”

  “And despite all that opposition, you got out.”

  “That’s right. I got out.”

  “No one’s going to believe it.”

  “And yet here I am. I knew they’d cover the embassies, seaports, airline terminals and any other possible exit routes, and there wouldn’t be a chance of breaking through. I kept my head down, moved from one friendly safe house to another, and survived half a dozen firefights. It took two months for me to make my way to that U.S. Air Force base in Turkey. The easy part was smuggling myself aboard one of our cargo planes headed to the States.”

  “You could have surrendered to the commanding officer of the base.”

  “What, and get taken out by a K.G.B. team because there wasn’t time to set up security? Not this old soldier. I wanted out and I wanted out the quickest way.”

  Rickerby switched off the small tape recorder. He sighed mightily, as if he’d just set down a heavy load. “This has to be transcribed.”

  “No objection,” I said.

  He got up, went to the door and dispatched the younger M.P. to take the tape to its proper destination.

  Then the high-ranking, inconspicuous-looking espionage chief—he was definitely not an Indian—returned to the little table and sat back down.

  Across from me, Sergeant Des Casey just sat quietly, his face an unreadable carved mask. Next to me, Rickerby was staring into his own cascading thoughts, the lines around his eyes deepening.

  Finally, he said, “Mike, they weren’t kidding in that conference room upstairs. This has the makings of an international incident that will make the U-2 look like shoplifting.”

  “I don’t give a damn. All I did over there, Art, was protect my ass. I happen to like my ass, and I’m going to hang onto it as long as I can.”

  “You expect senators and brass and Pentagon think-tankers to give a damn about one man?”

  “That man happens to be Michael Hammer, American citizen, and I’m here to stay and they and you are stuck with me. And so are those punks behind the Iron Curtain with their dream of burying us, and let them go running to the world stage squealing like the pigs they are because the action got a little too damn tough for them.”

  For a minute he gave me a blank-faced stare. Something was working at his mouth, like he had a seed in there and couldn’t figure out how to spit the damn thing out.

  “What, Art? What the hell is it?”

  “Well... you’re going to find it out soon enough. Your Soviet friends aren’t taking this lying down. While you were on the run across Europe, playing tag with hit squads, they were sticking formal diplomatic protests up our tails and...” His upper lip tightened and some rage danced into those seemingly placid eyes. “... and all we could do was sweat it out. Their propaganda machine went to town and made us look like a bunch of jackasses.”

  “I may bust out crying.”

  “Don’t laugh it off. If you’d taken out a guard or two in the escape, that would have been bad enough... but forty-five deaths!”

  “Not all at once. Half of that score I made after I busted out of Butyrka.”

  “Score!” Rickerby shook his head, his eyes wide behind the school-teacher glasses. “What kind of a man are you, anyway?”

  My smile wasn’t really a smile at all. My voice was a harsh whisper: “You knew what kind, Art, when you sicced me on the Dragon.”

  That stopped him, like a punch in the belly.

  He had unleashed me because he knew I could get him what he wanted: revenge for the death of a colleague who had been like his own damn son.

  So he couldn’t argue with that. Then, as if asking if I cared for cream in my coffee, he said, “Do you know what the Soviet government wants now?”

  “Why don’t you tell me,” I said.

  “Their people must have monitored the call from that air force plane. They knew the moment you arrived back in country. And they know we have you in our custody. It’s been confirmed through back channels. Mike—they want you returned to Russia. To stand trial for your atrocities.”

  That rated a horse laugh and I gave him one.

  An eyebrow arched. “You think it’s comical? They’re considering it upstairs, Mike.”

  My hands turned into hard fists and the rage that started up my back made the cords pop out in my neck so hard I could barely speak. “Let those sons of bitches keep thinking about it, buddy. We don’t have any extradition treaty with Russia, and if they pass one now, just so they can ship me out? Well, it’ll be an ex post facto law and I’m not subject to it. The people in this country aren’t going to hold still for that kind of crap, once the real story comes out, and the boys upstairs damn well know that, too.”

  “Mike...”

  I jerked my thumb upward. “So tell the slobs to shove it— and shove it hard. There’s no legal gimmick that can send me back unless I decide to go myself, a
nd man... I’ve already had my Russian vacation.”

  He didn’t react. Not really. He just sat there behind those bifocals and watched me rant, and when I was done, he leaned back in his chair quietly and said, “There’s a factor you’re forgetting about.”

  “Is there?”

  “There is. A real cute one.”

  “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

  Rickerby’s shrug was far more eloquent than my raving. “It’s a matter of face, Mike. The Reds can’t afford to lose any. They haven’t got too much sympathy going for them in the occupied countries right now, and your little James Bond escapade made them look pretty damn incompetent, not to mention foolish.”

  I grunted another laugh. “What about that propaganda machine of theirs you seem so impressed with?”

  “Well, some of their efforts backfired, and instead of making you look like a kill-crazy gangster, you came off one tough S.O.B. who wouldn’t just lay down and take it.”

  I folded my arms and leaned back, grinning. “About damn time my finer qualities were appreciated.”

  Across the table, that put a little crack of a smile in the M.P.’s stone face.

  Rickerby, however, was not amused. “Never mind your finer qualities, Mike. It’s your neck at stake.”

  “Art. back off.”

  But instead he leaned forward and there was concern in his face. “Mike, these K.G.B. boys are out after it. Your neck. The word’s come through already.”

  “Back channels?”

  “Back channels. If they can’t get you delivered to their jurisdiction, they’ll come after you over here. Whether they drag you back like a Nazi to Jerusalem, or just kill that ass you prize so much, it doesn’t matter. Either way, they’ll be big heroes in Mother Russia because Uncle Sam’s entire apparatus couldn’t protect even one tiny insignificant fly speck of a citizen.”

  “Thanks a bunch.”

  “After that.” He shrugged grandly. “...it’ll be that much easier for them to keep their people in line. And we’ll be the bad guys again.”

  The words seemed to spill through my teeth. “Let them try for me all they want, Ricketyback. I’ll enjoy every damn minute of it.”

  “Settle down.”

  “I got forty-five of those bastards over there, and who knows? Maybe I can get another forty-five of ’em over here. That ought to take the edge off their appetite for killing. Nobody likes dying that much.”

  Rickerby’s smile was small but dripping with sarcasm. “That would make ninety kills for you, on this one, wouldn’t it?”

  “A nice round number,” I told him.

  “A new record. Forty-five and forty-five—like that big rod you carry.” There was a touch of sneer in his smile now. “They say guys who carry big guns are compensating for... you know”

  “Some times a hot dog is just a hot dog, Art. Why, you think I got a complex?”

  “Oh, I think you’re crazy.”

  I grinned at him. “But crazy in a way that’s sometimes useful, right?”

  “Not this time.” He glanced upward, toward the conference-room gods. “Anyway, this time you’ll be restrained, and we won’t even have to haul out a straitjacket. There’ll be no more gunplay, Mike. It’s over.”

  “That so?”

  “The men in that conference room have already arranged it— protective custody.”

  “Great. I get thrown in the slammer again... this time for protecting myself.”

  “Oh, it won’t be all that bad. They don’t have a jail cell in mind. They’re thinking along the lines of keeping you on a military installation until this thing can get straightened out or blows over.”

  “In a pig’s ass. We do that and I’m admitting my guilt, and so is Uncle Sam. Their propaganda machine will get it right, next time. They won’t even have to bother sending their people after me. The longer I’m held, the better it is for them... and when I finally am released, they can line me up for a quick rub-out.”

  His eyes smiled with derision. “What do you suggest then?”

  “Like I said. I’m walking out of here. Let the Reds take their best shot. So far they’ve lost anybody who came at me, and stand to lose a hell of a lot more. Maybe you haven’t noticed—I don’t go down easy, Art. and in every instance, I’ll have a perfect case of self-defense.”

  He was frowning more in worry than disapproval. “I can get your gun permit and P.I. license lifted just as easily as I once got them back for you.”

  “Go ahead. You really think that’ll stop me from packing heat? And when I advertise how the feds are hamstringing me, public opinion will make monkeys out of you guys.”

  Again he leaned toward me. “Mike, there has to be a compromise we can make. You’re a problem, alive or dead.”

  “I vote for alive,” I said. “Go ahead—make a suggestion.”

  He paused, thinking a moment, then laid his hands flat on the table. “We’ll keep you under constant surveillance. You’ll be free to do what you want, but if anything develops, we’ll be right there.”

  “No dice, buddy,” I said. “If I have a tail, I want to know it isn’t one of our own people. You live longer when you know your enemy.”

  He recognized the logic of that. He tapped his fingers on the table top, thinking. “We’re going to have to insist on somebody being there.”

  I looked at the big M.P., who’d sat through all our palaver in patient silence, and grinned slowly. “Do you trust the sergeant here?”

  Rickerby got the picture right away but wasn’t sure he liked it. “Sergeant Casey isn’t trained for—”

  “Like hell,” I interrupted. “Take a look at those ribbons.”

  “That doesn’t make him an expert bodyguard.”

  “No? I got served some of that fruit salad myself. They don’t just hand that stuff out on the buffet line. They give those to you for being able to fight and kill, to out-think the enemy and stay alive when the shit storm comes.”

  Rickerby turned and looked at the M.P. “Opinion, Sergeant? This would be strictly voluntary.”

  The sergeant’s grin was broad and flat, with humor in his eyes; but behind the smile there was something else and I liked what I saw

  He said, “Sounds like great duty, sir.”

  Rickerby lifted both eyebrows, sighed, then gestured with open hands. “We’ll give it a try, then.”

  The M.P.’s smile was gone, his expression serious, almost somber now. “Sir.”

  “Yes?”

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about my qualifications. After the war I spent six years on the NYPD. Made detective.”

  A grin stretched across my mouth. “Why’d you go back to the service?”

  He made a gesture with his shoulders and grinned back. “It felt more like home to me.”

  Good man.

  Rickerby said, “Mike, I’ve made one hell of a concession to you. And I have to sell it to the men upstairs.”

  “And you need something from me.”

  He nodded. “The transcription of my interview with you will be gone over and gone over again... and they are going to have their own questions. They’ll have a desire for verification of certain details.”

  “To be expected.”

  “I’ll be right there and won’t let them overstep.”

  “Neither will I, Art.”

  * * *

  They gave me guest quarters fit for a five-star general, with five-star room service to boot. I put away a prime rib dinner with all the trimmings, and got a big kick out of spending an evening watching television that wasn’t in black-and-white and Russian. Before bed I took a hot shower that made me proud to be an American, and then slept like a baby for the first time in months.

  Des Casey had the room next door, so his bodyguard job had already begun. Me with a bodyguard—that was rich. But I might come to appreciate having the extra firepower and know-how. Right now, however, I didn’t figure the K.G.B. would be storming the Pentagon....

  The next mor
ning, the press room was packed with reporters waiting impatiently for a story to feed their millions. They weren’t happy having hours to wait before getting access to me. And I wasn’t happy, either. But this was Rickerby’s price and I had to pay it.

  First, the brain pickers had to scan every detail in that transcript. They did so in a room wired for recording while 16mm film cameras captured my reactions. Rickerby had asked if I’d submit to a polygraph during questioning and I said no problem. This acquiescence to scientific scrutiny surprised the specialists, who had likely been told what a pain in the ass I was.

  For forty minutes they examined my background, checking the polygraph responses against my records, then brought things right up to date with the Russian incident. Senator Jasper had submitted his report about hiring me and what little he knew of the situation, and I could tell by their faces that it tallied with my own account.

  With each answer, I could see, ever so slightly, frustration and annoyance touch their expressions. Not that they weren’t pros— they approached my story from every angle in obtuse ways that would have tripped up anybody trying to cover up. But I wasn’t trying to cover up. I didn’t have to.

  At eleven-thirty, we took a half-hour break, then they hooked me back up to the gizmo again. A fresh interrogator took the seat behind the desk while the others stood by quietly in their lab coats, clipboards in hand.

  I tried to keep my answers civil, but when I was asked about the necessity of responding to my captivity in “such a violent fashion,” I let loose.

  “All I knew was I was being set up as a target,” I said, “and my death day was right there and then. I wasn’t interested in niceties. I just got my ass out as fast as I could, and if you don’t like it, you know where to stick it.”

  This time the polygraph registered more than simple fluctuations. The needle scratched angrily, almost exceeding the limitations of the graph, and still pulsated with the emotions inside me after I’d stopped talking.