Blueprint for Destruction (A Steve Carradine Thriller)

by John Glasby

  Blueprint for Destruction

  John Glasby

  © John Glasby 1966

  John Glasby has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1966 by Linford Mysteries under the name ‘Manning K Robertson’.

  This edition published in 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1 - CHECKOUT

  CHAPTER 2 - THE RED DRAGON

  CHAPTER 3 - THE MERCHANTS OF DEATH

  CHAPTER 4 - KILL OR CURE

  CHAPTER 5 - STRANGE ALLY

  CHAPTER 6 - DEW LINE NORTH

  CHAPTER 7 - CITY UNDER THE ICE

  CHAPTER 8 - FLIGHT INTO DANGER

  CHAPTER 1 - CHECKOUT

  The fifty-mile stretch of white concrete highway that ran as straight as a die through the New Mexico desert, now gleaming with a faint sheen in the deep purple of the starlit evening, had not been there when Minden had last been to this part of America. Now it seemed an integral part of the scene, reminding him all too vividly of the speed with which these Americans worked when they had some definite goal in view.

  Minden was not usually a reflective man. Inwardly, he knew that unless he succeeded in this particular mission he would not only be written off by his superiors, but they would take steps to see that he did not live to endanger any other agents working for them in this country. This was one of the inescapable facts of life with which he had been forced to live for almost twenty years, a sword of Damocles hanging internally over his head on a very slender thread indeed. Somehow, he had lasted longer than most; for the man who directed these operations had a patience which tended to wear thin with the passing years and whenever he looked back on his life objectively he was forced to admit to himself that he had done little of real value, nothing dramatic.

  Twenty years ago, when the end of the war had divided Germany into two separate states, he could have taken the other path—a job in one of the factories in East Berlin; but after nine years in the SS he was not made that way. A short, broad-shouldered man, his iron-grey hair still curling a little around the temples, short cropped over the rest of his head, he continued to live by the only moral code which Intelligence workers knew—that the results they obtained were their only justification for existence. The results that he had obtained over the past ten years had been sufficient to keep him in his present position, a mediocre figure, tolerated perhaps but for how long? It seemed odd how long it had taken him to realise, fully, that for him the writing was on the wall.

  Cornish, seated behind the wheel of the Pontiac, eased himself into a more upright position. His cream tussore suit, almost white, gleamed incongruously in the shadowed interior of the car. He stared through the windscreen of the car along a deserted stretch of the highway. Then he glanced down at the luminous watch on his wrist.

  “If he’s on time—and he usually is—we have another twenty minutes to wait,” said Cornish.

  “You are getting impatient, perhaps?” It was more of a statement than a question, but Cornish shook his head almost instinctively. “No, but it’s a little difficult to be completely calm at a time like this. You know, of course, that they have their checkpoints all the way along the highway. If he is so much as two minutes late at any point they send out a car to find out why.”

  Minden lit a cigarette. Blowing smoke through his pursed lips, he stared sightlessly into the deep purple darkness beyond the windscreen. “How can you be so sure he will have the information with him?”

  Cornish’s faint laugh was indulgent. “My friend, you forget that I have access to the records of every man who works in the Establishment.”

  Minden nodded, satisfied. He knew a little more about Cornish than the other supposed; he had seen his dossier, the photograph just inside the blue and white cover, a photograph that had been taken the previous year, although it was extremely doubtful if Cornish knew it had been taken. Cornish occupied a special position in the Organisation. His usefulness rested on the fact that he did, as he had just said, have access to top-secret documents relating to every man who worked for the American government on this particular defence project. Until 1939 he had been a minor clerk in one of the Boeing Aircraft Establishments, but during the war he had been seconded to the Manhattan Project, still in a minor role.

  Then, with the end of the war, there had been vast, far-reaching changes in the set-up of the American Defence Department, particularly in those sectors dealing with the siting of atomic weapons, to be used in defence of the country in the event of a global war. Several of the top-ranking scientists had resigned their posts. It had not been difficult for Minden to discover why they had chosen to do this. While America was at war, patriotism coupled with the strict laws in force during wartime, had prevailed on these men to continue, unabated, their work on nuclear weapons. With the final defeat of Japan and his own country, these restrictions no longer held and men who could, more than anyone else, realise the full and terrible destructive power of the weapons they had developed, refused to carry out work on them any longer. Perhaps they had the vision to see the direction in which the politicians would lead them; perhaps they foresaw the dread consequences of what they had done so willingly in time of crisis. Whatever the reason, they refused to continue their work and the new style began. With the inevitable shake-up, minor officials suddenly assumed a greater importance. Naturally, the FBI checked on each of these men, but here and there, they passed over those whose allegiance was elsewhere than to the United States. Such a man was Albert Cornish.

  Bending down, Cornish opened the glove compartment, took out a thermos flask and a couple of paper cups. “You want some coffee?” he said. “Take some of the chill out of your bones.”

  “Very well.” He accepted the cup that the other held out to him, sat back in the seat and sipped the hot coffee, contentedly. There was one thing to be said for the Americans, he thought; they certainly knew how to make coffee.

  “Will it be absolutely necessary to kill him?” Cornish’s voice was flat.

  “Of course. Perhaps you have forgotten the way in which the Organisation works. Or is it that this is the first time you have seen this side of our work?” Minden spoke in a slightly puzzled intonation.

  “I haven’t forgotten.” Cornish drained his coffee, crumpled up the paper cup and tossed it out through the half-open window. He deliberately wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, then reached into the rear seat and pulled out the leather case containing the high-powered binoculars. “It’s merely that it seems such an unnecessary complication.”

  “And your mind is always so very tidy,” said the other sarcastically. He screwed up his own cup, placed it carefully back in the glove compartment and took out the long-barrelled pistol which lay there. Screwing the silencer attachment onto the end of the barrel, he gave a satisfied nod, turned to the other. “See anything yet? He should be in sight by now.”

  “Nothing,” murmured Cornish. He adjusted the focusing screw of the binoculars with the tips of his fingers as he spoke. A moment later, a gave a faint sigh. “Yes, there he is!” He lowered the binoculars and handed them to Minden. “Care to take a look?”

  “Danke.” Minden rested his elbows on the dashboard, holding the binoculars rigid, pressing them into his eyes. He focused them on the point where the grey-white strip of the highway faded abruptly into the general, overall darkness of the desert. He could just make out the faint division between sky and earth and then, faint but unmistakable, the twin headlights of an approaching car. He guessed that it
was perhaps five or six miles away. “Can you be sure that it’s him?”

  Patiently, Cornish said: “I’ve checked his timing and route for the past three weeks. Always, he has been on time, whether he’s carrying documents or not.”

  “And he’s alone?”

  “Yes. I’m certain of it.”

  “Good. Then you know what to do. If the idea of killing him does not appeal to you, leave that part to me.”

  Without answering, Cornish turned the ignition key, depressed the accelerator pedal gently, the powerful engine purring softly with a suppressed song of power beneath the long bonnet. He eased the gear lever into position, sat tensed with the clutch still depressed, ready to move as soon as the other gave the order. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Minden, leaning forward with the binoculars still thrust tightly against his eyes. The other did not move as much as a muscle as he watched the headlights creep nearer along the arrow-straight highway. Poised, like that, he reminded Cornish of a tiger he had once seen, crouched, ready to spring, to crush and destroy. His first impression of Carl Minden had been one of surprise, for there had not been that air of ruthless determination about this man that he had been expecting from what he had heard of him from other sources; at least, it had not been apparent then. Now he realised that it had been there all the time, but had been merely dormant, waiting for the moment when it should surge up to the surface and wipe his body clean of all other emotions.

  “All right?” he asked finally, his voice a harsh whisper.

  “Switch on the headlights when I tell you,” said Minden out of the corner of his mouth, “and then move across the highway to block the other side of the road.”

  “Suppose that he doesn’t stop?” Doubts seized the other at this last moment.

  “Then it will mean the end of us and you’ll be past caring about what the Organisation will do to you as the price of failure.”

  There was a slow, soft rumble in the distance. The twin headlights of the oncoming car were clearly visible now, even without the enhanced vision of the binoculars and Minden tossed them quickly into the back seat as he straightened up, said harshly: “Now!”

  There was a soft click as Cornish switched on the headlights. The twin beams lanced out with a surprising suddenness, spearing through the darkness ahead of them. A moment later, he let in the clutch, spun the wheel, moving the car directly across the highway in front of the other vehicle. Minden tensed himself in his seat, fought down the faint germ of panic that churned deep within him.

  They teach you how to kill, how to defend yourself against another attack armed with a gun, a knife, or any other weapon. They teach you that the chances of survival are so stacked against the man in this dangerous game that one must face the possibility of death with equanimity. Yet in spite of all this careful coaching and preparation, the sight of headlights, glaring and flashing their warning of impending disaster, the high-pitched scream of breaks and tortured rubber, could still tie his stomach into knots and make him temporarily forget everything in the surging, abysmal terror of self-preservation.

  Dipping and rising hypnotically, swinging from side to side as the driver of the other car fought to bring it under control, the brilliant, all-pervading glare of the powerful lights threatened to blind him as he felt Cornish stamp down on the brakes, bringing the Pontiac to a lurching halt, slewed at an angle across the northbound section of the highway.

  Had they left it too late? For one terrifying moment, he felt certain they have overplayed their hand, cut things just a little too fine.

  Now he could hear the rasping whine of the six cylinders. The high-pitched whine changed abruptly to a shattering roar that bit deeply at his overstretched nerves. Minden got a glimpse of the other car swerving violently as it careened off the edge of the highway, past the front of the Pontiac’s bonnet, glancing along the rough concrete of the verge and then going like hell over the stretch of rough ground that lay beyond, ploughing through a dozen stunted bushes before it came to a halt, headlights staring crazily into the darkness of the night sky.

  Gripping the silenced pistol, Minden opened the door, climbed out and ran swiftly towards the other car. Minutes, seconds, were precious now. It was impossible to tell if the driver was alive, even conscious. Miraculously, except for splintered glass in one of the headlights and a twisted bumper, the other car seemed to be undamaged. Wrenching open the door, he peered inside. The driver was there, slumped over the wheel, his face turned away from Minden. There was a slim, black briefcase on the seat beside him.

  There was, as usual, a faint light from the courtesy lamp set in the roof of the car just above the dashboard. Reaching out, Minden grabbed the briefcase, drew it along the seat, almost had it when the man lying behind the wheel suddenly moved. The sweat was beading on Minden’s face as he saw the other turn his head, the eyes wide open, looking up into his. There was a smear of blood on the other’s cheek and a gash just above the left eye, but the man appeared to be fully conscious, seemed to have been faking unconsciousness, waiting for him to make the first move.

  For a moment, the other’s move took Minden completely by surprise. Then, in the faint light, he saw the glint of metal in the other’s hand, caught a glimpse of the snub-nosed automatic. Minden’s muscles coiled like those of a snake. There was no room now inside the car to line up the gun on the other’s body, to be absolutely sure of hitting a vital spot with a single shot. His right hand flickered as he thrust forward with the gun. In one violent corkscrew of motion, he twisted himself sharply around, the barrel catching the other on the side of the head just behind the ear.

  Minden had planned for the other’s savage reflex action. He stepped back a pace as the other jerked up the automatic, squeezed off a single shot, felt the wind of the slug pass his face, heard it hit the door of the car and ricochet into the darkness. The hard blow had dazed the other and before he could fully recover, Minden slammed the barrel down again. This time, with all of the strength in his body behind the wicked, downwards swing. The other uttered a muffled moan. With a slither and a crack of the head against the dashboard the other slid sideways, falling off the front seat, arms and legs dangling onto the floor.

  For a moment, Minden crouched there, breathing hard. He stared at the limp body of the man in front of him, at the dark stain on the side of his head. Then, automatically, he reached out and felt the wrist. There was no detectable pulse beating in the vein. Letting the limp arm fall onto the seat, he backed out of the car, picked up the briefcase and sprinted over to the Pontiac. Cornish’s grey face stared out at him as he opened the door and got inside.

  “Did you get the briefcase?” he asked anxiously.

  “It’s here,” muttered Minden. “Now get out of here.” He slammed the door of the car shut behind him as Cornish let in the clutch. The warm-heated engine murmured softly as they began to move, gathering speed. Minden twisted in his seat and peered through the window behind them, looking back along the highway. He could just make out the shape of the wrecked car, the probing beams of the twin headlights lancing up into the starlit heavens at a ludicrous angle.

  It would be ten minutes yet before that car was supposed to pass through the checkpoint ten miles further along the road; but in spite of this, every minute, every second, was a bonus. Now that the worst was over, Cornish was going like hell. There was no traffic on the road at this time of night and Cornish kept up a good speed along the straight highway for five miles before pulling off at a sharp command from the man seated beside him. Springs creaked in protest, the wheel jerked like a live thing under Cornish’s hands. Then they were on a dirt track leading off towards the distant hills, the headlights picking out the rough, uneven surface, rising and falling as they bounced and jolted over a stretch of the roughest terrain that Minden had known. He let out his breath in a quiet hiss. Wiping his sweating hands on his trousers, he sat back in the seat, still clutching the precious briefcase between his hands.

  *

&
nbsp; There was a brilliant red light gleaming above the door at the end of the corridor as Steve Carradine stepped out of the lift and made his way down the quiet passage with the four closed doors, two at either side. He pressed the switch on the side of the door, waited for a moment until the light flicked to green, then back to red, before opening the door and stepping inside. Closing the door softly behind him, he glanced across to the man seated behind the desk. There was nothing outwardly startling in the other’s appearance. His cherubic countenance glistened a little in the hot sunlight, which streamed through the window behind him. He was writing on the pad in front of him as Carradine entered, but pushed it away and gestured to the chair immediately opposite him. Carradine sat down, thrust his legs out straight in front of him and waited for the other to speak.

  “I’ve asked the Chief-of-Staff to come along and join us,” he said evenly. He looked carefully at Carradine. “Do you find it too hot?” Then without waiting for a reply, pressed the button on the desk and a hidden fan began to whir softly in the ceiling, adding its faint background hum to the distant sound of the London traffic far below.

  There was something coming, Carradine thought wearily. He settled himself more comfortable in his chair. For the past three months, during one of the hottest summers he had ever known in London, he had merely idled his way around Headquarters, doing little of interest, simply because it had been the stated policy that every agent was to do his share of the routine work of the Section. Many times, he found himself wishing that some trouble would break out somewhere in the world, giving him the chance to get away from the humdrum affairs here in London.

  A sharp, peremptory buzz jerked his thoughts back to the present. The other touched another button and a moment later, the door opened and Forbes, the Chief-of-Staff, came in. He nodded to Carradine, walked over and seated himself on the other chair.