It was fortunate for me that he did because it prevented me from running headlong into one of the pools. I saw the reflections strike from the water just in time to skid to a halt, and I teetered for a moment right on the edge. My balancing act wasn't improved much when someone took a shot at me from an unexpected direction the other side of the pool - and something tugged briefly at the sleeve of my jacket.
Although I was illuminated by the lights of that damned car my attacker was in an even worse position because he was between me and the light and marvellously silhouetted. I slung a shot at him and he flinched with his whole body and retreated. Briefly the headlights of the car swung away and I hastily ran around the pool while he put a bullet in roughly the place I had been.
Then the lights came back and steadied and I saw him retreating backwards, his head moving from side to side nervously. He didn't see me because by this time I was flat on my belly. Slowly he went backwards until he put a foot into six inches of boiling water and jerked apprehensively. He moved fast but not fast enough, because the big gas bubble which heralds the blasting of Strokkur was already rising in the pool behind him like a monster coming to the surface.
Strokkur exploded violently. Steam, superheated by the molten magma far below, drove a column of boiling water up the shaft so that it fountained sixty feet above the pool and descended in a downpour of deadly rain. The man screamed horribly, but his shrill piping was lost in the roar ' of Strokkur. He flung his arms wide and toppled into the pool.
I moved fast, casting a wide circle away from the revealing lights and heading eventually towards the road. There was a confused babble of shouting and more cars were started up to add their lights to the scene, and I saw a crowd of people running towards Strokkur. I came to a pool and tossed the pistol into it, together with the spare clips of ammunition. Anyone found carrying a gun that night would be likely to spend the rest of his life in jail.
At last I got to the road and joined the crowd. Someone said, 'What happened?'
'I don't know,' I flung my hand towards the pool. 'I heard shooting.'
He dashed past me, avid for vicarious excitement - he would have run just as fast to see a bloody motor smash -and I discreetly melted into the darkness behind the line of parked cars drawn up with headlamps blazing.
After I had gone a hundred yards up the road in the direction of the Volkswagen I turned and looked back. There was a lot of excitement and waving of arms, and long shadows were cast on to the shifting vapour above the hot pools, and there was a small crowd about Strokkur, edging closer but not too close because Strokkur has a short, seven-minute cycle. I realized, with some astonishment, that from the time Case and I had seen Strokkur blow when we left the hotel until the man had fallen into the pool had been only seven minutes.
Then I saw Slade.
He was standing clearly visible in the lights of a car and looking out towards Strokkur. I regretted throwing away the pistol because I would have shot him there and then had I been able, regardless of the consequences. His companion raised his arm and pointed and Slade laughed. Then his friend turned around and I saw it was Jack Case.
I found myself trembling all over, and it was with an effort that I dragged myself away up the road and looked for the Volkswagen. It was where I had left it and I got behind the driving wheel, switched on the engine, and then sat there for a moment, letting the tension drain away. No one I know has ever been shot at from close range and retained his equanimity his autonomic nervous system sees to that. The glands work overtime and the chemicals stir in the blood, the muscles tune up and the belly goes loose, and it's even worse when the danger has gone.
I found that my hands were trembling violently and rested them on the wheel, and presently they grew still and I felt better. I had just put the car into gear when I felt a ring of cold metal applied to the back of my neck, and a harsh, well-remembered voice said, 'God dag, Herr Stewart-sen. Var forsiktig.' I sighed, and switched off the engine. 'Hello, Vaslav,' I said.
Chapter II
'I am surrounded by a pack of idiots of an incomparable stupidity,' said Kennikin. 'Their brains are in their trigger fingers. It was different in our day; eh, Stewartsen?'
'My name is Stewart now,' I said.
'So? Well, Herr Stewart; you may switch on your engine and proceed. I will direct you. We will let my incompetent assistants find their own way.'
The muzzle of the gun nudged me. I switched on, and said, 'Which way?'
'Head towards Laugarvatn.'
I drove out of Geysir slowly and carefully. The gun no longer pressed into the back of my neck but I knew it wasn't far away, and I knew Kennikin well enough not to go in for any damn-fool heroics. He was disposed to make light conversation. 'You've caused a lot of trouble, Alan and you can solve a problem that's been puzzling me. Whatever happened to Tadeusz?'
'Who the hell is Tadeusz?'
'The day you landed at Keflavik he was supposed to stop you.'
'So that was Tadeusz - he called himself Lindholm. Tadeusz - that sounds Polish.'
'He's Russian; his mother is Polish,! believe.'
'She'll miss him,' I said.
'So!' He was silent for a while, then he said, 'Poor Yuri had his leg amputated this morning.'
'Poor Yuri ought to have known better than to wave a belly gun at a man armed with a rifle,' I said.
'But Yuri didn't know you had a rifle,' said Kennikin. 'Not that rifle, anyway. It came as quite a surprise.' He clicked his tongue. 'You really shouldn't have wrecked my jeep like that. It wasn't nice.'
Not that rifle! He expected a rifle, but not the blockbuster I'd taken from Fleet. That was interesting because the only other rifle was the one I'd taken from Philips and how could he know about that? Only from Slade - another piece of evidence.
I said, 'Was the engine wrecked?'
'There was a hole shot through the battery,' he said. 'And the cooling system was wrecked. We lost all the water. That must be quite a gun.'
'It is,' I said. 'I hope to use it again.'
He chuckled. 'I doubt if you will. That little episode was most embarrassing; I had to talk fast to get out of it. A couple of inquisitive Icelanders asked a lot of questions which I didn't really feel like answering. Such as why the cable car was tied up, and what had happened to the jeep. And there was the problem of keeping Yuri quiet.'
'It must have been most uncomfortable,' I said.
'And now you've done it again,' said Kennikin. 'And in public this time. What really happened back there?'
'One of your boys got himself parboiled,' I said. 'He got too close to a spouter.'
'You see what I mean,' said Kennikin. 'Incompetents, the lot of them. You'd think three to one would be good odds, wouldn't you? But no; they bungled it.'
The odds had been three to two, but what had happened to Jack Case? He hadn't lifted a finger to help. The image of him standing and talking to Slade still burned brightly in my mind and I felt the rage boil up within me. Every time I had turned to those I thought I could trust I had been betrayed, and the knowledge burned like acid.
Buchner/Graham/Philips I could understand; he was a member of the Department fooled by Slade. But Case knew the score - he knew my suspicions of Slade - and he had not done one damned thing to help when I had been jumped by Kennikin's men. And ten minutes later he was hobnobbing with Slade. It seemed as though the whole Department was infiltrated although, Taggart excepted, Case was the last man I would have thought to have gone over. I thought sourly that even Taggart might be on the Moscow pay-roll - that would wrap the whole bundle into one neat package.
Kennikin said, 'I'm glad I didn't underestimate you. I rather thought you'd get away from the morons I've had wished on me, so I staked out this car. A little forethought always pays, don't you think?'
I said, 'Where are we going?'
'You don't need to know in detail,' he said. 'Just concentrate on the driving. And you will go through Laugarvatn very carefully, observing al
l the speed limits and refraining from drawing attention. No sudden blasts on the horn, for example.' The cold steel momentarily touched my neck. 'Understand?'
'I understand.' I felt a sudden relief. I had thought that perhaps he knew where I had spent the last twenty-four hours and that we were driving to Gunnar's house. It wouldn't have surprised me overmuch; Kennikin seemed to know everything else. He had been lying in wait at Geysir, ' and that had been a neat trick. The thought of Elin being taken and what might have happened to Sigurlin had made my blood freeze.
We went through Laugarvatn and on to Thingvellir, and took the Reykjavik road, but eight kilometres out of Thingvellir Kennikin directed me to turn left on a secondary road. It was a road I knew well, and it led around the lake of Thingvallavatn. I wondered where the hell we were going.
I didn't have to wonder long because at a word from Kennikin I turned off the road again and we went down a bumpy track towards the lake and the lights of a small house. One of the status symbols in Reykjavik is to have a summer chalet on the shores of Thingvallavatn, even more prized because the building restrictions have forbidden new construction and so the price has shot up. Owning a chalet on Thingvallavatn is the Icelandic equivalent of having a Rembrandt on the wall.
I pulled up outside the house, and Kennikin said, 'Blow the horn.'
I tooted and someone came out. Kennikin put the pistol to my head. 'Careful, Alan,' he said. 'Be very careful.'
He also was very careful. I was taken inside without the faintest possibility of making a break. The room was decorated in that generalized style known as Swedish Modern; when done in England it looks bleak and a little phoney but when done by the Scandinavians it looks natural and good. There was an open fire burning which was something of a surprise. Iceland has no coal and no trees to make log fires, and an open blaze is something of a rarity; a lot of the houses are heated by natural hot water, and those that aren't have oil-fired central heating. This fire was of peat which glowed redly with small flickering blue flames.
Kennikin jerked his gun. 'Sit by the fire, Alan; make yourself warm. But first Ilyich will search you.'
Ilyich was a squarely-built man with a broad, flat face. There was something Asiatic about his eyes which made me think that at least one of his parents hailed from the farther side of the Urals. He patted me thoroughly, then turned to Kennikin and shook his head.
'No gun?' said Kennikin. 'That was wise of you.' He smiled pleasantly at Ilyich, then turned to me and said, 'You see what I mean, Alan? I am surrounded by idiots. Draw up the left leg of your trousers and show Ilyich your pretty little knife.'
I obeyed, and Ilyich blinked at it in astonishment while Kennikin reamed him out. Russian is even richer than English in cutting invective. The sgian dubh was confiscated and Kennikin waved me to the seat while Ilyich, red-faced, moved behind me.
Kennikin put away his gun. 'Now, what will you have to drink, Alan Stewart?'
'Scotch - if you have it.'
'We have it.' He opened a cupboard near the fireplace and poured a drink. 'Will you have it neat or with water? I regret we have no soda.'
'Water will do,' I said. 'Make it a weak one.'
He smiled. 'Oh, yes; you have to keep a clear head,' he said sardonically. 'Section four, Rule thirty-five; when offered a drink by the opposition request a weak one.' He splashed water into the glass then brought it to me. 'I hope that is to your satisfaction.'
I sipped it cautiously, then nodded. If it had been any weaker it wouldn't have been able to crawl out of the glass and past my lips. He returned to the cupboard and poured himself a tumbler-full of Icelandic brennivin and knocked back half the contents with one gulp. I watched with some astonishment as he swallowed the raw spirit without twitching a hair. Kennikin was going downhill fast if he now did his drinking openly. I was surprised the Department hadn't caught on to it.
I said, 'Can't you get Calvados here in Iceland, Vaslav?'
He grinned and held up his glass. 'This is my first drink 'in four years, Alan. I'm celebrating.' He sat in the chair opposite me. 'I have reason to celebrate it's not often that old friends meet in our profession. Is the Department treating you well?'
I sipped the watery Scotch and set the glass on the low table next to my chair. 'I haven't been with the Department for four years.'
He raised his eyebrows. 'My information is different.'
'Maybe,' I said. 'But it's wrong. I quit when I left Sweden.'
'I also quit,' said Kennikin. 'This is my first assignment in four years. I have you to thank for many things.' His voice was slow and even. 'I didn't quit of my own volition, Alan; I was sent to sort papers in Ashkhabad. Do you know where that is?'
'Turkmenistan.'
'Yes.' He thumped his chest. 'Me - Vaslav Viktorovich Kennikin - sent to comb the border for narcotics smugglers and to shuffle at a desk.'
'Thus are the mighty fallen,' I said. 'So they dug you up for this operation. That must have pleased you.'
He stretched out his legs. 'Oh, it did. I was very pleased when I discovered you were here. You see, at one time I thought you were my friend.' His voice rose slightly. 'You were as close to me as my own brother.'
'Don't be silly,' I said. 'Don't you know intelligence agents have no friends?' I remembered Jack Case and thought bitterly that I was learning the lesson the hard way, just as Kennikin had.
He went on as though I had not spoken. 'Closer to me than my brother. I would have put my life in your hands - I did put my life in your hands.' He stared into the colourless liquid in his glass. 'And you sold me out.' Abruptly he lifted the glass and drained it.
I said derisively, 'Come off it, Vaslav; you'd have done the same in my position.'
He stared at me. 'But I trusted you,' he said almost plaintively. 'That is what hurt most.' He stood up and walked to the cupboard. Over his shoulder he said, 'You know what my people are like. Mistakes aren't condoned. And so . . .' He shrugged '. . .the desk in Ashkhabad. They wasted me.' His voice was harsh.
'It could have been worse,' I said. 'It could have been Siberia. Khatanga, for instance.'
When he returned to his chair the tumbler was full again. 'It very nearly was,' he said in a low voice. 'But my friends helped - my true Russian friends.' With an effort he pulled himself back to the present. 'But we waste time. You have a certain piece of electronic equipment which is wrongfully in your possession. Where is it?'
'I don't know what you're talking about.'
He nodded. 'Of course, you would have to say that; I expected nothing else. But you must realize that you will give it to me eventually.' He took a cigarette case from his pocket. 'Well?'
'All right,' I said. 'I know I've got it, and you know I've got it; there's no point in beating around the bush. We know each other too well for that, Vaslav. But you're not going to get it.'
He took a long Russian cigarette from the case. 'I think I will, Alan; I know I will.' He put the case away and searched his pockets for a lighter. 'You see, this is not just an ordinary operation for me. I have many reasons for wanting to hurt you that are quite unconnected with this electronic gear. I am quite certain I shall get it. Quite certain.'
His voice was cold as ice and I felt an answering shudder run down my spine. Kennikin will want to operate on you with a sharp knife. Slade had said that, and Slade had delivered me into his hands.
He made a sound of annoyance as he discovered he had no means of lighting his cigarette, and Ilyich stepped from behind me, a cigarette lighter in his hand. Kennikin inclined his head to accept a light as the flint sparked. It Sparked again but no flame appeared, and he said irritably, 'Oh, never mind!'
He leaned forward and picked up a spill of paper from the hearth, ignited it at the fire, and lit his cigarette. I was interested in what Ilyich was doing. He had not returned to his post behind my chair but had gone to the cupboard where the liquor was kept - behind Kennikin.
Kennikin drew on the cigarette and blew a plume of smoke, and then look
ed up. As soon as he saw that Ilyich was not in sight the pistol appeared in his hand. 'Ilyich, what are you doing?' The gun pointed steadily at me.
Ilyich turned with a refill cylinder of butane gas in his hand. 'Filling the lighter.'
Kennikin blew out his cheeks and rolled his eyes upwards. 'Never mind that,' he said curtly. 'Go outside and search the Volkswagen. You know what to look for.'
'It's not there, Vaslav,' I said.
'Ilyich will make sure of it,' said Kennikin.
Ilyich put the butane cylinder back into the liquor cupboard and left the room. Kennikin did not put away the pistol again but held it casually. 'Didn't I tell you? The team they have given me has been scraped from the bottom of the barrel. I'm surprised you didn't try to take advantage.'
I said, 'I might have done if you hadn't been around.'
'Ah, yes,' he said. 'We know each other very well. Perhaps too well.' He balanced the cigarette in an ashtray and picked up his glass. 'I don't really know if I will get any pleasure from working on you. Don't you English have a proverb - "It hurts me as much as it hurts you." He waved his hand. 'But perhaps I've got it wrong.'
'I'm not English,' I said. 'I'm a Scot.'
'A difference that makes no difference is no difference. But I'll tell you something - you made a great difference to me and to my life.' He took a gulp of brennivin. 'Tell me that girl you've been running around with Elin Ragnarsdottir; are you in love with her?'
I felt myself tighten. 'She's got nothing to do with this.'
He laughed. 'Do not trouble yourself. I have no intention of harming her. Not a hair of her head shall be touched. I don't believe in the Bible, but I'm willing to swear on it.' His voice turned sardonic. 'I'll even swear it on the Works of Lenin, if that's an acceptable substitute. Do you believe me?'
'I believe you,' I said. I did, too. There was no comparison between Kennikin and Slade. I wouldn't have taken Slade's word had he sworn on a thousand bibles, but in this I would accept Kennikin's lightest word and trust him as he had once trusted me. I knew and understood Kennikin and I liked his style; he was a gentleman savage, but still a gentleman.
Bagley, Desmond - Running Blind Page 15