The Fugitive

by Fish, Robert L. ;

  Parked a block above the Mirabelle and facing north in the direction of the city stood the battered taxi with the mechanically interesting horn ring. Two blocks below the hotel, facing south, a gaily dressed Brazilian lounged at the wheel of a long, low Jaguar. To pass the time the drivers of these two parked cars were talking to each other by radio.

  “This is boring,” Wilson said, and his voice reflected his words. His finger toyed with the dashboard switch. “This is the second night in a row; I’m about ready to leave you to your own devices and call it quits.” He paused, and when his voice came back on the air again its tone had livened. “Or possibly I’ll take this taxi racket seriously. I’ve turned down about eight fares so far tonight, but there are three girls coming along now that I think…”

  “Relax, boy.” Da Silva’s voice came through roughly, distorted as usual by the instrument, but Wilson could hear the chuckle behind the words. “I can see every move you make. Be patient; just be patient. When this is all over, I promise you can use the cab for a week. Everything you earn will be yours. Including tips.” “Including women?”

  “Including everything. I’ll even buy the gas.”

  Wilson yawned. “How much longer do we hold down the fort tonight?”

  “One more hour and we’ll call it off. If they are going to make a move, they ought to make it at a reasonable hour. If they want us to be around, that is.” The voice became more serious. “One more hour and owe’!! call it a night.”

  “And for just how many more nights do we keep up this let’s-wait-for-curfew-to-ring routine?”

  The seriousness in the other’s voice became more profound. “I wish I knew. I don’t imagine it will be long, but I honestly wish I knew. This is Wednesday; they pulled that cute little stunt with Moraes in Sao Paulo a week ago tonight. Don’t worry; something has to break soon.”

  “I should hope so. I’m getting calluses on my you-know-what.” The voice of Wilson suddenly tensed. “Hold it. A couple of king-sized cars just pulled up to the side-street entrance of the hotel.”

  Da Silva’s voice remained calm, but there was an undercurrent of excitement in his tone. “I see them. Packards. Who drives Packards these days?”

  “Undertakers,” Wilson said. “Two men in the front seat of each. It’s too dark to make out anything else at this distance. By the way, nobody seems to want to get out. They must have heard that the beds are hard.”

  “I think this is it!” Da Silva said, excitement creeping into his voice. “Just a minute! I’m sure of it now; here come the leading characters!”

  Mathais and Ari were coming down the steps of the hotel entrance; Mathais handed Ari carefully into the rear seat of the first car, and then looked quickly up and down the street. He hesitated, went back to talk to the driver of the second car for a moment, and then returned, spoke softly to his driver, and entered, taking his place beside Ari. The man beside the driver reached back through the open window and swung the door shut.

  The cars took off in tandem, turned into Avenida Atlantica in the direction of the city, and gained speed. Wilson threw his car into gear and cut in behind the second Packard. His radio suddenly crackled.

  “I’ll turn around and come up behind you,” Da Silva’s voice said, firm and authoritative. “I think this is really it! This time, for the love of God, don’t lose them!”

  “Roger, Wilco, Joseph, and Mary,” said Wilson succinctly, and reached forward to switch off the radio. He settled determinedly behind the wheel, concentrating on his driving.

  The fog was increasing in intensity; the street arcs along the Avenida wore sparkling halos. They passed wedge-shaped shafts of light thrown out from hotels and bars and apartment entrances; Wilson flashed a quick glance in the rearview mirror, but it was impossible to say whether or not Da Silva had come up with him. On the other hand, he thought with some compensating satisfaction, it should be difficult for those in front to know they had a tail!

  At the Avenida Princesca Isabel the procession turned left, swinging away from the ocean, heading for the twin tunnels, each of which gave one-directional traffic between Copacabana and Botafogo and the city. The glow of fluorescent lights in the downtown side gleamed ghostly in front of Wlson as he approached the arched mouth through the fog. In front of him the taillights of the trailing Packard blinked into brilliance as the driver slowed for the entrance. Wilson gently applied pressure to his brake pedal, and they entered the tunnel at a moderate speed.

  A bus suddenly rocketed by at Wilson’s side, glistening with drops of water, its driver intent upon finishing his run and getting home as quickly as possible. In the flickering lights of the tunnel, the yellow sides of the swaying bus loomed ominously; Wilson pulled to one side, braking slightly. In that instant the car ahead seemed to leap forward in a sudden burst of speed, and without conscious thought, Wilson stamped fiercely on the accelerator. Without warning, the Packard then sharply braked and began to twist, as if in difficulty, weaving back and forth across the narrow tunnel. The yellow bus screamed past, its driver visibly cursing as he shot into the night and disappeared. The wet tires of the battered taxi behind tried their best to hold the pavement, squealing bravely in the attempt, but in the narrow passage there was just not enough room. As if in slow motion he saw his skidding car sliding toward the Packard; the rear fender of the other loomed larger and larger before him; he felt the sickening shock of contact as he pulled the wheel fiercely to one side. The impact threw him against the tiled wall; the entire side of the car scraped along, shrilling wildly. One tire, finally gripping a dry spot in the roadway, completed the disaster; the cab swung about in a wide arc, bounced off the wall with a shattering crash, and rocked to a shuddering stop, blocking the passage of the tunnel completely. From the interior of the crumpled hood a jet of hot water and steam sprayed against the cracked windshield.

  Da Silva, coming up fast behind, saw both the intention and the accident, but without stopping to investigate he braked to a stop, thrust his Jaguar brutally into reverse, and shot backwards out of the tunnel. A car coming up behind skidded wildly to miss him, and entered the tunnel with its driver looking over his shoulder screaming imprecations. Da Silva paid no attention.

  Once clear of the entrance, he swung the wheel sharply to the left and went bouncing over the center strip, coming down heavily over the curb to enter the uptown side of the tunnel with his superchargers roaring. He was fortunate in facing but one lone car hurrying home to Copacabana; this fled to one side with lights flashing and horn echoing hollowly in the enclosed space. Da Silva kept to one side, shooting through the narrow tunnel with his hand pressed steadily on the horn, his foot madly flickering the floor switch for his headlights.

  At the exit of the tunnel he slowed momentarily as he bumped back across the center strip to his own lane. He cast one quick glance back at the steaming wreck piled across the mouth of the tunnel and then, without hesitation, swung once again in the direction of the city, stamping on the gas pedal.

  But the road ahead was clear. The fog here had lifted enough to see the glaring cyclop eye winking down impersonally from each light pole; they illuminated a deserted pavement. With a vicious muttered curse, Da Silva tightened his grip on the steering wheel, increasing his speed. But he knew with a sinking feeling, even as he shot past the empty shining sea wall and the silent dripping palms, that he had lost his quarry.

  Chapter 4

  Within the leading Packard Ari attempted to relax at Mathais’ side; his fingers drummed tensely on the center armrest that had been drawn down to form a comfortable barrier between the two men. There had been no conversation. The fear that had been gnawing relentlessly at Ari for the past few days seemed to mount in the heavy air of the closed car; his hands were damp with perspiration. It seemed incredible to him that the other should not be able to sense his fear, to feel it, almost to smell it; but Mathais sat looking through the rolled-up window with seemingly complete unconcern. It will go away, Ari thought desperately
; this will go away. It is only because I am finally going to meet the head of their organization; it is only nervousness; because we are coming to the final moment; it is only natural. Despite the coolness of the night his forehead was beaded with tiny drops of sweat; his heart began its old pounding rhythm, the irregular beat adding to his fright. The old feeling of nausea returned, and he desperately wished for a window to be opened, wondering if he might possibly request it without his fear becoming visible for all to see. He wished he had taken a pill before leaving, and suddenly wondered if he were about to turn his great adventure into farce by becoming sick.

  They left the beach and turned north toward the tunnel leading to the city. With the car windows closed, the sound of their tires was reduced to a faint purr on the damp roadway; there seemed to be something sinister in the smooth manner in which they appeared to float through the foggy night, as if they rode in some hideous bubble that seemed to shrink, getting smaller and smaller every moment. Maybe it is only another form of my old dream, Ari thought, swallowing forcefully, my old nightmare from Tier 3, Row 4, Barracks 4; the frightening dream of being suffocated, clamped down upon, stifled. He drew in a deep breath, freeing his lungs shudderingly, and forced himself to lean back, attempting calmness.

  The tunnel swallowed them; the hum of the tires subtly changed tone. Mathais seemed to suddenly acquire a certain air of tenseness. As the car rolled smoothly beneath the glinting battery of fluorescent lights, he sat straighter, as if quietly awaiting something. Now the tires were sucking the roadway with their old whine; the arched mouth of the tunnel had spewed them out once again into the night. And then, behind them, Ari heard the dampened protest of brakes, the muffled, tortured screaming of metal rasping angrily against concrete, and then the final pounding crash. Their driver did not falter but drove smoothly on. Ari turned his head swirftly, staring back through the tiny rear window, but their car had competently swerved away from the main roadway, and the tunnel was now hidden. In the shimmering reflections cast waveringly up from the wet pavement, he could see the second Packard hurrying to catch up with them, swaying slightly on the uneven street. He turned back to see Mathais once again relaxing in his seat, his huge blocks of teeth shining white in a satisfied smile.

  “An overly curious cab driver,” said the hotel manager unctuously. “I had noticed him parked a bit above the hotel when we left; he started to follow us.” His voice hardened; there was something familiar about the hardness, something remembered from the past. “That one will bother us no more!”

  It was his shocked recognition of the tone of voice that swept all fear from Ari, and with the fear, all of the nervousness and tenseness. He could physically feel these emotions drain away to be replaced with implacable anger and firm resolution. This was the voice he had never forgotten, the voice that he could never forget. This was the voice that represented all he had ever hated and fought against, the voice from which he had suffered and endured such deep losses.

  This was the voice of the Storm Trooper, beating his aged and bearded prisoner through the streets; the voice of the camp clerk sneeringly calling out the names of the next batch to leave the frightful insecurity of the vermin-ridden shelves for the terrible certainty of the gas ovens. This was the high, piercing, righteous voice of the Hitler Jugend calmly denouncing their parents to the Gestapo; the voice of the Fuhrer demanding the wave of the future and receiving the shrill “Sieg heil!” of the screaming mob. This was the voice of the Third Reich fifteen years after the cleansing flames of the Berlin bunkers; but the voice of Nazi Germany intact, and Ari knew it well.

  He settled back in his seat in sudden relaxation, his blue eyes turning icy. It was this voice and all voices like it that he could help still by his meeting tonight. The opportunity he had feared, he now welcomed. He nodded stiffly to Mathais as if in praise for the neatness displayed in eliminating their pursuer, and then turned his face once again to the window to avoid the other’s smirk.

  They were in a part of the city he did not know. In the fog it was difficult to recognize landmarks, but the street along which they drove, and the facades of the buildings which they passed, did not look familiar. This was a section he had not previously visited. Before them a wall suddenly loomed, topped by a string of lights glistening through the fog. They turned to the right without slowing, and continued driving.

  “Yacht Club,” Mathais said briefly, and also turned his attention to the thickening night outside. The Yacht Club faded into the darkness behind them, the car began to slow down. Another curve and a second cluster of lights began to approach. This I should know, Ari thought. It is not so far from the drive; I should be able to orient myself. He shrugged in indifference; it was really quite unimportant.

  The Packard eased to the hidden curb; Mathais got down heavily and helped Ari to get out. The fog here was thicker, a pocket that had swirled down into the depression formed by two huge rocky towers. Certainly I should know this place, Ari mused with a touch of irritation. Have I lost my sense of direction altogether? He shrugged again as they walked toward the light cluster; the driver and his silent companion bracketed the two as they went. The sound of the second car pulling up could be heard; a car door slammed and the other feet walked hurriedly up behind them. They arrived at the source of the lights in a tight group. Ari stared in amazement.

  Before him was a boxlike car, resembling a short street trolley, but hung from a set of oily wheels mounted clumsily above. He swung his eyes up; the heavy cables passed in a sagging dip over his head and faded in a rising curve into the wall of fog. He turned to Mathais, who was smiling, unable to hide his pride in his arrangements.

  “Yes,” Mathais said. “Pao de Açúcar—Sugar Loaf. Our leader will meet you on top of Sugar Loaf.” He was almost grinning in his self-satisfaction at his own cleverness. “It is the perfect place, yes?”

  But, Ari almost cried, it is foggy, we shall not be able to see the beautiful view! Even as the thought crossed his mind, he realized how unimportant to his mission it was; but the feeling of loss somehow persisted. What a shame to visit Pao de Açúcar on a night of such fog! What a waste!

  He turned to Mathais, his face exhibiting the proper appreciation for the other’s brilliance. “Do we wait for him here?”

  “No; he prefers to meet on the summit.” Mathais chuckled comfortably. “A summit meeting.” He took Ari’s arm, guiding him to the car. A little uniformed Brazilian sat inside, eyes downcast, waiting for them to enter. The silent men with them stood to one side until Mathais handed Ari in; then they followed. Mathais stepped back. “I’ll see you on top in a few minutes,” he said, and added almost jovially, “Boa viagem. Good trip.”

  They started at once with a jerk, swaying fearfully. Ari grabbed for the supporting rod above his head, and then lowered himself gingerly onto a seat. The silent Storm Troop types about him seated themselves on either side; no word was spoken. Ari turned, looking down over his shoulder through the open window; the glow of the lights on the ground was slowly fading. Their car seemed to be suspended in a yellowish liquid, washing in it, rocking gently from side to side. His eyes automatically turned back to study the interior of the little wooden car; it seemed to be terribly fragile, scarcely built to ride to such heights. Ahead of them the cables swept silently out of the fog and then disappeared once again behind. The little blue-jacketed conductor sat with his eyes fixed blankly upon the floor.

  A sudden rift in the fog bank gave a momentary glimpse of the city, a flashing view of tiny streets and foreshortened apartment buildings dropping steeply away, but before Ari could fix it in his sight, the curtain of mist swept between them and they were once again back in their silent medium, swaying ever higher.

  The faces about him were expressionless. What would you say if you knew you were taking a Jew up to meet your leader? he said to them silenty, bitterly. What would you do? Would your cowlike faces at least assume some expression, even if it were only of anger? Would you look shocked, surpris
ed? Amused? You would look the same, he thought with cold disgust; you are automatons, robots, and you would look the same. You have looked the same for a thousand years; you would not change now. Up and up they went; time seemed to stand still for their silent ascent into the mysterious emptiness of the blind sky. The hum of the huge wheels rolling quietly on the cables washed them all in weariness; the figures of his bodyguards, slumped in the wooden seats along the wall of the swaying car, seemed steeped in hypnosis, watching him as if drugged. The yellow fog beyond the glistening window swirled about sluggishly, casting back the weak light from the climbing car in spectral lights and shadows.

  The ride seemed endless. As they rose the fog became cooler; the drop in temperature was quite apparent. Ari welcomed the sudden cold, laying his head against the wooden window frame, enjoying the dampness on his cheek. And then a sudden squealing of the cables jerked his head up; they were decelerating. The swaying became less pronounced, the invisible pull upward was being reduced. There was a sharp scraping sound as they dragged against something, coming to rest with one final tug. They were on top; the door opened.

  He stepped out into a world apart from any he had ever known. The fog was thinner here; above him the faint glow of the moon could be seen, forcing itself through the spreading webs of mist. The cloudlike blanket of fog flowed below on all sides, curling folds that boiled in the air only a few feet beneath his precarious perch. The movement of the car seemed to remain with him, as if the mountain itself were shifting slightly; he took a few steps and the earth miraculously firmed. The four men who had ridden with him formed a file that led him to a flight of steps set in one corner of this aerie.

  “On the platform,” one said harshly. “He will meet you alone on the platform above.” Ari stared at them blankly; a thumb jerked abruptly upward, and with a nod he began to climb.