Operation Stranglehold (5 page)

“They’ve been here hardly long enough for me to show a profit,” Doc grumbled. “But will do.”

I drove back to the Shoreham.

I knew that when Doc put them on the street Bruno and Smitty would have no idea where they’d been. That was the way Doc operated.

Hazel looked up expectantly from a magazine when I entered our room. “The boat’s leaving,” I said. “All aboard that’s going aboard.”

“Will I need new clothes?” she asked immediately. “Do I have time to shop?”

“No shopping,” I decreed. “We’re traveling light. And when we get set up over there we’ll mostly be camping out.”

We were at Washington National Airport again in an hour and caught the shuttle to New York.

• • •

My first glimpse of Barajas Airport a few miles east of Madrid was from 2000 feet above it. The Iberian Airlines 747 broke through the cloud cover we had experienced most of the way from New York and began to let down in its circuitous approach pattern. Our seats in the big jet were above the landing wheels, and I could hear the faint rumble of hydraulic lines and feel the successive slight tremors as the wheels were lowered.

Before leaving, I had packaged up my gun and mailed it to a former alias at the Golden Peacock, a nightclub in Mobile. I marked it
HOLD FOR PICKUP
. I’d have mailed it to the ranch, but I wasn’t sure we could go back to the ranch.

Debarkation proceeded smoothly. “What now?” Hazel asked as we approached customs, guided by an armed man in a sage-green uniform. He was wearing a hat of black patent leather shaped like something seen in a painting of the Napoleonic Wars.

“We take a cab to the branch office of Croswell Industries,” I said. The long lines of passengers moved slowly past the customs inspectors. I didn’t tell Hazel that she wouldn’t have been included if I hadn’t needed her Spanish-speaking facility to direct the cab driver. I wanted as few people as possible to see her with me in case something went wrong later on.

Once through customs we walked through wide, open spaces with ceilings, glass walls, and tiled floors of several different types. I recognized marble, terrazzo, and stone. We passed through double-glass doors, following the crowd, then along a glassed-in partition separating us from a café behind white railings on a strip of lawn. Spaniards sipped aperitifs leisurely. Spotted inconspicuously throughout the entire inner area of the terminal were more of the armed men in the sage-green uniforms.

Hazel noticed them, too. “Who are the men in the funny-looking hats?” she wanted to know.

“Guardia Civil. The same as our police, except that in Spain the police are also a paramilitary group.”

They were a capable-looking crew. Lean and trim; not a fat man in the bunch. That told me more about the organization than a twenty-page bulletin.

We reached an open-air rotunda entrance. I had Hazel inquire the way to the cab stand. She made herself understood with little difficulty. I handed her a slip of paper with the address of Croswell Industries’ Madrid office, and the cabbie nodded understanding of her instructions. The driver was as neatly dressed as a funeral director, a contrast to Mexican cabbies I’d seen at border towns.

The taxi moved smoothly through thickening traffic as we approached downtown Madrid. Acacia trees lined the broad avenues. The numerous traffic circles reminded me of Washington, D.C. I saw an occasional street sign: Calle de Doña Maria de Molina, Plaza Castelar, Calle de Serrano, Plaza de Independence.

The cabbie half turned and said something in Spanish. “He says the American Embassy and the Castellana Hilton are just a short distance ahead,” Hazel translated.

“We don’t want either, especially the Embassy,” I said. “Something less conspicuous than the Hilton will do us fine. We might not need a hotel. If Sam Morgan can get our equipment together fast enough, we could start driving to the northern border today.”

“What kind of equipment, Earl?”

“Heavy clothing, boots, wet-weather gear, a tent, provisions, that sort of thing. This is going to be an outdoor operation.” The cab turned down a side street and pulled up in front of a two-story office building with an imposing-looking warehouse attached. A sign over the front entrance said Croswell Industries, S.A. The out-of-town location was explained by three planes parked near a macadam airstrip. “A private air fleet. No peanut-stand operation. You can wait in the cab,” I added to Hazel. The fewer people that saw her the better. She’s not a forgettable type.

“Wait, wait, wait,” she protested. “That’s what you always say when things get interesting.”

“Don’t forget you’re in this ball game on a rain check, baby,” I warned. I wasn’t kidding, either. If I could have handled Spanish with any kind of efficiency, I’d never have let Hazel get close to the project.

She made a face at me as I climbed from the cab. I went inside and approached a desk behind a low railing. A chubby Spanish girl, typically dark-eyed, looked up at me expectantly. “Senor Morgan, por favor,” I said, expending my entire stock of Spanish.

The girl smiled and turned loose a torrent of liquid-sounding syllables. I held up a protesting hand. When she saw I didn’t understand, she repeated it, slowly, pointing her finger at me. I was just about to give up and get Hazel when I realized the girl was asking my name.

I scribbled the words “Senator Winters” on the pad she held out to me, and she rose from her desk and walked to a door in the back wall of the office. Her chubbiness was even more pronounced during her progress across the open space. While there was no undue hip-waggling, I got the feeling that the girl knew what she had.

A skinny, nervous-looking man with a mane of black hair appeared in the open doorway through which the girl had disappeared. He looked at me across the intervening space, then muttered something to the girl, who materialized beside him. She walked back to me, jiggling pleasantly, and opened a door in the railing. I passed through the gate and entered the inner office, passing the silent black-haired man.

“I’m Morgan,” he said when he had closed the door. “Welcome to Madrid, Mr.——?”

“Senator Winters’ name should be all that’s necessary,” I suggested.

“Why, yes, I suppose so,” he answered in a querulous tone. “It’s probably best I don’t know who you are. All this mystery … I’m sure the whole business is irregular if not illegal.”

“You’re not talking like a good company man, Sam,” I told him. This one was a real Fretful Freddie, I decided.

“Oh, I’ll follow my instructions, naturally,” he said gloomily. “But I’m the one who has to deal with the Guardia Civil if there are any questions afterward.”

“There won’t be,” I assured him.

The statement didn’t appear to ease Morgan’s anxiety. He moved behind his desk but remained standing. “Let’s get on with it,” he said. “I understand I’m to furnish you with supplies you’ll specify?”

“That’s right,” I confirmed. “Plus cash.” He nodded as grudgingly as if it were going to come out of his own pocket. “The first thing I need is a 9-mm. Luger automatic and several boxes of Parabellum cartridges.”

Morgan turned a shade or two lighter. “This is worse than I thought!” he moaned.

I couldn’t resist sinking the needle a little deeper. “If you’re accustomed to the bullet-impact of a.38 when you fire a gun, it’s disconcerting to hit a man in the ankle with a Magnum.357 and watch him die from shock. That’s why I prefer to deal with what I know.”

Morgan sat down in his swivel chair as if his knees had become unhinged. “This is dreadful!” he exclaimed in a half gasp. “What kind of person are you!”

“I’m the person sent here for you to outfit,” I reminded him.

“But where am I going to get a gun!” he wailed. “A—a—what did you call it?”

“A 9-mm. Luger with 9-mm. Parabellum ammunition,” I said. “That’s just the first item, Sam. Start writing.”

He pulled a pad toward him. “What else?” he asked sulkily.

“A small European station wagon of an inconspicuous type. A lightweight backpack tent. Camping supplies: a propane stove, Coleman lantern, ax, knife, the whole bit. Heavy clothing suitable for hiking in the mountains—” I stopped to think: Erikson undoubtedly had outfitted himself, but would he still have the clothing? “Four sets,” I decided. “Three medium, one large. Plus provisions for a week.”

Morgan had regained some color as he scribbled down the various items. “That’s not too bad,” he said almost to himself. “If it weren’t for the gun … but then there’s the car registration, too—”

“Money buys guns and car registrations, Sam. Lay out enough cash and you’ll find no questions are asked.”

“But what name will I use!” He was getting excited again. “I don’t want to be an accessory if anything goes wrong!”

“What can go wrong on a camping trip in the mountains?” I asked with mock innocence.

“It’s not funny!” he snorted.

“You must know a Spanish national who owes you a favor,” I said patiently. “Turn it over to him to handle. If he’s a patron of U.S. gangster movies, he may even think you’re a hell of a guy.” I hurried on before he could react unfavorably. He looked preoccupied; my suggestion of a Spanish national had obviously triggered a train of thought. “And I’ll want ten thousand in Spanish money, Sam. Small bills.”

That sent him into another spin. “Ten thousand!”

“Ten thousand U.S. Wouldn’t you rather I paid off a few people than used the Luger?” He looked as if he were going to swoon at the very thought. I was getting impatient with this desk-bound Nice Nelly. Impatient, and a bit concerned. For all I knew, he might try to buy a gun from the cop on the beat. “When I mentioned a Spanish national just now, you thought of someone, Sam. Who was it?”

He looked self-conscious when he replied. “Consuelo’s brother has had some difficulty with the police,” he said, glancing toward his office door. “I’ve done him more than one favor. I’m—I’m sure he’ll know what to do.” He was looking much brighter.

“Consuelo? Your receptionist?”

“My—” there was the tiniest of pauses “—secretary.” Before my eyes Sam Morgan turned scarlet.

Not even the nervous righteous of the world are immune to body chemistry. She’s too much woman for you, Sam, I thought. “I’m going to get some sleep now to catch up with the European clock,” I said. “I’ll meet you again at midnight. Where?”

“Where?” Morgan repeated blankly.

“Where will I pick up the station wagon and the gear? Snap out of it, will you, Morgan?”

“Oh.” He cleared his throat. “At the side door of the warehouse. The east side. You’ll—you’ll be met.”

But not by Sam Morgan, I thought to myself in disgust as I left his office. How could a man like him hold so responsible a job? He must be a whiz at squeezing out profits to offset his overwhelming natural deficiencies.

Consuelo, the blush-inducing secretary, gave me an admirably seraphic smile when I passed her desk.

• • •

Hazel had obtained the name of a clean, second-class hotel from the cabbie while she was waiting for me. I had a hard time convincing her to stay in our room when I was ready to go back to Croswell Industries’ branch office at midnight.

“I want to go with you,” she kept saying while I was dressing.

“There’ll be plenty for you to do later,” I insisted.

I certainly didn’t want her around while a bunch of fast cash was being transferred, in addition to the station wagon and camping equipment. Funny things happen while money is being handled at midnight in unpublic places.

I left the room quickly, before Hazel could wear me down. I was wearing my belt holster in anticipation of having a Luger to weight it down shortly. Hazel had obtained a street map of Madrid and marked down for me a street intersection a half mile from Croswell Industries. The taxi driver to whom I showed the map nodded indifferently and drove me there.

I walked the balance of the way. There was a three-quarter moon and a cool night breeze. There was almost no street traffic, either vehicular or pedestrian. It made me feel a little conspicuous—I hadn’t expected to stand out so prominently. But I wasn’t worried—I’ve walked strange streets at midnight in other cities.

I walked past the Croswell Industries building when I came to it, looking it over. The building was dark, and the area was quiet. I ducked down a shadowy alley which led to a warehouse door on the east side of the building. I knocked once on the solid-feeling door.

It opened immediately. Light streamed out, half blinding me. It silhouetted a bulky figure while concealing his shadowed features.
“Buenas noches, senor,”
a hearty voice greeted me. I was shown inside and the door closed.

As soon as my eyes had adjusted to the light, I took a quick look around the cavernous expanse of the warehouse. An Opel station wagon sat facing the overhead door. Its rear was crammed with equipment. A battered panel truck was parked a few feet from the station wagon, and a smaller figure, dressed in coveralls like the first, was standing beside the truck.

“I’m Julio,” the door-opener said easily, extending a hand. He pronounced his name with an
H.
I shook hands, sizing him up. I might have caught the resemblance to Consuelo even without Morgan’s identification. There were the same swarthy, round, dimpled, cheerful-looking features, although in a masculine version. The body bulk was similar too, although the sloping, muscled shoulders hinted at a fat man who could be a surprise.

“I esspeak the Ainglish real good,” Julio informed me proudly. “I sail barco mercante, w’at you call merchant marine, everywhere. You want to inspec’ the campin’ gear?”

It was the first critical moment of the project.

I held out my hand. “First I’ll take the Luger, Julio.”

Julio reached into a pocket of his coveralls and hand
ed it over like a lamb, butt first.

I was congratulating myself on clearing that hurdle—a gun in the other man’s hand is like sliding home on a suicide squeeze, touch and go. But then I realized that there had been no hurdle. The second coveralled figure, to whom I had paid no attention while Julio held the Luger, was waving at me shyly.

I did a double take; the warm smile and the voluptuously flesh-strained coveralls—when really looked at—identified the helper as Consuelo. “What the hell?” I said. “Why are you using your sister like this?”

“Eenside the family it ees no loose tongues,” Julio said equably. He smiled broadly. “An’ no so mooch expense, eh?”

It was his business.

I hefted the Luger on my palm. I could tell from its weight that it wasn’t loaded. I held out my hand to Julio again. “Ammo,” I said.

He handed me two oil-stained boxes. Except for the Spanish printing, they were identical to what I used at home. I filled the cartridge clip, then reinserted the clip into the weapon’s base. I hefted the automatic again. It had a comfortable feel. I tried it in my belt holster. It was slightly bulkier than my Smith & Wesson, but it fit well enough. I tried drawing it a couple of times. It came out freely with no snagging.

Julio nodded approval several times while watching the procedure. “Consuelo say even een the office you look
belicoso,”
he said.

“Belicoso?”

“Like war.”

John Emery, Senator Winters’ aide, had also hinted that I looked warlike. Maybe it was time I paid a little attention to the cosmetic aspects of the contents of my makeup kit. “I’ll take the cash now,” I said to Julio.

Ordinarily that could have been a touch-and-go moment, too, but it was obvious that Julio was being a good boy. He went to the station wagon and picked up a cheap-looking, imitation-leather briefcase. He dumped its packages of wrapped bills on the front seat. I slid the wrapper from each package and counted. It took a while, because the bills were incredibly dirty and worn. Spanish money is still considered new when ours is removed from circulation as too old.

One of the packages came up 5000 centimos short, the missing bulk being skilfully provided by a wedge of cardboard.

Julio was already reaching into his coveralls again when I turned to him. He handed over the missing cash. “Eet was possible you might not ‘ave counted,” he said philosophically. He smiled at Consuelo’s disapproving expression.

I wondered if I could let Julio earn his attempted self-awarded bonus. I needed information about the prisoner transfer from the border, and the only way I’d seen to acquire it was to have Hazel ask questions, which could be dangerous.

“Do you know the border prison at Lanuza?” I asked abruptly.

“I know eet well, senor. I ‘ave spent three mos’ un’appy weeks there.” Julio’s smile appeared again. “A misunderstanding about items which ‘ave crossed the border. Eet was corrected.”

I’ll bet Sam Morgan corrected it, I thought. It should be safe to talk to Julio with Consuelo tied to Morgan. “When does the prisoner transfer to the capitol take place?” I took the plunge.

“Los miercoles,”
Julio said. “Wednesdays.”

He looked as if he were about to ask some questions of his own. I choked them off by handing him back the 5000 centimos.
“Gracias,”
I told him.

“Muchas gracias,”
he returned animatedly. “W’at you want me to do now?”

“For now, nothing. If I want you again, I’ll call Consuelo.”

“She doesn’t speak well the Ainglish.”

“Then I’ll have a friend call her.”

I gave the contents of the station wagon a fast check. Everything was there. I climbed in and gestured to Julio to open the warehouse overhead door. I drove out into the alley with brother and sister waving goodbye to me.

With free access to the warehouse made possible by Consuelo, I wondered what part Julio played in Croswell Industries’ annual inventory losses at the Madrid branch office. Still, Julio had the appearance of a reasonable man. He would undoubtedly keep his pilferage down to a reasonable figure, something Sam Morgan could cope with on the books.

I drove back to the hotel.

The prisoner transfer took place on Wednesdays, and we were already into the first hour of Tuesday.

I found a side-street parking place near the hotel, locked up the Opel, and rejoined Hazel.

• • •

We left for Zaragosa thirty minutes after sunrise.

If we had no problems on the road, we could reach the spot I had picked out on the map with enough daylight left to set up for Wednesday’s action.

It was difficult getting out of Madrid unscathed. Enough early-morning commuters crowded the streets in their cars trying to avoid the later high-density traffic, that they created miniature bottlenecks themselves. Luckily, we were heading north out of the city proper while the suburbanites were streaming in. I had to dodge only an occasional impatient commuter who ventured onto my side of the road.

Traffic thinned beyond the outskirts. The highway was well marked with the illustrated, international road symbols used in Europe. It made the route easy to follow. The countryside was mostly flat and dry-looking with a ridge of low mountains paralleling our course to the north. The sky was cloudless, and the area strikingly resembled the American southwest, with a network of irrigation ditches criss-crossing fields where green sprouts showed.

Zaragosa was a run of just over 200 miles. We made it in time for lunch. I’d kept the speedometer needle right on the 85 kilometer per hour mark. Fifty miles an hour was all the strain I wanted to put on the overloaded station wagon.

We ate at a provincial, two-level restaurant called the Bodegas Aragonese. It was dark and cool with gourds and bunches of garlic and peppers hanging from ceiling beams. Hazel practiced her Spanish on the smiling waitress. She even managed to order me a bottle of chilled, refreshing beer.

We took the noon special which consisted of a crisp, antipasto-like salad, eggs and Majorcan ham, and tender veal stew. The bill, including a bottle of red wine and the everpresent hard bread, amounted to eighty-six American cents each. A man could get spoiled on that kind of eating for that kind of price.

Zaragosa was beginning to close down for the siesta period when we drove out of it. We wound our way through narrow streets to the Puente del Piedra spanning the Ebro River, and then took Highway 240 northeast toward Huesca.

Gradually the nature of the countryside changed. The snow-capped Pyrenees appeared dimly in the distance. We began to climb in earnest, and I kept our speed down so the burdened Opel wouldn’t overheat.

Beyond Huesca the road became hilly and winding and showed signs of neglect. We drove through five short tunnels in ten miles and negotiated climbing, hairpin turns. Purple gorges and sparkling waterfalls abounded.

An hour before mountain sunset, we reached a roadside village looking down upon an emerald blue lake. I stopped and checked the map. We were seven miles and a thousand feet below the border outpost from which Karl Erikson and Walter Croswell would be vanned tomorrow.

I circled back south of town and parked the Opel off the roadway. Hazel helped me stake down the tent. We changed to heavier clothing to minimize the effect of a cold mist which was forming at the crest of the hill and moving downward toward us.

“I’m glad we’re ready to get started,” Hazel said, as she deftly stirred the contents of four cans into a soup pot over the campfire to make a heartening slumgullion.

“Yes,” I replied.

But if my tone was less hearty than hers, there was a reason.

From looking at the map and studying the situation, I was sure that Karl Erikson had made his move from somewhere in the near vicinity.

Erikson was a shrewd, powerful, painstaking man, but he had made his move and failed.

And I didn’t know why.

• • •

We got off to a flying start in the morning.

I woke to find my sleeping bag unzipped and a bare-assed Hazel crawling in with me. “I’ve never done it in Spain,” she stated. “For that matter, I’ve never done it in a sleeping bag.”

She managed matters so well that I was hard before I was fully awake. It wasn’t as good as Hemingway makes it sound, but it wasn’t all that bad either. “Way—to—go, Horseman,” Hazel murmured in my ear as I jackhammered her encompassing flesh. “Way—to—go!”

We relaxed in the sleeping bag after our burst of energy. “That was a real ring-a-ding-ding session,” my redhead sighed. “I’ve always heard it was better at higher altitudes.”

It hadn’t been that good for me, but when it is for the woman, that’s seven innings of the ball game. I reached out an exploratory foot from the unzipped bag and pushed the tent flap open. Pale sunlight had dispersed the worst of the previous night’s misty fog. I had a quick cup of coffee while Hazel curled up in the sack again. There was no need for last minute instructions; I’d covered as many contingencies as I could think of while we were driving up.

I woke her when I was ready to leave. She clamped her arms around my neck and gave me a goodbye kiss. I backed out of the tent and the flap dropped behind me. I went to the Opel and took out the canvas shoulder bag I’d crammed with tinned and dried rations the night before. I’d packed enough to last for three days. Julio had said the prisoner transfer was to take place today, but with the unpredictability of Spanish schedules I wanted to be prepared.

I checked myself before I took off: gun, box of ammo, matches, knife, can opener, full canteen, six-power binoculars. With the essential gear draped from both shoulders, I still had my hands free.

I looked down at the gravel road which stretched for a quarter mile in each direction before it was cut off by curves. I could hear nothing but the rustling of pines and the chirping of birds in the after-dawn breeze. In the solitude of the mountains sounds carry clearly and over long distances. It was one of the problems.

I eased myself down the steep dirt bank into the roadbed, checking my progress with my heels. Then I walked uphill toward the nearest crest. My map wasn’t detailed enough to show each bend and twist in the road, and I needed a good spot to set an ambush.

I wanted a place that would give me a view of the road for at least a mile ahead. I knew what I’d be watching for: a boxlike vehicle with its body mounted behind a regular truck cab; double axle drive with dual wheels at the rear; wire screen mesh covering the single small window high in the side of the sheet-metal body. The van had only one purpose, the transportation of prisoners, and it wasn’t going to be hard to recognize it I was expecting trouble. I didn’t know what kind, but trouble. Erikson had gone this route, and hadn’t made it. The resistance he’d run into must have been a good bit more than he expected. And since a hijack attempt had been made once, it figured that extra security measures had been laid on.

I found an intercept point along a relatively straight stretch of road between two sharp curves. The prisoner van would not be proceeding at speed. As the crow flies it was no more than 1000 yards from where Hazel was waiting with the Opel beyond a lower hairpin turn.

I staked myself out in bushes on the bank above the road, and waited. Only three cars and one truck passed in the first hour. The rising sun removed the chilliness from the air. Twice I had to jerk myself awake after nearly falling asleep.

I debated zapping the driver through the windshield, but finally decided against it because a dead man might let the van veer off the road into the deep ravine. I wondered again how Karl had tried to do it and where he went wrong. I finally stopped thinking about how Erikson had erred. In essence, the job was a simple, one-man hijacking. It meant stopping the van, overcoming any resistance, immobilizing the guards, and preventing communication. I unslung my binoculars, studied the terrain again, and satisfied myself that I was in a position that provided for those four major objectives.

Then I settled back to wait some more.

The sun rose higher, and the heat increased. I drank sparingly from my canteen. The occasional cars which passed all climbed the curving road from the lowlands below. Nothing appeared from the direction in which I was expecting the van.

It was mid-morning before I heard the unmistakable sound of a truck transmission in intermediate gear. The motor’s growl was from the correct direction, and I picked up the binoculars hurriedly. Three curves away I picked up the boxlike structure of the van slowly creeping around a bend. There were two men in the front seat of the van, obviously driver and guard. It would be a surprise if there weren’t more guards inside the van’s body with the prisoners.

I slithered down from my hillside vantage point to the shoulder of the road. I felt loose. I dropped into the ditch with arms thrust forward and resting on the road shoulder. In my hands in a firm double grip was the Luger that Sam Morgan had acquired for me.

The truck rounded the curve into the straightaway, moving even more slowly than I had expected. I sighted on the right front tire so any pull of the van would be into the bank away from me. It would be a short-range, acute-angle shot. When I squeezed the trigger, I saw the tire-tread peel open and the front wheel shimmy simultaneously with the firing recoil. I was on my feet and alongside the driver’s side of the cab before he succeeded in wrestling the van to a bumpy halt.

I whipped his door open and dragged him out of the cab. He was unarmed, and I shoved him sprawling into the ditch. I had the Luger muzzle trained on the cab’s second occupant, a young, arrogant-looking guard in a neat-fitting dark green uniform with polished, black leather crossbelts over his tunic. On his feet were calf-high jump boots. On his face was an expression of frustrated disbelief.

A carbine was in a sling on the inside of the truck door, and I grabbed it before I forced the guard to step down. He had a handgun in a holster on his hip, but the holster’s flap was buckled. He glared at me malevolently as I motioned him to the rear of the van. The driver was on his feet in the ditch, staring stolidly, and I included him in my arm-sweep. I could hear the increasing clamor of questioning voices within the body of the van.