The Living Death (10 page)

I didn't try for reasons, for any kind of motivation for anything. I was only after leads and while it seemed an unlikely one, it was a fact He had attended every one of the past eight meetings. I'd seen plenty of unlikely facts become very likely in the past. I didn't ever discount anything, no matter how weird it seemed. Certainly in this wild affair I wasn't about to do it. Glad-hand Karl could be a dead lead — and then he could be something more than he seemed. It was the only lead I'd come up with, if you could call it that. I decided to call it that. I called Rome airport for a schedule of flights to Zurich.

"Have you looked out your window, sir?" the pleasant, young voice asked me over the phone. I'd been so engrossed in my work sheets that I hadn't. When I did, I hung up. A thick fog was blanketing the city, the kind that doesn't go away for days. I checked out of the hotel and got a ticket on the Rome-Zurich Express. My compartment was in midrain and I boarded about twenty minutes before we left. Though listed as an express, it was far from what we call a through train back home. I had taken a sleeping compartment, and the conductor checked my passport and made up the berth. It was evening when we pulled out, and I watched the fog-shrouded lights of the Eternal City go by as we gathered speed. Like most European trains, it went like hell between stops, but then there were those innumerable stops for switching cars and adding new ones. I went to bed early and slept well. Trains always had a soporific effect on me. When I awoke we were just nearing the Swiss border at Bellizona. I went to the dining car and had a light breakfast. The countryside had changed, I saw as I looked out the train windows. It was hillier, with distant mountain peaks, snow-capped outlines, rising skyward. Spruce, evergreen and mountain laurel had replaced olive, cedar and grapevines. A crispness to the air had replaced the soft, indolent climate of Southern Italy. I strolled back to my compartment and was almost at it when a man's voice called out. I turned to see a man of medium height, balding, holding a gold cigarette case open as he came toward me.

"
Scusi, Signor,"
he smiled, his Italian heavily accented.
"Favorite darmi un fammijera?"
I halted, fished a pack of matches from my pocket and handed them to him. As he leaned forward to take them, he spoke softly in accented English. "Do not move, Carter," he said. "There are two guns trained on you. One is here in my other hand, the other is behind you."

I stood still and saw the tip of the revolver jutting out of his jacket. I turned my head only enough to see the other man at the far end of the corridor.

"Open the door to your compartment and go in," the balding one said. "No tricks." Two more big, burly types in leather coats had appeared behind the man at the far end and they were closing in. I knew when I was in a sack. I opened the compartment and went in, my new-found acquaintances crowding in behind me. In a fast professional onceover they immediately relieved me of Wilhelmina. They missed Hugo. That was the great thing about the little stiletto. Even professionals, especially when in a hurry, often missed the leather sheath against my forearm.

"You seem to know my name," I smiled cordially at the first one who had asked for a match.

"Carter — Nick Carter." He smiled thinly. "Top AXE operative. N3, officially."

I sized them up quickly. If I hadn't been able to type the balding one, the last two were dead giveaways. They wore the stolid, poker-faced expression of NKVD work horses, heavy of hand and solid of head. The balding one was no doubt Soviet Intelligence, on an upper level.

"Since you know so much about me, am I to consider this some kind of special fan club?" I asked pleasantly. The balding one smiled again.

"Not really," he said. "But your reputation is well known."

"Especially to Soviet Counter-intelligence," I commented. "Didn't I meet some of your boys in and around London lately? A rather fatal meeting for them if I recall correctly."

He nodded and his smile was missing. "Unfortunately, you are correct," he said. "But things will end differently this time. I am Captain Vanuskin and I deplore bunglers."

"Me too," I smiled. My mind was racing. They had popped up out of nowhere. Either they were getting smoother or I was getting old. It actually bothered me more than being caught.

"I didn't notice you tail me to the train," I admitted. "I'm impressed."

"We didn't," Vanuskin answered and my eyebrows went up involuntarily. "As I said, your reputation is very well known. We were certain you'd spot a 'tail, as you Americans so quaintly put it. We staked out the hotel and we knew the airports were out because of the fog. So if you left, it had to be train or car. We had a man watching every outbound train track. When you left the hotel, our man merely radioed the fact. Then another of our men picked you up boarding the Zurich Express."

I felt better. They weren't getting smoother, only a little smarter. And the fog had simplified their task for them. Which brought me to another very interesting point. Only two people knew I was at the Rafaello Hotel — Hawk and Karl Krisst. Of course, Krisst could have let someone else know but I doubted that. I put it aside as an off-chance possibility, deciding instead on a little fishing expedition.

"Then he's one of your men," I said to the Russian. "He's the one who ripped you off that I was at the Rafaello."

"Who
is
this 'he'?" Vanuskin replied cagily.

"You can stop playing games," I said. "It's too late for that I'd still like to know how it's done though."

Vanuskin grinned, a wide, sly grin. "You are referring, I presume, to the unfortunate mental deterioration of certain scientists — to their stolen brains?"

I wanted to remap his grinning face, so much so that my hands were clenching and unclenching. I forced down the impulse. It would be certain death.

"That's more or less it," I said, forcing myself to sound casual.

"We don't know the answer to that any more than you do, Carter," the Russian answered blandly.

"Oh, come on now," I said. "Such modesty is something new for you boys, isn't it? I never figured it for your land of operation, though."

"It's not our operation, as you put it," the Russian said. "But we are only too happy to cooperate. And we're not being modest. We feel as though we have been given a very unexpected and most valuable gift. Naturally, we will do everything in our power to protect our unknown benefactor."

The Russian threw back his head and laughed at the incredulous expression I was wearing.

"Hard as it may seem for you to believe," he went on, "it's the truth. We were mysteriously contacted about a year ago by someone who wanted a list of those scientists we knew were engaged on scientific research for the Western powers. For our cooperation, he promised he would do us a great favor, which he certainly has done. We submitted such a list. He chose a name, returned it to us, and the next thing we knew, that scientist had suffered a total mental collapse. This man has contacted us each month since then in much the same manner, either by mail or special courier. We suggest a few names we know are on important work for the West He picks one and does the rest. Of course, we are only too happy to furnish him with whatever he wishes."

"Money, too?" I asked, wondering about motives.

"If he asks for it. He rarely does."

"What about Maria Doshtavenko?" I asked.

Vanuskin shrugged. "An unfortunate case, an eruption of bourgois feelings, you might say."

"You mean humanitarian feelings," I countered.

"Call it whatever you like," the Russian said. "She was in a position to know of our contact and the general outlines of what was happening. She wanted it halted. She had ideas of putting these few scientists before the interests of her country."

"Bull," I corrected him. "She had ideas of putting humanitarian ideals above local political maneuvers. You got wind of it and had her killed."

"I told you," the Russian said. "We will do everything to protect our contact and his work."

I smiled inwardly. I actually knew more than the Russians did about their dirty little game. All they knew was they had a contact. I knew who he was, and now they had actually fingered their benefactor without knowing it. Of course, there were a helluva lot of questions for which I had no answers as yet. What made Karl Krisst run, for one. And how was he accomplishing his dirty objectives?

"What took you so long to make your move?" I asked casually. "I've been aboard since last night, as you know."

"We waited to see where you were headed. Obviously, you are going to Zurich," Vanuskin said. He smiled again. "Or, I should more correctly say, you
were
going to Zurich."

Vanuskin and the others suddenly began to talk amongst themselves. My Russian was more than good enough to understand them and what I heard was not designed for relaxed riding. They were discussing the best way of doing me in. Things were getting too close. I needed out, and fast. I was safe for a few moments as the train slowed down to go through a small village. The cramped quarters of the compartment afforded me little room to do anything. Even Hugo was inadequate. I could get one, maybe two, and that would be that. I took in the situation and it was grim. The two heavyweights were at the door. Vanuskin was in front of me. The fourth man was off to the right I heard Vanuskin end the discussion with a decision. They'd take the least possible risks with me and do the job here in the compartment. A quick glance out the window showed me that we were starting to pass over a high trestle. I glimpsed blue water below, too far below. But it was my one chance. For a final moment they were concentrated on their conversation. I raised my arm slowly. The emergency brake cord hung directly overhead. I yanked and the train started its emergency halt with a terrific impact of brakes against wheels. Everybody went flying to the left side of the compartment. Everybody except me, that is. I was braced for it, and I made a running dive for the window, arms crossed in front of me to shield my face. I hit the window with full force, felt the shattered pellets of glass hitting my arms and forehead, and then I was falling, turning a slow, lazy somersault through the air. My ankles had banged against the trestle catwalk rail and flipped me sideways. I glimpsed the train above me grinding to a halt and the water too far below my falling body. It hadn't been a proper dive in any case and though I tried to condense my form, when I hit the water it was as though I'd run full-tilt into a concrete wall. My body shook and quivered at the impact. I went under and instinctively came up gasping for air.

I was dazed, hurt, bleeding from little glass wounds, my body paining in every bone and muscle. In semi-shock, I nonetheless managed to strike out for shore, fortunately not far away. When I pulled up on the graveled, rocky ground, my head had cleared just enough for me to know how much I hurt. My muscles and my bones seemed to be things apart from each other as I laboriously pulled myself up on the rocky shoreline. I hadn't gotten far when I heard the shot and felt the tearing, searing pain in my leg just at the thigh. The force of the shot sent my body turning almost completely around and I saw the four figures running across the trestle catwalk, the train halted midway across the narrow bridgeway. It would take them a while to find their way down to where I was. I looked down at my leg as another shot sent a shower of gravel flying at my foot. The leg was excruciatingly painful and bleeding hard. They must have used a forty-five. A line of trees beckoned just ahead, and I pulled myself forward into them, stumbling along on shaking, quivering legs. The wounded leg hurt badly, but it was the impact on the water which had really shaken me. Between the two of them, I felt myself growing dizzy.

I sank to the ground and crawled forward, feeling my arms growing weak, feeling the loss of blood. My trouser leg was a red-soaked rag, and I knew I was leaving a trail a mile wide. The line of woods suddenly ended and I looked across a pasture, a few cows grazing off to one side. Lifting my head was an effort now, and the scene was fuzzy. I made out a farmhouse and barn on the other side of the green pasture. I pulled myself upright, swaying dizzily, shaking my head to clear it. If I could make it to the barn I might hide out there, I thought dimly, and at the same moment realized the trail of blood would lead them right to me. I started to turn, to take a few unsure, weak steps along the edge of the trees, when I heard a child's cry, close at hand but strangely distant. Then I was on my hands and knees, the ground swimming in front of me. I fell forward and half turned on my back. I saw the child, a little blonde girl, about ten years old, pig-tailed and eyes wide. Then I saw the woman appear behind her, looking like an older version of the child. I lifted my head and fell back again. I hadn't blacked out completely, but I was seeing the world in moments of clarity mixed with moments of gray mist. I felt hands lifting my shoulders and the managed to focus on the woman's face above me. It was a nice face, a sweet, lovely face. I felt her trying to move me, to lift me.

"No… no," I managed hoarsely. "Wheelbarrow… get a wheelbarrow." I felt the woman stop, lay my shoulders back on the grass and I heard her talk to the child. I didn't hear or see anything else until I felt myself being lifted and the hard ride of a wheelbarrow shook its way through to me. The bumping managed to bring me around for a moment and I caught a glimpse of the farmhouse now close at hand and the lovely face looking down at me with concern.

"Men… careful… want me," I croaked out. It was all I could manage. The darkness came down again.

I woke up hours later, I found out in time, to the aching pain of my body. I was alone in a dark room that smelled of the dampness of a cellar. I lay quietly, letting my head clear. My groping hands told me I was on a cot, covered by a quilt, naked under the blanket I tried to stretch and almost cried out with the pain. Every damn muscle screamed. My leg hurt with a special pain of its own, and my groping hands told it had been bandaged with cloths. I lay back quietly and breathed deeply. That drop from the trestle had really banged me up. I lay there and heard the sound of a door opening. The door turned out to be in the ceiling and a shaft of light came down to illuminate the steep, short flight of steps. The woman's figure came down, a lamp in her hand, followed by the child in nightclothes.