Nothing To Lose, page 6
Ahead Dressler was taking his time in getting out of his car. He locked it and then paused to light himself a cigarette before moving away down a gap between the warehouses to the quayside. He walked slowly, swinging his short cane by his side.
Larren reached the parked Hillman and flattened himself against it as he peered between the warehouses where Dressler had vanished. At the far end he could see the funnel and upperworks of a rusty freighter lying against the quay. Dressler appeared for a moment, caught in the light from the ship’s ports as he reached the end of the alley, then he turned to his left and vanished out of sight.
Breathing hard Larren dived into the opening between the warehouses and moved swiftly through the inky blackness of the narrow alley. He reached the far end and pressed himself against the wall as he searched again for Dressler.
He saw his quarry climbing the freighter’s gangways illuminated for a moment in the light of a storm lamp as he boarded the ship. Not once did Dressler look back.
Cautiously Larren left the alleyway and backed up along the quay away from the bows. He took cover beneath the framework of one of the giant dockside cranes and watched from the darkness of his hiding place.
The freighter’s stern was rearing above him now and he could read the word Ostravia in dirty letters on her paint-flaking hull. The word Gdynia just below the name told him that she was registered in the Polish seaport. The very fact that she came from behind the iron curtain he took to be a good sign. He was on the right trail at least.
He toyed for a moment with the idea of boarding the vessel and attempting to find out what Dressler was up to, then he discarded it as too risky and decided to wait. Aboard the Ostravia he would be in danger not only from Dressler but from any seaman who happened to cross his path.
At that moment Dressler was sitting comfortably in the captain’s cabin just below the bridge. In one hand he still held his silver-knobbed cane which he was idly tapping against the side of his shoe, in the other he was nursing a large glass of brandy. Opposite him sat the bearded, black-uniformed master of the Ostravia. The man was as rough and solid as his ship, an unrelenting version of a modern-day Blackbeard. He was listening intently as Dressler talked.
“This man Larren is a fool, Captain, but a rather dangerous and overenthusiastic fool. It was pretty fortunate for Vargo that I chanced to arrive when I did. Anyway, Vargo is insisting that he be eliminated, and for once I am not so sure that he isn’t right.”
The captain of the Ostravia scowled. “Where is this man now?”
“Skulking on the dockside somewhere,” Dressler waved his cane vaguely. “No doubt waiting for me to re-emerge from this ship. I had trouble in keeping him behind me once or twice when I reached the dock area. I thought I had lost him at the gates, and then I had to stop and fiddle about while he caught up with me again once I had parked my car. I don’t think he suspects at all.”
“And what is it you want me to do?”
“Nothing much, my friend,” Dressler smiled and made a casual gesture with his cane. “I just want the loan of two or three of your excellent seamen for the next half hour. Oh, and you might refill this.” He tilted back the last of his brandy as he spoke and calmly extended the empty glass.
Larren spent the next half hour in patient waiting, leaning his back against one of the legs of the giant crane and thrusting his hands deep into his pockets. The wind was cold and there was the scent of rain upon the damp, tangy air. He turned up the collar of his jacket against it and wished that he had brought a raincoat with him. From the direction of the river he heard the foghorn of a ship grunting hoarsely into the night. There was a note of disgust in the sound that just about echoed his own feelings. It was about time that something happened.
As if in answer to his thoughts there was a sudden movement from the head of the Ostravia’s gangway. He tensed as the thin, unmistakeable figure of Dressler appeared again, and slowly took his hands from his pockets. Without hesitation Dressler started down the gangway, idly rattling his cane along the handrail. He reached the quay and paused to turn up his collar, shuddering slightly under the caress of the wind. He turned towards Larren, moving swiftly and without looking round.
He passed within fifteen feet of where Larren waited, his eyes beneath the horn-rimmed glasses staring straight ahead. Larren let him get a fair start as he picked his way along the dockside and then took up the trail again. Dressler was clearly not returning to his car and he wondered what the man’s next destination would be.
Dressler led him away from the water’s edge through another narrow gap between the tall warehouses. On the far side was another tangle of railway tracks and sleepers, scattered with stationary trucks; a dark jungle with no signs of light or life. Larren hesitated as he reached it, wondering which way Dressler had turned. Then he moved warily into the blackness among the trucks. He waited for a few seconds, listening for the sounds of his quarry. His eyes became slowly accustomed to the gloom but he could neither see nor hear anything of Dressler.
Instinct suddenly told him that this was a trap: there could be no other reason for Dressler to come here. He felt in his pocket for the automatic he had taken from Claudine, which with luck would still have some rounds in it. He was just too late. There was a sudden rush of feet and three men hurled themselves upon him from out of the blackness.
Claudine’s gun was knocked flying from his hand as he went down under the combined rush, and then he was fighting savagely for his life. A length of lead piping had numbed his shoulder in a glancing blow as he went down and for the first few seconds he could do little to defend himself.
In the darkness the four of them rolled together in a mixed tangle of flailing limbs against the wheels of the nearest truck. Larren took a shower of blows across his back and shoulders and then felt a boot driving into his ribs as one of his attackers regained his feet. He grabbed the swinging foot and twisted, bringing the man down again with a crash. Somehow in the resulting melee he managed to roll clear.
He reached his feet and backed away breathlessly, trying to remember all that he had learned about unarmed combat all those years ago. The first of his attackers came in again and Larren met him with a swift movement that sent him flying past to cannon into another truck. Then the other two had knocked him down again.
He kept his wits this time. Driving one knee viciously into the crotch of the man on top of him and then gouging his thumbs into his eyes. The man’s shriek echoed through the darkness as he struggled clear of the fray and collapsed. Larren was left with only one man to deal with.
They rolled over and over along the railway line, each scrambling for a hold on the other’s throat. And by sheer luck it was the other man’s head that made contact when they again crashed into the wheel of the stationary truck. Larren heard the crack and felt the man’s grip on him slacken. In an instant he had slammed the palm of one hand underneath his assailant’s chin and thrust his head hard against the sharp edge of the iron wheel for the second time. This time he split the skull and the man fell limply away.
Larren clawed his way upright against the side of the truck, searching for the only man left. The man was still leaning against the other truck several yards away. He was breathing heavily and as Larren watched he wrenched an ugly seaman’s knife from a sheath at his hip.
Larren smiled and slipped his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, feeling for the knife he had sewn into place before starting out on his night’s work. He had left several silent German sentries behind him in occupied Holland to testify to his skill with a knife. It was his favourite weapon.
He moved to meet the Polish seaman, balancing like a dancer on the balls of his feet. The man had started backing up along the side of his truck as soon as he realised that Larren too had a knife. There was stark fear in his trapped gaze. In Larren’s grey-green eyes there was nothing but an animal-like lust for a kill.
However, Larren had forgotten Dressler. His quarry had watched the battle from a reasonably safe distance and only now did he decide to take a personal hand. He moved in stealthily, his hand gripped firmly around his silver-topped cane.
Larren heard nothing but the sudden vicious swish as the cane cut through the air towards his head. Pain burst in a thousand streaks of blinding white light in the back of his skull, and then he was toppling forwards on to his face.
CHAPTER 7: AN HOUR BEFORE DYING
Larren recovered slowly. At first there was just feeling, a gradual awareness of dull pain in the back of his skull that swelled and throbbed as he came nearer to consciousness. It was like floating up to the surface of a dark sea, straining helplessly as he rose from a fantastic depth. With the return of pain came the numbness of bitter cold, and a sensation as though he was lying face down on a block of ice. He made a great effort to open his eyes but there was only darkness and he let them shut again. Without attempting to move he knew that his wrists and ankles were lashed together.
He lay there for a long time, slowly rallying his scattered senses. He could hear and see nothing, but his nose brought him the scent of damp and decay. He realized that what he was laying on was not a block of ice but a damp concrete floor. He was chilled through to the bone and decided he must have been there for some time. There was nothing he could do but lie perfectly still and hope that the violent ache in his skull would begin to fade.
There was an abrupt sound of a heavy door opening somewhere above him and a broad shaft of pale light lanced down. He winced as it struck his eyes and then there was a sharp click as a flood of brighter light burst over him. He screwed his eyes tight against the glare that somehow penetrated through his eyelids and speared into the back of his brain.
There was the sound of footfalls and the slight tap of a cane against stone. With an effort Larren looked up. He was lying in a dingy cellar, the dusty brick walls were draped with trailing cobwebs. A flight of stone steps against one wall led up to the now open doorway some ten feet above him. Coming down the steps was Dressler, tentatively tapping ahead with his cane.
He stopped at the foot of the steps a few yards away and regarded Larren with a slow smile, the thick horn-rimmed glasses hid any expression that might have been in his eyes.
He said softly, “I trust that the accommodation is to your satisfaction, Mr. Larren. Unfortunately the bridal suite is occupied at the moment, and this is the best we can do.”
The strange, sibilant tone made Larren’s skin crawl and he tensed automatically against his bonds. Dressler smiled again as he watched.
“Relax, Mr. Larren, your fate has not been decided yet. I have to consult some colleagues before I can take any final action. Meanwhile, pleasant dreams.”
He turned and slowly climbed the steps again. Larren watched him go, saw him reach the light and plunge the cellar into shadows. Then the door closed behind him and the inky blackness returned. The cold gnawed into Larren’s stomach and he began to realize how Tim Carter must have felt just before that sten gun had opened up and cut him down.
The cellar in which Simon Larren was imprisoned was part of a rarely used warehouse owned by the shipping company that operated the Ostravia. Dressler had used it many times and now he waited patiently in the room above the cellar. This room contained only a small table and half a dozen assorted chairs. Dressler sat in the most comfortable chair with his long legs stretched out of sight under the table. From his pocket he had extracted a half-pint hip flask of brandy which he occasionally tilted to his lips. The flask was made of silver and in between sips he studied it with loving contentment.
An hour passed before the men he waited for began to arrive. In another twenty minutes all three had gathered.
The first man to arrive was a coarse-featured bull of a man named Patrick Carnegie. He was a little below average height but he made up for it in the massive build of his shoulders. He was hatless, his hair a dark, tousled growth that had needed cutting weeks ago. His dark eyes betrayed the sly gleam of a fanatic.
Carnegie had been born thirty-five years ago in the city of Dublin. When he was sixteen his older brother had been shot down in a border raid with the IRA and Carnegie had instantly demanded that he be allowed to take his place. Six months later he killed his first man, an English policeman stationed in Northern Ireland.
Carnegie had developed a fanatical hatred for the British and became one of the most dangerous killers among the dedicated murderers who formed the hard core of the Irish Republican Army. He had several killings to his credit long before he met Dressler, and Dressler had seized on him as a useful tool. Carnegie soon realized that he could strike deeper blows against the hated British by working for the reds than he could ever achieve by slipping over the border to blow up Northern Ireland police stations.
Dressler still did not trust the lumbering Irishman, but then, Dressler did not really trust anybody.
A few minutes after Carnegie had let himself into the room where Dressler waited a second man joined them. A slightly built man in his late fifties. His hair was a soft, wavy brown, his cherubic face was a mask for a sadist. He was dressed in a charcoal black suit and wore tight, black leather gloves that covered his wrists. His name was Reutall.
Franz Reutall had been a member of Hitler’s SS. His headquarters had been in Berlin and when that city fell his life had been saved only by the timely intervention of a Russian officer.
Reutall had just started on the final elimination of the few prisoners still in his care when a misplaced shell had brought his headquarters down around his ears. When the dust cleared he found that there were only two other men in that room still conscious. The two men were both Frenchmen, members of the Maquis who had been prisoners for several months. One of the few things that had kept them alive was the thought of one day being able to thank their sadistic host. Now their dream had come true.
The two Frenchmen had no mercy on the SS man, but with great restraint they did refrain from killing him outright. They strapped Reutall down on the top of his own desk and then operated on him with the glowing tip of a red-hot poker that still lay in the fireplace. They had branded the letters SS on the back of each hand, stamping Reutall with his own mark for eternity. Then they had crudely castrated the man by a careful application of the hot iron.
They were still undecided about killing him when the Russians had arrived. They had heard the detachment advancing and had made the mistake of thinking that the Germans were rallying. They met them with the Luger pistol they had taken from Reutall and died before either side realised who they were fighting.
The Russian officer in charge was a young lieutenant, recently commissioned and still a humane man. When he saw what had been done to the SS man he lost all sympathy for his dead, supposed allies and had the German taken to a hospital. It never occurred to him to wonder what Reutall had done to deserve such treatment.
However, Reutall had been eternally grateful when he finally recovered. And the Russian intelligence men who questioned him decided that here too was a useful tool. For even in those days they had been looking far enough ahead to value a man with a deep hatred of the Western world. Reutall had eventually come under Dressler’s command.
The third man to arrive was Anton Vargo, still looking pale and shaken. There was a large strip of sticking plaster running down each of his cheekbones, but apart from that there were no other visible signs of his beating.
When they were all seated the big Irishman said flatly, “What’s the trouble? Why were we all sent for?”
Dressler took his time before replying. “I called you because we have a problem. Down below I have a man named Simon Larren. I am not quite sure what to do about him.”
At the sound of Larren’s name Vargo straightened up sharply. “You have Larren — here?”
The man with the horn-rimmed glasses faced him coldly. “Sit down, Vargo. This is one decision in which you will have no say.” He smiled. “You are, shall we say — slightly prejudiced.”
“If Larren is here then I have a right—”
“You have no rights at all. Kindly remain silent. The only reason I included you in this discussion is because I have not yet had the full story of what was going on before I arrived at your flat tonight. The garbled account you gave me before we had to leave in such a hurry meant nothing. Now tell us what happened.”
Vargo was breathing hard, the tendons on the backs of his hands tightening in a weird skeleton-like fashion as he struggled to control himself. There were tiny beads of sweat on his temples when he finally relaxed. He was aware of the other two watching him closely but he kept his own gaze on Dressler as he gave his account of what had happened.
When he had finished Dressler frowned. “Can you be sure that he is not working in co-operation with British Intelligence?” he demanded.
“I am sure. He told me that the man Carter mentioned my name before he died, that is why he came looking for me. He knows nothing of what Carter was doing, or of who I am.”
Dressler had replaced his hip flask and was now playing with the handle of his cane. “I wish I could be sure of those facts,” he murmured thoughtfully.
“Does it really matter?” It was Carnegie who interrupted. “Either way he will have to be killed.”
Dressler shook his head. “No. We cannot afford to kill another British agent, not here in England. Our friend Vargo’s time is already getting short, another death and they will tire of this waiting game they are playing, they will retaliate against Vargo. He will either be arrested or forced to run, and I don’t want that happening yet. Also they know of my presence in England, so it will be far from wise to arouse them in any way. To kill another one of their men would most certainly arouse them.”
Reutall spoke. “So, if he is a British agent, what do we do then?”
“We keep him here for a while, until I have returned to Dorfen. Then we can release him. He can tell his friends nothing that will be of any real use to them. He knows that I am responsible for the crash of that police car tonight, but that will not matter as I shall be out of the country. He knows too about the Ostravia, but she will have sailed. Everything will revert to normal.”
