by Larry Kent
A newly-discovered virus—and the deadliest threat to Mankind—had gone missing, and whoever had it figured to sell it to the highest bidder. That was where Z Detail—a clandestine security agency whose very existence was a closely-kept secret—came into it.
But why did they want Larry Kent to handle their dirty business for them?
Oh, sure, they gave him the chance to refuse the assignment. But he knew only too well that a refusal meant he would suffer an ‘unfortunate’ but fatal ‘accident’. So Larry played along with them.
His job was to expose the traitor who planned to sell the virus to a foreign power, and stop the exchange at all costs. Trouble was, there were no shortage of suspects – and one by one, they were all being ruthlessly wiped out.
LARRY KENT 642: CURVES CAN KILL
By Don Haring
First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd
Copyright © Piccadilly Publishing
First Digital Edition: April 2019
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: David Whitehead
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.
Chapter I ... a dark room ...
Sweat rolled into my eyes, stung them shut. The man on my left grabbed a handful of my hair, lifted my head so that my chin came off my chest. The man who stood directly in front of me slapped a forehand on my left cheek, a backhand on my right. Naturally, I opened my eyes.
It was right out of a 1937 “B” movie. The scene: a tatty-furnished room on west 78th Street. The characters: Carl—bald, white-faced with a red splotch on each cheek, a mouthful of stinking bad teeth that would sicken the poor dentist who would have to pull them out very soon, and with a paunch that had apparently made the bottom button pop off his suit coat; Mack—a thin man with vacant eyes, a thick thatch of black hair that looked like a badly-trimmed bush, a pinch-cheeked, pock-marked face, a dirty, rumpled suit, and stooped shoulders that took at least two inches off his height; and Kristo—blunt-featured, square faced, stocky, kraut-headed, wearing a checked suit that made him appear box-shaped. Yes, there was this Kristo, who was strong and mean and had pale eyes that probably wouldn’t change expression whether he was committing an act of love or murder.
Carl stood to my left, Mack to my right, and Kristo stood in front of me. There was a powerful spotlight on a tripod a few feet from Kristo. The light hit me in the face, blinding me. The only time I saw Kristo’s face was when he pushed it between me and the spotlight. I would have punched him with great pleasure if my hands hadn’t been tied to the back of the kitchen chair on which I sat. His face was now a few inches from mine. His skin had large pores. It was like looking at skin under a microscope. Stiff hairs protruded from each nostril. His eyebrows grew together in a straight line. Sweat, brought to the surface by the exertion of slapping me around, oozed from many of the pores and rolled down his face.
“You will talk,” he said huskily, without emotion. “You will tell us all we want to know.”
“Gladly,” I said. “Just tell me what you want to hear and I’ll try to oblige.”
“You know what we want. Z Detail.”
“Did you say Z Detail?”
“All the data, Mr. Kent. All of it.”
I said, “You’re probably not going to believe this, but this is the first time I’ve ever heard of Z Detail. Is it a—”
He stopped me with a slap to the face. Just one slap this time. I guess he was getting tired of hitting me. Then he stepped back and the light was in my eyes again. He said, “Carl ...”
Now Carl was between me and the light. He stood with his feet well apart. The splotches on his cheeks spread out. His upper lip curled back. How those black stumps weren’t giving him holy hell was beyond me But maybe they were—this would explain the viciousness of his two-handed attack to my body, not to mention his obvious enjoyment of my pain.
“Enough,” Kristo said finally. His timing was admirable; I was right on the edge of unconsciousness. “A glass of water, Mr. Kent?” he asked from the darkness behind the dazzling light. And then he gave me the water—in the face. “There,” he said gently. “That’s better, isn’t it? For a moment there I thought you were going to pass out on us.”
“I knew you wouldn’t let that happen,” I said.
“I congratulate you. You take punishment well. But don’t you think you are being foolish? We are not amateurs at this sort of thing, you know. Sooner or later we always get what we want. Please, Mr. Kent, listen to me.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“I am trying to save you some pain. This is the truth. I consider myself a businessman, nothing more. Subjecting a courageous man to a painful beating gives me no pleasure, I assure you.”
“Do you speak for Carl, too?”
Carl grunted. Kristo said, “I do not begrudge Carl his little pleasures. Nor Mack, who has yet to demonstrate his specialty.”
There was a metallic click from Mack’s direction; it sounded very much like the action of a switch-blade knife.
“However,” Kristo went on, “there are many other sources of enjoyment for them. It is not absolutely necessary that you should be the fountain of their pleasure.”
“You do have a way with words,” I said.
Kristo sighed. “I’m afraid I do not appreciate your humor, Mr. Kent. It is entirely wasted on me. As for your courage—I suggest that it is now approaching the point of utter foolhardiness. I ask you once again to talk.”
“We are talking,” I said. “It’s not my fault that you don’t like the trend of the conversation?”
“Mack ...!”
Now Mack was standing between me and the spotlight. In his hand was a knife, the blade of which had been filed down to a sliver of steel not much thicker than a crocheting needle. He ran this thumb caressingly over the sharp edge.
“Well?” Kristo said. “Shall we talk about Z Detail?”
“Sure,” I said. “It’s a new government project.”
“Tell me more.”
“I ... I imagine you want to know about the displacement of weapons,” I said, not knowing what I was talking about—but also not wanting to learn the exact nature of Mack’s “specialty.”
“Weapons?” Kristo echoed.
“Missiles. Atomic warheads. Then there’s the submarine division—I think that’s the most important. We have one hundred and eleven nuclear powered subs all over the—”
“I am not even slightly amused,” Kristo said, rather wearily. “Mack, he is now yours.”
Mack struck like a snake. I felt paralyzing pain at the back of my neck.
“Careful,” Kristo said.
“It’s right on the spot,” Mack said.
I was afraid to move. I had no idea how deep the knife was in me. I knew only that Mack had broken the skin, for I could feel warm blood pulsing out, running down my back.
“I suggest that you do not even try to speak,” Kristo said. “By all means, do not move. A sudden turn of your head could sever certain nerves, and there would be the same result if you moved your head back or forward just an inch or so. Listen to me for a few moments ... We are very much aware of the functions of Z Detail. We wish to know its strength, however, and we would like you to
name its leader and chief officers. Then there is the location of its headquarters. And there is also Galek. If you have something to say, blink your eyes.”
I blinked.
“Withdraw the knife enough so that Mr. Kent can speak,” Kristo said.
I felt the blade move, but there was no improvement as far as my discomfort was concerned.
“You may speak now,” Kristo said.
Even so, I was careful, letting each word out like it was wrapped in barbed wire. “Mr. Kristo, I don’t know what happened—but whatever it was, you’ve made a mistake. Until you and your friends brought me to this room I never even heard of Z Detail.”
“He needs some cutting,” Mack said. “This knife is one of the best memory aids in the world. Let me take a strip or two out of him, Mr. Kristo.”
“I don’t think it would serve a worthwhile purpose,” Kristo said wearily. “He was probably programmed to accept pain in large doses. Go back to your place, Mack.”
The knife blade hurt my neck as much leaving as it had when Mack first jabbed me. I couldn’t hold back a grunt of pain.
“Sorry,” Mack said, snickering.
“Quite all right,” I said. “My neck was in the way.”
“I have a theory about this sense of humor of yours,” Kristo said. “I think it is a defense mechanism. Where I come from, we—” He stopped himself.
“And where’s that?”
“Never mind.”
“Romania,” I guessed, and Kristo’s inward hiss told me I’d guessed correctly.
“I have something to show you,” Kristo said. He blocked out the light with his body and shoved something in front of my face. “Identify the two men, please!”
I closed my eyes. “Give me a minute,” I said. “That light has me just about blind.”
There was a click as someone flicked off the spotlight. From what Kristo had said I assumed he wanted me to name two men in a photograph. He crinkled the photo impatiently.
“Open your eyes,” Kristo ordered. I kept them closed. “Mr. Kent, if you do not open your eyes within—”
I opened them. The photograph was inches from my face. “Too close,” I said.
Kristo moved the photo back. “Well?” he said.
“I’m one of the men,” I said.
“And the other?”
“His name is William Stuart. That picture must have been snapped this afternoon.”
“Yes. It was taken as you and Stuart left the Commercial Building. Why were you with him?”
“He was taking me to lunch. We decided on Chinese food, so we went to the Blue Dragon on Eighty-Sixth Street.”
“You know that is not the answer I want,” Kristo said. “Why were you with him?”
“He phoned me at my office. I had never met him before. He said he was a business analyst and he wanted to interview me about the private detective business.”
Kristo made an angry sound, lifted his right arm, backhanded me on the cheek. I bit through my lip, swallowed the salty taste of blood.
“I’m giving you one more chance to live, Mr. Kent. Will you tell us what we want to know?”
Even if I had the information he wanted, he had no intention of letting me live. Apparently, I figured, my being with Stuart had convinced Kristo that I was involved in some kind of deal with the guy. Funny thing was, Stuart gave me the impression he was feeling me out. I had wondered why; now I had a pretty fair idea—he had been thinking of recruiting me. But for what? Each time the CIA had pressed me back into service, they had been more or less direct about it. I was sure, of course, that Stuart was a government agent.
“Very well,” Kristo said. “If you wish to die, it can be arranged. But you will talk before you pass on, and all your courage will have been wasted.”
Kristo extended a hand, moved his thumb across his fingers. Mack placed a hypodermic needle in Kristo’s hand.
“Pentathol,” I said.
Kristo pressed the hypo plunger. A colorless liquid squirted from the end of the long needle. “Pentathol? No. It is similar, but it is a great improvement. For one thing, it is much stronger, decidedly bad for the heart. It is used only in extreme circumstances when time is of the essence and the interviewee is ... expendable. Therefore, we shall dispense with the usual business of rubbing alcohol on your arm. The risk of infection is, at best, academic.”
A cold snake wriggled up my spine. “It won’t work,” I said. “I learned how to fight off the effects of truth serum a long time ago.”
“When you were with the CIA? Do not look surprised, Mr. Kent; we know a great deal about you. In fact, we have a very thick file on you.”
Well, there it was. He had just spelled it out for me. He was a foreign agent. Which made William Stuart a U.S. agent. And I was in the middle. A sudden thought hit me: Had the CIA thrown me to the wolves? It wouldn’t be the first time such a thing happened. Spies aren’t nice people. It doesn’t bother them to double-cross each other. And it’s as cold and impersonal as playing chess against a computer: even if you win, the machine will not acknowledge your victory. But there isn’t much chance of winning. You can’t buck the system.
Kristo grabbed my shirt sleeve with his left hand, twisted and pulled. The material ripped. He started to bend, the needle poised ...
“Hold it just a second,” I said.
He looked into my eyes expressionlessly, as though he didn’t give a damn which way the ball bounced.
“That file you have on me, Mr. Kristo. I don’t think it’s complete. Fourteen months ago, the CIA struck my name from the reserve list and placed it on their bad security list.”
“We are aware of that,” Kristo smiled. “And we are aware of the fact that, only six weeks after your name was placed on the bad security list, you were sent to Australia on an assignment by a CIA official. In short, the CIA discredited you so you could be used to better advantage; they knew that a foreign agent had infiltrated their master filing department and would doubtlessly see your name on the blacklist and report this fact to his superiors. Intelligence organizations the world over employ such ruses; I doubt if they are ever more than moderately successful. The best way to deal with an agent who has fallen from grace is to liquidate him.”
“That’s not how things are done here in the United States,” I said.
He laughed.
“You’re not being smart,” I said. “You don’t stand to gain a thing by jabbing me in the arm with that needle.”
“What do you suggest I do, Mr. Kent?”
“Use me.”
“In what way?”
“Stuart is the agent you’re after. But I didn’t know he was an agent. That’s the truth. He took me to lunch so he could get the feel of me. I know now that he had a proposition for me. Maybe he’ll outline the proposition next time I see him.”
Kristo chuckled and said: “Perhaps he will do that, but not in this life. Mr. William Stuart is dead. At any rate, Mr. Kent, I could not possibly trust you, for obvious reasons. It is equally obvious that you are desperately playing for time. Well, I give you credit for a valiant effort. And now ...”
I shrank from the needle. But the ropes binding my arms to the chair didn’t let me pull back more than a few inches.
Kristo grabbed my arm with his left hand, pinched the skin tight for the approaching needle point ...
Suddenly he hunched his shoulders upward and grunted. At the same time he let go of my arm and his hand closed into a fist. I was vaguely aware of other sounds: glass tinkling to the floor, a gasp from either Mack or Carl, then a cry from Kristo.
“The window,” Carl said. “The fire escape!”
It was his dying statement. This time I heard the metallic pop of a silenced gun. Carl twisted around and fell. Kristo stopped posing like a bird of prey with wings outstretched and collapsed to the floor. With Kristo no longer blocking my sight, I saw a man on the fire escape. He was down on one knee. There was a long-snouted gun in his right hand. It kicked, coughed,
and Mack let out a little screech of pain. I saw his knife cartwheel through the air, blood spurting from the stump of a finger. Then he dived behind me, screaming something unintelligible, and he scrabbled on the floor. The man outside the window was telling me to get out of the way. I tried to work myself from his line of fire, but as my legs were also tied to the chair this wasn’t easy to do. Through the corner of my eye I saw the glint of glass and steel. The hypo needle! Mack had it in his left hand. He moved to keep me between him and the man on the fire escape. I tried desperately to send myself to the floor, chair and all. But Mack got his weight against the back of the chair. The gun went off again. I heard the slug thud into the wall.
“Damn you to hell!” Mack yelled. And then he indicated that his words were for me by rising and stabbing down with the hypo like it was a knife. The needle entered the muscular part of my upper arm. Mack got the ham of his left hand on the plunger, started to push down. I felt the burn of liquid entering my blood stream just before another bullet took off the top of Mack’s head and sent him onto the carpet, face first.
The needle was stuck in my arm. I twisted and squirmed, but the hypo was in firmly.
“Just sit still,” said the man in the window. “If you fall the wrong way ...”
He didn’t have to say any more. I looked at the glass cylinder, fascinated. It was about four inches long. At least one inch of the liquid was gone. I heard the window go up, the sound of feet hitting the floor. The hypo split into two, regenerated to four, regenerated still more. Suddenly all the hypos disappeared.
“It’s okay,” said a voice that sounded like it came from the end of a long, narrow hallway. “You didn’t ... get ... too much ... of ...”
A big, black moth descended, enveloped me in its wings ...
Chapter 2 ... the ghost ...
I opened my eyes to darkness. The black moth still has me, I thought. Strangely, I didn’t give a damn; it was such a motherly moth. So I let it carry me away.
The next time I opened my eyes I saw what looked vaguely like a human face. The lips moved and sounds came out, but I wasn’t really listening. But the voice was persistent, and finally a will that was stronger than my desire to remain in the comforting darkness forced words into my consciousness, and I opened my eyes and looked into a woman’s face. She smiled at me. She had a sharp nose and big eyes, and somehow I got the impression that she was well built.
