‘It’s a risk you can’t afford to take,’ said Dingle harshly. ‘If you’re wrong, and I do kill him, you will have lost yourself a valuable double agent.’
The Russian rose to his feet, walked over to the door, and opened it. He took the key to the drawer from his pocket and tossed it across to the Englishman.
‘But I’m not wrong, am I Mr Dingle?’ he said, closing the door behind him.
*
Dingle moved swiftly round the table, opened the drawer and slipped the .38 into his pocket. He regained his seat just as Jones walked in to stand, embarrassed, near the door.
There was a heavy silence as the two men looked at each other; then the Welshman’s gaze shifted, away from Dingle.
‘What’s the matter? Are you too ashamed to look me in the eye?’
‘I’m sorry Jim. I hate to see you in this position, but …’ Jones’s voice, a mere whisper, faded away.
‘Speak up man!’ rasped Dingle. ‘Your new masters will be listening in. They’ll want to hear what you say.’
Jones flushed.
‘I said I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry! You hypocritical little bastard.’
‘I had no choice, Jim.’
‘No choice?’ echoed the Englishman angrily. ‘What do you mean, no choice?’
‘Surely you can see that we would have had no chance on this mission …’
‘So you decided to opt out, make a nice, safe future for yourself — and leave me to rot in a Russian gaol. The act of true friendship.’
‘I owe it to Gillian,’ said Jones miserably. ‘I’m going to marry her when I get back to London …’
‘You had it all nicely worked out, didn’t you? You knew you wouldn’t be sent into Russia again; the Director had already told you that. All you had to do was make sure you got back safely from this operation. So you thought you’d make a thorough job of it. A married man could do with some extra money, and you decided to do a deal with the KGB, and boost your income by passing information. As evidence of your good faith, you blew this operation and, for good measure, offered to deliver me.’
Jones’s pale face twitched nervously.
‘I’ve heard enough,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t sent in here to listen to you. I’m supposed to be questioning you …’
‘About what?’ Dingle broke in. ‘The MIRV? Where did you dream that one up? You know damn well I know nothing about it.’
Jones started to speak, but the Englishman interrupted again.
‘And you haven’t heard nearly enough. You will be interested to know that the Director warned me about you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He warned me that you were about to crack.’
‘Crack?’
‘Yes, crack. But I don’t think even he believed you would be capable of this utter sell-out’
‘I could have forgiven you, Jones, if you had in fact cracked under pressure after being captured. I might even have found it in my heart to forgive you if you’d gone over to the other side on genuine grounds of conscience; if you thought it was morally right.
‘But you did it because you are a coward …’ Jones flinched at the word. ‘You sold me and your country in exchange for your own worthless skin — and for money. You are the lowest form of traitor.’
Again Jones flinched.
‘What’s the matter? Don’t you like being called a coward and a traitor? Never mind, you won’t have to bear the feeling of guilt much longer.’
‘I’m going to kill you, Jones.’
‘You can’t … you wouldn’t …’ Jones shifted slightly and put his hand on the door knob.
‘That won’t do you any good,’ Dingle said ‘I should imagine it’s locked.’
Casually, he drew the .38 from his pocket and levelled it at the Welshman.
Jones’s eyes widened in horror. His voice was a croak.
‘Where did you get that?’
‘Your pal, Razina, gave it to me.’
‘Jim!’
‘Don’t call me Jim. Only my friends call me that. You’re a traitor, Jones. You deserve to die. When we were in Nepal together I saved your life. Remember? Now I’m going to take it.’ His knuckles whitened as he took up the first pressure on the trigger.
Jones took a step forward.
‘For God’s sake, Jim. I had to do it. You don’t know what you’re doing. Please …’
‘I know exactly what I’m doing,’ said Dingle calmly.
He squeezed the triggger.
The noise reverberated round the room.
Jones took another pace forward. His face, already ashen, drained completely of colour; his eyes glazed, drawing a blind over their panic-stricken expression, and he crashed to the floor.
The door was flung open and two guards rushed in followed by Zeleransky. Before they could grab his arms, Dingle aimed quickly at Zeleransky and squeezed the trigger once more.
But Razina had been right. There had been only one bullet … for the traitor.
*
Razina was pleased.
‘You’re becoming quite a film star, Mr Dingle. On top of the film of you threatening one of our scientists with a gun, we now have a picture of you murdering one of our … er … agents.’
‘Ridding my country of a traitor, you mean.’
The Russian smiled.
‘It depends which side of the fence you’re sitting on. For the purposes of the trial we shall call Jones a KGB officer.’
He made a clicking noise with his tongue.
‘Dear me. Espionage, attempted robbery with threats … and murder. I’m afraid it will mean the death sentence for you. But then, you will probably prefer that to life imprisonment. In my country, Mr Dingle, life imprisonment for you would mean exactly that.’
The Englishman smiled easily.
‘At least I proved your theory wrong. And Jones will be no use to you dead.’
Razina shrugged.
‘Would such a man have been of use to us? His loyalty was, to say the least … er … questionable.’
Dingle’s smile twisted bitterly.
‘Anyway,’ the Russian continued, ‘you may have proved my theory wrong, but by your action, and in your conversation with Jones, you have answered all my questions. I can see no point in holding you here for further interrogation. Captain Zeleransky will take you back to your cell. I shall return to KGB headquarters now. Tomorrow, you will be transferred to Lubyanka, to await your trial.’
Chapter Thirteen
Dingle banged on the cell door until the shutter was lifted and a green eye appeared at the peephole.
‘I want some exercise,’ he said.
The eye blinked.
‘Did you hear me? I want some exercise.’
The eye stared owlishly.
‘Damn you! I’m entitled to exercise in the fresh air.’
‘It is not permitted.’ The guard’s voice was muffled by the door.
‘Get Razina here. I want to speak to him.’
‘It is not possible.’
Dingle blew hard through the hole. The eye retreated and the shutter clicked back into place. He began to pound the door again.
Another ten minutes passed before the noise produced any reaction.
This time it was a brown eye.
‘Stand well back, over by the bed.’
Dingle recognised the voice. He moved back.
The lock clicked over, the bolts grated as they were eased clear, and the door swung open.
Zeleransky, tall, tough and competent stood there, flanked by two guards who were taking no chances. Their revolvers were aimed steadily at the prisoner.
‘What do you want?’
‘I asked to see Razina.’
‘He’s not here.’
‘Herzen, then.’
‘He’s not here either. What do you want?’
‘I’ve already told the green-eyed monste
r on your left. I want some exercise — outside in the fresh air. I demand my rights.’
‘You have no rights.’ Zeleransky turned to the guards. ‘I’m going inside. Stay here and watch him carefully; if he tries to escape, shoot him in the legs.’
He walked slowly across to Dingle.
‘I know how you feel. I like exercise, too. Perhaps we could exercise together … like this.’
The Russian’s fists lashed out suddenly, savagely; the left sank cruelly into Dingle’s stomach, punching the air out of his body, the right, timed to perfection, cracked into his jaw.
The British agent, taken by surprise, was lifted off the floor. He landed on the bed behind, bounced backwards and smacked his head against the wall.
Zeleransky followed up quickly. He dived on to the bed and sat astride Dingle’s chest, pinning him down.
‘I’ll teach you to bang on the door and cause a disturbance,’ he shouted. ‘While you’re in my charge, You’ll behave yourself.’
His hands circled the Englishman’s throat as he leaned over.
Dingle, dazed and struggling to clear his head, could feel the man’s hot breath in his ear; then his eyes widened in surprise.
‘Sorry if I hurt you,’ Zeleransky was whispering in his faultless English. ‘Bring your arms up inside mine and open my tunic buttons. You’ll feel a revolver stuffed inside. Take it out and hide it under the blanket. My back will hide your movements from the guards.’
‘What’s this in aid of?’ panted Dingle. ‘Are you making another B picture? I’m getting fed up with being a film star. I’m liable to become temperamental.’
‘Stop arguing,’ said Zeleransky urgently, lifting up Dingle’s head and banging it, not so hard this time, against the wall. ‘And keep your voice down. They don’t understand English — but just in case …’
Dingle reached up, undid two of Zeleransky’s tunic buttons and felt the butt of a revolver. Carefully, under the cover of the Russian’s body, he drew it out.
‘Who the hell are you?’
‘I’m with SS(O)S. The Director will tell you about me when you get home … Now roll over with me when I lift you … face the wall … I’ll shield you while you hide the gun.’
‘O.K.’ gasped Dingle, seconds later. ‘Now get off me. You’re a ton weight — and my ribs took a beating last night. Ouch!’ His head collided with the wall again.
Zeleransky climbed off the bed. He grasped Dingle’s collar and hauled him to his feet. Deftly, he spun him round and caught him with a teeth-jarring uppercut. The Englishman was unconscious before he hit the floor.
‘I don’t think he’ll disturb our peace again,’ Zeleransky told the grinning guards. ‘No! Stay where you are. He may be foxing.’
The guards waited just outside the door while the captain half dragged, half carried Dingle across to the wash basin, turned the cold water tap full on and held his head under it.
Dingle coughed and spluttered.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I think so. Did you have to be so bloody realistic.’
‘I’ve got to protect myself. Now listen! There’s a note rolled up in the barrel of the gun. When you’ve read it, eat it. Did the Director give you an address?’
Dingle nodded groggily.
‘Good. I didn’t want to put it on paper. Hide the gun later in your overcoat. You’ll be wearing the coat when you leave here tomorrow for Lubyanka.’
Zeleransky doused the British agent’s head once more, frog-marched him across the room and threw him back on to the bed.
‘That should satisfy your craving for exercise,’ he said loudly in Russian. ‘Now we might get a bit of peace around here.’
He turned on his heel and left the cell. The door slammed shut.
Dingle sat up, swung his feet to the floor, walked on shaking legs back to the wash basin, turned on the tap and cupped his hands to drink. He used the small square of towel that hung beside the basin to dry his head, then went back to sit on the bed.
He felt as though he’d been watching a car being mangled in a giant crushing machine — and had realised, when it was too late, that he was still in the car. Every bone and muscle in his body seemed to be on fire; almost every part of his flesh was bruised and tender to touch. And he had a blinding headache.
He got up again, walked to the door and thumped on it.
The shutter slid back.
‘Can I have an aspirin?’
The green eye blinked.
Dingle sighed.
‘Never mind,’ he said wearily. ‘I’m not going through all that again.’
He went back to the bed. Before he fell asleep he smiled, weakly, as he felt the reassuring hardness of the gun underneath him. It was uncomfortable … but comforting.
*
Dingle was still stiff and sore when he awoke; but the headache had gone. He had no idea how long he had slept. His watch had not been returned to him.
He waited patiently. When, at last, he heard the click of the shutter, he feigned sleep. He could sense the guard’s monocular gaze; then the feeling was gone. Cautiously, he opened his eyes. The peephole was shut.
Rolling over to face the wall, he felt under the blanket and brought out the gun. If the gaoler did decide to take another look, Dingle’s body would screen the weapon from view.
Carefully, he checked it. It was a revolver, identical to the ones used by the guards outside the cell. The safety catch was on. Dingle broke the gun. Every chamber was loaded. He tipped the bullets into his hand, examined them, and replaced them. Already his spirits were lifting; he was forgetting his aches and pains.
He squinted down the barrel. There was a roll of paper inside; it had sprung and was clinging to the bore. Dingle tried to shake it out, but it wouldn’t move. His little finger was too thick; it wouldn’t go in the barrel. He felt in his inside pocket. They hadn’t taken his pencil. Slowly, he eased out the note.
The handwriting was small, but neat. It read:
You will be moved tomorrow a.m. Armoured van will arrive main yard with crew of two. Crew will come to cell. Your present guard will hand you over to them. I shall accompany you to yard and signal duty sentry to open main gate. When one of your escort turns from you to open rear door of van shoot him and his companion. Make sure you kill them. This is vital. Then remember to take gun from one of guards. I shall tell R. that you must have tricked a guard, taken his gun and shot them both. At time of incident, I shall be walking towards gate. At sound of shots I shall run back towards van. Fire at me (miss of course) and get into van fast. Drive for gate, but allow me to jump on running board. If sentry has shut gates again, crash through. If I’m still with you, shoot me in the arm. At least I’ll have the sentry as a witness to my brave attempt to stop you — and a wound to prove it! Outside gate go straight up road facing you, to Serbuknovskaya Street. Turn right. Immediately round corner you will see black Moskvich. Abandon van, take car. Keys under seat. Go to address Director should have given you. When you’ve read this inwardly digest (literally). Good luck.
Dingle read the note several times, burning it into his memory. Then he tore it into quarters and, one by one, ate them.
He had almost finished the last piece when he froze. The shutter clicked. He could hear his heart thumping, shattering the silence. The shutter snapped back.
Dingle relaxed. He rose swiftly, chewing furiously, trying to swallow the dry ink-tasted pellet, and padded across the room with the revolver.
He slipped the gun into the pocket of his overcoat, moved over to the wash basin and eased the obstinate mush of paper down his reluctant throat with a drink of water. He gagged, drank some more, and felt better.
The old built-in alarm began to buzz and he turned to look at the door. He walked across and stared back into the unwinking green eye.
‘What’s the time?’ he asked.
The eye withdrew and the peephole was closed.
Dingl
e stretched out on the bed. He wondered whether it was tomorrow morning yet. He had lost all track of time.
Chapter Fourteen
‘Get up!’
Zeleransky’s sharp command, followed immediately by the crash of the heavy door swinging back to hit the wall, jerked Dingle out of a heavy sleep.
He was instantly alert, but he rolled slowly off the bed and stood, swaying slightly, looking fuddled and unsure of himself.
Zeleransky strode across the room.
‘Move,’ he shouted, pushing the Englishman roughly. ‘Put your topcoat on.’
Dingle eased himself carefully into the coat, wincing and groaning.
‘Quickly! We haven’t got all day.’
‘I can’t move any faster,’ Dingle said weakly. ‘I’m stiff and sore all over after the beating you gave me, and I think I’ve got a couple of broken ribs.’
His protest ended in a cry of pain as Zeleransky impatiently took the collar in both hands and lifted it high. A sharp dig in the back propelled him towards the door where four guards were waiting.
‘You two can dismiss,’ Zeleransky told the pair who had been on duty all night. He waited while they saluted and marched off down the corridor, then he turned and walked in the opposite direction calling, ‘This way,’ over his shoulder.
Dingle followed, limping, screwing up his face and gasping with pain. The two fresh guards, fell into step behind him, their boots beating a brisk tattoo.
The Englishman tripped and almost fell; he cursed and shot a glance over his shoulder. He noted that the two men had kept their revolvers holstered. Obviously they didn’t consider the broken, shuffling prisoner much of a risk.
Zeleransky opened a door, stepped outside and waited for the others to catch up.
Dingle shivered in the chill, fuliginous pre-dawn air. He sank his head as far as possible into the deep collar of his coat, and thrust his gloveless hands into the pocket. The butt of the revolver felt cold in his palm.
‘Get him into the van quickly,’ Zeleransky ordered curtly. He turned and walked across the yard at a fast pace, signalling to a sentry on duty inside the double gates.
The man had one of the gates open before Dingle and his escort were half-way to the van.
Traitor's Gait Page 9
