by Jeff Dawson
‘Are you insane?!’ yelled Finch.
But his words were lost.
Finch felt himself hoisted back onto the altar. Hands ripped open his shirt. The high priest banged his staff three times again. The room fell silent once more.
With a soft slow shuffle of feet, a big man ambled forward. Tall… ridiculously tall, his robes barely concealing him. He came to a stop before the altar and, with an ominous metallic hiss – and a palpable thrill from those looking on – slid a great knife from its scabbard.
‘We should be seeking common purpose,’ bellowed the high priest. ‘It is a betrayal of that bloodline for the British to be in opposition…’
The tall man raised the knife to the room, the candlelight glinting on the curve of the steel.
‘It will be a huge feather in our cap to have claimed a British agent at large in the United States.’
There were markings etched into the blade… runes…
A signal was given. The chanting resumed, rising to fever pitch. The tall man turned to the throne and the head nodded. The knife was raised high, poised…
God is dead!
But then the staff pounded again.
Silence.
‘Which is why we will not kill you… yet.’
The knife was lowered, sheathed. It was offered aside, into the care of accomplices.
‘Take him away!’ boomed the voice. ‘We will deal with the Ausländer later.’
The huge hands jerked Finch to his feet again. He was dragged out of the circle. Next thing he knew he was being bustled by the tall man along a narrow underground passageway lined with flaming torches. This time he felt the barrel of a gun being pressed into the small of his back.
There were screams of pain – male – coming from somewhere.
‘Delgado?!’
The gun was rammed in harder and he was hastened on his way.
There could be no doubt as to who this was too – Teetonka. Finch understood that suggestion-without-revelation would be part of the terror mounted against him – utterly unprovable, and with hints at his own insanity, should he ever be free to recount his experience of tonight.
The underground corridor was long. At the end of it, a door opened into the night. As they got closer he could see two henchmen waiting, a car behind them. He could hear its engine running. They were going to take him away somewhere.
He was too numb – too tired, too pained, too utterly shocked – to even calculate the odds of success, but he noted one thing and hoped that it could be used to his advantage. Even though he was positioned behind him, he could tell that Teetonka was struggling with his ill-fitting robe – too restricting for comfortable movement and with an impractical hood and baggy sleeves that were frustrating its wearer, constantly having to be tugged back.
Finch’s problematic knee was the least of his worries, but his limping was a given and, when he stopped to bend and rub his leg, he seized his moment. As Teetonka thrust the gun at him again, he twisted and, from a low point of attack, using the combined strength of his bound wrists, pushed the man’s right arm, his gun arm, back.
BANG!
The shot echoed. There was a shout. It took a second. But as soon as he had righted himself, Finch realized that one of the henchmen at the end was now writhing on the ground, clutching his belly. The other man was rushing towards them.
The pistol had gone flying across the floor. It was an automatic, a Luger. Finch dived for it and, aiming from a prone position, with what seemed like an explosion of red paint, shot the oncoming second man in the head.
With the physical fury of a man possessed, Teetonka was upon him and flipped him onto his back, pinning him rigid. He grabbed the gun from him and, using its handle as a club, was about to rain it down, raising it high to bludgeon with maximum impact.
But… the sleeve… It arced towards a flaming torch, the cloth wafting right through.
Teetonka – his arm – it was on fire.
Finch stumbled to his feet then staggered forward, bumping off the walls. Another shot rang out, but it missed. He fell again and caught a glimpse behind him. Teetonka was rolling, engulfed in flames.
Finch darted for the exit, stepping over the first henchman, still squealing, hands clamped to his guts. There seemed no one else ahead of him. He was on his own. Though he could hear a commotion swelling behind.
The car’s engine was running. He gulped the night air and climbed behind the wheel. He barely knew how to drive but, in an instant, found himself haring out of an alleyway, suddenly barrelling along a New York street.
Chapter 12
Finch lurched from the cobbles onto what seemed a wider arterial road, which he figured aligned north–south. But he saw the moonlight shimmer on the water up ahead and knew soon enough that he had got it wrong. From the silhouettes of the mighty suspension bridges, it was obviously the East River. There were huge cables slung between the towers of one still under construction, the Manhattan Bridge, nestled up against the instantly recognizable arches of the Brooklyn.
He was Downtown, on the Lower East Side somewhere. He reorientated himself and headed north. He cursed himself for not making a proper note of the location whence he had just come, not even the street name. His instinct for survival – his instinct for flight – had come at the expense of being an effective spy. There were German names… on shops, on restaurants, on bars. He would remember that.
But Delgado…
His prime motive now was to save his poor comrade and to get him out from their clutches before it was too late, wherever the hell that might be. But who could he inform? Who could he trust? The police? No. He’d had evidence enough that there was a deeply corrupt element amongst them. The NBI? He didn’t even know how to make contact.
The only rational option was to communicate the details of the past hours to the MO3 office in Washington. He would need to find a telegraph office right away. Maybe there was one open at a railway station?
As best he could, with his bound hands, he patted his breast pocket. But then – the cold shock of realization – the codebook was no longer there. It had either fallen out during his abduction or been taken from his person… along with his wallet and passport. He was meant to guard it with his life.
In his mind, he retraced his steps of the past few hours. And then he thanked himself for his own carelessness. His room… the bomb… the tuxedo… the general daze… In all that had happened, he had left the codebook behind. On transfer to a new hotel suite, he had wedged it under the edge of the mattress while he got changed, meaning to put it back in his pocket.
He must head to the New Netherland immediately, retrieve it and get the hell out as soon as possible. They would surely have the place marked.
With his hands spliced together, Finch made heavy weather of steering the vehicle. But with the streets empty, he thanked heaven for small mercies. He had had a few token turns behind the wheel of an automobile; having once railed against the advent of these accursed noisy contraptions, he had since thrown in the towel and fancied that he might like to purchase one.
Bamboozled by the stream-of-consciousness babble on the parts of several automobile salesmen, who were fast acquiring a reputation for turning their profession into a high art of misinformation, he had yet to follow through on any deal.
According to the emblem on the dashboard, the car was a Packard, the model a Roadster. It had a shorter wheel base but was more powerful, more sporty, than the Ford he had tried out back home – with just a single bench seat meant for three abreast. The layout was the same with three pedals – brake, reverse and clutch, which went through a first, second and high gear when depressed – and a hand throttle tucked behind the steering wheel.
It was only now that he returned to the issue of his broken fingers. The adrenaline had done its utmost to mask the pain, but the third and little digits of his left hand were a bruised, limp mess and he would have to tend to them at the first opportunity.
The
gears ground and the car lurched. There was no one on his tail that he could see. But he would need to zigzag and he remembered his time on the battlefield, dodging Boer bullets across the veld.
He turned west, across the Bowery and its canopy of ‘El’ train rails, then up via the Cooper Union and Astor Place, taking Broadway past Union Square and onto Fifth Avenue. He came out right under the great triangular edifice of the Flatiron Building and thought, for a second, of his brief acquaintance with his fellow traveller on the Baltic, then those lecherous lads on the street corner.
He was right back where he had been earlier that night. Ahead lay Madison Square Garden. In the other direction, at the southern end of Fifth Avenue, was the triumphal arch of Washington Square – both Stanford White creations.
There was pink on the horizon. Dawn was breaking. He could see the light and space of Central Park in the distance. He slammed the throttle to maximum and belted north up the wide open boulevard.
But he was not alone. Along with the milk carts and the delivery wagons now bringing the city to life he noticed the other car in his rear-view mirror, maybe three or four blocks back, revving along at breakneck speed. Even though he was careening along at a flat-out 40mph, it was gaining on him.
An early-morning streetcar trundled across a junction and, using it as cover, he threw the steering wheel over and made the Packard screech into a sharp series of left-right-lefts. It was not effective. The other car was close enough now for him to see four men in it.
Crossing Sixth Avenue, he braked to a sharp halt and used the reverse pedal to back into an alleyway in the ice-cold lee of a massive building – somewhere, judging by the grey slush, that the sun never shone.
Reversing was not his forte and the Packard jerked too quickly. With a crunch of metal, the rear bumper scattered some dustbins before the whole back end went thudding into a wall. Trying to ease forward, the car whined and grunted but got no traction. It was jammed solid.
Knowing how complicated it was to get a car restarted, he kept the engine running but yanked down the throttle to a gentle tick-over while he assessed his options.
He heard the engine of the other car dip. It had slowed, obviously searching for his hiding place. Finch fumbled for the switch and killed the Packard’s headlamps. Strategically he had made an error. He had gone from the safety of a wide-open space to a dead end… quite possibly literally. He cursed himself for not having the presence of mind to have at least picked up a gun on his escape. Maybe they didn’t know that?
Within mere yards, the pursuing vehicle passed the end of the alley. A face in the rear seemed to be staring right at him. He held his breath. But the darkness had saved him. It travelled on. Finch waited as it picked up speed again, listening then for the noise of the engine to recede into the distance.
He climbed out and walked to the main road. He saw the framed posters on the wall – the New York Philharmonic performing Wagner’s Flying Dutchman and Lizst’s Faust Symphony – and realized he was behind Carnegie Hall. Save for a lone distant milk cart clopping over the cobbles, there was no one about.
He had a brainwave. The Packard’s engine was still running. He popped open a sprung panel on the hood and took the binding on his hands to the fan blades. Careful not to make an errant move, he held firm while they sliced right through. Hands free, he examined his left one. The third finger was not jutting out like the little one and seemed more of a straightforward dislocation, but he needed to fix them as best he could.
He grimaced, reset them and, using a fountain pen as a splint, strapped them tightly with his handkerchief. Christ, he needed a drink. Instead he lit a Navy Cut.
He was taking a big gamble in going back to the hotel but it was the only way. Sure that he was no longer being followed, he limped along 57th Street and up round the rear of the building site of the Plaza. He found the back entrance to the New Netherland and went in through the kitchen, now a hive of hissing and sizzling as it came alive for the breakfast shift.
Dressed in a crumpled tux, ripped shirt and looking a little rough, he got a knowing wink from a cook frying up a pan of bacon and eggs – just another gent sneaking in after a good night out. As he made his way through there was an empty office and a pegboard of pass keys. He grabbed his – room #1921 – rather than go via the front desk.
He hopped into the service elevator, alongside a waiter wheeling in a room-service trolley that smelled suddenly tempting, and got out with him at the 21st floor, walking back down two flights of stairs.
From the stairwell he pushed open the door an inch and peered into the corridor. He recalled that Delgado had said the Bureau would post a guard on the new room and he wondered for a moment whether this might be a better person to approach for help.
But there was no one there. Maybe they were elsewhere? Taking a quick break? And then it dawned – they could have been eliminated.
He must hurry.
Finch crept to the room and put the key in the lock. His heart pounded as he turned the knob and eased it open. In the dim light, it appeared exactly as he had left it, as if nothing extraordinary at all had passed that night. He determined not to turn on the light lest anybody be watching from the street.
But… he sensed movement.
The curtain at the far window was flapping. Someone had just climbed out. There was a clang of motion on the fire escape and he rushed to look out. It was still too dark to see properly. That side of the building was still in shade. But there, scuttling down, was someone.
He ducked across the windowsill ready to head after them but, in his condition, with his knee and his general state of fatigue, he knew it was pointless. He returned to the bed, slid his good hand under the mattress to the place where he had hidden the codebook, and faced the inevitable.
It was gone.
His mind raced. There was only one thing for it, the last resort – the locker at Grand Central Station. He would leave the hotel by the same back route and go there right now. He would take his bag and get out of Manhattan. By a circuitous route he would make his way to the embassy in Washington. That, too, still meant taking a chance.
If anything goes wrong, you will be disavowed.
No… British territory. He would head for Canada.
There was a sudden, loud rap at the door. He kept still… very still.
The volley of knocks came again, more forcefully, only this time with a voice.
‘Open up! Police!’
Finch rushed to the fire escape, but it was too late.
There was a rattle at the lock as they let themselves in, a bellboy on hand with a pass key. Several constables were upon him, guns drawn.
‘Freeze!’
Finch put his hands in the air.
A man in a gabardine coat moved to the fore.
‘Bradley Collins, you are under arrest!’
Chapter 13
Finch sat in the interview room with his hands bound again, this time handcuffed to a metal bar running across the table. His left one hurt like hell.
The state-of-the-art NYPD headquarters on Centre Street – the brand new Downtown home of ‘New York’s finest’ – had been constructed as part of Roosevelt’s reforms. But, when it came to interrogation rooms, it boasted all the usual trimmings – or lack of them – windowless, airless, spartan. Beneath the pale electric bulb there were already the scuffs, the marks, the scars of those who had passed within its walls.
Finch didn’t know whether to use this opportunity to sleep, or if the act of doing so might raise the ire of his interrogators. He suspected they would rush in and wake him up. Inevitably there was a long horizontal mirror built in to one wall – he was being observed. They had removed his watch as well as his tie, braces and shoelaces. How long he had been sitting there he didn’t know. But it must have been for the best part of an hour.
Just as he was about to throw in the towel and put his head down, the door was opened and the detective who had arrested him was ushered in by a consta
ble. Finch had been told nothing of any charge against him and so had been left to writhe on the hook, knowing that there were multiple permutations as to the cause of his detention.
The detective sat opposite him, his constable at the end of the table, pencil and notebook in hand, ready to document proceedings. He wore an anonymous suit and tie and had slicked-back greying hair, the obligatory stress creases around his tired eyes.
He introduced himself as ‘Detective Copeland, NYPD’ and was as purposeful as any other investigator Finch had met in the line of duty, going all the way back to Harry Brookman, the venerable Cape Town gumshoe, who, now he thought about it, was indirectly responsible for every scrape he’d been in ever since and whose voice still echoed in his head.
Assumption is our enemy, Captain Finch.
Copeland also had the standard detective’s prop before him – the folder containing the charge sheet and other information, which he flipped open and rifled through, there to suggest that he knew more about events than Finch did and, by virtue, had the upper hand.
Finch had been in this environment enough times to know how it worked and to understand the basic psychology. They would turn every statement on its head and throw it back to you as a question. He was desperate for someone to get out there and find poor Delgado but he also knew that the police couldn’t necessarily be trusted… yet. The man sitting before him might very well be in Muller’s pocket. The way to proceed was to stick to the facts and to treat it as an exercise in extracting as much information for himself – in effect, to interview his interviewer.
‘Detective, if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to know why I’ve been arrested.’
The detective turned in mock exasperation to look at the policeman – a little bit of theatre.
‘You mean other than shoot two men dead at an address near Tompkins Square and send another to New York Presbyterian with third-degree burns?’
