Cast No Shadow: A Thrilling WW2 Adventure (Dragan Kelly Book 1)

by Peter Alderson Sharp

  “Well, it’s been lovely to meet you, Miss Kingstone,” he said. “I have a heavy day tomorrow, so I’m going to get my head down.”

  “Before you go,” she said, “please let me introduce my dear friend, Francisco.” She smiled into the Cuban’s eyes.

  She’s either a damn good actress or this is for real, thought Kelly as he clasped the outstretched hand of the Cuban who introduced himself as Francisco Negrin. He was tall with streaky dark blond hair and an aquiline nose. Definite traces of Patagonia, thought Kelly as he shook hands.

  Once outside the club, Kelly sprinted to his car, started it up and drove back down to San Carlos Street. He parked under some trees and switched off his lights. To say he didn’t trust Peregrine would be an understatement. He didn’t have long to wait. Within a few minutes, the two emerged from the Bar and started hurriedly up the road towards where he was parked. Quickly Kelly slumped under the line of sight and waited until he heard them pass. They were talking quickly and excitedly, but Kelly was unable to make out the detail.

  Once they had turned the corner, he started the engine, did a quick three-point turn and crept round the corner, his lights still off, just in time to see them turn into Santa Rita Street. Kelly eased the car around the corner into the same street, parked up and switched off the engine. He watched them as they made their way, hand in hand, up the narrow street, walking in the middle of the road.

  When they were about three quarters of the way up the street, Kelly reached for the starter button ready to follow the pair on the next phase, but he froze as a pair of car lights suddenly illuminated the whole of the street. A car pulled out from the kerb near the top of the street and moved down the road towards them. He saw the couple stop, walk backwards for a few paces as the car approached them, then turn and run back down the road towards Kelly.

  Kelly started the engine of his Austin, turned on his lights and waited until the couple had run past. He saw the girl look at him and recognition register on her face. As soon as they had passed, he pulled across the road, blocking it completely, switched off the engine, pulled out the choke and pumped the accelerator vigorously to ensure that he had thoroughly flooded the engine.

  Then he sat and waited.

  To the Mountains

  The car screeched to a halt, millimetres from the passenger side door of Kelly’s Austin 10. Two men jumped out of the old Buick and ran round to the open driver’s window, gesticulating and shouting in anger. Kelly was hunched over the steering wheel, assiduously pressing the starter button and pumping the accelerator pedal. The now thoroughly flooded engine didn’t even cough.

  Kelly looked up as a man poked his head through the window shouting and, Kelly presumed, swearing in Spanish. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled at the big Cuban. “It won’t start … Sorry!” The man stopped shouting and looked at Kelly,

  “English?”

  “Yes,” responded Kelly

  “You are with the English woman. Yes?”

  Kelly looked puzzled and looked around. “Which woman?” he asked. The Cuban made a deprecating gesture and uttered something under his breath. He looked at the car controls for a few moments then pushed in the choke.

  “No accelerator!” he commanded, indicating Kelly should remove his foot from the accelerator. He leaned over and pressed the starter button. The car coughed a few times and sprang into life, purring as well as a pre-war Austin could.

  “Go!” he commanded. Kelly was effusive with his thanks, but the Cuban waved him away. Slipping the car into gear he completed the three-point turn and drove the short distance to the road junction. Through his rear-view mirror, he watched the Cubans hurriedly get into their Buick and start the engine. They are going to follow me, thought Kelly; they think I will lead them to the woman.

  Kelly remembered that the couple had run down the road to the right, leading to the town centre, so he signalled left and turned in that direction. This way, he thought, if they do follow me, I will be leading them away from their quarry.

  He drove up the road towards the hotel and allowed himself a wry smile as he saw through his mirror, the glint of moonlight reflected from one of the Buick’s headlights as the Cubans pulled out and followed without lights.

  To his horror, the two fugitives emerged from a side street and flagged him down. They must have doubled back to throw the Cuban thugs off their trail. His own tactic of driving in the opposite direction had had the effect of cancelling their subterfuge. He had inadvertently led the Cubans right to them!

  There was a roar from behind as the Buick accelerated and sped past them, slewing to a screeching halt sideways in the road just beyond the couple. Instantly the two thugs were out and advancing towards them, pistols raised.

  Kelly jumped out and advanced slowly towards them, talking rapidly in an agitated tone and gesticulating wildly.

  “Who are these people?” he said gesturing towards the couple. “Why have I been stopped? What’s going on?!” He manoeuvred himself so the bigger of the two men was between him and the smaller of the two Cubans, thereby completely obscuring him from the view of the latter. The big Cuban raised his pistol as if to strike Kelly.

  It was the moment Kelly had been waiting for. He kicked upward, viciously, between the Cuban’s legs, at the same time whipping out his Walther from his waist belt. With a choked cry the big man doubled forward and as he did so Kelly brought his own pistol down with all his force on the wrist of his opponent. With a yelp the Cuban dropped his pistol, unsure whether to clutch his wrist or hold his manhood.

  The other Cuban, now aware of the scuffle, turned his pistol on Kelly, but Peregrine was already in motion. Turning sideways she put her full weight into a side kick on the side of the unfortunate Cuban’s knee. Kelly saw the leg take on a 90-degree angle entirely at odds with nature. As the man buckled, she brought the side of her open hand down sharply on his pistol wrist, jolting the weapon from his grip.

  Both of the thugs were now writhing on the floor, crying out in agony. Kelly moved swiftly to pick up the discarded weapons then motioned the others to get into the Buick, still ticking over in the road. Once they were inside, he moved the automatic gearshift to ‘drive’, spun the car on the handbrake and headed north.

  “To the Sierra Maestra!” shouted the young student. “I have comrades there. They will take care of you.”

  “No!” said Kelly decisively. “Guantanamo! We will have to take our chances with the Americans. Guide me!” he told the student.

  “Very well,” Negrin said grudgingly. “But I urge you to seek shelter with the comrades. You will never reach Guantanamo without being picked up. In any case it is the same road for three miles. You can make your mind up then.” As an afterthought he added, “If you decide to go on to Guantanamo, you will need to let me out at the Junction in the hills. I cannot go into the American area.”

  Kelly nodded and gunned the vehicle in the direction indicated. They drove the three miles in silence, then as they approached the junction the car coughed slightly then picked up again. Kelly recognised the symptom and looked down at the fuel gauge.

  Empty.

  The morons hadn’t even the sense to keep the car topped up.

  “Right!” he said. “We are going to visit the comrades after all. Which way, Francisco?”

  Eagerly the student guided him towards the sierra. As he turned onto the small road that led up into the mountain region, he spotted a car some half a mile behind them. He watched as best he could as it came in and out of view, sometimes obscured by the contours of the land. When it turned up the same road they had a few minutes previously, he knew they were being tailed.

  He warned the others and added: “I need to let you out as soon as possible. I’ll try to shake them off.”

  Negrin pointed. “Just around the next bend there is a pass leading up to the camp. We will be hidden as we climb. You should dump the car and double back to the pass. We will wait for you at the top.”

  Kelly no
dded but corrected him. “Don’t wait for me, I’ll find you.” He stopped at the foot of the pass when directed to do so, allowed his two passengers to alight, and gave each of them one of the spare revolvers. He pulled away and waved as Peregrine called ‘Good Luck!’ after him, before gunning the car for all it was worth around the next bend, the white wall tyres squealing their protest. The car coughed, but again picked up. He eased off the accelerator slightly to conserve fuel.

  The other vehicle, another big American auto, was in his sights when Kelly’s engine died, and he freewheeled the vehicle to a standstill. He had determined to fight it out, but the reaction of the pursuers took him by surprise. He had expected a couple of Cuban heavies, but as the car stopped four occupants disembarked. It was the skill with which they did so that caught Kelly by surprise. They scattered in four directions, taking cover as soon as they had gone to ground. Kelly had seen the outline of sub-machine guns and two of the men had blond hair.

  Russians!

  He was hopelessly outnumbered and outgunned. He would gain nothing by dying gloriously now. While he still had his life and his wits, he at least had a chance. Kelly stood up and walked to the front of the car, his hands in the air. Two of the Russians, probably Spetsnaz soldiers but in plain clothes, approached, their machine guns raised.

  “Your weapon!” One of them said in a thick accent. Kelly slowly reached behind his back and gingerly prised the weapon from his belt, then holding it by the muzzle, swung it slowly into view, before throwing it a few feet to his front.

  The other two men emerged and, whilst three covered him, the fourth frisked him for other weapons. All of the actions were slick and polished, and no words were spoken. Finally, Kelly was bustled into the car, which turned in the road and travelled back to town.

  Thirty minutes later the car pulled into the drive of an impressive looking castle. Kelly recognised it from the guidebook he had studied on the train journey, as the Castillo del Morro. The vehicle swept up the approach road and came to rest in the compound in front of the main building.

  As Kelly emerged from the car, he was roughly grabbed by two of the Russians and frog-marched in through a side door and up a set of narrow steps, one guard in front, one at the rear with weapon ready.

  They stopped outside a room at the top of the staircase and the leading soldier rapped on the door, calling out something in Russian. Content with the reply he opened the door and motioned for Kelly to enter. The two guards followed him in, ushering him to a chair in front of an old wooden desk, and then took their positions a few paces behind Kelly.

  The room was exactly as would be expected in an old castle. It had a high ceiling and the walls were clad in wooden panelling. There were a few bookshelves against the wall, a small bureau, and a large mirror mounted behind the desk. On the desk was a blotter and, to the side of this, a telephone.

  Facing Kelly across the desk was a young man of about twenty with short fair hair and a fair complexion. He wore plain clothes, but his bearing suggested military training. Kelly smiled and said hello. The Russian nodded but remained straight faced. He was clearly tense, probably being watched, thought Kelly. He surreptitiously glanced around the room as far as he could. Of course, the mirror…

  “Your name please?” the young man asked.

  “William Shepherd,” answered Kelly.

  “Your nationality?”

  “Why do you want to know?” asked Kelly calmly. The young soldier looked up sharply, surprise registered in his eyes.

  “It is necessary,” he said, an air of menace in his voice. Kelly remained calm, almost detached.

  “Who says that it is necessary? Under what authority are you holding me here and questioning me?” Kelly asked.

  “By the authority of the Cuban authorities delegated to me,” he answered.

  “Then your identity card and authorisation please?” demanded Kelly leaning across the desk, his hand outstretched to receive the documents he knew would not be forthcoming. There was shuffling of feet behind him and Kelly sat back slowly in his seat. The soldier opposite was clearly becoming agitated.

  Before he could speak again, the phone rang. He picked it up and spoke briefly into it. What followed must have been a virtual monologue, as the young man’s contribution to the conversation appeared to be the occasional ‘Da!’ He slowly reddened as he listened; clearly the ‘observers’ had not been too impressed with his performance on this occasion.

  The young man tried to retain his dignity as he replaced the receiver, but there was a look of dejection about him. Resignedly, he said, “You are to be interviewed by a senior officer in the next room. I strongly suggest you cooperate, Mr Shepherd.”

  “Thank you for that advice,” said Kelly as he rose. “I’ll bear it in mind.”

  Kelly was already making his way to the panelled door, just to the left of the mirror, when the two guards caught up with him, each grasping an arm. Kelly made no attempt to resist and allowed them to guide him in the direction he knew they would take.

  At the door one of the sentries knocked and waited until a voice gave leave to enter, at which he opened the door and indicated to Kelly to go through but closed the door behind Kelly without entering himself. Kelly took a moment for his eyes to accustom to the dimness of the room. In contrast to the previous room, it was spacious. However, one wall was hung with sumptuous drapes, covering the windows.

  There were portraits and landscapes hung in various places and a number of tables placed against the walls, bearing ceramics, pottery and sculptures. On the right-hand wall was the mirror window. From this side it appeared transparent and Kelly could clearly see the young officer with his head buried in some document. Facing Kelly was a large oak desk and across the desk a man sat in a swivel chair, his back to Kelly.

  “Sit, please.” It was a request rather than an order. Kelly complied and took the chair at the desk, across from the man who remained facing away.

  “Welcome Mr Shepherd!” he continued. “I am sorry for this inconvenience, but there are one or two pieces of information that we need you to tell us, if you will.” The tone was placatory if not condescending. There was something about the voice that caught Kelly’s attention. He decided to play along.

  “Very well,” he said.

  “Thank you,” answered the voice, “perhaps we can start with your name?”

  “As I told your assistant in the anteroom, my name is Bill Shepherd.”

  “I think you must have misunderstood,” the voice answered. “I meant your real name!”

  Kelly’s skin tingled slightly. Keeping his voice level, he answered curtly, “My real name is Bill Shepherd!”

  There was a pause before the owner of the voice answered. Swivelling his chair round to face Kelly he replied with a snarl.

  “I think not, Mr Kelly!”

  Old Comrades

  Vladeshenko!

  Kelly froze for a moment, but forced himself to remain calm.

  “So, we meet again, Mr Kelly.” The Russian smiled broadly. “It seems such a long time.”

  “Delighted to see you again, Comrade Major Vladeshenko,” lied Kelly. “Do you mind if I smoke?” he started to reach into his jacket.

  “One moment please!” said Vladeshenko quickly as he pulled open a drawer in the desk, his hand emerging clasping a German Luger, pointed directly at Kelly’s chest. “Now you may smoke.”

  Kelly gently pulled a packet of cigarettes from his inside pocket and offered the open packet across the table. Vladeshenko took a cigarette with his left hand and ran it under his nose as he sniffed it, placed it in his mouth and, still keeping the Luger pointed at Kelly, adroitly lit the cigarette with his left hand, using a lighter that had been lying on the desk.

  “By the way,” the Russian said between puffs of his cigarette, “do you recognise the pistol?”

  “Should I?” asked Kelly.

  “It was the weapon you were carrying when the glorious sons of the revolution saved you from
the clutches of the German barbarians, all those years ago in Murmansk province,” Vladeshenko explained. He replaced it in the drawer, but left the drawer open. “I kept it as a souvenir.”

  “That was thoughtful of you, Major,” said Kelly. “You may be interested to know that I still have the fatigues you dressed me in when you imprisoned me. Your fatigues, my Luger. Seems we are even, Major.”

  “You should perhaps know, Mr Kelly, that my rank is now Colonel, not Major,” the Russian corrected him with a certain arrogance.

  It was exactly the response Kelly had hoped to provoke. He knew that the Russian could not possibly still be a major, but he needed to know whether he was still serving and if so at what rank. He now had that information.

  “So, your presence here is as a military adviser, not as a civilian adviser?” asked Kelly naively.

  Vladeshenko’s face had turned to thunder. He knew he had been outwitted and was inwardly furious, both with Kelly and with himself. Realising there was no room left to manoeuvre, he answered simply, “That is correct.”

  “But why, Vladeshenko?” asked Kelly, his brow furrowed. “Who are you advising? Socarras and his thugs?”

  “Socarras is a fool!” spat Vladeshenko. “He knows that the Americans will engineer him out and replace him with Batista. He thinks our presence in the country will deter that.”

  “And it won’t?” asked Kelly.

  “Of course not,” sneered Vladeshenko. “Perhaps if we had five divisions posted here it might. One day of course we will,” he added as an afterthought and savoured the moment before continuing, “The Americans will support a coup d’état which will bring Batista back. Our goals are longer term than that. We anticipate that the Cuban people will rise up in a glorious communist revolution. We will simply guide and support their natural progression to enlightenment.”