Once on the main roads he kept his speed to a sensible level and headed north, taking to the side streets as soon as he had his bearings, then out onto the road leading to the crossroads. Sierra Maestra or Guantanamo? He was tempted by the latter option, but he needed to find Peregrine. He turned up towards the mountains and gave the vehicle its head.
The response of the car was disappointing. It may have had a large engine, but the sheer weight militated against high speeds. He eased it back to a fast cruise.
After two miles a speck appeared from time to time in his rear-view mirror. Each time he spotted it, it had grown bigger. It was certainly a vehicle, but other details weren’t clear. The car grew in size, but Kelly kept his head. When it was clear—from the fair headed driver and the fat shape of Diez in the front passenger seat—that it was the Russians, Kelly gunned his Chrysler.
Despite urging every single horsepower out of his underpowered Chrysler, and taking great risks on the corners, it was soon clear that he was not going to outrun his pursuers. Kelly had the edge on corners as the heavier pursuing Cadillac slewed and screamed around the curves, but on the straight, the caddy just ate up the gap between them. Kelly drove into a series of bends, scraping the paint away as he brushed against the cliff sides then out into a clearing with a gradual slope up the mountain. He screeched to a halt, grabbed the machine gun, and sprang out, sprinting up the slope and taking cover behind large rocks on the scree slope.
Within seconds the Cadillac came out of the bend and slammed on the brakes, crashing into Kelly’s car and slithering to a halt. The pursuers leapt out of the car as Kelly opened up with his borrowed sub machine gun. He was gratified to see one of the Spetsnaz crumple to the ground clutching his leg, but Vladeshenko, Diez and the two remaining Spetsnaz went to ground, uninjured as far as Kelly could tell. These were bad odds. He couldn’t even discount Diez. He might be a slob, but he was one of G’s men and would know how to use a gun.
Kelly’s only chance was to get up into the hills and become a ghost. He sprayed the area and ran to the next higher cover, but the answering fire was close and resulted in movement by the Russians. He was not opening a gap at all.
The third time he moved the returning fire seemed much closer and from a point to the side. He was now in a position with his back against a rock face with someone to one side of him. He held his nerve and took careful aim at a point near where he had seen movement. There it was again! Kelly took the pressure on the trigger … then as the Russian emerged, he squeezed. The burst sent the young Spetsnaz tumbling down the slope crying out in pain.
Another burst from the side sent Kelly down behind his cover.
Quickly he popped up again and squeezed the trigger. There was a dull clunk. He was out of ammo with no spare magazines. He was about to reach into his waist band for the berretta when he was startled by a voice to his side:
“Don’t think about it, Mr Kelly!” Kelly swung around to see Diez with a sub machine gun levelled at him. The double agent had a hideous grin on his face as he raised the weapon into his shoulder and took careful aim.
Diez suddenly flung his arms high into the air and jerked his head back as he uttered a high-pitched squeal. As the head dropped again Kelly could see the glazed look in his eyes and a dull red stain spreading across his tee shirt.
“This way!” Kelly looked in the direction of the female voice and froze. For a moment he could have sworn it was Sybilla. Was his mind playing tricks? “Quickly!” the voice said, gesturing him to follow her.
It was Sybilla!
Kelly hesitated for a moment more before scampering across to her position. The expected burst of fire didn’t materialize.
“Come on!” she said.” I’ve arranged a meeting.”
“What about the opposition?” asked Kelly, gesturing down the hill. The situation seemed to be spiralling out of control. Was he losing his mind?
“Taken care of. With the exception of the older one. He managed to get the caddy going and was last seen heading back to town trailing lumps of the car behind him.” She smiled as she described it. Then on impulse she leaned forward and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Hello, Dan. It’s so good to see you again,” she said affectionately.
Kelly’s whole demeanour and look reflected the total confusion he felt. She must have sensed it as she slipped her arm through his and guided him further up the hill. Kelly looked at her again. She was in olive drab fatigues, the tight tee shirt accentuating her statuesque body. Her hair dishevelled and waving freely in the breeze. Although she looked older and, Kelly thought, tired, there was still the sparkle in those beautiful blue eyes. Her every aspect reminded Kelly of why he was so attracted to her.
As Kelly followed her up the hill, he was conscious of a number of other people, also in combat fatigues, converging on the same place. Predominantly they were men but there were a number of young women among them, many of them carrying a weapon of some kind. Most of the group seemed to be armed with old Second World War American carbines, though a few had sub machine guns.
The group came together on a small rock shelf, sheltered by an overhang. Each was met in turn by a tall, handsome man with a hook nose and just the beginning of a beard. He shook each of the men’s hands in turn and embraced the women, including Sybilla as she approached him. The two spoke furtively for a while, each glancing at Kelly. Finally, they approached him, the man with his hand extended.
“Thank you for your help,” said Kelly, referring to the recent conflict.
“You are welcome, Mr Kelly. What has occurred was a—” he hesitated, “meeting? One that had to take place. Those people were interfering with my,” he corrected himself, “our movement. If they had had their way, this would have become a Russian revolution in Cuba - and it would have failed. The people would not have accepted that.”
“The revolution, when it comes,” he continued, “must be driven by the people, otherwise it will become just another junta that will fizzle out.”
“Then a revolution is inevitable?” asked Kelly.
The Cuban smiled and nodded. “Oh yes, Mr Kelly, it is certain. A number of us will stand in the next election, but the election will be rigged, and Batista will return to power.” He raised his eyebrows and grimaced, “Then it will be time for action.”
There was a pause and the Cuban smiled again. “Now we must help you two out of Cuba. Your positions here have become untenable. Your presence in my group could be construed as an alliance with Britain and that cannot be allowed to happen. The people must be clear that we are Cubans, for Cuba and non-aligned.” He gestured down the hill. “I understand, Mr Kelly, that you have registered a preference for Guantanamo.”
Kelly smiled as he remembered the car chase and his brief argument with Negrin. He nodded. “Yes, that would seem the most likely escape route. The Americans seem fairly autonomous in that area.”
“For the moment at least.” The Cuban frowned. “That will have to change, but I agree that would seem to be the best option. Unfortunately, travel into Guantanamo by road is out of the question. You will need to go in at night by the river. One of my lieutenants, Prieto, will take care of things.”
The Cuban gestured to one of the men nearby, and then turned back to the couple. “All that remains is to wish you luck!” He again embraced Sybilla and shook hands with Kelly.
“I didn’t get your name,” said Kelly.
“Good!” said the Cuban and strolled back to one of the groups.
Alvaro Prieto, the lieutenant, joined them. “Come!” he said. “Much to do and little time.” He set off diagonally across the mountain, climbing gradually.
As they walked, Kelly tried to question Sybilla. So many questions.
Was she Skadi? Yes.
Where was Jenny Drinkwater? Gone through diplomatic channels.
Why could they not go that way? Both wanted by the authorities.
When Kelly questioned her on how she came to be here, Sybilla smiled and linked his arm
again. “I will tell you the whole story when I can, Dan. Now is not the place or the time. Please trust me.”
It occurred to Kelly that she had said that to him once before and that trust had been betrayed, but he held his peace. His mind was in turmoil. He couldn’t deny that his very soul felt lifted at her nearness, but the feeling shocked him. He should be experiencing loathing and disgust.
Kelly was fine for the best part of a mile, but then the weight of the past few days descended on him. The injuries inflicted by Botvinik’s baseball bat, the sleep deprivation, the fire fight, they all began to take their toll. Eventually he stumbled and fell to the ground.
“Sorry senor, we must go on,” said Prieto and reached down to help Kelly to his feet. As he did so he pulled up Kelly’s shirt, revealing the extent of the wheals inflicted by the crazed Botvinik. Sybilla gasped, clamping a hand to her mouth. Recovering quickly, she raised his shirt completely as Prieto held him up. What she saw sickened her.
“We need to rest. It is essential!” Her tone was authoritative.
“I understand,” said the Cuban, also shocked by what he saw. “Is about two miles to the village. I will help the senor.”
The Cuban was not a big man, but his muscles were honed by regular exercise and, with him on one side holding the bulk of Kelly’s weight, and Sybilla on the other side giving some assistance, they struggled across the mountain terrain to a small village high in the Sierra Maestra. The village, as the Cuban explained on the journey, was his home village and like himself, the villagers were all Afro-Caribbean, people who had suffered under successive regimes and hence were as one with ‘the movement’.
In the village, the Cuban took Kelly to his mother’s tiny cottage and laid him on the bed in one of the small rooms, shooing two of his brothers out of the way as he did so.
The mother hovered over them all, ringing her hands and shouting orders. Sybilla gave a series of instructions in Spanish, and people went flying off in various directions to carry out her orders.
Kelly was sound asleep in no time, oblivious to what was happening. He awoke feeling groggy and worn, every part of his body ached. He was alone in the room, lit only by a few candles, with the exception of Sybilla. She was dozing on the chair at the side of the bed. He started to pull the blanket from his body until he realised he was naked and thought better of it, especially as his female companion had woken with a start.
“How are you feeling?” she asked felicitously, a look of genuine concern on her face.
“I’ve felt better,” he said, understating the situation significantly. “Who undressed me?” Sybilla looked shocked.
“Why Mother of course!” she said, but the coy look suggested otherwise.
“And what’s this?” he asked, scraping a gooey substance from one of the wheals on his arm.
“That, Mr Kelly,” she said, sounding officious, “is the local equivalent of witch hazel, only much better, especially as it’s brewed by real witches.” She smiled. “If I’ve used the correct salve it will heal your wounds in a remarkably short time.”
“And if you’ve used the wrong salve?” asked Kelly intrigued.
“Then you will turn into a little green frog in about one hour,” she answered sternly, before adding, “which, by the way would be something of an improvement.”
“Thanks very much!” said Kelly. The banter cheered him up. His head felt clearer. “What happens now?”
“It’s nearly six o’clock and the dawn is just breaking. You have slept since four o’ clock yesterday afternoon. The question remains as to whether you are strong enough to travel.” She looked serious. “The issue is that we need to be out of this village as soon as possible. Socarras’s people will send a search team to this area sometime today. We can’t put the people here in jeopardy.”
“I can make it,” confirmed Kelly. “What then?”
“Then we will travel in deluxe transport to a village to the north of Guantanamo which will be our final drop off point. From there we will have the delight of a six-mile march through the forest to the river to pick up our cruise liner.”
“Why do I get the feeling it won’t be exactly as you describe it?” said Kelly with mock cynicism. Sybilla laughed.
“Right!” said Kelly decisively. “If you provide me with some clothes and then vamoose, I will meet you outside, up and ready to go.”
Sybilla picked up a set of green fatigues from a chair and dropped them on the bed, then turned to leave the room. “I love a man with modesty,” she said. “Oh! And the boots are under the bed, but watch for cockroaches!”
The deluxe transport turned out to be a flat cart pulled by two weary-looking, underfed horses. A wide, but shallow, false bottom had been engineered on the cart which was then covered by sugar canes. The cart was already loaded when they reached it, apart from a small ‘entrance’ through the canes.
“After you,” said Kelly, theatrically waving his hand.
Sybilla looked at him askance, “No chance! You first to check for tarantulas!”
“What makes you think I’m any less afraid of tarantulas then you are?” he asked.
“Irrelevant!” she answered. “It’s a chivalry thing. You first!”
Kelly climbed in and once Sybilla joined him, the remainder of the canes were stacked onboard by Prieto. He informed them that he was also their driver. Kelly assumed this was probably his role in ‘real life’ when he wasn’t working with the movement.
The journey was long and incredibly uncomfortable. Of necessity they spoke little in case of being overheard. Air holes had been drilled in the floor at various places, but it was still unbearably hot. Under other circumstances, mused Kelly, being in close confinement with this attractive woman and taking a gentle horse ride across the south of Cuba would be considered romantic, but the reality was that it was damned unpleasant.
They were stopped once. They heard the sounds of questions being asked, papers being rustled and a few of the canes being rattled in what must have been a cursory inspection, then they were on the move again. They stopped twice more and were freed from their cell for a brief period, during which they took refreshments and stretched themselves. At the first of their breaks, without a word and without warning, Sybilla walked over to Kelly and lifted his green tee shirt, then pulled it over his head. She examined his wounds and applied more of her witch’s brew.
“You’ll live,” she said.
“If I have to go back in that hole, I’m not sure I want to!” he observed laconically.
“But you’ve got me for company.” She coquettishly linked her arm through his.
“Good point!” he said, with just a trace of condescension. He was rewarded for this with a dig in his already painful ribs.
It was late afternoon when they reached the village. Prieto explained that this was regarded as a safe area by the movement so there was no need for subterfuge, within reason. They were able to stroll in the area, and take in the grandeur of the region. They were entertained in a small tavern by guitars and dancers as they drank Cuban light rum cocktails and ate a highly seasoned and delicious chicken and rice dish which Sybilla identified as arroz con pollo. Later they strolled by the river. Sybilla slipped her arm into Kelly’s as if was the most natural thing in the world. By and by they came to a small inlet, complete with its own sandy beach.
“Let’s rest awhile,” she suggested. Kelly readily agreed and they sat on the sand watching the dying sun play on the rippling water while listening to the sounds of the forest.
“Is now the time and place?” asked Kelly.
“Yes,” said Sybilla quietly. Her voice sounded resigned, her smile wan and her face drained.
She looked tired, very tired.
Escape from Grense
“The problems started a few months after you left,” said Sybilla. “I told Jürgen that I wouldn’t sleep with him anymore. He was hurt, but he accepted it. He assumed that it was a problem between Gunnar and me, and I allowed him to
think that. He told me that he loved me and told me it wasn’t just the sex, but I was firm.
“I had fallen in love with you. I had no idea how or if we would ever meet again, but I had your word that you would find me, and I trusted you. I had no idea it would be in Besques and under those circumstances.
“For a while I was floating. All I ever thought about was you. I was so naive in those days. I think I was still basically a child. One day I was called to see Inga. This time she really was sick. I stayed a few days then on the third night, there was a heavy knock on the door.
“Before I could answer, Jürgen burst in, he was frantic. Eric had given up the underground group. Hans, Thomas, and Gunnar had been killed. Inga, her husband and I were implicated, and he also would be arrested. No one would believe that he had been sleeping with me without knowing I was part of the underground. He implored me to get away with him. My first reaction was to return to Grense, but I was hopelessly torn between leaving Inga to her fate and going back to check for myself what was happening.
“The decision was effectively taken out of my hands by the arrival of Otto Amundsen an hour later. Ostensibly he was there to visit Inga, but in reality, to warn Inga and me. He was not surprised to find Jürgen there and had expected as much. He confirmed the news Jürgen had brought, Hans and Gunnar were dead. If I went back to Grense, I would be signing my own death warrant. I had to get away.
“It was my turn to be frantic. I was grief stricken over Hans and Gunnar, worried sick for Inga and frightened for myself and I had no idea what I was going to do. It was good, reliable Otto who provided us with the solution.
“Jürgen was to hit him with his pistol, hard enough for it to be convincing, then take his keys and drive us to a safe house in Munkelva. From there we would be transferred to Bergen as and when resources were available. Otto scribbled some notes onto a sheet from his notebook and passed it to me, saying, ‘This will guarantee your safe passage and also the safety of Hauptman Meyer as far as Bergen.’
Cast No Shadow: A Thrilling WW2 Adventure (Dragan Kelly Book 1) Page 26
