Rainy Night To Die

by Caleb Pirtle III

  “Lots of caves. Lots of tunnels. They were once mined for limestone, but that was a long time ago.” Reagan closed his eyes as if to search the distant reaches of his memory. “During the second world war, Ukrainian rebels hid out in the catacombs, sneaking out at night to blow up a German facility or two. Germans knew the rebels were there. They never found them.”

  “Why not?”

  “You don’t dare go in without a guide.” Reagan frowned and shook his head sadly. “You go in alone, and chances are you won’t be coming out. A man can wander those labyrinths for the rest of his life and not find an exit.”

  “How do you know?”

  Reagan took a deep breath. “We had two of our intelligence boys go in one night, and that was fourteen years ago. We’re still waiting for them to come out. Criminals, victims, hoodlums, and thugs – a lot of them found refuge back in the caves. I’ve heard rumors that there are chambers with dried bones stacked to the ceiling.”

  Sand stood and walked to a door leading out on deck. “Do you know where they’re located?” he asked.

  “Just outside of town in a suburb called Nerubayskoye.”

  “Do you know how to find them?”

  “Not at night, and not in the rain, old boy.”

  “It’s important that we find the catacombs.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s where we’ll find Pauline.”

  Reagan reached for his sheepskin coat. “How do you know, old boy?”

  “How I know is not important.” Sand’s muscles ached. His bones were chilled. The fine point of a dagger was again probing the top of his head. “All that matters is I know.”

  “What if you’re wrong?’

  “Then whoever is inside the catacombs will shoot one of us.”

  “Why not both of us?”

  “He won’t have time for more than one shot.”

  “You think Pauline is there alone?”

  “Don’t have any idea?”

  “You figure the Russians grabbed her and took her there?”

  “It’s a possibility.” Sand checked his Walther PPK, made sure a bullet was in the chamber and dropped the pistol into his coat pocket. “If I were you, I’d be more worried that maybe Pauline is armed when we go in. She may be frightened. Her nerves may be frayed and on edge. She doesn’t know us from the Russians.”

  “I met her once.”

  “Think she remembers?”

  Reagan sighed. “I was just a face in the crowd.”

  “Don’t worry,” Sand said.

  “Why not?”

  “They’ll just stack you on the rest of the bones.”

  Reagan’s face was pallid.

  It was as if all blood had left him.

  His gray face had turned pale, then white.

  Rainy Night 17

  ALISTAIR REAGAN FOUND the address of the catacombs on a yellowed map stuck on a metal rack inside the lobby of a small hotel across a dark alley from the docks, the kind vagabonds and beggars frequented when the nights grew cold, and they’d rather spend ten dollars on a well-worn two-bit mattress than freeze on the streets.

  Sand knew they might never need the room.

  He hoped he would never have to see the inside of one.

  But it would be a place to spend the rest of the night, unknown and unseen, provided Pauline had fled the catacombs or drawn her last breath somewhere in the limestone tunnels.

  Sand waited for Reagan to finish his call at the pay phone booth in the corner.

  The conversation had been brief.

  “The ship will be ready as planned,” Reagan said.

  “When?”

  “If nothing goes wrong, we’ll be there at five-thirty.”

  “Something’s already gone wrong.” Sand broke a match stick in half and dropped it on the floor.

  “What?”

  “We don’t have the girl.”

  “But we know where she is.”

  “Wrong again,” Sand said, his patience wearing thin. “We know where we think she is.”

  “She better be there.”

  Sand arched an eyebrow.

  “The ship will wait until six o’clock, old boy,” Reagan said. “Then the ship sails – with us or without us.”

  A vagrant in a ragged gray beard had wrapped himself in a wool rug and lay on a hump-backed, broken-down green and gold checked sofa shoved back in the corner.

  Maybe he was still alive

  Maybe not.

  A fragile spider web hung from a brass chandelier in the middle of the room.

  A pile of old newspapers had been stacked beside the sofa.

  Sand glanced at the date of the edition covering the bum’s eyes.

  It was three weeks old.

  On the shabby side of town, Sand figured, newspaper headlines from three weeks ago were still breaking news.

  He paid for their room in advance and knew the clerk did not care if they came back alive or not.

  He was reading a magazine and didn’t bother to look their way when they walked out into the rain.

  The good Russian GRU officer at the train station that morning had said a street thug would kill them for their coats.

  It would be best if the hooligan did not come alone.

  He was little more than human waste and worthy of being wasted.

  No one would miss him, at least not for long.

  Most would never know he walked their streets.

  “According to the map, the catacombs are near the Museum for Partisan Glory,” Reagan said softly. “Says they once served as an underground church, a prison, and even had anti-radiation bunkers during the days of the Cold War.”

  “How far are we?”

  “Says it’s fifteen minutes by taxi.”

  “Means an hour if we walk.”

  “In this bloody rain?” Reagan’s words were brittle.

  “It’s not a bad night to walk.”

  “A taxi would be warmer,” Reagan said.

  “Forget it.”

  “Why?”

  Sand grinned. “Too damn cold for taxi drivers to be out on a night like this.”

  “How about the Russians?”

  “On nights like these, the Russians are more concerned about the warm little Ukrainian girls in their arms than the jazz singer we are trying to find.”

  Sand stopped at an intersection and watched the shadows on the far side of the street.

  Their backs were pressed against a rock wall.

  Their faces, if the shadows had faces, were not quite visible in the rain.

  A street lamp flickered at the end of the street.

  Sand waited for the shadows to move.

  If they did, he knew the streets would no longer be peaceful and quiet.

  Dying did not make a lot of noise.

  Gunshots did.

  The shadows faded into the darkness.

  Sand silently cursed himself.

  He should have shot them, even if it had been the deed of a crazy man, shooting at things that weren’t there.

  Or were they?

  “Pauline has secrets the Russians would rather keep secret,” Reagan said casually. “I’m sure the thought of her running loose makes them rather nervous.”

  “It probably makes Moscow nervous,” Sand continued, “but the poor Russian soldier lying naked with some lady beneath the warm quilts of a stolen bed doesn’t give a damn about a jazz singer or what she has hidden beneath her underwear or inside her sheet music.”

  “He would if he had seen her or heard her sing.”

  “Right now,” Sand said, “the lovely Pauline Bellerose is the farthest thing from his mind.”

  “Come morning, he’ll have a different attitude.”

  “Come morning, she may not be here.”

  “Come morning, we may all be dead.” Reagan had a rattle in his throat.

  “Come morning,” Sand said, “I’ll be warm either way.”

  THE CATACOMBS OF Odessa opened into a labyrinth of tu
nnels where limestone had once been gouged from beneath the city.

  It was as black as the inside of a tomb.

  It was a tomb, the final resting place for worthless souls, if you could believe the verbiage on the old map from the hotel.

  It was a graveyard for the damned.

  Many went into the tunnels, the map said.

  Every year, at least one didn’t come out.

  Sand saw no reason to doubt it.

  He walked down the stone steps that led from the street to the entrance. It was twelve steps to the edge of purgatory.

  He listened for cries of agony.

  He heard only silence.

  And the wind.

  And the cold rain pounding the ground beside his feet.

  It was not the kind of place anyone would guard at night.

  There was nothing to steal.

  There was only a place to die and die alone and remain alone for all of eternity.

  The odds were slim that anyone would ever find the lost, the misplaced, or the missing.

  Sand opened the metal gate. It groaned in agony as he stepped inside.

  He waited for a sound, any sound.,

  He heard only silence and the wind.

  No footsteps.

  No one breathing.

  “Spooky in here, isn’t it, old boy,” Reagan said, his voice barely audible.

  Sand touched a forefinger to his lips to silence him.

  Something was wrong.

  He knew it.

  He could feel it.

  But what?

  “Check the time,” he whispered.

  Reagan did.

  “Nine forty-one,” he said softly.

  “We will know in two minutes,” Sand said.

  “Know what?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  In an instant, Sand knew.

  In an instant, Sand understood.

  The cold had numbed him.

  It must have numbed his brain.

  Maybe he had been wrong.

  Maybe he had thrown his sensibilities to the rain.

  Why had the metal gate to the catacombs been unlocked?

  He had one answer.

  He had walked without rhyme or reason into a trap.

  He heard the voice again from a distant past.

  A warning.

  The Alpha.

  And the Omega.

  The first.

  And the last.

  The words were gospel.

  If the way in or the way out is too easy, you are already dead.

  He heard the click of a hammer as someone unknown and unseen cocked a pistol.

  He felt the end of the barrel pressed cold against the back of his neck.

  One second to fire.

  One second and it was over.

  “That was a very foolish thing you did, Mister Sand,” a voice said.

  It was soft and husky.

  It belonged to a woman.

  He no longer waited for the shot.

  He knew it wouldn’t come.

  A woman walked around in front of him and switched on her torch.

  She was dressed in dark woolen slacks and a white sweater beneath a heavy leather coat.

  Her hair was brown, probably not as dark as it looked, and the curls hugged her face tightly before they fell to her shoulders.

  She wore a smirk and possessed sad, tired eyes.

  The darkness softened the scars on her face.

  She would have been beautiful if the pistol in her hand had not been quite so large and ugly.

  “I presume you have a name,” Sand said.

  “It is not important,” she said.

  “You must be Pauline’s contact,” Reagan told her. “You must be the one they call Daemon. We know about you as you must know about us. But until now, we have all been names without faces.”

  The woman shrugged matter-of-factly. “You can call me anything you like.”

  “A last name, perhaps?”

  “It would get my husband killed.”

  Reagan nodded.

  “We are looking for Pauline Bellerose,” Sand said.

  “So is everyone else in Odessa.”

  “The Russians want to kill her.”

  “And you?”

  “We just want to take her home,” Sand said.

  “And who might you be?” asked the woman with a gun.

  “If we found you,” Reagan said, “I was supposed to tell you that the Albatross sent us.”

  “Who is the Albatross?” she wanted to know.

  “I fear that I am,” Reagan said.

  “And the big ugly one?”

  “He will make sure you and Pauline get out of Odessa alive.”

  “How?” Daemon’s eyes narrowed.

  “We’ll figure it out as we go along,” Sand said.

  “What makes you think I can trust you?”

  “At the moment,” Sand said, his voice barely above a whisper, “you only have one other option, and a graveyard is seldom an acceptable option.”

  Daemon studied him a moment and frowned

  Sand realized he was being judged by someone who walked a thin edge between living and dying, did not jump to conclusions, and would kill him the moment she decided he might be playing her for a fool.

  Daemon finally stuck the pistol into the pocket of her coat, abruptly turned, and walked deeper into the catacombs.

  She might still kill him, he knew.

  But at least she was giving him an odds-on chance to prove he was or wasn’t trustworthy.

  Rainy Night 18

  IN THE FAR recesses of the tunnels, the walls were solid limestone, and the floor was scattered with broken remnants of ancient bones.

  Only God knew how long they had lain there.

  Maybe he had forgotten by now.

  The newly departed had been placed in wooden caskets, and they, too, were stacked, one on top of the other, a macabre monument to those who had walked the earth, fought for the independence of Ukraine, and whose final journey had taken them to a land of darkness encased in limestone.

  The beam of the torch played across the rough-hewn, hand-crafted coffins like brushstrokes on an impressionist painting.

  “It is my understanding that the Russians want you dead, provided you are who we think you are,” Reagan said to her.

  “There is a price on my head.”

  “Why have they not killed you already?”

  The lady laughed softly. “The Russians are looking for the Daemon. They fear the Daemon. They hate the Daemon. They do not know the Daemon is a woman.”

  “They’re bound to catch on someday.”

  “When that day comes, I will worry about it. Until then, I will do what I am blessed by God to do.”

  “And what might that be?” Sand asked.

  “I am a smuggler.”

  “What do you smuggle?”

  “Human life.” The lady paused. Her face was ashen, the scars more distinct in the reflection of the torch. “The Russians know they do not belong in Ukraine. They know the freedom fighters want them removed, either dead or alive. But where are these freedom fighters? So many are in hiding. So many strike, then vanish into the night. Only I know where they go. I hide them.”

  “Here?”

  “In places you would never suspect.”

  “So that’s why you were chosen.” Sand unbuttoned his coat.

  The catacombs were not as cold as they had been.

  “Chosen for what?”

  “To smuggle Pauline Bellerose out of France.”

  “I do not work for anyone,” the lady said. “Not anymore. In this mad, crazy little war we are fighting, the man who pays you one day will seek to kill you the next. I only help those I know I can trust until I cannot trust them anymore. I only help those who are fighting for a cause dear to my heart. If you want to live to be an old man or woman in my country, you do not offer your allegiance to anyone. I am helping Pauline because she is my fri
end.”

  “I thought it was because we paid you handsomely,” Reagan said.

  “No one will have to pay me to kill you,” Daemon snapped. “There are some things I will do for free.”

  She turned her back to him.

  “Who betrayed her?” Sand asked.

  “She was in love with him.”

  “A Russian who came to hear her sing?”

  “A Frenchman who promised her the moon.”

  “He couldn’t deliver?”

  “He delivered the Russians.”

  “How did the Frenchman learn Pauline was smuggling out Russian secrets?”

  The lady smiled sadly. “A man learns many things in bed.” She shrugged. “He wanted favors from the Russian bastards who walked our streets. He sold out his lover for a price. He bought his freedom. It happens every day.”

  “Does he have a name?” Reagan asked.

  “It is of no consequence.”

  “Why not?”

  “He lies in the catacombs in a wooden box.”

  “You kill him?” Sand asked.

  “He died before his time. That is all.”

  A thick wooden door lay at the end of a narrow passageway.

  The lady knocked four times.

  The door opened.

  Alastair Reagan tipped his hat. “Miss Bellerose, I presume.”

  The jazz singer looked from face to face with darting, frightened eyes.

  She was taller than Sand remembered, her willowy frame hidden beneath a coat that was neither long enough nor thick enough to keep out the damp chill that lingered in the air.

  Her face was oval, her skin ebony, and she had black straight hair that hung down past the belt on her coat.

  She stared hard at Sand, and her chin quivered.

  He could see the slow trace of recognition burn deep in her eyes.

  “It’s you,” she said softly.

  Daemon nodded toward Sand. “You know him?” she asked.

  A slow smile creased Pauline’s face. “It is difficult to forget someone so ugly,” she said.

  “I didn’t think you would remember.” Sand smiled wistfully. “It was only a single night.”

  “It could have been forever.” Pauline’s hand gently touched his. “But I awoke, and you were gone.”

  “A war called me away.”

  “Which one?”

  Sand shrugged. “One war is as good or as bad as the next.”

  Her fingers traced the ragged lines of the scars on his face.

  “What happened?” It was a whisper.