Cold War Trilogy - A Three Book Boxed Set: of Historical Spy Versus Spy Action Adventure Thrillers

by William Brown

  Nothing the MVD did surprised Lindstromm any longer. They might pay well, but they had no loyalty. They would toss a man out like yesterday’s garbage the instant it served their purpose. But what if he was wrong? What if it was not the Russians? Then, who could it be, he wondered? On second thought, Lindstromm did not want to know. What he wanted was out. He had no qualms about the spying or cold-cocking that drunk, Demberg, if that was what they wanted him to do. He could crack a fellow over the head or snoop with the best of them, if the money was good, and he thought he could get away with it. After all, everything had its price — everything, except being their fall guy.

  Those damned Russians, he raged in silence. They had stuck him good this time, but it was time to cut his losses and run as far and as fast as his nervous feet would carry him. If he did, he would be blamed for the murder of that New York cop for sure. Maybe that was what they had in mind all along, to tie him in even deeper, those clever bastards! They knew he couldn’t run, and this was their way of forcing him to stay on board and do their bidding, right up to the end. Still, you could not bury a sneaky little ferret like Lindstromm that easily. He knew he had to run, but where? He wracked his brain considering the alternatives; but by the time he realized how much trouble he was in, the Brunnhilde had slipped her moorings and put to sea. Lindstromm ran up on deck and saw they were two miles out in the shipping channel. He wanted to jump over the side and swim all the way home; but he was too terrified to even do that, no thanks to his good comrades in Moscow.

  Now he was really stuck, so Lindstromm had no choice but to keep his scheduled radio contacts with the Russians. Still, nothing he did satisfied them. They always wanted more, more, and more, no matter how much he gave them or how many risks he took to get it. They wanted to know everything that was going on; how the search was going; and what had been found, day by day, hour by hour. Most importantly, they wanted to be told the moment the U-boat was found. If he dared disobey, no one could run far enough or fast enough to escape the Russians’ wrath. They would hunt him down like a dog.

  After that night, he stayed below decks and sent his messages to the trawler from the head, from the paint locker, or from the fat policeman’s cabin, now that it was empty. He went along like this for days, until they found the U-boat; then he got scared. From the tone of the messages, he knew the Russians were going to do something stupid, so he dug out his old Webley revolver and kept it handy, just in case. The Russians told him over and over again not to carry a gun. They said it was too risky, which meant they did not trust him; but if the police caught him, they would immediately suspect him of something. But what did the Russians know? They were sitting miles away on their spy ship, sipping their vodka, all warm and comfortable. They were not the ones stuck here on this old tub, cold, lonely, and sweating in the dark. That was why the Swede had shoved the Webley into the waistband of his pants. On this cursed boat, the old British .455 caliber cannon was the best friend he had; so let them come, especially that German bully, Balck; the American; or even that tight old bastard Person. He’d show them all.

  Lindstromm knew he had to radio the trawler and tell them the U-boat had been found. If he did not, the Russians would have his hide for sure. The dead policeman’s cabin was empty, so he went there. He was almost finished sending the message when he heard the faint shuffling of feet in the corridor, followed by that first loud crash on the cabin door. Startled, the radio slipped from his sweating fingers and broke into a hundred pieces on the deck. Now, he really was alone; and that was when all hell broke loose. The room was dark and the silhouette of a tall man filled the doorway, backlit by the dim light from the corridor. Whoever he was, he was big. The lighting made him look even bigger, and in that instant, Lindstromm knew the game was up. His hand immediately went for the butt of the revolver jammed in his belt, but the hammer snagged on his pants and he panicked as he struggled to pull it free.

  Little men like big guns, which is why the wiry Swede brought the big, British Webley revolver along. For him, it was the perfect choice: loud and mean, with enough firepower to drop a charging rhino; but he had not figured on the front sight snagging on his waistband. When the doorframe shattered and the heavy door crashed against the bulkhead, he yanked on the pistol with both hands and finally ripped it free. The only way out of that cabin was to blast that fool out of the way, run through the door, and never look back, so he did not try to aim; he pointed the Webley at the doorway and began pulling the trigger. It went off with the kick of a mule. He was already off-balance, and the recoil knocked him backward as he pulled the trigger again, and again. The cabin’s paneling and thick oak deck shuddered and splintered, but Lindstromm couldn’t tell if he had hit anyone.

  The dark figure in the doorway dove into the cabin and rolled across the deck into the shadows to the right. Lindstromm swung the revolver around and tried to track the bastard, but it was not easy. The bright-orange muzzle flashes and the roar of the small cannon had left him half-deaf and seeing stars; but the coup de grace came when the intruder answered with gunshots of his own. The cabin was suddenly lit by a series of small blue-white flashes and the sharp Crack! Crack! Crack! of an automatic. The man in the shadows was shooting back at him, and the Swede’s eyes bulged out of their sockets. He had not bargained on being shot at, and he panicked. The door stood wide open, so he jumped to his feet and ran. He bounced off the far corridor wall and headed for the stairs, only a few long strides away. It was so close, but already a lifetime too late.

  Damn, he swore, as he saw someone standing at the foot of the stairs, blocking his way. It was that cursed woman, that arrogant American bitch! Well, not for long, he thought, as he raised his revolver, intent on blasting this final obstacle out of his way forever. But as Lindstromm began to squeeze the trigger, something hit him in his side and lifted him off his feet, slamming him against the corridor wall as if he were a rag doll. The blow knocked the wind out of him and left him stunned. The revolver fired, but the bullet went well-wide of its mark, harmlessly burying itself into the side wall, as a powerful hand pinned him against the bulkhead by the throat, his feet dangling a few feet above the deck and incapable of any defense or retaliation. It held him there with one hand, while it ripped the revolver from his fingers with the other, as if he were a naughty child caught playing with a toy he was not allowed to have. The Swede tried to focus and see through the fog, but it was hopeless. His head was pounding and he could not think. Then, through the haze, he saw a face only inches away, grinning at him. It made Lindstromm shudder, like a mouse that had just been caught by a big farm cat. It was playing with him now. When it tired of the sport, the cat would kill him; and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

  Then the face spoke. It whispered something in his ear, but Lindstromm was too stunned and terrified to understand the words until his gut exploded with pain from a vicious punch to the solar plexus, hard, up and under the rib cage. Lindstromm had been beaten by experts, but he had never experienced anything like this. A sharp, burning pain rose up inside him, slicing hot and deep, from his bowels up into his chest, ripping and tearing his heart out. That was when the skinny Swede realized the awful truth. He lowered his eyes and saw he had been skewered by the long, thin blade of his own filleting knife. Its handle protruded from his stomach just below the rib cage. The face was grinning at him now, and those cold blue eyes were laughing at him.

  "Balck!" Lindstromm tried to say. His lips formed the name, but the only sound that escaped from his mouth was a squeaky gasp. The German released his grip on the Swede’s throat and his body went limp and slid down the wall. Lindstromm commanded his legs to straighten themselves and support him, so he could stand and continue on to the stairs, but they refused to obey. There was no feeling left in them, no strength. There was no strength in the rest of his body, either. A thick fog began rolling in around him making Lindstromm shiver, and leaving him tired and confused as he collapsed onto the floor.

  Dead.
/>   CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Balck, Kruger, or any of the half-dozen other names he regularly used had been standing inside his own dark cabin, waiting impatiently for Lindstromm to finish sending his message to the Russian trawler. With his own porthole open, he could hear the man tap out his message, but Kruger’s ears were tuned to other sounds as well. He heard soft voices and footsteps up on deck. It was that upstart American interfering with his plans again. Randall and the woman were huddled together near the stern, talking in whispers. Damn them both! They must have heard something, too; because Kruger heard the American suddenly run across the deck and down the stairs, trying too hard not to make noise as he crept along the hallway right past Kruger’s door.

  So be it, the German reluctantly conceded. Comrade Lindstromm had served his purpose. His daily reports were enough to keep the Russians at bay and keep the American’s attention directed out to sea, precisely where Kruger wanted it. Otherwise, the Russians would have lost their patience and attacked the whaler days ago, before the American found the U-boat, and that would have ruined everything. Now that the submarine had been located, the time had come to prod the slumbering Russian bear into action. Lindstromm was their trip wire, and the time had come to put him to use. If Kruger played it right, the Russians would attack the Brunnhilde and kill its crew for him. Meanwhile, Kruger would set the timer on the explosives he had planted in the engine room and slip quietly away. When it went off, the Brunnhilde would be gone and there would be wreckage scattered all along the coast. With their spy trawler sitting just over the horizon, they would catch all the blame. Later, Bormann could send his own salvage teams here and open the U-boat at his leisure

  Kruger had to admit he would have enjoyed killing Lindstromm himself. He never liked the little weasel, but it looked as if the impetuous American would deny him even that small pleasure. When action finally came, it began with two loud crashes and a fusillade of gunshots in the cabin next door. Kruger rolled his eyes in professional embarrassment. What utter incompetence! One bullet is all either man should have needed, so perhaps they’ll kill each other and save him the trouble.

  Kruger opened his door and slipped into the corridor with his fishing knife in his hand. Whoever came out of that cabin was as good as dead, although Kruger would prefer to take his revenge on the American. Randall had escaped his clutches in New York, and Kruger’s cheek still tingled where that piece of brick had cut him. He owed the tall American for that, for the shots he fired at him in that alley, and for stealing his silver cigarette case and bandying it about like a souvenir. That was the last straw. The cigarette case was a gift from Bormann and had been one of Kruger’s prized possessions. He knew he left it on the U-boat that last night in Königsberg. He had no idea how this impudent American ended up with it, but it did prove Randall’s story really was true. He had been there, in Königsberg, and that meant the U-boat sank here, off Sweden, not off Poland. That was the proof Kruger needed that the ‘Admiral’ Bruckner in Bonn was a Russian agent.

  It really didn’t matter to him. Randall? Lindstromm? One of them would kill the other in the cabin, and the winner got Kruger. If it were the Swede who emerged victorious, Kruger would kill him and say he avenged the death of the unfortunate American. Randall was bigger and much stronger, and Kruger expected him to win. If it was Randall who stumbled out, well then a tragic mistake was about to unfold in the dimly lit corridor. With all that noise and confusion, gunshots and bullets flying everywhere, and two men grappling in the dark, who would blame him if he accidentally killed the wrong man?

  To his mild surprise, Lindstromm came out of the cabin, careened off the wall, and ran right into Kruger’s hitting zone. The German was braced and caught the Swede from the side with a monstrous backhand that slammed him against the corridor wall. Then he closed in, held him there by his throat, and pressed up against him with his body. He could smell the fear pouring out of the Swede. As he drank it in, he felt that old, powerful thrill surging through him again, and leaned closer.

  “You have been a naughty boy, have you not, Comrade Lindstromm?” he whispered in the Swede’s ear as he drove the knife in under the Swede’s ribs. The powerful thrust went in up to the hilt with one clean stroke. A powerful rush washed over Kruger as the blade cut deep and an explosion of pain and fear radiated out from the Swede. Kruger looked deep into Lindstromm’s eyes before he released his grip on his throat. Lindstromm hung there for an instant before he slid down the wall and collapsed on the deck at Kruger’s feet.

  It wasn’t simply the act of killing or snuffing out a life that he craved, it was this rush of power he felt when he did it; for him, it was orgasmic. He held Lindstromm’s life in the palm of his hand as if it were a snowflake, and watched it vanish — delicate, fragile, never to return, never to be replicated, never, ever. Yes, that was true power.

  Michael quickly jumped to his feet and stumbled out the cabin door. He was hot on Lindstromm’s tail, but the little weasel was fast and had a big lead. He’d have to run like the wind if he hoped to catch him. As he rounded the corner and took his first long stride down the long, dark corridor, he ran headlong into someone or something standing in the center of the corridor like a giant oak. The American bounced off and fell backwards into the wall. As he regained his balance and looked up, he was astonished to see it was Balck that he had run into. Michael was tall and fairly muscular himself, but the German Mate never moved when their bodies collided. Instead, the man looked like he was in a trance, staring down at Lindstromm’s body lying at his feet.

  The other cabin doors quickly opened and lights came on, illuminating the confused scene from every direction. One by one, the other members of the crew gathered around, everyone’s eyes drawn to the body on the deck, to the handle of the knife sticking out of it, and to the expression of total rapture on Balck’s face. Slowly, the glow on his face faded and he turned his eyes on Mike Randall. Balck seemed surprised when he saw the American standing next to him, perhaps even a bit angry when he recognized who it was. Then that look too was gone, but it had been there. Michael saw it.

  Schiff was the first to react with a low whistle as he bent down over the body. He touched the bloody handle of the knife and saw the look of complete terror frozen on the Swede’s face. The knife had been driven in up to its haft. They all wondered how much strength was required to do something that horrific, and how much pain and fear was required to produce an expression like that on someone’s face. Like Schiff, they could only wonder.

  Finally, it was Balck himself who broke the silence. He bent down, stiff legged, almost mechanical, and picked Lindstromm’s Webley revolver off the floor. He gave it a brief appraisal, then held it out toward Michael. “Here,” he said. “I heard all those gunshots and wondered if there was a war going on in there. When the shooting stopped, I picked up my fishing knife and stepped into the corridor. That was when this fellow Lindstromm pointed his revolver at me; and… well, I could not very well let him shoot me, could I?”

  The others were speechless. They stared open-mouthed at the long-barreled Webley, which the German seemed to take so lightly and at the result lying dead at his feet.

  “He, uh… he had a radio,” Randall tried to explain. “We saw the antenna sticking out of the porthole; Leslie and I did; so I ran down here to stop him. That was when he started shooting at me.”

  “Ah! That explains it then,” Balck calmly shrugged. “The Russian fishing trawler! This fellow Lindstromm must have been working for them all along. And you know, I would bet he is the one who killed your friend Eismer.”

  Person muttered something in Swedish as he looked down at the body. No one understood the words, but the old man’s meaning was clear enough when he switched to English. “Such a thing, for a Swede to join with that Communist filth. And a murderer to boot.” He shook his head sadly and laid his hand on Balck’s shoulder. “You did well, Balck, and we owe you our thanks. If you had not stopped him, there’s no telling how much mor
e mischief he might have caused.”

  The others quickly nodded their agreement, everyone except Michael. His attention lay elsewhere, at the end of the corridor where Leslie stood at the foot of the stairs. She must have been there the entire time Michael was in the cabin, he realized; and she had seen the whole grizzly scene unfold between Balck and Lindstromm. Now, she stood there wide-eyed with an expression of stark terror, but she was not looking at Lindstromm’s body. Her eyes were fixed on Balck. One by one, the others turned and saw her standing there, too. So did Balck. At first he seemed surprised, then puzzled, and then mildly pleased, as if the two of them shared some dark secret the others could only guess at.

  On the Russian trawler, Sergei Varentsov paced frantically back and forth across the floor of the small radio room. He paused again and again to reread the brief, but incomplete radiogram, as if the words would change if he only gave them another chance; but they refused. The unfinished message continued to mock him.

  Varentsov began to sweat. The walls of the small compartment were closing in on him, trapping him in his own stupidity and mistakes. He had completely lost control of the situation. Instead of his being the one who was pulling the strings and making things happen, he was on the receiving end, being pushed and shoved faster and faster by powerful, unseen forces toward the yawning chasm of failure. It lay directly in front of him, gaping and yawning, opening wide between his feet, spreading, and waiting for him to lose his footing and fall in. If he looked down, he could see the fires of hell glowing white hot beneath him. He could feel the flame reach up, singeing his hands and his face; and he could smell the acrid stench that filled the air. He tried to turn his head away from the worst of it, but he smelled burning flesh — his own flesh. The flames licked up his pants legs with a pop and crackle and began to embrace him, and he was powerless to stop them. They would soon devour him, eating the flesh off his bones until nothing was left but a black, twisted skeleton propped up in a snow drift at the side door of the MVD headquarters in Moscow.