THE DEATH FREAK -- An Eddie Mancuso Thriller (Eddie Mancuso And Vasily Borgneff Book 1)

by Clifford Irving

  "Anything?" he asked the sergeant.

  "Nothing new. The same story over and over."

  "Good enough. I thought as much. Get him out of here."

  "Disposition?" the sergeant asked.

  "Terminate," said Durin. He looked at the clock on the wall.

  It was Saturday morning, almost time for breakfast. He sat down at his desk to make his plans for Saturday afternoon.

  The private retreat of Igor Durin was a house off the corner of Arbat Street in a quarter that Muscovites like to compare to the Saint-Germain of Paris, a district of twisting streets, well-worn buildings, markets, and cafes. It was a narrow, single-storied building, a relic of the days of Tsarist Russia when the area was favored by the court nobility. The exterior of the house was dull and drab, the facade needed paint, and only the brass fittings around the doorway supplied a touch of liveliness.

  The interior of the house, by contrast, was modern in every way, with thick carpets and baseboard heating, indirect lighting and smoothly sliding doors. The living room looked as if it had been furnished from the pages of Western magazines, as indeed it had been. Chrome and glass glittered, a solid mahogany bar occupied most of one wall, and deep, inviting lounges formed sharp angles in the room. The draperies were folds of velvet, the paneling was oak, and behind a curious arch of steel in one corner the music system gleamed, a composite of the finest components.

  Durin stood at the bar pouring Hine cognac into fine crystal. He was proud of his private nest, and he expected others to admire it.

  If Eddie Mancuso was impressed, he did not show it. The room was extraordinary for Moscow, but in New York it would have been considered somewhat garish, and in California rather tame.

  "None for me." Eddie waved aside the cognac. "Let's get down to business."

  Durin sipped from his snifter and sighed appreciatively. "The American businessman. Rush, rush, rush. No time for the nice­ties of life."

  Damn, but he sounds just like Vasily, Eddie thought, and made a mental note to apologize to his partner.

  He opened the attache case and stacked the records on a block of quartz that passed for a coffee table. Durin picked one up and looked at the jacket curiously. It read VIENNA WALTZES, but the record inside was Duke Ellington.

  "For the Customs, no doubt. Any trouble with them?" Durin asked, and then answered his own question. "No, of course not. You came in with an agricultural delegation, didn't you?"

  "You've been peeking."

  Durin smiled. "I have access to certain . . . facilities."

  "Actually, your Customs people went easy with us. They didn't seem to care what we brought in."

  "Those are their instructions." Durin leafed through the rec­ords, nodding approval at each discovery. "These trade delega­tions bring in good business, and I can assure you that when it is necessary, communists can be businessmen, too."

  "You're not doing so bad yourself. You should make a bundle selling tapes of these discs."

  Durin's grin grew broader. "I see you are wise to the ways of our world."

  "As you said, it's business. Let's get going. You have the cash?"

  "I have the cash." Durin was no longer smiling. "But you are moving too quickly. Surely you do not expect me to buy a . . . what do you call it? . . . svinya, yes, a pig in a poke. Tell me, I have often wondered, what exactly is a poke?"

  "Beats me."

  "A pity. I thought you might know, being a farmer. At any rate, no pigs in the pokes for me. First we must test the merchan­dise."

  "Look, I don't have much time."

  "Not enough to play one record?"

  "I guess I can spare that much," said Eddie, carefully casual. Equally carefully, he took a record from the top of the stack and held it out. "Here, try this Jelly Roll Morton."

  Durin did not move to accept the disc. "An excellent choice. Put it on, won't you?"

  "You'd better do it. I might wreck your machine."

  "The set is simple to operate. The volume is on and the levels are set. Go ahead."

  "I'd rather you—"

  "I insist."

  Eddie shrugged, and walked across the room. In order to get to the stereo rig, he had to pass through the steel arch. He heard a buzz, and then a hum. He looked back at Durin. The Russian was smiling again.

  "Where did you get it?" Eddie asked. "From the airport?"

  "No, this metal detector is a bit more sophisticated than the airport model. If you were carrying any sort of weapon, the alarm would have rung." He added apologetically, "As you can see, I have a weakness for gadgets."

  Eddie said sourly, "In my country, the farmers stopped carry­ing guns as soon as the Indians got good." He put the record on the turntable and moved the pickup arm over. The music of "Dead Man Blues" filled the room with classic New Orleans ensemble playing reproduced with startling clarity. Durin's rig was a first-class, professional piece of equipment with all the devices.

  After a few minutes, Durin held up his hand and said, "Fine, that's enough. Let's try another one."

  "Sure." Eddie went to the stack and took another record from the top. "Thelonious Monk?"

  "Is that the quartet with Coltrane? Yes indeed—and would you mind being disc jockey again?"

  Not good, Eddie thought. That smile is as phony as a politi­cian's handshake. Either he's supercareful with everybody or, somehow, he's made me. Definitely not good.

  Again he put the record on, again the music swelled in the room, and again, after a few minutes, Durin asked for a change. He played three more records that way, each for only several bars. He took all of the discs from the top of the stack. Finally, after the fifth record, he said, "Look, I've got to get going now. You've heard enough."

  "Indeed I have. No pigs, no pokes. At least, not from the top of the pile." Durin tipped the stack over and pulled out the Mod­ern Jazz Quartet from the bottom. "Let's try just one more. This one."

  Eddie shook his head. "No time. Where's the money?"

  "Right here." Durin tapped a drawer in the bar. "What's the matter? Don't you like the MJQ?"

  "They're terrific, but I'm still going. Let's have it."

  "Not quite yet." Durin's hand went into the drawer and came out with a Luger. "Again I must insist. I want to hear that record, Mr. Mancuso."

  Blown, thought Eddie. And if I put that music on, all we'll hear is the choir of angels. Okay, here we go—a brand-new ball game.

  "Morrison is the name," he said.

  "The name is Mancuso. Put the record on."

  Durin held out the disc. Eddie kept his hands by his sides. Durin nodded, unsurprised, and said, "I thought as much. How many records are doctored?"

  "Four."

  "And what would happen if we played one?"

  Eddie said easily, "Comrade, it would blow us both right through the roof.''

  The respect in Durin's eyes was genuine. "We've heard about you, of course. We knew you were good, even better than Borg­neff, but these records ... a masterpiece."

  Eddie shrugged aside the compliment. "How did you make me?"

  "Luck and instinct. If it wasn't Borgneff, it had to be you. I saw you yesterday. I looked into your eyes. At the funeral."

  And I never saw him, Eddie thought. Vasily, maybe you're right. Sometimes I think I'm in the wrong business.

  Durin reached for the bottle on the bar and poured himself another cognac, but his eyes never moved and the Luger stayed steady. "Mancuso, you're finished. You see that, don't you?"

  "Things look dark for the visiting team."

  "You are being sensible. Good. But I can't imagine what pos­sessed you to come here unarmed."

  "I didn't."

  "What? Oh, the records. Yes, that's your sort of weapon, I suppose."

  "What happens now?"

  "Right now? A little conversation. As for later, well, we both know the answer to that." Durin eased himself into a comfortable position leaning with his back against the bar. "What I want most to know is why you are do
ing this for Borgneff."

  "No comment."

  Durin looked surprised. "I thought you were going to be sen­sible." "I'm not in the mood for conversation."

  "That's absurd. You know we can get whatever we want from you eventually."

  "Maybe so."

  "You know it is so." Durin shook his head, perplexed. "Man­cuso, we are both professionals; we both know how useless this is. I appeal to you as a colleague. Don't cause yourself unneces­sary pain. In our business, a clean death is a bonus on the con­tract. Take it."

  "Maybe I'm not ready to close the contract yet."

  "What did you have in mind? You admit that your position is hopeless."

  "Hopeless, but not impossible. Tell me, Durin, I don't know if Russian kids play the same games as American kids, but when you were a boy did you ever play cowboys and Indians?"

  Durin stared at him wonderingly. "What in the world are you talking about?"

  "Did you?"

  The wonder changed to impatience. "Of course we did. We called it Bolsheviks and Mensheviks."

  "And the Bolsheviks always won, right?"

  "Right."

  "And then you shot all the Mensheviks, right?"

  "Right."

  "Yeah, that's the way we did it too. The cowboys always won. Then we'd shoot the Indians. Used to make a little fist and stick out a finger, pretend it was a gun. Bang, bang. That's what we used to yell. Bang, bang, you're dead."

  "Exactly, exactly." Durin was enjoying himself now. "That's what we did, too."

  "So you see, old colleague, that's why I can't oblige you with a little conversation. Because the good guys always win, and the way I see it I'm one of the good guys."

  Durin laughed—a deep and hearty rumble. "And so what do you do now? You point your finger at me and say, Bang, bang, you're dead?"

  Eddie smiled ruefully, and shook his head. "It sure would be convenient if I could," he said. He raised his left hand slowly, forefinger extended, and pointed it at Durin's face.

  Durin laughed. Eddie laughed with him.

  Then he squeezed the rubber bulb inside the artificial, plastic hand. A jet of hydrochloric acid shot from the tip of the forefinger directly into Durin's eyes, blinding him instantly. The Russian screamed and clawed at his face. The Luger dropped to the floor. Eddie scooped up the pistol and pressed the muzzle to Durin's temple. He pulled the trigger. The report was a flat crack, and Durin fell. Eddie looked down at him.

  "Bang, bang," he said. "You're dead."

  And thought: So am I unless I move fast. He made me at the funeral yesterday, but did he tell anybody else? Maybe yes, maybe no. He should have, but he was a conceited bastard and maybe he wanted all the gravy for himself. If he told, they would have been here today and it wouldn't have been one on one, but I can't take the chance. The hell with the others for now. It's time to get out.

  After that he moved rapidly, taking the four MJQ records and loading them onto the changer. The digital clock in the base of the turntable read 4:15. He set the timer on the record changer at 4:45 and pressed the delay button. He detached the artificial hand and left it next to the turntable, then looked around the room, checking for details. He smiled when his eyes came to the open drawer in the mahogony bar. He reached in and pulled out five banded stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

  "An honest man," he said to himself. "He really had the cash."

  Then he was out of the room, and out of the house, turning the corner onto Arbat Street in the last of the afternoon sunshine. He walked rapidly to Arbatskaya Place, debated taking a taxi, and decided against it. He kept walking, crossed Gagarin Street, and went down into the Kropotkin Metro station. Fifteen minutes later he was back at the Hotel Rossiya, and at four forty-five, when the needle came down on the Modern Jazz Quartet's ver­sion of "Softly, as in a Morning Sunrise," blowing a chunk out of Arbat Street and turning the area into a replica of the South Bronx, Eddie Mancuso was vigorously explaining to both the concierge and the Aeroflot clerk why it was vital that he be on the night flight to Paris. The concierge assured him that such a rapid booking was impossible. The Aeroflot clerk agreed.

  "A good communist can also be a good businessman," Eddie quoted, and pulled out Durin's roll.

  The concierge and the clerk took a look at the roll and went into a huddle. The clerk used the telephone and then they huddled again. Half an hour later the roll had been substantially reduced, but Eddie had a confirmed seat on Aeroflot's flight 4-A to Paris.

  He was fine until just after takeoff, and then his hands began to shake. They shook all the way to Paris. During the flight he tried to draft a cable to Vasily, but his hand could not hold the pen. After he had landed at De Gaulle, taxied into the city, and checked into a hotel, he went to work on a bottle of bourbon. Somewhere below the shoulder of the bottle his hands stopped shaking. He had one more bourbon to be sure, and then wrote out the cable in large block letters, sending it off to the Washing­ton letter drop.

  SCORE YANKEES 2 REDS 0. GAME TEMPORARILY SUSPENDED BECAUSE OF EXTREME TERROR. MINE. MEET ME WHERE THE SHEEP AND THE ANTELOPE PLAY, AND BRING COURAGE. YOURS. (SIGNED) CRYBABY MORRISON.

  He fell off to sleep then, knowing he was drunk, and not caring.

  14

  The old Indian had been standing in front of the door for ten minutes without moving a muscle, and the sight of him made Andy nervous. The former Green Beret who stood portal guard at the Colonial Squad headquarters was not normally a nervous man. A nervous man could not have held his job, which was to scrutinize all visitors through a closed-circuit viewer. For those who belonged, the door was opened; for those who did not, it remained closed. Dozens of times each day a tourist would knock at the door, thinking that the house was part of some exhibit. The knock was never answered, and eventually the tourist would wander away. But not today. Today the old Indian had knocked, and had waited, immobile, for more than ten minutes, and for the first time since he had come on the job, Andy Washington was nervous.

  He was not the only one. The members of the Colonial Squad at Williamsburg below the level of the O Group—the service and supply troops, the technicians, the guards, the low-grade assas­sins—knew that the times were out of joint, but they didn't know why. They knew that something horrible had happened to Kelly in New York, that something obscene had happened to Erikson in Washington, and that something tragic had happened to Rakow in the Williamsburg fire, but that was all they knew. They knew nothing of what Colonel Parker now privately referred to as the Mancuso Offensive; but knowing as little as they did, the troops were aware that all leaves had been cancelled, that communica­tions traffic had doubled, and that security precautions had tre­bled in the past two weeks. Without any other knowledge, this was enough to make them nervous and edgy, and Andy Washing­ton was no exception.

  He looked again at the television screen. The man who stood at the front door was like no tourist he had ever seen. He was old, and he was an Indian. His face was leathered and lined with deep furrows, and his hair, although still black, had been thinned by the years. His body was lean right down to the bones, his jeans and his vest were shabby with hard use, and he wore a single eagle feather stuck into the band of his Stetson. His face was expressionless. He just stood there and waited.

  Andy turned to Billings, his backup man. "Did you ever see anything like that? He's been standing there for close on to twenty minutes."

  Billings, who read books, asked, "Do you think he's a chief, Andy?"

  "He's a fool, that's what he is, standing there like that. Makes me itchy just looking at him."

  "I read somewhere that only chiefs can wear eagle feathers."

  "If he'd only move, or smile, or scratch his ass."

  "Indians can stay still like that for hours. They teach them when they're babies."

  "That's no baby out there."

  "It's like riding a bicycle. Once you learn how, you never forget."

  "Damn old man, looks more like a hundred."

  "Co
mes in handy when they're stealing horses."

  "You think that's what he's here for? You think he's come to steal our horses?"

  Billings looked at his partner in surprise. "Andy, you know we don't have no horses here."

  "Sure, I know it, and you know it, but does that goddamn Indian know it?"

  Billings thought about that one, then shook his head. "That isn't it. He knows we don't have no horses here."

  "How'd he get so smart?"

  "Oh, Indians are clever. All he has to do is look around and see. There ain't no horseshit outside."

  "Goddamn, that's right," said Andy in apparent admiration. "You're smart enough to be an Indian yourself."

  Billings waved aside the compliment. "It's just that I read a lot. I try to keep up on things. Like that feather he's wearing. I think maybe it's turkey, not eagle."

  "Say which?"

  "What the chiefs wear. Turkey feathers."

  "He's a turkey, all right," Andy muttered. "Got me a turkey outside standing there like a statue, got me a turkey in here don't know cotton candy from horseapples. Got me more goddamn turkeys than the Salvation Army come Christmas."

  Billings said thoughtfully, "On the other hand ..."

  "Yeah?"

  "Maybe he figures we hid the horseshit."

  "That does it," said Andy, undone. "That turkey out there, he's going to fly."

  He flung open the door and stared into the furrowed face, the dark, unblinking eyes. The Indian spoke, moving only his lips. "Mighty slow service, son." "Sorry, sir, but this is private property. You'll have to move along."

  "Don't I get to take the dollar tour?"

  "No tours here, mister, nothing like that. Now how's about we get moving, huh?"

  "Looks like you weren't expecting me."

  "Not you, not nobody."

  "Maybe you'd better call Colonel Parker and tell him I'm here."

  "No colonels here, mister. No tours and no colonels."

  "You don't want to con a poor old Injun, son. That ain't right. Next thing you'll be wanting to buy up my oil wells."