by John Oram
He jumped to his feet and with his gun ready made for the mine entrance.
A searchlight beam stabbed the darkness and came sweeping toward him. A machine-gun chattered as he dropped flat. Thrown-up, frozen earth hit him painfully in the face. The unseen gunner was uncomfortably accurate in his snap-shooting.
He heard Viggo’s heavy Mauser go into action. The light went out abruptly.
Illya got up and ran on. The machine-gun was still firing blindly, swinging in a wide arc. He could see from the stabbing orange tongue of flame that it was positioned just to left of the mine’s mouth. He pulled a grenade from his haversack, extracted the pin as he ran, and threw. The machine-gunner lost interest in the proceedings.
There was no more opposition.
When the three men got to the entrance of the mine they found Solo waiting. He said, smiling, “Nice work. True Danish efficiency.”
Illya asked, “What about Garbridge and Sonder?”
“Sonder’s dead. His dancing was too energetic. He fell off the rim of the saucer and broke his neck.”
“And Garbridge?”
“Not a sign of him.”
“Ah, well! You can’t win ’em all. Let’s tell Karen the glad news.”
Illya brought the transmitter from inside his tunic, adjusted the dial and called, “Come in, Angel.”
There was no reply. “Odd,” he said, frowning.
“Maybe your transmitter isn’t working,” Solo said. “Try mine.”
Illya called again, more urgently: “Angel, come in.”
Only the crackle of static answered.
Solo said, “Something’s happened. Let’s go.”
They pounded at top speed back to where they had left the truck.
It was gone.
CHAPTER TEN
DESPITE HER HEAVY sweaters and duffel coat Karen was suffering. Her face was becoming a frozen mask and no amount of stamping and pacing would restore the circulation in her feet. Finally she climbed into the driving seat of the truck, putting her Walther on the seat beside her. It would be just as easy to keep a watch on the road from there as out in the biting wind, she told herself mendaciously.
For greater comfort she wound up the side windows. That was her big mistake. The comparative warmth was too much for her. Insidiously, imperceptibly, she became drowsy. Her eyelids dropped. Even the sound of the explosions at the mine failed to rouse her completely.
Suddenly there came a blast of cold air as the door was yanked open. A flashlight shone into her eyes, blinding her, and a gun barrel jabbed painfully into her ribs.
Garbridge’s voice came viciously: “Move over and don’t try anything. Keep your hands in your lap.”
The flashlight beam swung over the seat, came to rest on the Walther. Garbridge said, “Give that to me—butt first. And don’t attempt heroics.”
There was no choice. She handed the weapon to him.
“Now move!”
He got behind the wheel, switched on and let in the clutch. The car bounced forward.
“Who the devil are you, and what do you think you’re doing?” Karen demanded.
He laughed humorlessly. His foot was hard down on the accelerator and his eyes fixed on the road ahead. He said, “You know perfectly well who I am, and I know exactly what I’m doing. If you sit quietly, like a good girl, you will have a pleasant ride. If you don’t, I won’t hesitate to kill you. Your friends have caused me enough trouble tonight.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“That,” he said, “you will find out in due course. Would you like a cigarette? No, of course, you smoke cigars.”
“You seem to know a lot about my habits.”
“It is my business to know about the opposition.”
Karen said: “I would like a cigarette.”
“You’ll find them in my side pocket nearest to you. Matches, too. But again, my dear, don’t try anything.”
She found the pack. The cigarettes were imported English. She drew the smoke into her lungs gracefully.
He said, “Feeling better? Keep the pack; I have plenty.”
Karen laughed. “You seem to be taking things pretty calmly, considering that your factory has gone sky-high.”
“A temporary setback only. I hope that you will restore the balance.”
“How?” she asked, surprised. He did not answer.
They were on Highway 10 now, and traveling rapidly toward Horsens. Karen decided that as soon as they got on to Sonderbrogade or one of the other main streets she would scream and risk the consequences. Garbridge would hardly be likely to shoot her quite so publicly.
Her hopes were disappointed. On the outskirts of the town Garbridge swung the truck down a side road toward the fjord and turned into the drive leading to a large white house. As they went through the gate, Karen saw an illuminated board reading: SOLLYS MATERNITY HOME.
She said, “No wonder we drew a blank here. Not even your best friend—if you have any—would connect you with tiny babies.’,
He dropped the truck in front of the house, and said to the uniformed man who came running down the steps, “Take this thing and lose it. Run it into the fjord.”
He leaned over and opened the door on Karen’s side. “Get out. And don’t forget I’m right behind you with the gun.”
She obeyed. Garbridge gestured with the Luger. “Up the steps, please. Quickly.”
He followed her and opened the door. She found herself in a bright, white-enameled hall with a floor of highly polished parquet. Bowls of flowers stood on tables of well-oiled teak. A tall Christmas tree twinkled beside the desk marked RECEPTIONIST.
She said, “Cozy.”
“We try to make it so,” Garbridge said. “This is a maternity home, you know. Though, of course, our doctors and ‘patients’ are all Thrush nominees.”
He waved the Luger again. “Along the hall, please, and into the first room on the right.”
The room was furnished as a study. It had wall-to-wall carpeting in a warm rust shade and spun-glass curtains in rich bronze. The center piece was an antique desk as big as a family dining table, which went with a chair that looked like a throne. On the table there were a heavy silver inkstand, a silver paperknife, and a couple of old glass paperweights that were worth several thousand kroner. Chest-high bookcases around the walls bore figurines and vases of the best Royal Copenhagen period.
Garbridge sat at the desk and put the gun in front of him. He pointed to another chair and said, “Sit down, please. Are you hungry?”
“A little,” Karen admitted.
He picked up a telephone and said, “Ask Sister Ingrid to bring some refreshments. For two, please.” After a short interval a woman came in, carrying a tray of smorrebrod and a bottle of red wine. She was wearing a nurse’s uniform, but she looked as if she had stepped right out of a Pollyanna book. She was small and round and pink-cheeked as a Kewpie doll. She had snow-white hair, pulled sedately into a bun beneath her old-fashioned cap, and her blue eyes twinkled merrily behind steel-bowed spectacles.
She put the tray on the desk in front of Garbridge and poured two glasses of wine. She gave Karen a plate and a knife and fork and put one of the glasses before her. Then she stepped back, bobbed a curtsy, and stood waiting for further orders.
Garbridge said, “Thank you, Sister. That will be all…for the moment.”
She smiled understandingly. The point of her little red tongue popped out and circled her lips. Then she curtsied again and went out of the room.
Garbridge pushed the tray toward Karen. It held open sandwiches of smoked eel, hard-boiled egg crowned with caviar, bacon and asparagus tips, beef with beetroot.
He said, “Please help yourself. I am not hungry. I’ll drink a glass of wine to keep you company.”
She looked at him, puzzled.
“You are an extraordinary man,” she said. “This is hardly the kind of treatment I expected.”
He shrugged. “We are both in the same line of busin
ess. Both professionals. The fortunes of war have put you into my hands. There is no reason why we should not be civilized about it. After all”—he smiled bitterly—“I was once a gentleman.”
He rose and walked to the door. “I shall leave you in peace to finish your meal. I must attend to a little urgent business.”
As soon as he had closed the door behind him Karen went over to the windows and examined them. They were double-glazed and there were stout steel bars between the panes.
She crossed to the door. As she had expected, it was locked. There was no hope there. She went back to the table and ate a smoked eel sandwich philosophically.
The phone bell shrilled in the Jacobsen farmhouse, cutting in on the discussion of four very worried men. Viggo went to the instrument and took up the receiver.
He gave his name, listened, then exclaimed, “What? Repeat that, please.”
He turned and looked to where Solo was sitting. He said, “It’s Garbridge. He wants to talk to you.”
Illya said incredulously, “You’re joking, of course.”
Solo took the receiver from Viggo’s hand. He snapped, “Who is this?”
There was no mistaking Garbridge’s voice. It came loud and clear over the wire. It said, “Solo, listen and don’t ask questions. If you interrupt I shall hang up. This is not a discussion. It is an ultimatum.
“Your delightful if impetuous Karen is my guest. I give you my word that she is unharmed and is being well treated.
“You have until seven o’clock tomorrow morning to withdraw your men and clear out of the district without further damage to the mine or its contents.
“If you agree, she will be released. If you do not, I give you my word that she will be dead within the day… and the manner of her death will not be pleasant. I have an expert in such matters.”
The line went dead.
Garbridge replaced his receiver with a satisfied smile and returned to the study. He looked at Karen’s empty plate and the depleted tray of sandwiches. “I am glad you ate well,” he said. “I am afraid you may yet need all your strength.”
He poured another glass of wine for her and resumed his place in the throne-like chair. For a second or two he sat silent, looking at her steadily with those feline amber eyes.
At last he said, “I have been talking to your friend Solo.”
“I don’t believe it. How could you know where he is?”
He made an impatient gesture. “Do you think U.N.C.L.E. has the only efficient intelligence service? It was not hard to figure out that he would have made the Jacobsens his base of operations.
“But that is beside the point. What concerns you is that I have made him a simple, and, I think, generous offer—your life against my machine. Unfortunately, he is a stubborn man. I have a feeling that he may not accept. In that case I trust I can rely upon you to make one final effort to persuade him.” He smiled. “I can assure you that I have no wish to kill you, my dear. I hate the senseless destruction of beauty. But sometimes, alas, there is no other course.”
Karen lit one of the cigarettes he had given her. She was glad to see that the hand holding the match was quite steady. She asked slowly, “What good would my death do you?”
“Frankly, none—except the ignoble satisfaction of revenge.”
“I am expendable,” she pointed out. “A tarveligt, run-of-the-mill agent. Can you really believe that whether you kill me or send me back Solo would cease to hunt you down?”
He shook his head. “I do not expect that, nor have I asked it. I am concerned at this moment only with getting my machine safely away. Like yourself—I am expendable.” He raised his glass and bowed to her mockingly.
She stubbed out her cigarette in a silver ashtray.
“Well, either way, there can be no argument,” she said decisively. “I haven’t the slightest intention of asking Solo to change his plans.”
Garbridge sighed. “That is a pity. But I think you may change your mind.”
He picked up the intercom. “Send Sister Ingrid please.”
“Ah! Sister,” he said, when the little plump woman appeared, “I think it is time we showed our young guest some of our facilities. We might begin with the labor ward, perhaps.”
“Ja, ja vist.” She beamed at Karen, her blue eyes dancing, and held the door wide. “Vaer saa god…”
She bustled ahead down the hall, her tiny feet in their low-heeled shoes clacking over the parquet, and pressed the button for the elevator. They descended two floors into the lower basement, a place of stark, unpainted concrete walls and floors and utter, eerie silence. Happily, the little sister unlocked and flung open a door and pushed Karen through.
“Se!” she announced. “Fodselsstuen!”
Involuntarily Karen gasped. For the first time she felt thoroughly frightened and terribly alone. She prayed that her terror did not show in her face.
Ceiling, floor and walls of the high chamber were entirely covered by panels of soundproofing material. In the center of the floor, directly under powerful operating lamps massed in batteries, was an iron couch from which dangled thick leather straps to secure chest, waist, legs and arms. There were racks of whips and canes, complicated arrangements of ropes, hooks and pulleys, and strange electrical devices whose sinister purpose the girl dreaded to imagine.
She felt horribly sick and her body was shaking with a trembling she could not control.
“This is Sister Ingrid’s domain,” Garbridge said. “Fodselstuen, ‘the labor ward,’ is her own affectionate name for it. Perhaps I should have explained to you earlier that she was once in charge of the special interrogation unit of one of the more unpleasant concentration camps. She took a genuine delight in her work, and it was with great difficulty that Thrush kept her out of Allied hands. She is, of course, quite hopelessly insane.”
Karen’s legs were giving way. She felt his arm go around her, heard him say quite gently, “You have seen enough.” Then she fainted.
When she opened her eyes she was in a room she had never seen. She was lying on a white-enameled iron cot and brandy was trickling down her chin as Garbridge tried to force it between her teeth.
She pushed the glass away and attempted to sit up, but the effort was too much for her. Her head fell back onto the pillow and her eyes closed again. She felt as if she had just come through the crisis of a severe illness. Garbridge let her rest for a few minutes; then he spoke urgently, harshly. “Karen, be sensible. You have seen the room. You can imagine what the she-devil would do to you. For the last time—speak to Solo.”
She turned her head and looked straight into his yellow, white-lashed eyes. Somehow she even managed a smile. She said very slowly and distinctly, “Go to hell.”
His expression hardened.
“Very well. You have had your chance. Now, you had better pray.”
He walked out of the room. The key turned in the lock.
Karen lay staring at the ceiling. She did not feel heroic. She was drained of emotion. She tried to put out of her mind the horror that she knew she must face in a few short hours. She had no illusion that death would come quickly. The ghastly creature with the twinkling, merry blue eyes would not be robbed of one moment of her fun.
Wearily, she turned on her side. Something hard stabbed against her ribs. She tried to ease her position.
The pain persisted.
Then she remembered…and thanked the guardian angel who had made Garbridge, in his overconfidence, forget to search her. Her hand went under her sweater and came out clutching the little black transmitter.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE OLD-FASHIONED clock was striking three when Illya and Sorensen walked into the farmhouse living room and took off their heavy jackets.
The two men sitting at the table looked up moodily. Illya said, “The bombs are disarmed. We placed a couple of charges and blew in enough of the mine entrance to keep out intruders. Any news of Karen?”
Solo spread his hands hopelessly. “We’ve
moved heaven and earth to trace Garbridge’s call. No dice. The truck—or what might have been the truck—was seen once, heading toward Silkeborg. And the man who saw it, a farm-hand, was more than half-drunk. He can’t tell us a thing. Every policeman and every agent between Aalborg, Esbjerg and Sonderborg is on the job. We’ve alerted the airports and the harbormasters and coast guard. And nobody’s come up with a whisper. I don’t have to tell you that Jorgensen’s fit to be tied.”
“There must be something we can still do,” Viggo muttered. “Something we have overlooked.”
Illya looked at his watch. “Five after three. Only four hours left. You think he’s told her?”
“That’s a bet you can play on the nose. He wouldn’t—” High-pitched bleeping stopped him suddenly. He snatched the two-way transmitter from his pocket and tuned in.
A voice came faintly through the amplifier: “Come in, Solo. Come in, Solo.”
“Karen!” They yelled it simultaneously. Viggo slapped Knud so hard across the shoulder that the little man almost fell.
Solo turned the tuner to full volume. “Are you all right? Where are you?”
They heard her say, “I’m fine—for the moment. I’m in a phony maternity home, the SOLLYS, just inside Horsens. It’s on the right, off the main road. I don’t know the street.”
“Garbridge?”
“He’s here.” Her voice faltered. “He’s got plans for my future.”
“I know. How many more in the place?”
“I’ve only seen two—a kind of butler and a female homicidal maniac. But there must be others. Send the Seventh Cavalry. The Indians are hostile.”
Solo said briskly, “We’re coming—at a gallop. Tune your transmitter onto the homing beam and leave the rest to us.”
Illya, Viggo and Knud were ready and waiting. Illya was slipping a fresh magazine into his Luger and humming some kind of Russian war-song. Solo grabbed up his anorak and headed for the door.
They piled into Viggo’s big Volvo, Solo beside the driver and Knud and Illya in the rear seats. Solo put the little transmitter in the glove compartment in front of him. The continuous note of the homing signal sounded loud and clear.
