Dead Man's Tale

by Don Pendleton

  The mechanism that drew the small craft through the tunnels had long ago vanished, along with the boats themselves and the hanging skeletons and other ghostly accessories supposed to thrill the lovers. But some of the designer's eccentricities, including the yew hedges of the maze and — astonishingly — the hall of mirrors, remained.

  Mack Bolan's first view of the castle was limited. They had passed through Esch, a medieval fortress village clustered below a wooded bluff in a loop of the River Sure. Two miles beyond the tunnel that carried the road beneath the ruins of the fortifications, the Lancia ahead of him turned in under an archway in the high wall of a gate house, steel grille gates swung open, and the convoy snaked along an overgrown driveway that ran through a plantation of pines. On the far side of the woods the enormous crumbling facade of the building was visible at the top of a slope of open ground that ran down to the shores of the lake.

  At one time the slope had been a series of manicured lawns, but the grass was now waist-high, and wild tangles of briars submerged the balustrades and urns. Beside a derelict boat house, the planking of a jetty was rotted away.

  The driveway curled around behind the huge bulk of the castle and stopped by a flight of steps leading to a wing that had recently been restored.

  Bolan braked behind the Lancia; the Mercedes was close behind. DaSilva and the fat man from Cologne got out of the convertible. Flicking a glance at the rearview mirror, the warrior saw Giordano, Foxy-face and two gunners climbing from the Mercedes. "All right," Alexandra said, "you get out too, but keep your hands away from your sides if you want to live."

  Obeying her command, he took in the possibilities in one quick survey. Four armed hoods behind; two in front, Fatso with a mini-Uzi submachine gun in his pudgy hands; the blonde with her Browning immediately in back of him; the blackened ruins of the burned stables twenty yards away; a stand of young trees on the banks of a stream fifty yards on the far side of the cars. No blueprint for a daring escape here.

  Fraser Latta, his face split into a travesty of a welcoming smile, stood at the top of the steps. Katrina Holman, slim and dark in a jade green pants suit, stood beside him. Off to one side, glaring malevolently at the Executioner, Campos, the Brussels boss, nursed his shattered arm in a sling.

  "Mr. Bolan!" Latta exclaimed smoothly. "How nice to have you with us once again! Let's hope that this time our hospitality won't bore you so much that you feel you have to leave."

  "You know what you can do with your hospitality."

  Latta ignored the interruption. "Alexandra, my dear," he continued, "we are indebted to you for so kindly bringing our friend here. And Bruno..." he turned toward DaSilva "...it was good of you to lead the way. To spare him the tedious preliminaries to the entertainment we have prepared, perhaps you would be kind enough to make Mr. Bolan comfortable for the time being, eh?"

  Too late, the warrior swung around. He saw the grin on the face of one of the gunners, and he was aware of movement to his right. Then the butt of DaSilva's Smith & Wesson landed behind his ear and the sky went dark.

  22

  Bolan winced at the sledgehammer blows raining on the inside of his skull. The blows became stronger and stronger, reverberating painfully, until at last the hammerhead burst its way through at a weak point and daylight came flooding in.

  The warrior blinked his eyes. It wasn't daylight at all, he saw, but the illumination of an unshaded electric bulb hanging ten feet above his head.

  He was lying on his back on the floor, naked. He could feel the cool, gritty surface of concrete against his calves, his haunches, his shoulder blades. He was also — he flexed his muscles — scientifically bound, spread-eagled to four rings set in the concrete. If he twisted his head he could see the iron circlets and the wire biting into his flesh.

  As far as he could, he took in the room. It was a cellar, about twenty feet square, with no skylight or windows. It was empty except for an apparatus that looked like part of a stereo system, and another that was basically a tubular steel tripod with a T-shaped crosspiece and a length of rubber tubing leading to it.

  Bolan tested his bonds with wrists and fingers. Escape was a no-go situation. He was attached to the rings with chicken wire, which had been fastened by an expert.

  Struggling would only chafe away the flesh from his wrists and ankles, and he was already uncomfortable enough, stretched out to the full extent of his legs and arms. His palms and the insides of his fingers were still raw from his exploits on the crane the previous night.

  "Damn!" he said between set teeth.

  There was a deep chuckle from the dead area behind his head. "Welcome back to today, Mr. Bolan!" Fraser Latta's voice intoned.

  Bolan twisted his head until eventually he was able to see the tall, bulky figure of the Mafia's European laundryman seated comfortably on a chair tipped against the wall.

  "It seems you have me at a disadvantage."

  "And I intend to keep you there," Latta replied genially. "I had only intended to question you in general terms when you were my guest before. But we know a great deal more now, and so do you. The questions must therefore be specific. So, you will tell me exactly what it was that the tiresome Zulowski used to make his holograms. Your bag has been searched and you do not appear to have it with you. You will therefore tell me also where you have hidden it so that it can be destroyed. And then the hologram will remain forever useless, and we can carry on with the work you have interrupted."

  "After destroying me too?"

  "That depends on your cooperation. Certainly we shall take steps to ensure that you will be, in certain ways, useless. Deprived of the gift of sight for instance. Or confined to a wheelchair. Alive maybe, but unable to hinder us any further."

  "Your argument is based on a false premise," Bolan said.

  "Really? I'd be interested to hear what."

  "You assume I'll answer your questions."

  Latta laughed again. "Oh, come now! You know as well as I do that anyone, anyone at all, can be broken. Eventually. It's no more than a question of time, and we have plenty of that. Let me explain the method we'll use."

  He rose and walked slowly around the warrior to the two pieces of apparatus on the cellar floor. "An item," he said, touching the tripod, "of homely garden equipment. I'm sure you've seen one before. Through the rubber tube, water flows under pressure into the crosspiece, revolving it about its central axis, which is balanced on delicate bearings. At the same time, as it swings around, the water emerges from small holes along its length in the form of a fine spray. Since the water pressure can be varied, the speed of the crosspiece — and thus the distance and the course traced by the spray — are in effect random. A tripod properly set up can water a fair section of garden very thoroughly in quite a short time.

  "That, of course, is of no more than academic interest," he continued as he moved across to the second piece of equipment and stood with one hand resting on it, looking down at Bolan. "But with this we come into the realm of practical applications. It is in fact an electrical generator... and water is a perfect conductor."

  A draft drifting past Bolan's naked trussed body strengthened. He heard footsteps, and tall white boots creaked into his field of vision. It was Alexandra, still wearing her vinyl raincoat.

  "Very nice," she said, staring down at him, "although I prefer you in a more... active... position."

  "He'll be active enough when our experiment starts," Latta told her. "Perhaps, my dear, you would like to explain?"

  "It's very simple," Alexandra said. "As you heard, water is a perfect conductor. So if we connect the generator output, which is variable, to the crosspiece, the water droplets as they spray out and spiral around will carry the charge, as long as there is continuous contact, drop by drop, back to the metal of the crosspiece. Anyone on whom the spray falls when this contact exists will therefore receive a shock — unless or until the particles of water separate, when the circuit is broken."

  She walked across to the
tripod and spun the crosspiece. It revolved smoothly and silently on its bearings. She added, "Since the speed, and therefore the exact direction, of the spray is indeterminate — as is the frequency of the electric current it carries — the amount of time a person under the spray would in fact receive electric shocks is also totally random."

  "The point of all this," Latta explained, "is that in most forms of, uh, persuasion, the person to be persuaded can see the hot iron or the needle or the whip or the hand on the electrical switch and can therefore in some way tense himself, employ his Zen techniques or tighten up in anticipation of the pain. Can begin, even, to combat it. But imagine, as I am sure a man in your position easily could, the victim in the dark awaiting the arbitrary movements of a spray like this, knowing that even when the water reaches him, it might not carry a charge. And that the charge itself, and thus the amount of pain it produces, is also variable. Infinitely, Mr. Bolan."

  "You might think it unduly complex," Alexandra continued, "but the system has been perfected to save time. Yours as well as ours. The disintegration of self-control actually does arrive much more quickly. It's like the ancient Chinese dripping tap torture, with uncertainty thrown in to add a... well, psychological element."

  "Labor saving," Latta added. "And of course, as the floor becomes covered with a thin overall layer of moisture, a charge carried by the spray that falls short of the body can still be transmitted to it. If you think, you'll see that this is why we use iron rings and steel wire to secure you. Both are admirable conductors."

  "If you spent less time on melodrama and more on organization," Bolan said, "your plans might be a little more successful."

  "We'll see how successful we are very shortly," Latta said. He moved to a faucet from which the rubber tube feeding the sprinkler ran and turned the brass wheel, opening the faucet.

  For a moment nothing happened, then, with a sudden hiss, the crosspiece jerked into motion. From each end, a fan of spray feathered out, describing a moving spiral of mist in the air. As the speed of the sprinkler increased, the two fans coalesced to form a single arc scything this way and that across the brightly lighted cellar.

  Bolan saw the figure eight patterns the moisture made on the dusty floor. Then a trailing end of the spray fell once, twice and — after a slight delay — a third time coldly over the goose bumps on his skin. By the time he caught his breath, the entire floor was shining, uniformly wet.

  Alexandra Tauber was attaching some piece of equipment to the faucet. "This," Latta said, raising his voice over the swishing of the sprinkler, "automatically varies the water pressure revolving the crosspiece, so the pattern of the spray will vary also. You may watch for a few minutes before we leave you and cut the light. But first let me show you the best part." He wheeled the generator closer to the tripod and drew on rubber gloves. Swiftly he made a connection.

  The water was falling sporadically across the Executioner's flesh, sometimes in a fine veil, sometimes with a certain force. But now, suddenly, one time, the unmistakable tingle of mild shock whipped across his belly and up over his shoulder to his right arm.

  Latta was operating a rheostat control of the generator. Again water swept over the warrior — and a hoarse cry burst from Bolan's lips as something that felt like a red-hot whip scalded the bullet wound in his thigh. A violent spasm arched his body up from the iron rings. Seconds later a tongue of flame licked at his belly, and his chest was savaged. Bolan couldn't hold back a scream.

  Alexandra Tauber's pale plastic raincoat was shiny with water. Water dropped from the ceiling, washed across the floor and streamed down the cellar walls to gurgle into a drain. The warrior felt it clammy against his back as the pain in his tortured body subsided. But there was no more water in the air. Latta had switched the apparatus off.

  He spoke, his suit dark with moisture, from the far side of the room. "We'll leave you now. There are dual controls outside this cellar. At indeterminate times in the hours that follow, the sprinkler will be turned on — and off — sometimes with an electrical charge, sometimes not. You have already had a taste both of the mild and the fairly strong current. Although it can of course be stronger still if we wish. Now..." he walked to the door "...we don't wish to keep on interrupting you with tedious requests as to whether you are ready to talk. So every sound you make will be taped, and at intervals we'll play back the tapes. When we judge from the noises that you, uh, have something to say, we'll return. But not before."

  He ushered the young woman out, switched off the light and slammed the door.

  In the sudden intense darkness Bolan lay wondering what the hell he could do. There was nothing.

  His bonds were unbreakable; since he was naked there was nothing he could reach or hope to adapt from his clothes.

  The secret of the hologram was safe. He'd diverted attention from Zulowski's shades by simply stuffing them into his breast pocket, and the explanation of why a man would carry sunglasses with one lens broken was taken care of by the fact that he had allowed himself to be thrown forward against the wheel under heavy braking when Alexandra revealed her true colors.

  But how in hell was he going to get those shades out of this crumbling castle? How was he to escape from the cellar?

  The thought that he might crack and spill the secret never occurred to him. Bolan had stood up under torture before. He had no psychiatric conditioning, no posthypnotic implants in his mind. The combined onslaughts of pain coupled with uncertainty might break him, as Alexandra had suggested, into a gibbering wreck. He might be unable to stop himself screaming. But he would never crack; he would will himself to die before he told the Mafia what they wanted — needed — to know.

  The future of too many ordinary men and women depended on his determination for him to think otherwise.

  Stretched there as humiliatingly as a specimen on a microscope slide, the flesh tensed for the cold caress of a spray that might or might not come, the agony that might — or might not — come with it, he summoned the totality of his iron will to combat the hours of anguish to come.

  Water hissed suddenly into action as the sprinkler jingled into motion. A wedge of light opened into the dark and then vanished as the cellar door opened and closed. In the instant of illumination he saw again the white vinyl raincoat. Cold mist trailed over his legs. He tensed, but there was no shock, mild or violent, this time. The water swept across him again.

  He could hear the rustle of the vinyl by the generator. A pencil of light from a pocket flashlight lanced the blackness. Footsteps splashed across the cellar floor and stopped somewhere behind him. Again and again the spray washed over his body, but there was still no shock.

  Water splatted against the vinyl. The girl was on one knee by the iron ring to which his right hand was wired. When he craned his head over his shoulder he saw the torchlight sliding over the contours of the polished material sheathing her body.

  An instant later there was a sharp snick and his hand was free.

  "What's going on?"

  "Shh!" The whisper was urgent. "Don't forget the tape! And you're supposed to be on the wrong end of a series of electric shocks, so it would help if you could groan from time to time."

  He uttered a hoarse cry. His left hand was free. The light beam stabbed down toward his feet. Again she crouched, a strange figure shining wetly in the diffuse light. Then he was completely free, sitting up on the cold floor trying to massage life back into his limbs.

  Three minutes later the door opened and he was pushed out of the cellar into a flagstone passageway. Duplicate controls for the sprinkler and generator were set into an electrical console screwed to the wall. The door shut, killing the swish of water. He turned... and saw in the harsh light of an overhead bulb that his rescuer wasn't Alexandra, but Katrina Holman.

  "We should be all right for at least ten minutes," she murmured. "I'm supposed to be assigned to the first shift at the controls. Even if they did listen to the tape so early, they'd just think I'd deliberately left
a gap in the 'treatment.' They'll be expecting that anyway."

  "I don't want to seem ungrateful," Bolan said, "but could you tell me what the hell's going on?"

  Katrina smiled. "You're not going to believe this," she said, "but I work with the BKA federal police headquarters in Wiesbaden."

  He stared. "Don't tell me. The second unit of GSG-9?"

  The young woman in the raincoat shook her head. "Uh-uh. As you know, they don't employ women. I'm with the surveillance section of TE-2."

  "Okay." That figured. He knew that TE-2 signified the control intelligence unit of the BKA's antiterrorist and anticonspiracy division. And they would use women.

  "Alexandra, being a phony, has no idea that I'm the genuine article, of course," Katrina said. "But we have been watching her, and the Maccione-Latta setup, for months. I was put in to keep tabs on Latta when he took a shine to me at some industrialists' shindig.

  "I'm sorry." She was all contrition. "You must be frozen! Your clothes are in this closet. Here, put them on quickly." She took out the garments and handed them to him one by one. He patted the breast pocket of the jacket. The shades — the vital link in the chain that would strangle the Mob's plans for Europe — were still there. He stifled a sigh of relief but said nothing. It was just possible that the whole rescue deal was another double bluff, that Katrina, too, really was working for Latta, that they hoped in the psychological release of his supposed rescue he would confide in her what he refused to reveal under torture. Latta was a man whose mind was that subtle.

  In any event she'd have to provide more positive proof of her trustworthiness before he came across himself with the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

  While he dressed, she shrugged out of the vinyl raincoat and hung it up in the closet. "In case Alexandra misses it," she explained. "But we have very little time. Within the next ten minutes Latta's going to realize from the tape that you're no longer in the cellar, and that will tip them off that I have to be responsible."