Shadow of a Broken Man m-1

by George C. Chesbro

  "Stay," I said quietly, punctuating the sentence with a loud lead exclamation point just over the top of his head. A chunk of plaster fell from the wall.

  George stayed, but he bit through the stem of his meerschaum. The pipe, minus half its mouthpiece, clattered to the floor, and George spat out the rest. "He'll kill you," he stammered, pointing to the gasping redhead. "If he doesn't, I will."

  "Oh, shut up, George, and sit down," I said, pointing with the gun toward a chair.

  George thought about it for a few seconds. I helped him toward a decision by pointing the gun at his stomach. He sat down. I said something witty about clearing his sinuses permanently if he did anything I didn't like, then went across the room and took the sash cord from the broken Venetian blind hanging beside the window. The landscape outside looked like farmland, and I wondered where I was. It was dusk. Assuming it was the same day, I hadn't been out more than a few hours.

  I used the sash cord to tie Peter and George. George moved once, but froze when I snatched up the gun from the floor and pressed the barrel against his spine. Now it was my turn to ask questions. I walked over to the tape recorders and turned one on. It was my own tape. I turned that one off and the other one on. The first question surprised me.

  "Who is Victor Rafferty?"

  I pressed the pause control and looked over at George. "What the hell kind of stupid question is that?" I said. "Don't you know?"

  George glared at me and said nothing. I took my finger off the pause control and listened as the two men took turns asking me questions. Occasionally they played sections of the tape I'd made and asked me questions about statements I'd made. My own voice sounded blurred and indistinct, like a drunk's. There were about ten basic questions, repeated over and over in different variations. The Englishmen didn't seem to know any more than I did, a fact which I found depressing. Still, they'd known about me.

  I pressed the gun squarely to George's forehead, directly between his eyes. "Is Victor Rafferty alive?"

  "You tell me, you little bastard."

  "Maybe I'll just shoot you."

  "Go ahead."

  "Take some time to think about that answer, George; use the time to try to remember all you know about Victor Rafferty. You can start off by telling me why everybody is so interested in him."

  He spat at me. I sidestepped the wet missile and tapped lightly on the top of his head with the gun. He cursed. "We've been working blind, you bloody dwarf! We just do what we're told to do! We don't know any more about Rafferty now than we did last time!"

  "Last time?"

  "Fuck you!"

  Peter was beginning to look fairly normal, although he kept swallowing and wincing in pain. Spittle had dried and caked on his lips. His eyes never left me; they were bloodshot, bright with hate.

  "How did you know about the Fosters?" I asked George, not really expecting an answer.

  "You're going to be killed for this," George hissed. "This thing is a lot bigger than any of us."

  "Are you making fun of my size, George?"

  "You bloody----! Untie us!"

  "First I want you to tell me all about that 'last time.' I also want to know who did the job on the Pakistani."

  George's face became a stony mask. "I'll tell you nothing. You're wasting your time."

  He was probably right. I decided to look around the house, and the first thing I found was my gun on a counter in the kitchen. Next to it were the book on parapsychology and the mysterious sheet of paper; I hoped that meant they'd brought my car along with them.

  I left everything where it was and searched through the other rooms on the floor. They were barren for the most part, except for a few ratty pieces of furniture that jutted out like bits of flotsam floating in a moldy sea of ratty carpet. Outside, a full moon was rising, bathing the surrounding countryside in a soft, cold glow. I assumed the farmhouse was some kind of meeting place, or intelligence drop point. Or perhaps it was no more than what it seemed: an abandoned farmhouse that George and Peter had commandeered for the purpose at hand.

  The lights obligingly came on when I flipped a switch, and I hit the jackpot when I looked in a closet off the main sitting room: there was a large black medical kit. Inside the kit was a pharmacist's delight, with drugs ranging from what I suspected was L.S.D. to the familiar and effective sodium pentothal. I picked up the bag and went back into the big room. George was obviously unhappy with my discovery; his eyes bulged and sweat broke out on his forehead.

  "What the hell are you going to do with that stuff?" he asked warily.

  "Time for your vitamins, George."

  "That's not going to do you any good!" He swallowed, pumped up the volume of his voice. "I'm trained to resist drugs!"

  I groped around inside the bag, took out a handful of bottles and three hypodermics. "Well, I think I'll give you a little of this and a little of that, and see what happens."

  "Do you have any idea what you're doing?" he said as I picked three vials at random and filled a hypodermic.

  "With drugs? Well, I've found I prefer aspirin for the common headache. What about yourself, George?"

  "Jesus, you're going to kill me with that stuff! Or turn me into a raving loony! I'm telling you I don't know anything!"

  I held the tip of the needle poised over his arm. "It would be a shame for you to get turned into a pumpkin for nothing, wouldn't it? Who pays you?"

  He took some time to answer as his eyes stayed riveted to the tip of the needle. Finally he heaved a deep sigh. "Christ, dwarf, use your imagination. M.I.-5."

  He visibly relaxed as I took a step backward. "How did you get on my trail?"

  "Contacts at the U.N.," George said sullenly. "The Pakistani was asking questions about Rafferty and your name was mentioned. The Home Office put us on the job."

  "How did you find me in Tuxedo Park?"

  "We had a beeper on your car; planted it while you were in the rental agency."

  "Did you or your friend here kill the Pakistani?"

  "No."

  I stepped forward again and raised the hypodermic. "I don't think I believe you."

  "It's true" George squeaked as a few drops of clear fluid dripped onto his arm. "We didn't kill him. That had to be Kaznakov. The Pakistani was tortured; that's Kaznakov's trademark."

  "Who's Kaznakov?" I whispered. I suddenly felt choked, short of breath.

  George looked at me a long time. "You don't want anything to do with Kaznakov, believe me."

  "Come on, George. Who's Kaznakov?" I squirted fluid between his eyes.

  "Russian. A bloody freak."

  "Where can I find this Kaznakov?"

  "Soviet U.N. Mission. He's supposed to be a minor aide, but that's only his cover. He's an agent; a specialist. He's a crazy, bloody freak. One of the worst, from what I hear, although you Americans are supposed to have-"

  "Tell me about the 'last time,' George. Did you work on the Rafferty case before?" He turned his face away and didn't say anything. I thought of Abu and had a sudden, almost uncontrollable surge of rage. I grabbed his ear, twisted his head to one side, and held the hypodermic like a dagger over his exposed neck. "I'm not shitting you, George!" I shouted into his ear. "I have to find out these things! If you don't tell me, I'm going to drop this load in your neck and go to work on your friend!"

  Something in my voice must have convinced him. When I released his ear, he slumped in his chair. "Five years ago," he said, seemingly resigned. "But we thought Rafferty was dead; killed by an American named Lippitt. Now a lot of people aren't so sure Rafferty's dead after all."

  "Why does everyone want Rafferty, George?"

  "I don't know. We were just told to find him, kill him if he is alive. Didn't much like it, but orders are orders.

  There wasn't much chance Rafferty would work for us, so I'm told, so we had to make sure he didn't end up working for anybody else. It was the same five years ago."

  "He wouldn't work for the British, so you were told to kill him?"
/>
  "That's right. Everyone had those orders. We were in a big hurry because we knew the Frenchies had a good line on him."

  "The French knew about Rafferty?" It had obviously been, obviously was, a crowded track.

  "Hell, yes. The French have a good man working for them. Been feeding them top-grade information for years."

  "What's this agent's name, and where can I find him?"

  George shrugged. "Nobody-except some controller- knows. He-or she, for all I know-has a deep cover; you find out, let us know. There's someone who can tell you what you want to know about Victor Rafferty. Shit, Peter and I are just cannon fodder compared with the Frenchie. You know, you hurt my fucking ear."

  "But you don't know why all these people had orders to capture or kill?"

  "Top Secret. We were just following our orders. Now, that's all I know. I swear it."

  I pressed the point of the needle against the thick blue vein on the inside of his forearm. He squirmed, the color draining from his face as. a droplet of blood formed on his arm. "You'll kill me if you stick me with that! What the hell are you doing?"

  "George," I replied, "I feel I'm losing your cooperation."

  "Then ask me something, for Christ's sake! Or go find the Frenchie!"

  I kept the tip of the needle just inside his vein. "Five years ago a doctor by the name of Arthur Morton was murdered. Do you know anything about that? Think carefully, George; my thumb is beginning to twitch."

  "We killed him," George croaked, his eyes bulging as he stared down at the hypodermic and the trail of blood running down his forearm.

  "Why?"

  "It was an accident! The goddamn bloody fool had no business coming to his office in the middle of the night. We weren't expecting him. He surprised us. He had a gun. We just didn't have any choice!"

  "Why were you in his office?"

  "We were supposed to take pictures of Rafferty's medical records," George said hoarsely. "And I don't know why. I swear it!"

  I removed the tip of the needle from George's vein but kept it where he could see it. "What do you know about the Fosters?"

  "The Russians have them. Everybody in the business knows it. The Russians want everybody to know."

  My mouth suddenly tasted metallic. "Where have the Russians got them?"

  "Russian consulate."

  "Why? What do the Russians want with the Fosters?"

  "Mrs. Foster used to be married to Rafferty. The Russians figure maybe they can pressure Rafferty into turning himself in, if he's alive." George clucked his tongue. "It's a bloody bad business," he said sincerely. "Got everybody and his brother running around."

  "How is Rafferty supposed to find out that the Russians have his ex-wife?"

  "You thought Rafferty was at the U.N. If he is, he'll find out soon enough."

  "What if he isn't there?"

  George shrugged. "You never know what the Russians will do." Suddenly his face went chalk-white as he glanced up and saw something just behind me. "Kaznakov!" he cried in a strangled voice.

  I wheeled and froze. The man filling the doorway was huge-well over six feet and better than two hundred and seventy-five pounds, all resting on ridiculously small feet. There was nothing ridiculous about the machine pistol in his right hand. His eyes were like twin moons, pale and lifeless, suspended in an unbelievably ugly, pockmarked face; a large, mashed nose sat in the middle of that face like a broken rocket drifting off to nowhere. The trackers had been tracked, and I doubted that the Russian was looking for information.

  14

  There was no change of expression on the Russian's face as he fired a single bullet into Peter's brain; he might have been a robot. George continued to gape while I stood, paralyzed with shock, for what could only have been fractions of a second but seemed like hours. I couldn't believe that anyone, even a "freak," could cold-bloodedly murder three men, two of whom were helpless. Then I remembered Abu.

  I dived at the same time as Kaznakov efficiently dispatched George with a second bullet. I hit the floor and rolled sideways as more bullets beat a staccato tattoo on the floor inches from the base of my spine. It was Circus Time. There was no way for me to get to the gun I'd laid aside, no time to use it if I could, and no place to go except out the window. Head first.

  I covered my face with my arms as I crashed through the glass. Something razor-sharp and white-hot sliced across the back of my left thigh, but I had other things to worry about. I was at least thirty feet from the ground; if I didn't hit the tree, I was dead.

  I kept my face covered until I felt a branch lash my forearm. Instantly I reached out and grabbed a handful of leaves. I let myself fall freely, leaves whipping against my face, until I hit a thin branch. I twisted in the air, grabbed hold of the branch, and let it guide me down and onto another, thicker one that would sustain my weight. I hung on, gasping for breath, but not for long. The Russian was at the window above me, firing blindly down into the tree.

  I quickly scrambled down the major branches and dropped the rest of the way to the ground, rolling to ease the pressure on my wounded leg. I got up and pressed against the bole of the tree while Kaznakov pumped bullets into the ground around me; leaves and shattered bits of wood showered down on my head, but I was safe for the time being. I used the time to remove a few shards of glass from my arms, then looked around me. My position was on one side of the house, near the front. I could see two cars-the green Caddy and mine-parked at the top of a long dirt-road driveway that snaked across a large, corn-stubbled field to a highway. My guess was that Kaznakov's car was parked somewhere out on the highway and that he'd walked in. He must have been tailing the two British agents from the beginning.

  The firing abruptly stopped. I winced with pain as I stepped on my left leg, but the leg managed to hold me. I hobbled to the car. The door was open, but the keys were gone. I started to slide behind the wheel, then thought better of it: Even under the best daylight conditions, it would take me a few minutes to jump the wires; by the time I started the car, Kaznakov would be over me playing Taps with his machine pistol. There was no time, no place, left to run.

  Sucking some night air into my lungs, I limped back to the house and pressed myself flat against the side while I peered over a windowsill into the inside. I could just make out the dim, shadowy bulk of Kaznakov moving carefully down the stairs.

  A quick search for something with which to defend myself turned up the ragged edge of a two-by-four sticking out from beneath the raised foundation of the house. I grabbed it and pulled. The wood was about three feet long; it would make a formidable weapon if I could get enough momentum into a swing, and if I could take Kaznakov by surprise. I picked up the beam, inched my way around the corner and along the front of the farmhouse to the door. I positioned the wooden beam slightly behind me as if I were about to make an Olympic hammer throw, gripped it tightly, and waited. I was soaked with a mixture of sweat and blood.

  After what seemed an eternity, the door swung open. The Russian stepped out into the moonlight, his gun at the ready as he peered in the direction of the cars. I brought the beam whistling around, and it landed with a sharp crack on his shins. He howled with rage, pain, and surprise, but didn't drop the gun. He instinctively reached down for his shins and almost toppled off the stoop. He straightened up again when I brought the end of the two-by-four up into his face, leaving a large red blob where his nose had been. He staggered down off the stoop and collapsed. Incredibly, he was still conscious-but the gun had slipped from his fingers. I picked it up and pointed it at his chest.

  The sudden, giddy elation I felt was probably due to loss of blood and shock. But I had the man who'd tortured and killed Abu, and at the moment that was all I cared about; I'd beat what he knew out of him with the butt of the gun, try to use him to free the Fosters, and then kill him. I was in a hurry to ask questions before I changed my mind. No law was going to touch Kaznakov; Garth had made that clear.

  But the Russian had the strength and endurance o
f a bull, and he seemed to have become indifferent to pain. When I saw him struggle to his feet I was reminded of Antaeus, gaining his strength from the earth, rising from the ground again and again until his opponent's strength was exhausted.

  Kaznakov was listing a bit to starboard, but he was standing. He spat blood, then fixed the bloodshot moon eyes in his ruined face on me. He stared at me a long time without saying anything, although I could hear strange, guttural rumblings in his chest, as if he were a volcano about to explode.

  "You bastard," I said through clenched teeth. "I'm going to ask you some questions, and you're going to answer them. If you don't, I'm going to start shooting you to death. Slowly. One chunk at a time."

  Kaznakov spat more blood, grinned crookedly around broken teeth. "You are tough little fucker," he said in labored English with a heavy accent. "But now I got you. I hurt your friend, the Pakistani, pretty good before he jumped. I'm going to hurt you even more. No one will find you for a long, long time."

  "That sock in the nose must have mashed your brains, asshole. I've got the gun now. You sneeze wrong and you get a bullet between the legs. Now, let's go see if there's a phone in the house. If there is, you're going to call your people and tell them you want the Fosters dropped here. Tell them you're negotiating with Rafferty; tell them anything you want, but I want the Fosters brought here. You understand?"

  "I understand what you say," Kaznakov said as he began to shuffle toward me. "But I think I call and say you are dead. How do you like that?"

  "You idiot! Don't you think I'll shoot?" I decided I couldn't take any chances with Kaznakov and I pointed the gun directly at his heart.

  "I don't care if you shoot," he said, and he kept coming.

  The gun exploded and kicked when I pulled the trigger. The bullet made a thwacking sound against his chest and pushed him back a few inches, but that was all. Kaznakov was a man who hedged all his bets; he was wearing a bulletproof vest.