by Nick Carter
"Especially to Soviet Counter-intelligence," I commented. "Didn't I meet some of your boys in and around London lately? A rather fatal meeting for them if I recall correctly."
He nodded and his smile was missing. "Unfortunately, you are correct," he said. "But things will end differently this time. I am Captain Vanuskin and I deplore bunglers."
"Me too," I smiled. My mind was racing. They had popped up out of nowhere. Either they were getting smoother or I was getting old. It actually bothered me more than being caught.
"I didn't notice you tail me to the train," I admitted. "I'm impressed."
"We didn't," Vanuskin answered and my eyebrows went up involuntarily. "As I said, your reputation is very well known. We were certain you'd spot a 'tail, as you Americans so quaintly put it. We staked out the hotel and we knew the airports were out because of the fog. So if you left, it had to be train or car. We had a man watching every outbound train track. When you left the hotel, our man merely radioed the fact. Then another of our men picked you up boarding the Zurich Express."
I felt better. They weren't getting smoother, only a little smarter. And the fog had simplified their task for them. Which brought me to another very interesting point. Only two people knew I was at the Rafaello Hotel — Hawk and Karl Krisst. Of course, Krisst could have let someone else know but I doubted that. I put it aside as an off-chance possibility, deciding instead on a little fishing expedition.
"Then he's one of your men," I said to the Russian. "He's the one who ripped you off that I was at the Rafaello."
"Who is this 'he'?" Vanuskin replied cagily.
"You can stop playing games," I said. "It's too late for that I'd still like to know how it's done though."
Vanuskin grinned, a wide, sly grin. "You are referring, I presume, to the unfortunate mental deterioration of certain scientists — to their stolen brains?"
I wanted to remap his grinning face, so much so that my hands were clenching and unclenching. I forced down the impulse. It would be certain death.
"That's more or less it," I said, forcing myself to sound casual.
"We don't know the answer to that any more than you do, Carter," the Russian answered blandly.
"Oh, come on now," I said. "Such modesty is something new for you boys, isn't it? I never figured it for your land of operation, though."
"It's not our operation, as you put it," the Russian said. "But we are only too happy to cooperate. And we're not being modest. We feel as though we have been given a very unexpected and most valuable gift. Naturally, we will do everything in our power to protect our unknown benefactor."
The Russian threw back his head and laughed at the incredulous expression I was wearing.
"Hard as it may seem for you to believe," he went on, "it's the truth. We were mysteriously contacted about a year ago by someone who wanted a list of those scientists we knew were engaged on scientific research for the Western powers. For our cooperation, he promised he would do us a great favor, which he certainly has done. We submitted such a list. He chose a name, returned it to us, and the next thing we knew, that scientist had suffered a total mental collapse. This man has contacted us each month since then in much the same manner, either by mail or special courier. We suggest a few names we know are on important work for the West He picks one and does the rest. Of course, we are only too happy to furnish him with whatever he wishes."
"Money, too?" I asked, wondering about motives.
"If he asks for it. He rarely does."
"What about Maria Doshtavenko?" I asked.
Vanuskin shrugged. "An unfortunate case, an eruption of bourgois feelings, you might say."
"You mean humanitarian feelings," I countered.
"Call it whatever you like," the Russian said. "She was in a position to know of our contact and the general outlines of what was happening. She wanted it halted. She had ideas of putting these few scientists before the interests of her country."
"Bull," I corrected him. "She had ideas of putting humanitarian ideals above local political maneuvers. You got wind of it and had her killed."
"I told you," the Russian said. "We will do everything to protect our contact and his work."
I smiled inwardly. I actually knew more than the Russians did about their dirty little game. All they knew was they had a contact. I knew who he was, and now they had actually fingered their benefactor without knowing it. Of course, there were a helluva lot of questions for which I had no answers as yet. What made Karl Krisst run, for one. And how was he accomplishing his dirty objectives?
"What took you so long to make your move?" I asked casually. "I've been aboard since last night, as you know."
"We waited to see where you were headed. Obviously, you are going to Zurich," Vanuskin said. He smiled again. "Or, I should more correctly say, you were going to Zurich."
Vanuskin and the others suddenly began to talk amongst themselves. My Russian was more than good enough to understand them and what I heard was not designed for relaxed riding. They were discussing the best way of doing me in. Things were getting too close. I needed out, and fast. I was safe for a few moments as the train slowed down to go through a small village. The cramped quarters of the compartment afforded me little room to do anything. Even Hugo was inadequate. I could get one, maybe two, and that would be that. I took in the situation and it was grim. The two heavyweights were at the door. Vanuskin was in front of me. The fourth man was off to the right I heard Vanuskin end the discussion with a decision. They'd take the least possible risks with me and do the job here in the compartment. A quick glance out the window showed me that we were starting to pass over a high trestle. I glimpsed blue water below, too far below. But it was my one chance. For a final moment they were concentrated on their conversation. I raised my arm slowly. The emergency brake cord hung directly overhead. I yanked and the train started its emergency halt with a terrific impact of brakes against wheels. Everybody went flying to the left side of the compartment. Everybody except me, that is. I was braced for it, and I made a running dive for the window, arms crossed in front of me to shield my face. I hit the window with full force, felt the shattered pellets of glass hitting my arms and forehead, and then I was falling, turning a slow, lazy somersault through the air. My ankles had banged against the trestle catwalk rail and flipped me sideways. I glimpsed the train above me grinding to a halt and the water too far below my falling body. It hadn't been a proper dive in any case and though I tried to condense my form, when I hit the water it was as though I'd run full-tilt into a concrete wall. My body shook and quivered at the impact. I went under and instinctively came up gasping for air.
I was dazed, hurt, bleeding from little glass wounds, my body paining in every bone and muscle. In semi-shock, I nonetheless managed to strike out for shore, fortunately not far away. When I pulled up on the graveled, rocky ground, my head had cleared just enough for me to know how much I hurt. My muscles and my bones seemed to be things apart from each other as I laboriously pulled myself up on the rocky shoreline. I hadn't gotten far when I heard the shot and felt the tearing, searing pain in my leg just at the thigh. The force of the shot sent my body turning almost completely around and I saw the four figures running across the trestle catwalk, the train halted midway across the narrow bridgeway. It would take them a while to find their way down to where I was. I looked down at my leg as another shot sent a shower of gravel flying at my foot. The leg was excruciatingly painful and bleeding hard. They must have used a forty-five. A line of trees beckoned just ahead, and I pulled myself forward into them, stumbling along on shaking, quivering legs. The wounded leg hurt badly, but it was the impact on the water which had really shaken me. Between the two of them, I felt myself growing dizzy.
I sank to the ground and crawled forward, feeling my arms growing weak, feeling the loss of blood. My trouser leg was a red-soaked rag, and I knew I was leaving a trail a mile wide. The line of woods suddenly ended and I looked across a pasture, a few cows grazing off t
o one side. Lifting my head was an effort now, and the scene was fuzzy. I made out a farmhouse and barn on the other side of the green pasture. I pulled myself upright, swaying dizzily, shaking my head to clear it. If I could make it to the barn I might hide out there, I thought dimly, and at the same moment realized the trail of blood would lead them right to me. I started to turn, to take a few unsure, weak steps along the edge of the trees, when I heard a child's cry, close at hand but strangely distant. Then I was on my hands and knees, the ground swimming in front of me. I fell forward and half turned on my back. I saw the child, a little blonde girl, about ten years old, pig-tailed and eyes wide. Then I saw the woman appear behind her, looking like an older version of the child. I lifted my head and fell back again. I hadn't blacked out completely, but I was seeing the world in moments of clarity mixed with moments of gray mist. I felt hands lifting my shoulders and the managed to focus on the woman's face above me. It was a nice face, a sweet, lovely face. I felt her trying to move me, to lift me.
"No… no," I managed hoarsely. "Wheelbarrow… get a wheelbarrow." I felt the woman stop, lay my shoulders back on the grass and I heard her talk to the child. I didn't hear or see anything else until I felt myself being lifted and the hard ride of a wheelbarrow shook its way through to me. The bumping managed to bring me around for a moment and I caught a glimpse of the farmhouse now close at hand and the lovely face looking down at me with concern.
"Men… careful… want me," I croaked out. It was all I could manage. The darkness came down again.
* * *
I woke up hours later, I found out in time, to the aching pain of my body. I was alone in a dark room that smelled of the dampness of a cellar. I lay quietly, letting my head clear. My groping hands told me I was on a cot, covered by a quilt, naked under the blanket I tried to stretch and almost cried out with the pain. Every damn muscle screamed. My leg hurt with a special pain of its own, and my groping hands told it had been bandaged with cloths. I lay back quietly and breathed deeply. That drop from the trestle had really banged me up. I lay there and heard the sound of a door opening. The door turned out to be in the ceiling and a shaft of light came down to illuminate the steep, short flight of steps. The woman's figure came down, a lamp in her hand, followed by the child in nightclothes.
"You are awake," the woman said, a faint Swiss accent to her English. "Very good." I'd been right, even in my fuzzy, hazy state. She had a lovely face, sweet and gentle, with fine lips and blonde hair pulled around her head in a halo-like fashion. She wore a dirndl skirt and a deep blue blouse that matched her soft blue eyes.
"How do you feel?" she asked, leaning over me and putting the lamp down on a little wooden table I hadn't seen beside the cot. A chair was also next to it.
"As though I'd fallen out of a speeding train," I said.
"Which is exactly what you did, Mr. Carter," she smiled. "Though jumped is the word, not fallen." She smiled and sat down on the chair. The blouse pulled tighter against deep, heavy breasts. "I went through your papers, I'm afraid," she apologized almost shyly, her lips soft in a slow smile. "And those men who stopped by, they told me they were looking for an escaped prisoner who had leaped from the train."
She shuddered and her eyes suddenly took on a faraway look. "They were frightening," she went on. "Ruthless. Cold. They'll be back. I'm sure of it."
"Why are you sure of it?" I asked.
"I've had experience with their type before," she answered simply, a terrible sadness clouding her face.
"But you didn't believe what they said about me?"
"No," she replied. "Prisoners don't carry the land of passport and papers you had on you, Mr. Carter. I don't know why they were after you, but it's not because you're a common escaped prisoner."
"Thank you for being so astute," I said. "What is your name?"
"Emilie," she said. "Emilie Grutska, and this is my daughter, Gerda."
"Is your husband away?" I asked.
"No," she said. "Gerda and I run the farm alone. My husband is dead. You rest now." She stood up, dismissing any more conversation about the matter. "I will be back later," she said. "I shall put Gerda to bed."
I watched the woman and the child climb the steps and close the trap door. The short conversation had taxed me, I was amazed and angry to find. My eyes closed, despite myself, and I was asleep in seconds. I woke only when I heard the trap door being opened. Emilie was alone this time, a shawl wrapped around an opaque nightgown and her hair hanging long behind her back. There was an old-style kind of beauty to this woman, I saw, delicate yet strong, young and yet womanly, a Vermeer painting come to life. She carried a small iron pot with a long handle and a spoon sticking out of it. The pot contained a soup which tasted absolutely wonderful. She sat down on the chair beside me and watched as I drank the soup, sipping it slowly. She propped me up with an extra pillow and looked at me as I sat up, my chest naked, the smooth hard-muscled skin belying the inner pain of my body.
"Your clothes were ruined, of course," she said. "Your personal things are in the corner there with some work pants and a shirt I think will fit you, when you're ready for them, that is. I think it may be a while yet."
She hesitated for a moment, and then smiled slowly, that half sad, slow smile of hers. "I hope you are not embarrassed that I stripped you," she said. "I think not, though. You are not the kind of man that embarrasses easily. That seems, somehow, obvious about you, Mr. Carter."
"Nick," I said.
"I did not want to talk about my husband before Gerda," she said. "The child knows enough. She need not know the details at this time. The Soviets killed my husband. He was a Hungarian and he became a freedom fighter during the occupation. I am Swiss, and we were living in Hungary at the time. The Russians caught him after a long search. That's why I know those men who stopped here. I've met their counterparts before, many times. My parents had died and this was their farm. I took the child and fled. We returned here and we have been working the farm ever since. It is hard work, but we are happy."
"No help at all?" I asked. "No young men interested in two such lovely girls?"
"I hire extra help dining harvest," she said. "As for your men, here in Europe they are not interested in women with children. Maybe sometime, someday, I will meet someone. Who knows?" That smile that was at once saddening and warming passed over her face.
"If they're coming back, I've got to get out of here," I said.
"You are not strong enough yet," the woman said. "You wouldn't get far between the shock to your system and the loss of blood from your leg. Besides, they won't find you here. You are safe."
She stood up. "I am going to change the dressing on your leg," she said, opening a wooden chest on the other side of the small cellar and taking out fresh strips of cloth. She worked quietly, tenderly, with a minimum of pain to me. Yet when she was through, I was more than happy to sink back on the cot. She gave me a final smile of encouragement as she disappeared up the steps and the trap door closed me in the darkness again. Nick Carter, I said to myself, sometimes you're a lucky bastard.
I slept late into the morning and was awakened by muffled voices from the floor above. I sat up. My body had stopped aching so completely but the leg was still plenty sore. After a while the voices died away and Emilie came down.
"I told you they'd be back," she said grimly. "There were two more this time, six in all." There was a set stubbornness to her face as I watched her change the dressing on my leg again. "They have been asking at every farmhouse in the area, I hear," she said.
"They're banking on the fact that I couldn't really travel far," I said. "And they're right, too. But they won't get me and they won't harm you."
"Do not worry about me," she said. "I am more happy than you know to help anyone against them. Nick…" she paused, "what do they want you for? Who are you, really?"
She deserved the truth and I told her without going into the details of the living death and Karl Krisst.
"I had imagined somet
hing like that," she said, pausing at the steps and looking back at me. "It is good to know there are men such as you on our side. They are cold and ruthless. They are hard to stop. But I think you could outmatch them, Nick. Yes, I think so… yes, I do."
I grinned at her. "You think I'm cold and ruthless?"
"When it is time for cold and ruthless action, I think so," she answered seriously. I shrugged. It was a pretty good evaluation. She left and I went back to my resting. It was paying off. By that evening, I was feeling decidedly better. The leg was my main problem. It had a good hole in it that luckily had missed tearing away vital muscle. But it still hurt like hell. When Emilie came down with milk and cheese she smiled, but I immediately detected a troubled expression in her eyes. I smelled it out at once.
They were back," I said flatly. She nodded.
"They traced the blood trail to where I put you in the wheelbarrow," she said. "It just disappears there and they are perplexed by that."
"Perplexed and suspicious of you," I added. She didn't answer. She didn't need to. I knew Vanuskin's kind of mind. Dogged, persistent, unimaginative, its very unimaginativeness an asset in this kind of operation. He couldn't imagine my doing anything clever to get away, and so he'd keep on plodding and searching. I made up my mind right then and there. I was going to clear out. I wouldn't jeopardizing Emilie and the child any longer. I changed the topic to talk about the farm. Emilie was happy to go along with it and told me of her two proud possessions, a four-disc plow on her tractor and a Volkswagen panel truck. The plow, she proudly told me, was seventeen feet across, and the four, razor-sharp disc blades could harrow an entire field in one day. We talked till it was time for her to put Gerda to bed and she left me alone again.
I lay awake, thinking of my next move. One thing was certain. I wasn't going to stay in the house any longer. If they came back again they might decide to get rough and really search the place. If I were there, they'd kill the child and Emilie as well as me. But I knew the leg needed another day of rest, at least. I decided on the barn. They had no doubt already given that a good going over. I could stay out of sight of everyone there. Satisfied with my plans, I lay back and Emilie returned before going to bed herself, this time wearing blue pajamas under the long shawl. We talked quietly a little while longer and then, as she started to go, I held her wrist.
