Assignment - Budapest

by Edward S. Aarons

  Boldness and speed, Durell knew, were their only chances for success. He got out of the car, slamming the door loudly, and strode toward the barrier. Over the pounding of his heart he heard the soldiers in the truck muttering, and one of them laughed, and then he stepped into the sentry’s booth with his papers in his hand. The sentry was a stout, pig-eyed man in a fur uniform cap and a muffler around his throat.

  “Colonel Sandor to see Major Ulitzky, at once.”

  The sentry said: “Major Ulitzky hasn’t arrived yet.”

  “We know that. We will go in and wait.”

  The sentry saw nothing wrong with his uniform or his papers. He nodded and raised the barrier. Durell turned and walked back to the car and got in beside Matyas. Ilona was in the back seat, sitting stiffly and quietly. Durell drove through the gateway onto the prison grounds. There was a deep, muddy trench, like a moat, surrounding Rezd Prison, and the tires rumbled hollowly as they crossed it on a wooden bridge. Then another barbed wire barrier, and another sentry. Durell remained in the car and impatiently waved his papers at the guard from the car window. He was beckoned on, and drove up an asphalt road in a long curve that mounted a knoll and ended in front of the main entrance to the grim, medieval building.

  Ilona and Matyas got out with him. Matyas had given Durell an intimate picture of the prison layout, and Durell moved forward with a sure step toward the guard room, to the right on the first floor. Several uniformed men lounging in chairs stood up at attention, and Durell ignored them, turning to a lieutenant behind a desk in one corner of the big barren chamber. The lieutenant was young, with a thin and ratty face, clever eyes, and a scar that ran down one cheek into his throat. His eyes flicked from Durell to Matyas and rested for a long moment on Ilona.

  “Yes, Colonel?”

  “We are here to confer with Major Ulitzky. I know he hasn’t arrived yet, but there are some questions we must ask your special prisoner.” Durell slapped a glove impatiently against his thigh. “You have a room available where we can interrogate him? I dislike the cellars.”

  “Many men are squeamish about the cellars, Colonel. You have a rather strange accent, sir. Are you Russian, may I ask?”

  “Czech,” Durell said. “Your prisoner conducted an operation in my former country that I have been requested to investigate.”

  The lieutenant looked confused. “Yet you wear our uniform?”

  Durell’s eyes were dark with anger as he swung toward the lieutenant’s desk. “Do you question me?”

  “No, no. It is just that—this is a very special man, sir. He only just arrived from the Fo Street central. Unfortunately, they were using hypnotic drugs on the man—-I understand he is very stubborn, and our ordinary methods are forbidden. He is still under sedation.”

  “I wish to see him at once.”

  The lieutenant’s mouth was thin and uncertain. “And this man and woman with you?”

  “They are part of my staff. My secretary and aide.”

  “I see. Will you come this way, please?”

  The lieutenant got up from his desk and led them down a long stone corridor. Dim, muffled sounds echoed through the building, like the ghosts of anguished and tormented souls. A man laughed somewhere, on a high-pitched, irrational note. Someone was screaming, but the sound was muffled by many thick stone walls. There was a strong odor of lye and other antiseptics, of sweat and urine and leather polish.

  The lieutenant led them to a small room that contained two desks and two chairs and nothing more. The floor, the walls were of stone. The windows were barred. The naked light bulb and a lamp on one of the desks provided the only light. “Wait here, please. All of you.”

  “My business is urgent,” Durell reminded him.

  “Of course, Colonel. It will only be a moment. Please wait.” He was gone, closing the door after him. The door was heavy, sheathed with steel plate over the old oak framework. It closed with a thick sound of finality. Durell found his hands sweating. His throat felt dry. He looked at Ilona and saw that her face was pale and uncertain. Matyas was scowling, his heavy black brows furrowed.

  “I am not happy about this, Colonel,” Matyas whispered. “We must be patient,” Durell said loudly. “There is always a stupid routine to be followed. The lieutenant is a conscientious man.”

  Ilona whispered, “I don’t like the way he looked at me.”

  “An old friend?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Two or three minutes went by. Durell wanted to go to the door and open it and look out, but mainly he wanted to know if it had been locked after the lieutenant left. He had the feeling that it was locked. He had not liked the sly look in the lieutenant’s eyes, but he couldn’t think of where anything could have aroused the man’s suspicions, except the part of his being originally Czech, and that had to be done because of his accent. He told himself to take it easy, because there was no reason to think that anything had gone wrong, but his pulse ran quickly and he was aware of prickling tension at the nape of his neck.

  Ilona stood at the barred window, biting her lip. She looked young and lovely, with her new raven curls framing her oval face. From somewhere in the prison came a sudden ululating scream, like a sound torn from an animal’s throat, thin and faint, and he saw Ilona start and turn pale and bite her lip again. Matyas was scowling. He stood like a dark rock near the door, leaning against the stone wall.

  Finally footsteps sounded in the corridor outside, and Durell swung around to face the door. The lieutenant came in. He was not alone. Another man came in behind him, his steps quick and short, almost mincing. Durell looked into the other man’s dark, amused eyes, and he felt as if he had been struck a deep and mortal blow. It couldn’t be, but it was. He had seen this short, fat little man who looked like some smalltime entrepreneur only forty-eight hours ago, across half the world. If he had any doubts, Ilona’s quick, shuddering gasp confirmed it.

  The other man was Bela Korvuth.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Korvuth stood smiling, his hands in the pockets of his blue overcoat, his round face partly shadowed under a broad-brimmed felt hat. His saddle nose looked shiny in the harsh, naked light. The lieutenant stood beside Korvuth with his hand gun drawn.

  “So,” Korvuth said quietly. “We have both traveled fast and far. It is pleasant to see you again. You too, Ilona.”

  “You traveled faster than I thought,” Durell said.

  “All things are possible to a knowledgeable man. Would you prefer that we speak English? The lieutenant here is a good man, but too curious, and this is a matter of grave importance, where loose tongues might upset our plans.”

  “Did Wyman get word to you about Dr. Tagy?” Durell asked.

  “I received word. Have you found the good man?”

  “No,” Durell said.

  “It is the last thread that needs knotting up. And then the matter will be closed. Closed far better than I had hoped. Please stand quite still, Mr. Durell. I have a gun in my pocket. I have only to shout for help, and you three will be destroyed, torn to pieces. You are a bold man but a reckless one. I thought better of you. In our business, Mr. Durell, results are—not always founded on a high-spirited bravery such as yours. It is the cool mind, the analytical mind, that succeeds in the end.”

  Durell’s face was a blank mask. There was a sickness writhing in him, a sense of complete and utter defeat, of disaster piling atop other disasters; but nothing showed in his features. He smiled.

  “You still don’t have Dr. Tagy,” he said.

  “But you know where he is.”

  “I told you I didn’t.”

  “You can be persuaded to change your mind. Perhaps Ilona, our clever little girl, can be induced to tell us of your accomplishments.” Bela Korvuth’s round face hardened, his mouth grew thin, and his eyes wore suddenly bright with uncontrollable rage. “You are spies, all of you! Western, imperialist spies, agitators, fascists, inciters of rebellion! I could shoot you now, with all justification, but y
ou will be far more useful to us at the trial being prepared for your boss, General McFee. It will make fine reading for the whole world, will it not? It will prove to the whole world which side sincerely loves peace.”

  “Your kind of peace is the peace of the grave,” Ilona whispered.

  Korvuth flicked a glance at her. “You are not frightened, Ilona?”

  “I am already dead. There is nothing to fear now.”

  “You can be persuaded to change your mind. Where is Dr. Tagy?”

  “You will have to find him for yourself,” the girl answered. “I think not. I think you will be happy to take me to him.” Durell said suddenly: “We’ll talk to Major Ulitzky. Not to you, Korvuth. After all, you are not important. It is the Russians who run things. I will deal with them, not with you.” Korvuth’s round eyes became wide. A flicker of anger showed in their pale, opaque surfaces. He looked at the ratty-faced lieutenant, who scowled angrily.

  “We are masters in our own land,” Korvuth said.

  “You delude yourself. Or you believe your own propaganda. You are nothing. A stooge, a puppet on strings, jumping and dancing as your Russian masters bid you to dance.”

  He had touched a sore spot in the man’s vanity. At no time had Durell dared to glance at Matyas, standing bulkily to one side, near the wall. He did not look at Matyas now. He saw Korvuth flush and the man stepped forward, his hand lashing out, striking Durell across the mouth. The blow was hard, snapping Durell’s head to one side. Durell pretended to be staggered by the blow. He fell back against the desk, pushing Ilona to the left, out of the way. Korvuth struck him again, a sudden rage in the man, and then Durell heard a flat, meaty sound, like an axblow on flesh. Matyas had taken his cue. Standing immobile, he had attracted little attention from the lieutenant and Bela Korvuth, and he had understood Durell’s desperate maneuver. The lieutenant fell, crumpling at the knees, as Matyas stood over him. Instantly Durell straightened, caught at Bela Korvuth’s arm, twisting hard, and clapped a hand over the fat man’s mouth. He wrenched hard, hauling the AVO man off balance, his feet off the floor. Matyas was coming up fast, the lieutenant’s gun in his hand, his wide mouth stretched in a tight, humorless grin.

  “Let me kill him,” Matyas murmured.

  Korvuth squirmed futilely in Durell’s grip.

  “If he makes one sound,” Durell said.

  “He will. You don’t know him. He will scream—and die.”

  “Wait,” Durell said.

  Korvuth was strong, his fat illusory, his body solid and muscular, fighting his grip like a trapped bull. Durell wrenched his arm up higher behind his back. Korvuth tried to bite the hand clamped over his mouth, and Durell drove a knee into the man’s spine, felt the shock of the blow as it hit the AVO man, and then struck again, in the same spot. Korvuth slumped forward, his weight heavy and unfeeling in Durell’s grip. Durell let him go carefully. Matyas stood over him. The big man was shaking.

  “We have to kill him, I tell you.”

  “That’s not our job. We came here for McFee.”

  “That is hopeless now. We have to get out of here,” Matyas said heavily. “Kill him, and let’s go.”

  “Ilona?” Durell asked.

  “Let us finish what we came to do,” she answered.

  “Can you handle Korvuth and the lieutenant?”

  “Give me your gun, Matyas,” she said.

  Durell swung to the big man. “Do you know the way to the special detention cells?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Ilona, stay here in this room. Lock the door. If either the lieutenant or Korvuth revives before we get back, hit them again. Keep them out. Can you do it?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “We won’t be gone long,” Durell said.

  He moved out of the room, with Matyas reluctantly pacing beside him. A stairway led downward at the end of the hall, spiralling into the cellars on stone treads. Lights in wire protective baskets in the ceiling guided their way. A smell came up the stairs, compounded of human agony, feces, sweat, stale air, and blood. It’s like a charnel house, Durell thought, only the victims are humans, not animals. They passed several solid steel doors. A guard at the end of the corridor was smoking and reading a newspaper. A woman in a uniform, her body fat and gross, was writing at a small desk. Both the guard and the woman stood up.

  “The special prisoner,” Matyas said. “Bring him up.” “Has the major arrived?” the woman asked.

  “He is due in a few minutes. We want things ready.”

  “We could do the job just as well as he,” the woman grumbled. “We don’t need them breathing down our necks.” “Do as you are ordered,” Matyas said crisply.

  The woman got a ring of keys from her desk and tossed them to the guard. “Get him, Joszef.” Her eyes were sullen and resentful, ranging from Matyas to Durell. “I doubt if the prisoner can walk.”

  “He must be made to walk. And talk.”

  “Damn them all,” the woman said.

  The guard went off down the corridor, and Durell helped himself to a cigarette from a pack on the desk. He was thinking of McFee. If McFee were still drugged, in a half-conscious state, what would he do when he recognized Durell here in this place? McFee had had no idea that Durell would follow him to Budapest. He must have put all hope of rescue from his mind and considered death as his only chance for escape. If, in his drugged condition, he recognized Durell and gave any sign of it, everything might still be lost. His mind flicked back to Ilona, guarding the two men upstairs. She was only a small girl, hiding fear and tension under a brave front. But fear was nothing to be scorned. Durell knew fear in himself, and respected it, knowing that only a fool refused to be afraid. He dragged hungrily at the cigarette. What was taking the guard so long? He didn’t like the way the fat, sloppy woman at the desk kept staring at him, her eyes flat, like dark, ugly stones in the degenerated suet of her face. He was sweating under his uniform coat. His mouth was dry, and the Russian cigarette he had taken from the desk tasted harsh and strong. He crushed it out, and then he heard footsteps returning from around a corner of the underground corridor, and then he saw the guard coming back, pushing McFee ahead of him.

  “Help him,” Durell said to Matyas.

  Matyas went forward. Durell was aware of the fat woman watching him, rather than the guard and the prisoner. He kept his face blank, showing nothing of the shock he experienced at the change in Dickinson McFee’s appearance after only forty-eight hours in the hands of the AVO. The little man looked gaunt and haggard, only a ghost of his immaculate, spruce self. His eyes were fixed on the stone floor, concentrating on each step he was forced to take, as if in fear of falling and what might happen to him at the hands of the guard if he did. Each second seemed endless until McFee paused before Durell.

  “Here is your man,” the guard said.

  McFee looked up. His eyes were dull, without luster, scanning Durell’s impassive face. Then he smiled.

  “Hello,” he said in English.

  Durell felt the shock of sudden despair.

  Then McFee spat in his face.

  Afterward, Durell knew that their chance of success had rested purely in the lap of the gods. He could not have succeeded without Matyas and Ilona. He could not have won if Bela Korvuth hadn’t reacted to his taunt about Russian control over the operation. And he could not have made his way free if Major Ulitzky’s plane had not been delayed by ten minutes. He knew from past experience that luck and chance should have no part in what he had to do, and yet the instincts of a gambler, bred in him by his grandfather’s training and his background paid off. There was no objection from either the fat woman or the guard as he wiped McFee’s spittle from his cheek and then suddenly drove his fist into McFee’s grinning mouth. The little man crumpled without a sound, his eyes rolling back in his head. The fat woman chuckled. The guard grinned.

  “He has spirit, that one.”

  “It will be broken soon enough,” Durell snapped. He swung to Matyas. �
�Bring him along. Carry him, if you have to.”

  They went back up the stone stairway to the main floor of the prison. Laughter came from the common room used by the resting guards near the front entrance, and Durell turned aside, walking with an impatient stride to the small chamber where he had left Ilona guarding Bela Korvuth and the lieutenant. There was no sign of alarm, and everything looked all right when he entered. Ilona had her gun pointed at Bela Korvuth, who sat slumped against the wall, his eyes open and fixed viciously on the girl.

  Ilona raised her brown eyes to Durell, warm with relief.

  “I gave him his choice. Shout and die, or sit quietly and live.”

  “You will regret it, all of you,” Korvuth whispered. “You are insane if you believe you can escape. Perhaps you exult because you have gotten this far. But your joy will change to screams of pain before it is all finished.”

  “Shut up, you,” Matyas growled. He back-handed Korvuth with a swipe of his thick forearm, and Korvuth fell over sidewise, blood gushing from his broken lips. Durell took a handkerchief and tossed it to him.

  “Get on your feet. Cover your mouth with that. We’re going out of here.”

  “And him?” Matyas asked, pointing to the ratty-faced lieutenant.

  The uniformed man was still unconscious. “Leave him,” Durell said.

  Matyas jerked Korvuth to his feet. “I don’t like it,” he grunted. “You don’t know this breed. He makes twenty thousand forints a month, and my brother, a refinery worker in Csepel, makes eight hundred. But he is paid so well because they know he is a fanatic, ready to die. It is better if I break his neck.”

  Durell looked at the chunky AVO man. “We’re going to Dr. Tagy. We’re taking him out of the country, and we’ll take you part of the way with us. If you yell or raise an alarm now, you will be killed. Matyas will do it gladly. It will mean our deaths, too, but then you will never know what happened to Dr. Tagy. This way, if you have confidence in your abilities, you may find a chance to turn the tables on us, after all, once we join the Tagy family. I offer you this hope, because I know your pride and I know your mind. You will come with us on the chance that you can win the whole of the table stakes.”