by John Glasby
“There is a man called Minden. If he is still alive, he could be working for them.”
“A German?” Carradine looked surprised.
“From East Germany,” corrected the other. “I understand that he was with the Gestapo since its inception. When the war ended in Europe, he was forced to go underground, otherwise he would have suffered the same fate as other Nazis did. He was in Russia for two years and then went to China. He brought several secret documents with him, some from Russia. This was at the time when the rift between China and Russia was just beginning to widen a little. He could not have taken anything more valuable. It was this which made them accept him, more than anything else.”
“He sounds like a dangerous and unscrupulous man. How could the Red Dragon be so certain that he would not do the same thing again, taking some of their secrets with him?”
“Naturally,” the other spread his hands a little on top of the table, “that is a possibility—but no more than that. The tentacles of the Red Dragon are spread throughout the world in every major city. But it does not advertise its presence as many others do. I think that Minden knows, only too well, that there is nowhere—nowhere at all—in the whole world where he is beyond the reach of them.”
“And does that not also apply to you?”
“Of course.” Sen Yi bowed his head slightly. “By telling you even this, I shall have placed a noose around my neck or a knife in my back.”
Carradine stared at the little man who sat opposite him, at the quiet, almost serene features. It was difficult, if not impossible, for him to believe that Sen Yi meant what he said, when he claimed he had already pronounced his own death sentence. In the past, he had met men from the other side of the Iron Curtain, men whose mission had been to destroy him, men who had failed in that mission and been ordered back to Russia. It required no stretch of the imagination to visualise what their reception would be once they arrived back in the Soviet Union. A professional spy was allowed one mistake as far as Section M was concerned. With the Russians, he was not even allowed that. But that was the first time he had ever sat with a man and heard him discuss his own death so quietly and calmly.
Sen Yi must have learned many State secrets during the time he worked with the Red Dragon organisation inside Communist China; and even at that time, he must have known that one day, this knowledge might have extremely dangerous consequences for him. Sitting in that quiet room, Carradine felt a little of the terror that must have come to this man in those days several years before and wondered if that terror had grown with the passage of time. He himself has said that even here in London, he was not safe from these men. In spite of himself, he glanced out of the corner of his vision at the other customers in the small restaurant, found his gaze fixed on the two men on the other side of the room. They were now talking together in low voices, occasionally looking almost furtively over their shoulders towards the dimly-lit alcove.
Any one of the people in the restaurant could be an agent of the Red Dragon, watching Sen Yi and any of his acquaintances. There was, perhaps, no front in the world in which the agents of Red China were not quietly and stealthily advancing, content to allow the West to concentrate all of its attentions on the Soviet agents whose tactics, although discrete and following a carefully conceived and planned policy, were blundering when compared with those of the Chinese. Perhaps it was something to do with the way the Oriental mind worked, he reflected as he sipped the small cup of subtly scented tea.
“There is nothing more you can tell me?” Every tiny grain of information he could get from the other might be instrumental in saving his life.
“Nothing, but—” Sen Yi hesitated, threw a quick glance about him, then rose smoothly to his feet, scarcely moving the chair on which he had been sitting. Bending forward slowly, he said in a sibilant whisper. “It may be dangerous for you to remain here. There are too many eyes and ears even in this part of London. You are used to danger, I can tell, but with the Red Dragon, it can strike without warning and from unexpected directions.”
Carradine tensed. The other stared down at him for a long moment, then moved around the table and vanished through the curtain. Carradine shook himself. What the hell had all this been about? A German named Minden working in America on behalf of the Communist Chinese? Was there a chance that Sen Yi had told him all of this for a reason other than to help him? He had guessed from the very beginning that he was working for the British Secret Service. It was also likely that he was still working for the Red Dragon and all the information he had just given him had been false.
He finished the tea, motioned to the waiter and paid his bill. Outside, the sun was getting lower and in the long shadows thrown across the narrow alley, he could feel the distinct chill that had somehow lain hidden under the heat of the day. There were few people in sight although the faint hum of the traffic in the main street was audible above the screaming, high-pitched cries of the children from the tenements on either side. Carradine walked slowly and watched the shadows around him. There was an odd stillness all about him now, one which he had felt on several previous occasions. He was waiting for something, he was not sure what, to happen. He only knew that this feeling had not been there when he had walked down this narrow alley towards the restaurant.
Halfway along the alley, he paused and turned his head slowly, apparently incuriously, looking back in the direction of the restaurant. He had the strong sensation that those two rough-looking characters he had seen there would be following him, keeping well in to the shadows.
But Carradine was mistaken. There was no one there. He could just see the door of the restaurant. It was closed and in the faint light, the windows on either side of it glistened dully. He shrugged. So he had been wrong. He felt a little let down. It was not usual for his sixth sense to betray him like this.
His pace had slowed a fraction as he turned to survey the alley behind him. Now he lengthened his stride a little, still not relaxed. A couple of children, yellow faces curiously flat and expressionless in the gloom, ran chattering shrilly from the house on his left, raced across the alley and vanished into the dimness of one of the buildings on the other side. A sudden stillness settled on the place. He felt a prickle of sweat break out on his forehead. He strained his eyes into the long shadows.
He was still expecting trouble and consequently, he was ready for it when it materialised abruptly. As the dim shape launched itself from the narrow opening, he was completely on balance, right arm coming up instinctively. There was a faint gleam of light reflected from the long, curved blade of the knife in his assailant’s hand. His forearm smashed savagely against the other as the man swung downward. The blow threw the other’s knife arm off-target, staggering him against the wall. But he still retained his tight-fisted grip on the knife, lips drawn back in a savage snarl, eyes narrowed down to mere slits.
Carradine felt a sense of surprise. This was not one of the two men he had seen in the restaurant. He had never seen this man before yet there was no doubting the other’s intention of killing him. He had no chance to go for the gun in its holster beneath his left arm. Already, the other had recovered, was moving in again.
Pivoting his body from the waist, he waited. The other was breathing quickly and heavily, his chest heaving. In the loose-fitting coat and trousers, his body seemed oddly shapeless. The knife descending in a glittering arc was less than six inches from Carradine’s throat when he sidestepped swiftly, straightened his fingers and jabbed them with a savage force into the pit of the other’s exposed body. Fingers spread a little for rigidity, he used just enough force to paralyse the other’s stomach muscles. A little more force behind the blow would have killed the man instantly. As it was, the man reeled back against the wall, the knife dropping from his nerveless fingers, a gasp of agony bleating from between his lips. His face screwed up into a grimace of agony as Carradine stepped in, drawing back his left hand and slashing at the other’s throat as he fell.
Picking up the knife, Carradine s
traightened. It was a long-bladed Oriental dagger, the type one usually sees adorning the walls of some old Army Colonel’s home, a man who had seen service in the Far East. He turned it over in his hands for a moment, then stared down at the unconscious body that lay sprawled at his feet on the cobbles. He was on the point of bending and going through the other’s pockets when the clatter of running feet in the alley brought him upright once again, whirling him around, his gun hand inside his coat as he recognised the two characters from the restaurant.
One of the men said swiftly: “Relax. Forbes sent us to keep an eye on you just in case you ran into any trouble with Sen Yi.” He glanced down at the unconscious Chinese. “Seems as though you already did, Commander.”
Carradine slowly straightened himself, nodded and relaxed a little. The two calm professional faces told him more than words or actions could have done. There was no tension or excitement there, nothing but a strange look almost of boredom. Evidently these men were used to this, just as he was.
“You know who he is?” Carradine asked. He showed the knife. “He tried to stick me with this. Ugly-looking thing, isn’t it?”
“All depends on how you look at it, sir,” murmured the second man. “He looks like any one of a thousand Chinese you’ll find in this part of the city. You’ll not get anything out of him when he comes round. Your best course will be to get away from here and leave him to us. We know how to deal with this type and—“
The scream from the end of the alley splintered the stillness and the tension into a thousand shrieking fragments. It was a thin, high-pitched scream that died away swiftly, leaving a silence that screamed itself on the ear.
Carradine started forward instinctively. He had taken only a couple of paces when one of the men caught at his arm and pulled him back.
“Leave this to us, Commander,” urged the other harshly. “There is no need for you to concern yourself with this.”
“But damn it all, that could have been Sen Yi who screamed.” Impatiently he jerked the other's hand from his arm and ran along the alley towards the restaurant. Throwing open the door, he stepped inside, looking about him as he entered.
He had fully expected a scene of panic, of men running in all directions; but there was nothing like that. Everything inside the restaurant seemed to be quite normal, yet he was certain that the scream had come from inside the place.
Three Chinese were seated at the table on the far side of the room. They lifted their heads and regarded him gravely as he burst into the room. A moment later, the bamboo curtains were drawn aside and the waiter who had served him earlier stepped through. He looked up at Carradine with a faintly surprised expression on his bland features.
“Was there something you had forgotten, sir?” he inquired politely.
“We heard a scream from here a few moments ago. I thought that there may have been an accident and I could have helped.”
“No, sir. There has been no accident.”
“But you did hear the scream?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. Perhaps it was from somewhere outside. We hear very little inside the restaurant.”
He was lying, there was no doubt about that, Carradine told himself. Yet he knew also, that it would be impossible for him to prove it. Those three other customers would have heard nothing either.
“I see.” He half-turned, then looked back. Was there a faint sneer in the slitted eyes that flicked a quick glance in his direction? “There was one thing I had forgotten.” He knew he would have to improvise here. “Sen Yi promised me the recipe for that Chinese dish you brought me. Perhaps I could see him now.”
There was a barely perceptible pause. Then the other smiled faintly and bowed his head a little, apologetically. “I’m afraid that this will not be possible. Sen Yi left just after you did. He will not return until after dark. Maybe if you came back tomorrow…”
It was this remark that triggered Carradine into deciding that the Red Dragon had already carried out its inevitable sentence of death on Sen Yi. Retribution was swift and certain as far as they were concerned. Had it been this man now standing in front of him who had, acting as an agent for the Red Dragon, killed Sen Yi? Even if it were, he knew there would be nothing he could do to prove it. Reluctantly, he moved back towards the door. The two men were waiting for him outside, their faces grave.
“Did you find out anything?” asked one.
He shook his head. “Sen Yi is no longer available. I’m quite sure now that it was he who screamed, that they killed him because he talked to me.”
*
The muted hum of the four powerful jets rose to the smooth, continuous whine as the Boeing 707 taxied along the perimeter track, moving towards the end of the runway. Carradine leaned back in his seat, the safety belt fastened tightly around his stomach, staring at the neck of the man seated in front of him. Turning his attention to the scene outside, he glanced through the clear Perspex at the distant Control Building of London Airport, thought with a faint trace of nostalgia how things had changed since the days, many years before, when those buildings had been far smaller and less pretentious than they were now. In those days, there had been no whining jets, only the planes with their propellers that became glittering pools of faintly seen light.
There was a sudden, subtle change in the sound of the engines. They had reached the end of the runway. Straining a little, he could just make it out, a wide, gleaming concrete river that stretched away as far as the eyes could see in front of the quivering plane. There was a brief pause as the engines were gunned up, preparatory to take off. He guessed that the pilot was awaiting permission to take off from Control.
The jets rose to a howling shriek, the brakes were suddenly released and they were on their way, racing along the runway like an unleashed greyhound pursuing some invisible rabbit. Three-quarters of the way along the runway, they lifted smoothly into the air, the scream of the jets fell to a muted, bearable whistle and Carradine forced himself to relax. The worst part of the journey was over, until they came within sight of Idlewild. Then there would be the long, gliding descent, with his stomach protesting at the change in altitude and his ears popping and cracking painfully. Why did the airlines not provide a drug that would dull the nerves and senses during take-off and landing?
Leaning his head back, he loosened the belt and fixed his gaze on the ground that fell away beneath him. Five minutes later, they were above the thin, filmy air of cirrus and heading west into the wide air channel that carried the air traffic to America.
It was two days since Sen Yi had been murdered. Carradine forced the knowledge into the back of his mind, but it had the unpleasant habit of coming out and intruding on his thoughts. Sen Yi’s death worried him more than most. In a way, he felt directly responsible. It was little use telling himself that he had also exposed himself to the same kind of danger, that an attempt had been made on his life just after leaving that small restaurant. He had also tried to tell himself that no matter what the reasons had been for Sen Yi coming to England, leaving behind the organisation with which he had worked in China, the other had still been a professional Secret Service agent and would have known the consequences of his actions just as well as he did himself. Perhaps Sen Yi had come to England in a last attempt to break away from that life. There have been cases that he had known personally of men who had wanted to get out of this dirty, hole-in-the-corner business before it sullied them completely. If so, then he had directly implicated him again and the Red Dragon had taken its revenge on traitors.
With an effort, he told himself that he had far more important things with which to occupy his mind than the death of a Chinese agent. He was flying to America ill-prepared, knowing very little, except for the name of one man—Minden. He knew nothing of the other apart from his name. Maybe Dean could tell him a little more once he arrived in New York.
The plane droned on above the clouds. Now they were flying at twenty-five thousand feet. Through breaks in the clouds as they drifted
slowly beneath them he was able to see that they were still over land. Soon, the Atlantic would come into view and they would be flying over the featureless ocean almost the whole of the journey.
They crossed the coast less than fifteen minutes later. The clouds became more and more broken as they flew over the sea until finally, they left them behind altogether and down below them was an unbroken stretch of deep blue, with the sky laying a cone of brilliance over the smooth water and the sea fading to a dull purplish haze on the skyline.
He closed his eyes and settled himself more comfortably in his seat. Trying to think things out logically in his mind, he closed his thoughts to everything else but what he knew and what he would have to find out. Since Sen Yi had been so brutally murdered, he felt reasonably certain that the few facts that he had learned from the other were close to the truth. The Red Dragon organisation was more widespread than even the Chief had guessed. They had discussed it the previous day. They had known that the Chinese had a counter-espionage organisation but they had never thought they were this good. The Russians they knew of old, respected them for what they were. But the Chinese were different. How different, they were just beginning to find out and the knowledge had come as a very unpleasant surprise to them. Small wonder, he thought wryly, that the Americans were worried.
How would the Americans react to his presence there? He knew that they were jealous of their reputation, that there had been some occasions in the past when they had, with some justification perhaps, believed that the British Security Service could not be wholly trusted, was not up to scratch. There would undoubtedly be some professional jealousy, some antipathy towards him. But he felt certain that he could put up with this, disregard it. It was the undeniable fact that he would be under continued observation by these men as well, as by the enemy, that was worrying him more than anything else. It might even be construed by some that he had been brought in to help because their own men had fallen down on the job. That would be the worst possible thing that could happen. Above all, he needed a free hand in his work, he needed to be able to follow his own instincts and inclinations in this matter, not to be hemmed in by petty restrictions; and he foresaw only too clearly that this might happen.
