by John Glasby
But there was no point in trying to see too far ahead—his normally tidy mind had no place for that sort of mental litter. He needed a clear mind at all times.
*
They landed in Idlewild only a short time after they had left London, having chased the sun around the world. A little over five hours had actually elapse, but the local time indicated they had lost only a few minutes. Following the other passengers down onto the tarmac, he walked towards the Customs, waited for his two suitcases to arrive from the plane. There was little formality and he was passed through quickly.
There was a fleet of taxis waiting outside the airport and he was on the point of hailing one of them when a small car glided swiftly to the edge of the sidewalk and stopped in front of him. The driver leaned his head out the window, said quietly: “Commander Carradine?”
He nodded. The other opened his door, came around the back of the car, lifted up the boot, then took Carradine's cases, stuffed them inside, slammed down the boot again, locked it and opened the door for him.
It was cramped for Carradine inside the car and he was forced to sit with his legs pulled up so that his knees were almost at his chest. The other switched on the ignition, said apologetically: “Sorry about the car, but Dean thought that it would be best not to be conspicuous.”
There was a faint hint of mystery behind the friendly voice. Carradine had the feeling that things in New York were worse than he had imagined. But he made no attempt to question the other, knowing that Dean would tell him everything in good time. Settling himself back, wriggling his long limbed body into as comfortable a position as possible, he watched the tall skyscrapers of New York glide towards him until they loomed on either side of the car. It’s started, Carradine thought with a faint rise of tension in his mind. Now, very soon, he was going to catch a little more of the hell which only professional spies knew. How could one ever hope to rationalise it—this strange feeling of being utterly alone, even in the midst of a city of eight million people? The professional spy was never meant to operate in a pack. He was a lone wolf. You struck quietly and quickly, and then you ran. That was the code. If you were caught, then you had to fight it out on your own, using every possible weapon. If you lost your fight, then you died alone. In a way, it was the law of the jungle. A dirty business, and the only thing you could ever say for yourself, for the way in which you worked and lived, was that perhaps because of the thing you did, a few million people might sleep a little easier in their beds.
He lifted his gaze to the sheer rising wall of concrete and sun-glittering windows that rose on all sides of him now, shutting out the sunlight from the street. Somehow, he gained the impression that the sunlight never managed to penetrate down here onto the sidewalks, no matter what hour of the day or season of the year.
“It’s a real hell-hole, isn’t it?” said the man behind the wheel softly.
Carradine turned his head. “Sorry, I’m afraid my thoughts were miles away.”
“All of this, I mean.” The other waved his hand expressively. His thick, curly hair seemed almost planned in its disarray and the strange empty blue eyes peered out at Carradine from under thick brows. Only his cruel mouth detracted from good looks. There were odd tensions at work in this man, Carradine thought.
“I hadn’t noticed,” Carradine said at length.
“You would if you had to live here,” grunted the other.
“I gather that you’re not a city man yourself.”
“You bet your life I’m not, I’m from Montana, used to having wide, open spaces around me, without all this concrete and masonry getting in the way.”
“Why stay here then?”
The other shrugged. “I'm only here for a little while. I usually get the assignments away from here. But Dean figured that it would be best if I came along to brief you as best I can on this affair. I guess you’ve been told a little about it in London.” He glanced at Carradine sideways as he spoke, keeping most of his attention directed to the streaming lanes of traffic all around them.
“It was only a little. I’m hoping that Dean is able to tell me more about it. I dislike having to work in the dark as far as these people are concerned.”
“Dean’s a strange man. He takes a bit of getting used to. Better go easy with him at first.” Skilfully, the other guided the car out of the mainstream of traffic, eased it into the kerb, switching off the ignition the second he took the car out of gear. “Here we are,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll take you up. He is expecting you but I better check first with our Control.”
They went inside the tall building, through a wide, arched entrance, along a short corridor, pausing in front of the elevator. Carradine’s companion thumbed a button on the wall and a few moments later the elevator slid smoothly down from one of the upper floors. The steel grille opened noiselessly and the other motioned Carradine to go inside.
“Top floor, I’m afraid,” he said, smiling faintly. “Another whim of Dean’s.”
The elevator began its smooth, upward climb. Several floors flashed in front of Carradine’s gaze but he soon lost count of them. Once the elevator came to a stop, there were more corridors, wide and airy, with large windows here and there that looked out over the tops of the nearby buildings. It surprised him a little to see how high they were. Finally, the other stopped outside a glass-panelled door, pressed one of three buttons on the wall. There was no sound, no flashing lights, but a few moments later, the door opened silently in front of them.
CHAPTER 3 - THE MERCHANTS OF DEATH
Dean shook his hand carefully, and motioned to the red, plush chair fronting the long, expensive desk. “Have a good flight over?” he inquired. The pleasant, drawling voice went well with the fleshy features. Carradine guessed that he came from one of the southern states, possibly Texas.
He sat down in the chair and stretched out his legs straight in front of him, quite relaxed. There was a pause, then Dean lifted his head and went on: “Did Arland give you any idea of our problem here?” He glanced at the man who had brought Carradine there as he spoke.
Carradine shook his head. “No one seems to know very much about this trouble. I was hoping you might be able to enlighten me a little.”
“Yes, indeed,” Dean murmured. For a long moment, he stared off into space, seemingly lost in thought. The deep-set eyes appeared to hood themselves like those of a bird of prey. Carradine watching him closely from beneath lowered lids, guessed that there were hidden depths in this man, not noticeable to most men, which explained why he had held down this particular job.
“I’ve heard quite a lot about you, Carradine. Everything I’ve heard indicates that you are the man we need for this job.” He smiled thinly. “I suppose that to you, all of this is purely routine.”
“I’ve learned from past experience that in this kind of work nothing is routine. The man who thinks that way is soon dead.”
“I guess you’re right at that.” Dean flickered a quick enigmatic glance at Arland, standing near the wall.
Carradine followed the other’s gaze, then switched his glance to the small table behind Dean. He had noticed it casually when he had first entered the room, but now he saw that there was a small tape-recorder on it and the microphone was somewhere behind Dean’s broad back, invisible to him. The tape spools were rotating slowly. American officialdom and security were certainly taking no chances with Steve Carradine, he thought wryly.
Sitting back in his chair, Dean said quickly: “As from this moment, you will be working for me and until this job is finished, you will have nothing whatever to do with London. This has already been agreed between your Government and mine. You’ll be on open salary here—within certain limits of course. We don’t want you spending thousands of dollars, naturally, but we do want you to have everything you need.”
“I see.”
“Officially you’ll be based here. I have arranged for you to have an office in this building. This is the nerve centre of operations. We have
radio-teleprinter links all over the country, and with one or two selected countries abroad. All signals will be encoded. You will have to act in close liaison with the Code and Cypher Division. Arland will introduce you to them.”
“Fine—but what exactly is the job?” Carradine asked.
Dean heaved himself from his chair, walked over to one of the wall maps, beckoning Carradine to follow him. Carradine moved over to the map. Dean was pointing to a spot in New Mexico.
“Right here,” he said in a cold, matter-of-fact voice, “one of our top security men was killed a little over a month ago. He was carrying certain extremely vital documents relating to the defence centres we have in this area here.” The other’s stubby finger moved a little. “Ordinarily, had this been simply an isolated incident, we would merely have left it to the FBI to investigate. As it turned out, it was merely the first in a series of apparently isolated, but now quite obviously interrelated incidents.” He turned his head slowly and stared bleakly at Carradine.
“The Red Dragon,” Carradine said softly.
“That’s right. How did you manage to get on to them?”
“I met a man in London who had worked with them for some years before he escaped from Red China via Hong Kong.”
“And he talked?” There was a note of surprise in the other’s voice.
“I’m afraid he was silenced—permanently—just after talking to me. He was able to tell me very little, I’m afraid.”
Dean nodded. He moved over to the window. His thick, horn-rimmed glasses winked briefly as he turned and said: “The police picked a hobo out of an alley in the Bronx last night. Odd thing about him. He wasn’t drunk as they figured at first. He had been drugged—and we now know he is one of our top security men from the missile proving grounds in New Mexico. We’ve known for some time now that there’s a Red organisation in America working to find the location of our nuclear defence posts. This man of ours was after the top men in that organisation.” He paused, lowered his gaze on to Carradine. “As from today, Mr. Carradine, so are you.”
He walked back to the desk, lowered himself into the chair. “You know, I sit here in this air-conditioned office like some figurative bloated spider—giving orders to more than three dozen agents scattered throughout the whole length and breadth of the country and each time I give a man an order I have the feeling I’ve just signed his death warrant. I suppose that in any less a man that would be enough to stop him from sleeping at nights.” He sounded almost apologetic.
Carradine grinned faintly. “Someone has to do that kind of work. I’m afraid it wouldn’t appeal to me.”
“I can understand that.” Inwardly Dean was thinking that the British Secret Service chose their killers well. There was something about this man seated opposite him—a kind of quiet inner ruthlessness that spoke volumes about the other. He guessed that Carradine was a man who did not like killing simply for the sake of killing, but who would destroy a man without a qualm or hesitation should the necessity ever arise. Bringing his hands down, he looked straight across at Carradine. “You can start by having a talk with the security man. At the moment he’s in the hospital five blocks from here. If they’ve managed to do anything with him, he may be able to talk. Frankly, I wouldn’t bank too heavily on it. It’s just an off-chance.”
“I’ll do that.” Carradine rose to his feet, then paused. “By the way, can you give me any dope on a man named Minden?”
Dean’s eyes took on a hard, foxy look. He said: “I’ve heard the name before. If we have any record at all on the man it will be in the files.” He leaned over to one side and pushed a red button on the desk.
The intercom buzzed for a moment and then a voice said: “Central registry.”
“Dean here, Clive. See if you think get me anything on a man named Minden. I’ve an idea we came across him about nine months or a year ago. Let me have it as soon as possible.”
“Five minutes, sir,” said the voice at the other end of line. There was a sharp click as the connection was broken.
Dean sat back. “A good man that. If the information is there, he’ll have it out within minutes. Got a mind like a computer. Photographic memory and all that.”
The information arrived in four minutes. The intercom buzzed and Dean flicked down a switch. “Yes?”
“Clive here, sir. That information you wanted. Carl Minden. He’s a German, came to the States nine years ago. There was evidence that he was connected with the Helleren case four years ago, but he dropped out of sight before he could be arrested and brought to trial. We thought he may have been spirited back to Europe, but there was no proof of this.”
Dean flicked a quick glance in Carradine’s direction.
The other nodded, said in a soft tone: “He’s still here in the States, working for the Red Dragon.”
Dean wagged his head, said into the intercom: “We believe that he’s still in this country, Clive. Probably working for the Reds.”
“The Russians?” queried the voice.
“No—the Chinese.”
There was a faint whistle of surprise over the intercom. “I see. You want me to try to dig any further on this, sir? Sounds as though we are a little behind the times with this particular file.”
“If you would, Clive. In the meantime, we’ll get on to it from this end.” He broke the connection, looked up at Carradine, then across to where Arland stood leaning against the wall.
“You got anything on him, Bill?”
Arland shook his head. “Naturally I heard about the Helleren affair. But the name Minden means nothing to me, I’m afraid.”
“From what I recall of him,” went on Dean musingly, almost as though he had not heard the other’s statement, “he’s a nasty piece of work. Worked for the SS before and during the war. How he escaped justice is a wonder to me. He must be a bright lad, otherwise he would never have survived as long as this with half the police forces in the West looking for him. I doubt if the Germans have completely forgotten about him. A lot of those men changed from the Nazi party into good, first-class citizens as soon as the war ended and they realized what lay in store for them once the Allies started meting out justice. Even now, all these years later, they still aren’t completely safe, not even if they manage to get into South America. Remember what happened to Reichmann. It could happen just as easily to Minden and he knows it. But he’s in with a good organisation if your information happens to be correct. You got it from this Red Dragon agent?”
“That’s right. It was the only piece of positive information he was able to give me.”
“So at the moment, wherever he is, he believes himself to be safe.” Dean studied the other for a long moment, then said briskly: “All right. You’d better get along to the hospital and see if Wellman is any condition to talk. Arland will show you the way.”
Carradine nodded. Arland pushed himself away from the wall and followed him to the door. Opening it, Carradine paused as Dean said: “One other thing, Carradine. No doubt you have realized by now that your greatest asset to us is that although these people may know most of my agents by sight, they don’t know you. Because of this, you will be in command of this operation, directly responsible only to me. Arland knows the situation. Don’t try to get in touch with me. If you have any important information, ring the number that Arland will give you. It will be redirected to me via the Coding and Cypher Department.”
“I understand.” Carradine closed the door slowly. His last picture of Dean was of the other lighting a cigar, sitting back in his chair, head tilted back a little, staring up at the ceiling through half-closed eyes. To all outward appearances, he seemed to be a man without a trouble or care in the world. Carradine grinned wryly to himself as he followed Arland along the corridor. Only the few who really knew him could guess at the turmoil than must be raging inside the other’s mind.
*
The doctor was a young, fresh-looking man in his early thirties, looking spruce and efficient in his white suit.
He walked a couple of inches ahead of Carradine as he led the way along the wide, well-lit passage that smelled of antiseptic and other vague and indefinable odours.
They were making their way towards the wide, double-doors of the ward at the far end of the corridor.
“This is an odd case, Mr. Carradine,” said the other quietly. “He was admitted late last night after being found in some alley down in the Bronx. Naturally, we get many such cases from that area. Bottle fights, knife fights, and any kind of weapon you can imagine. They sometimes come in ones, more often in threes and fours. We suspected that he was drunk, but we soon discovered that he was under the influence of a drug.”
“Do you know which drug it was?”
“They’re still checking on that at the moment. I’d say it was probably one of the sodium pentothal type.”
“One of the truth drugs?”
“It would appear so. Once we received word that he was working for the Government—the Department of Defence, I understand—we had him immediately transferred to a private ward. All the staff assigned to his case have been security checked.”
Carradine eyed the other’s broad back for a moment as the doctor pushed open the door of the ward with the flat of his hand.
There were screens around the bed in the small, airy room. A nurse, seated in the chair in one corner glanced up quickly as they came in, laid down the chart on which she had been marking lines in red ink, got to her feet and came forward, flashing them both a brilliant smile.
“This is Mr. Carradine,” explained the doctor. “He is working with one of the Government departments.”
The nurse nodded, but said nothing.
“Is he conscious yet?” asked the doctor.
“He came out of the coma temporarily for a few minutes about three quarters of an hour ago. Doctor Thornton had a look at him, but the improvement was only temporary, I’m afraid.”
