by John Glasby
“I believe that you helped the Department of Defence when they were planning the sites for their defensive missile sites in this territory.”
Cornish nodded. “That is perfectly true. We were asked to cooperate with them in choosing the most ideal sites, geologically speaking.”
“And you were given free access to these various places?”
“Why—yes.” Cornish’s smile widened a little, but to Carradine’s sharp eyes, he noticed the faint sheen of perspiration that had formed on the man’s forehead. He’s scared already, he thought with a grim amusement. Maybe it would be best if he came right out with the real reason for him being there, let Cornish know just how much he really did know about him, accuse him to his face of being in league with the Red Dragon. Almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he rejected it.
The people who were behind him, held him in a group of steel. It was extremely doubtful if Cornish would talk, even if he was scared to the point of death; and even if he would, whether he could tell him anything of real importance about this sordid business.
“I see.” He spoke the words carefully. The little muscle ticked again in Cornish’s cheek. Evidently a tell-tale sign as far as the other was concerned. He let the silence drag for several minutes.
At length Cornish said: “I’m afraid that I don’t quite see the trend of this conversation, Mr. Carradine.” He spread his hands in an apologetic motion on top of the desk. “Is there some doubt in the Department of Defence about the manner in which I have been working on this particular project?”
“None at all. But there have been incidents—I won’t bore you with the details of them—which have made it imperative that everyone connected with the projects must be questioned.”
“I hope you realize just how many things you’re setting in motion now that you have undertaken this mission,” said the other dryly.
Carradine shrugged his shoulders. “I’m afraid if we stopped to think about that every time, we would get nothing done and the security of this country would be virtually non-existent. This is purely routine work.”
Stiffly, Cornish said: “And I presume that I have to answer your questions. That is, unless I want to be hauled in front of one of your committees and questioned there.”
“At the moment, that necessity doesn’t arise,” Carradine said evenly. “I won’t say that it won’t happen in the future. You’re quite at liberty to say nothing—as of now.” His tone left no doubt as to the real meaning behind his words.
“I think I’m beginning to understand.” Cornish nodded. He sat forward a little, hunched in his chair. “I’m afraid there is nothing I can tell you. I worked for the Government when the defence sites were erected. They needed expert advice on the nature of the strata on which they intended to build their surface erections, and also sink their defence installations, keeping the rockets with their nuclear warheads far underground.”
“And you have divulged none of this information to anyone else?”
“Absolutely not,” declared the other. The faint sheen of sweat which Carradine had noticed earlier had now begun coalesce into tiny drops on his forehead.
Carradine leaned forward across the desk, not taking his eyes off the other for a single instant. He deliberately waited again for several moments. Outside, there was the sound of the heavy truck moving along the highway. It faded quickly. “You’re perfectly right in what you’re thinking,” he said, his voice very soft. “There has been a leak of information concerning the defence sites. We have to check every possible source.”
“Of course. I understand.” The other’s attitude of complacent assuredness had drained swiftly from him. At the back of his eyes and visible in the set of his jaw, were the unmistakable signs of a hunted animal. He was clearly doing his best not to show this to Carradine.
“Good.” Carradine straightened. “I think I’ve taken up too much of your valuable time, Mr. Cornish. I trust that you will forgive me. But you know how these things are where the Government is concerned.”
Cornish rose a little uncertainly to his feet. His handshake was a little limp. He showed Carradine to the door, closing it behind him. As he made his way along the airy, well-lit corridor, Carradine smiled grimly to himself. If that little performance hadn’t started things moving, then nothing short of a hydrogen bomb would. He wondered when, and how, Cornish would make his next move. Whether he would now get in touch with his superior—possibly Minden—and discuss this new development with him; whether he would try to work things out himself.
He shrugged his shoulders as he walked out of the imposing building, and made his way along the flower-bordered drive. Sufficient unto that day was the evil thereof, he thought with a grim amusement. As he reached the end of the drive, he paused, turned, and glanced back at the building to where the window of Cornish’s room was situated. He saw a dim shadow move away from the glass, stepping back swiftly into the room. So Cornish was watching him, making certain that he had left, had not hung around to find out anything more. Well, he could afford to give him a little time to think things over, to stretch his nerves to breaking point. It would only serve to make him act more rashly than otherwise. If he could make Cornish act impulsively, without rational thought, all the better.
*
When he got back to his room at the hotel, he was only mildly surprised to find that everything had been searched. Whoever had been through his room has certainly known his job. Outwardly, there was no evidence that his belongings had been touched, but there were little things which told him quite clearly that someone had been there, had examined everything there and then replaced the individual items as closely as possible in the positions they had earlier occupied. Only to his trained eye were the tiny discrepancies noticeable.
Lowering his long body into the chair by the window, he lit a cigarette and smoked it slowly as he turned things over in his mind. Whoever had done this while he had been talking with Cornish had found nothing. There had been no incriminating evidence anywhere in what he had brought with him that would have told these men anything about him. It was just possible, of course, that the Red Dragon was taking no chances, that they went through this procedure with every stranger who arrived in the town.
But it meant that he was close to them, far closer than he had imagined when he had visited Cornish. He finished the cigarette, stubbed out the butt in the tray, then left the hotel, picking up his car from the parking lot. The sun was high, the air warm and clear, and it seemed an ideal time for a leisurely drive through the countryside in the direction of the southern border.
The girl’'s white sports car was in the parking lot as he drove out. His feelings about her were oddly confused and there was a nagging sense of impatience within him at this confusion. He sensed that there was something more to her being in Socorro at this time and the way in which they had been thrown together but she had been oddly reticent about this and he had not pressed her to answer any of the burning questions in his mind.
A pity she hadn’t been around in the hotel. He could think of nothing more pleasant than for her to accompany him on a drive through the delightful countryside around Socorro.
Ten miles out of the city, he turned off the major highway, taking a narrower road, which led him towards the mountains that loomed high on the skyline. The road here was deserted and he stepped on the accelerator, enjoying the sensation of speed. The open ground on either side of the road swept past him in a blur of grey and green. Gradually, he found himself climbing and there were sharply angled bends in the road, which forced him to ease up on the accelerator pedal, the needle of the speedometer falling slowly until it hovered steadily around the fifty mark. On his right, there was a steep precipice that fell from close on three hundred feet into a rocky stretch of ground. On the bends, the road had been widened to allow plenty of room for two vehicles to pass, but on the short, straight stretches, it was barely wide enough for one car to pass another.
Here and there,
on the lower slopes of the foothills, he was able to make out large square plots of cultivated ground on which orchards had been established. The trees, spaced out in even rows like soldiers on parade, were hung heavily with fruit. It would be a bumper crop this particular year, he thought. At this altitude, the air was as clear as wine and in spite of the faint, purplish haze in the distance which obscured some of the further details, he was able to see for close on seventy miles, out to where the rocky ground gave way to more open, desert country.
Swinging the car on one of the sharp corners, he caught a brief glimpse of the other car behind him, moving swiftly up the twisting mountain road. Had it not been in just the right position on one of the straight stretches of road, he would have missed it completely. He watched it in the mirror for a moment. A dark red saloon car, hugging the road as it swung around one of the bends. Whoever was behind the wheel clearly knew this road and was an excellent driver. He judged that the car was travelling well over seventy miles an hour, gaining on him rapidly.
A moment later, the car was lost to view. Gently, he pushed down on the accelerator, leaned forward and opened the glove compartment, checking that the heavy Luger was there. It was just possible that Cornish had worked faster than he had expected. Maybe he judged that Carradine was a more dangerous enemy than any of the others who had come snooping around and wanted to get rid of him as soon as possible, in order to safeguard his own position.
He did a controlled skid around one of the corners, sucking a gust of air sharply into his lungs as the car side-swiped violently, slid dangerously close to the edge of the road. He had the feeling that one of the wheels actually went over the edge, hung there spinning for a split second before the car managed to right itself. In spite of the sense of danger crowding swiftly on him, Carradine felt some of the life begin to come back into his body, the sense of sheer excitement heightening his reflexes, sending the blood surging through his veins. How far this road continued before there was any branching off it, he did not know. He guessed that it probably went straight through the narrow pass, which he could just see whenever he swung around one of the corners, then on down the other side, before there were any diversions. His only chance was to stay well ahead of them.
He wound down the window, felt the rush of cool air against his face. Swinging around a corner, he came upon a long stretch of road that climbed steeply, but virtually straight, for three miles or so, clear up to the pass he had noticed earlier. Setting his teeth, he pressed hard on the accelerator. The car responded warmly, seemed to leap forward, tyres screeching on the fine grit on the road surface. As he drove, he kept a sharp look out in the mirror, watching for the moment when the other car came into sight around the bend. This would tell him how much of a lead he had, might even force him to alter his plans. He swore softly under his breath as the saloon swung into sight scarcely a mile behind him. They had made excellent time, had overhauled him with ease. What kind of engine had they got under the bonnet of the car? he wondered. It was just possible, too, that the other had chains on the tyres which could explain why they had managed to keep to the road so well on the corners.
The tall pinnacles of rock on either side of the pass rushed towards him. They blotted out the streaming sunlight as he swept through them. Then he was out into the open again, on the downgrade. The road ahead twisted into a series of S-bends again and less than a mile away it ran through a narrow bridge across a steep-sided ravine. Carradine’'s mind raced furiously on the problem of shaking off the pursuit.
He knew the other car must be gaining fast, but he did not have the advantage of knowing the road, every twist and bend, or of having chains on the wheels, possibly even Rally studs. Forced to slow down as he ran into the first of the S-bends, he saw that the saloon was gaining on him rapidly now, less than half a mile distant. In the mirror, in the clear air, he was able to distinguish the three shapes in it, the pale blur of the driver’s face, hunched over the wheel.
Oddly, now that he recognized what he was up against, Carradine felt calm. The problem of what he had to do was a problem no longer. His hands sat lightly and delicately on the wheel as he eased the car around the bend. The camber was set badly, almost in the wrong direction and he felt the car lurch and sway as it hit the bend. The fencing alongside the lead into the bridge loomed up on him and for a second he had the feeling that he was travelling too fast for the turn, that he was bound to skid, completely out of control, smash through the flimsy fencing, the car turning over and over in the air, striking the sharp needles of rock on the way down until it piled up in a smashed, tangled ruin, several hundred feet below.
His fingers tightened convulsively on the wheel, swung it gently, taking care not to over-correct as he felt the rear wheels begin their inevitable slide on the treacherous stony surface of the road.
It was a normal reflex movement easing up on the accelerator, keeping his foot away from the brake, which could so easily have been fatal. Even so, the wooden uprights scraped against the side of the car as he swept past them with less than an inch to spare. His skin crawled as he passed over the narrow bridge. Down below him, on both sides, the gaping mouth of the ravine yawned hungrily. With an easy sway of his body and hands, coordinating every movement, with no unnecessary actions, he drove over the bridge, into the rocks on the far side. Behind him, the red saloon screamed down on the bridge, lurching out of the S-bend, tyres screeching as the driver fought to control the car.
A swift glance in the mirror and Carradine saw the man beside the driver lean out of the window, ignoring the rails which flashed by within inches of his body. The sunlight, shafting through the rocky teeth on the side of the road, glinted off the gun in his hand.
No doubt now what these men were after. Veering over to the left hand side of the road, praying that there was no other car heading towards him, Carradine cut the corner with scant inches to spare. He sat hunched forward, shoulder blades tensed. Savagely, he fought to relax. A shoulder was no use against the slamming impact of a .45 slug, he told himself fiercely.
The bullet struck the side of the car, ricocheted off with a shrill whine that was clearly audible even above the roar of the engine. There was another shot and the window behind him suddenly crazed over, a ragged hole in the centre of the splintered area where the slug had penetrated. Carradine felt the breath of it close to his head as it buried itself in the dashboard. Desperately, he fought to control the car. By deliberately swinging it from side to side along the narrow road, he was able to prevent it from drawing level with him, from forcing him off the road, a manoeuvre that was clearly these men’s intention.
He shot out of a bend into a straight stretch. Too late he saw the warning sign by the side of the road. Less than three hundred yards beyond it lay the rocks which had, at some recent period, slid down the side of the mountain, engulfing half the road. There were a couple of red lights placed twenty feet from a pile of rocks. Automatically, Carradine slammed on the brakes, gripping the wheel tightly to lock it on a straight course. At this speed, he could not possibly hope to miss all of these rocks, but with a fantastic amount of luck, he might manage to steer around them and still stay on the road.
Bracing every muscle and fibre in his body, he struggled to hold the powerful car straight. Another shot rang out from behind him. Briefly, in the mirror, he saw that the pursuing car was slowing automatically. They had come out of the bend more slowly than he had, evidently knowing of this obstruction. It was a trap of a sort, and he had driven into it. The offside wheels slammed into the rocks. Rubber shredded off the tyres as the needle-sharp edges tore into them. The car whirled viciously. Gritting his teeth, aware of the precipice that loomed on his right, he swung the wheel hard over. His control of the car lasted for only a split second. Then it went careening across the road in a dry skid, dust and rocks churning up beneath the wheels. His initial swerve had carried him clear of the lip of the precipice, choosing the rocks as the lesser of two evils.
Rearing s
avagely as it hit the pile of boulders, the car hung for several seconds, then crashed down onto its side, tearing along the boulder-strewn rock face, spinning round as it reached the end of the obstruction. The shuddering impact hurled Carradine from behind the wheel, knocking him with a sudden, savage force to one side. There was the splintering crash of glass, the rending grind of metal being torn like paper. Moments later, the car came to a standstill against the rock face, the rear of it crumpled out of all recognition.
With a thin, high-pitched screech of brakes, the saloon drew to a halt beside the wreckage, but Carradine, slumped in the front seat, heard nothing of this. There was a thin trickle of blood on his left temple where his head had struck the dashboard. He was unconscious and almost immovable.
Opening the door, Minden climbed out, stretched his legs slowly, almost luxuriously as if he had not a single care in the world, then he walked slowly to the crumpled wreckage of the car, stood peering into the shattered window. He could just make out Carradine’s body lying behind the wheel, his arms and legs twisted grotesquely where the front seat had torn away from its normal position.
