The Secret Enemy (A Steve Carradine Thriller)

by John Glasby

  The driver gave a sudden warning shout as he glanced into the mirror. He tried to kick a further ounce of speed from the car. But whatever it was that the other car had, it was too much for them. It swerved out to the other side of the road, drew level with them, and then moved on past. Out of the corner of his eye, Carradine saw the tight face, goggles pulled down over the eyes to shield them from the wind stream. The gun cradled in the man’s hands was lining up on them as Carradine lifted the Luger. The danger of their position emptied his mind of all other thought. Swiftly, he squeezed the trigger, felt the heavy gun kick at his wrists. The windscreen shattered as two slugs passed through it. He saw the gunmen flinch as one of the slugs tore into his shoulder. Then the automatic weapon opened fire on them. The brief flare of the muzzle-fire, even in the bright sunlight. The rest of the windscreen vanished as bullets ploughed into the toughened glass. Instinctively, Carradine ducked to one side. The car lurched and dimly, he was aware of his companion slumping forward over the steering column, the dark crimson stain showing through on the brown shirt.

  The red car was streaking away along the sunlit road. A bend showed ahead and even as he dropped the Luger on to the floor of the car and reach sideways to grab at the wheel, thrusting the other’s body to one side, he knew he was going to be too late, that there was nothing he could do to prevent them from going over.

  Desperately, exerting all of his strength in one last, muscle-cracking heave, he sought to keep the car on the road, to thrust his leg forward under the other’s body for the brake. The edge of the road came up, spun beneath the churning wheels of the car and then they were over the side, sliding down the slope, powdery soil flying in a grey-brown cloud all about the car, obscuring details almost completely.

  Two short, slender-trunked saplings barred the way, were instantly brushed aside as the bonnet ploughed into them, snapping them off at their bases. There was the first appalling crash as the car struck an upthrusting rock, bounced for several yards before hammering down on its iron belly in a stretch of soft earth that succeeded in breaking it before it had a chance to turn over. Then, just when it seemed to him that he was going to be all right, the outside wheel hit a sharp rock. There was a loud explosion of a bursting tyre and the car slewed round sharply, tilted onto its side and slid the remaining twenty metres with an ear-splitting screech of tortured metal being abraded by sand and rock. It came to rest abruptly as it hit a mass of rock and dirt. Unable to stop himself, Carradine went forward. His head hit the edge of the dashboard and he went out.

  When he came to, the sunlight was glaring blindingly into his eyes. With a tremendous effort, he struggled up from the depths of a black, trance-like unconsciousness that tried to retain its grip on him in spite of everything he could do to snap out of it. Momentarily, he would drag himself up above the surface of consciousness, only to slide back into the deep, terrible darkness again. But gradually, these fleeting moments of awareness were lengthening although his mind tried to think to slip back just when he thought he had it, there was a feeling of something at the back of his mind which grew perceptibly stronger; something to hang on to while he strove to orientate himself.

  At last he forced his eyes open again, made himself keep them open, then heaved himself up into a sitting position. There was redness in front of his eyes and several seconds elapsed before he realised that it was his own blood flowing from a gash across his forehead. He put his hand up to it, winced involuntarily as a stab of pain glanced through his skull from front to back.

  There was a long moment’s silence, a moment in which Carradine was increasingly aware of a sharp-smelling acrid smoke that stung his nostrils and made his eyes run, blurring his vision still further. Turning his head, he stared down into the wide-eyed face, lips bloodless, stretched back over his teeth. The man had died hard, but almost instantaneously. There were at least six bullet holes in his chest and the steering wheel had not improved matters either.

  He twisted around again, tried to see where the smoke was coming from. The metal of the car was blisteringly hot to the touch and the door next to him had been buckled out of shape by the force of the crash. For fifteen seconds, he struggled with it, and then gave it up. Nothing short of a crowbar and plenty of leverage would open that, he decided.

  How long had he been out? He glanced at his watch. The glass was smashed and both hands had been snapped. He could have been unconscious for minutes or hours, there was no way of telling. Was there any way of getting himself out of this wreck? And even if he did, where could he make for? Follow the road and hope he could reach some small village where he might be able to get help, get his injuries tended? Leaning to one side, bending over the body of the man sprawled behind the shattered ruins of the steering wheel, he twisted his head back with a powerful wrench of neck muscles and glanced up in the direction of the road. For a moment, he could make out nothing in the all-pervading glare. Then he sucked in a sharp breath and let it go in a slow whistle. There was a car up there, parked on the very edge of the road, and someone was getting out of it, pointing down at him. For a second he had the impression that it was the red car that had come back, its occupants determined to finish the job, to make sure he was dead.

  But no, this was a blue car, sleek and shiny and the figure that had stepped to the edge of the chasm and pointed was a girl. He could just make out the handkerchief she had tied over her hair, fluttering a little behind her in the wind. Then someone else moved to join her, tall, square-shouldered. The man began to clamber carefully down the rocky slope, finding footholds and handholds where none seemed to exist. In places, it seemed impossible that a fly could have come down that slope, yet he seemed to be finding it without difficulty.

  The man reached the car, peered in through the shattered windscreen, gave the driver a cursory glance, muttered something in Bulgarian which Carradine did not understand, then caught hold of the top of the door with both of his hands. Leaning back, he wrenched at the tough metal. For a long moment, nothing happened. There was a faint sheen of sweat on the giant’s forehead now. His lips were pressed tightly over his clenched teeth and his eyes were mere slits as he exerted all of his strength. Slowly, the metal gave. There was a sudden savage screech as the hinges gave, then the door was pulled back and the man stood looking down at him. Gingerly, Carradine tried to move his legs, found to his surprise that although there was a stabbing pain of cramp in the muscles of the back of his thighs, he had no broken bones.

  Reaching in, the man caught him by the arm, helped him out, aided him to stand. The full heat of the sun struck him forcibly. A lunging automaton, he somehow managed to stay upright as the other forced him to move away from the car. The smell of smoke was still clinging to the dusty air, still stung his nostrils and the back of his throat. Coughing, the throbbing ache hammering away like a series of tiny trip-hammers behind his skull, he dug in his heels and moved up the slope. There was a sudden feeling behind him, something that he could not identify but we seem to have some important bearing on what was happening. The next second, he went over sideways. He did not fall, but was thrust into the hot dirt by the tremendous weight of the man beside him, held there as that wreck, less than twenty metres away suddenly retched smoke and erupted in a gush of petrol-driven flame that engulfed it completely. The blast of hot air struck his scalp and he felt the wave of heat push at his body as he lay there with all the wind knocked out of his lungs. Seconds after the ferocious blast, the man on top of him eased his way to one side, got heavily to his feet.

  Sobbing breath down into his aching lungs, Carradine lay with his face pressed into the ground. If only the other would leave him alone, let him live there until some of the life and feeling came back into his battered body. He felt as if he could close his eyes and drift off into sleep—or would it be unconsciousness—again. A hand gripped his arm, tightened, the fingers biting into the flesh with a steel-like strength. Cursing feebly, he got to his feet, swayed, would have fallen had it not been for the man
, thrusting him up the slope, propelling him with an urgency that brooked no denial. Carradine ran his fingers through sweat-matted hair, felt the spot where blood has entrusted itself on his lacerated flesh, sucked in a sharp breath as the pain went through him again. He was in pretty bad shape. Somehow, he remained upright, clambering over the razor-edged rocks, moving as nearly as possible along a stretch of earth where the car, when it had plunged down the side of the road, had gouged out a smooth rut in the ground.

  Lurching drunkenly, the man beside him still retaining his grip on his arm, they somehow struggled to the top. Carradine felt himself being thrust over the lip of the road, was dimly aware of the woman moving towards him, reaching down to help him.

  Carradine felt the sharp-edged rocks tear into his knee as he was hauled forward. He looked up. The face bending over him was one he recognised. The pale hair rippled over her shoulders, blown a little in the wind, and a stray wisp had fallen over the deep violet eyes that look down at him with an expression of concern in them. How in hell had she got here?

  “Francesca!” He managed to get her name out. “How in God’s name did you come to be here?”

  “There's no time for talk now, Steve,” she said urgently. “Can you walk to the car, or will Carl carry you?”

  “Like hell he will,” protested Carradine feebly. Somehow, he made a faint grin. “I can make it on my own two feet.” He moved towards the car, the big man moving ponderously beside him, opening the door for him. Then he was sinking into the soft cushions at the back, and an overwhelming sense of lassitude swept over him, so that he was content merely to lie back and ask no further questions until the girl had slipped in behind the wheel and they were moving off.

  Sitting as straight as possible in his seat, he threw a quick glance behind him as they drove away. Down below, a column of smoke was still lifting into the clear air, a column that was shredded and blown into oblivion by the wind sighing up the steep slope of the mountain. The was now only the vaguest hint of flame among the rocks.

  Francesca drove fast, taking the bends at speed. Evidently she knew the stretch of road like the back of her hand, he reflected weakly. Licking his dry lips, he said harshly: “How did you know it was me down there, Francesca?”

  “It’s quite simple, really. I heard that you had arrived in Sofia and guessed that you might be trying to contact Volescu. That was one of his men driving the car. I also discovered that someone is keeping a watch on your room at the hotel. That was when I decided to follow you. I had Carl come with me just in case you run into any trouble on the way. By the time we saw that other car, it was too late. Both you and they had too good a lead on us. We saw most of what happened, saw you go over the edge. It was then a toss-up whether we went after them or went to help you.”

  “I’m glad you reached the right decision as far as my particular welfare was concerned,” he said, trying to keep evenness in his tone.

  “We can always find the others when we need to,” said Carl thickly. He spoke in halting English.

  The girl nodded. “Carl is right. We know where to find them.”

  Just around a bend, they ran through a small town, which Carradine guessed was Zlatica. When they were through and out into the open country once more, he said: “But you still haven’t explained how you came to be here—in Bulgaria. The last I saw of you, you were being taken away from Tamariu in that motor launch. I thought that would be tShhe last I’d ever see of you.”

  Through the rear mirror, he saw the faint smile on Francesca’s lips. She pressed gently on the accelerator with her foot, bringing the needle on the speedometer up to the hundred kilometre mark. “There was a little unpleasantness in Tamariu, I must admit. But nothing that we were unable to take care of.”

  “It was the fat man behind it all, wasn’t it?”

  She nodded briefly. “He played right into our hands,” she said confidently. “He was an amateur when it comes to that sort of work.”

  “Oh?” Carradine smiled again. “Meaning by that, you are a professional.”

  “More so than he and his thugs turned out to be,” she told him crisply. “It seems that you and I are in the same kind of business.”

  Carradine narrowed his eyes, sharpened his mind at that remark. “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he said slowly.

  “No?” She laughed, a pleasant sound. “We at the Deuxieme Bureau are also very interested in Professor Ubyenkov and his discovery. I have been ordered to give you all the assistance I can. Naturally, I am hoping to find him before you do, but – ”

  “I see. For the honour of France, of course.”

  “Naturellement.” She tossed her head, blonde curls shaking and dancing from side to side, shining in the sunlight that slanted in through the windscreen. “Volescu is waiting for you at Kazanluk, I believe.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then I shall take you there. Perhaps he can help you, perhaps not. I have my own leads to follow.”

  “And naturally, you don’t intend to tell me what they are at the moment.”

  “If we find Ubyenkov, then I shall let you know.”

  Carradine nodded, sank back into his seat, relaxing. This was a turn of events that he had not anticipated, yes he had to admit that the girl had shown up at the most opportune time as far as he was concerned. He had had the feeling when he had first met her in Tamariu that she was on to something that went deeper than just political intrigue. He had the greatest respect for the members of the Deuxieme Bureau. He had worked with them on several occasions and in spite of the friendly rivalry that existed between the two organisations, they both knew they were fighting for the same cause.

  They passed through Karlovo and Shipka, drove along the winding mountain road to Kazanluk. Nowhere along the road did they see any sign of the red car. There were many places where it could have turned off the road, the men inside it, confident that they had performed the task well, that he and the driver were both dead and they had nothing more to fear from either of them.

  A little after three o’clock in the afternoon, they drove into Kazanluk, with the tall mountains looming high in the distance. The girl stopped the car close to the kerb, left it in gear with her foot on the clutch.

  “Anton Volescu lives in that house at the corner of the street,” she said, pointing.

  “Aren’t you coming?” Carrington asked in surprise as he opened the door.

  She shook her head. “Whatever he can tell you, I feel that Carl and I already know. But I’m sure that we shall meet again, soon.”

  Getting out of the car, conscious of his dishevelled appearance and the blood on his forehead where it had flowed from the deep cut, he lifted his hand in salute, stepped back as she let in the clutch. The car roared off into the distance, through the main street, vanished a few moments later.

  Slowly, he made his way towards the house that Francesca had pointed out to him. There were a few people on the streets and he was vaguely glad of this. The house looked deserted as he came up to it. He noticed that it sat by itself, away from the others, separated by two narrow alleys that twisted away from the square. Giving a quick glance up and down the street, Carradine knocked loudly on the door. It was opened a few moments later by a tall, bull-necked man with a mop of flaming red hair. Bulgarian? thought Carradine, with red hair?

  “Anton Volescu?” Carradine asked. He spoke in French.

  The other nodded, then motioned him inside. The door closed behind them.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE MAN WITH THE SPARKLING SECRET

  Carradine followed the tall man in silence, along two passages that ran deeper into the building, then into a long, wide room fitted out more luxuriously than he would ever have guessed from the outside appearance of the building. Volescu motioned him to a chair, sat down in the other near the small desk, crossed his legs, then pushed a large box of cigarettes over to him. He did not speak until they were both smoking.

  “From the obvious fact that yo
u arrived here alone, I gather that something has happened to Zdenko, my chauffeur?” The thick, bushy brows lifted a little in interrogation.

  Carradine nodded his head slowly. The sweet-tasting tobacco of the cigarette, which was so obviously Turkish, was something he had not enjoyed for several years. “We were followed from Sofia. I noticed someone watching my room at the hotel when I woke and your man was some minutes late arriving, although he had impressed on me that punctuality was vital. Anyway, they shot us up on the road here. Your driver was killed, whether it was from a bullet or from the crash when we went over the edge, I'm not sure, though he had at least six slugs in him.”

  “So that is where you received that cut,” murmured the other, a faint note of sympathy in his deep voice. “I will arrange for someone to see to it for you, but first, if you feel up to it, there are some questions I must ask. You know how things are here. The Reds are watching everything, even here in Kazanluk. In Sofia, of course, it is even worse. They know of everyone who comes into the country. Hotel staff, the secret police, have all been bribed to pass on this information.” He smiled warmly. “We, of course, do the same so there is little to be gained on either side.”

  “But everyone has to be sure that nothing gets past them.”

  “Exactly. I see that you understand these matters perfectly. But – ” He let his severe, powerful gaze rest on Carradine for a long moment and then spoke through the blue haze of cigarette smoke, “ – if the car went over the edge, how did you manage to get here?”

  “Fortunately, I was seen by one of my more recent acquaintances and she gave me a lift into Kazanluk.”

  Volescu’s eyebrows almost vanished into the thick mop of red hair. “A woman in the game,” he said easily, but there was a clear detectable look of surprise and suspicion in his voice. “You’ll forgive me, my friend, but I have long since made it a rule to be extremely careful. I find that one tends to live a little longer that way. This woman, you know her?”