by John Glasby
Carradine gave a quick nod. “You’ve no need to worry. She's working for the Deuxieme Bureau.”
Volescu’s eyes narrowed just a shade. “And is she looking for Professor Ubyenkov also?”
“Yes.” It was clear that he must keep nothing back from this man if he was to get the help he needed.
“I see.” Volescu sat back, smoked a cigarette without speaking, his eyes lost in thought. “There have been many little things happening during the past few weeks, things which I do not fully understand and which puzzle and frighten me a little. I can smell trouble, big trouble. But for men such as us, that is nothing to run away from. Trouble is the – how do you say it? – spice of life for us.”
“I agree.” Carradine hesitated, then went on slowly: “Do you have any doubts about this girl? Her name is Francesca Romano – at least that was the name she went by when we first met.”
“It could be her real name, of course,” said Volescu. He stubbed out his cigarette in the silver tray. “The fact that she is here means one of two things. Either she is, as she claims to be, working for the French Government on this case – or she is working for the enemy camp. Whichever it is, I suggest we treat her with the utmost caution until we know for certain. I will do my best to find out.”
Carradine sat back. There was a faint note of tension in his voice as he said: “There is one thing which may have a bearing on this. I met her in Tamariu on the Spanish coast before I was assigned to this mission. There was a man following her there. The last I saw of her, she was being taken away by him, and some other thugs, in a speedboat. When I questioned her about this, she said that he was just an amateur and that he had played into their hands when he had abducted her. If it’s possible, I’d like to know who that man is.”
“Or was,” smiled Volescu. “From what you have just said, he may no longer be alive.” He uttered a harsh, barking laugh. “But at least you are here, my friend. Now we must discuss what you have to do. Naturally, I will give you all of the information I have.” His eyes had suddenly hardened, grew dark and shrewd. “We know that Ubyenkov came into Bulgaria across the Romanian frontier nine days ago. I know nothing of what he has to sell or why he is suddenly so important to London.” His smile grew crafty. “It must be of vital importance, however, for them to send you here. I have heard of you, by reputation, of course.”
Tightly, Carradine said: “So far as I’m concerned, there is only one thing I need to know. The exact whereabouts of Ubyenkov.”
“That, I’m afraid, is something I do not know. All I can tell you is that he is somewhere near Balchik. My local headquarters there reported that he had been seen on two occasions in the centre. Will that help you?”
Carradine gave a tight-lipped nod. It was as much as he could expect. After all, if the Reds could not find him, it stood to reason that the man had gone to earth and concealed his burrow very cleverly. Considering that his life would be forfeit if the Reds caught him, it was only reasonable that he should have taken every possible precaution to hide himself until he felt sure that anyone looking for him came from the West. Even then, it might be difficult trying to persuade him of his true identity, Carradine reflected. But that was a bridge he would have to cross when he came to it. Sufficient for the moment was the fact that he had a rough idea where he was.
“Can you get me to Balchik?”
“Nothing could be easier, my friend. But you do not have to leave right away. Tomorrow will be time enough to get you there. One thing I will be able to find out – if any Red agent gets to him first. So far, there is no indication of that.” He went on seriously: “But I must now arrange for a doctor to attend to your injuries. From what you tell me, you are very fortunate to be still alive. Evidently those two men did not intend you to reach me.”
“Obviously.” Carradine found himself warming to the other. There was something about this man, some positive thinking, a direct outlook, that of a man who faced everything but the completely impossible with a definite will to win.
The doctor was a small, thin-faced man. He looked to be of peasant stock, but Carradine was forced to grudgingly acknowledge that he knew his job; unlike several of the Eastern European doctors he had met. Half an hour after arriving in Kazanluk, Carradine was seated in a room at the rear of the large building on the corner of the square. He had to admit that Volescu did himself proud when it came to accommodation. The room might have been faithfully copied from a picture of one of the suites at the Dorchester in London, or the Istanbul-Hilton situated on the heights of Pera, both of which he had frequented on various occasions.
The Bulgarian doctor had covered the cut in his forehead with a collodion solution when Carradine had refused a bandage. It had stung at first, but now, eyeing himself in the full-length crystal mirror, he was forced to admit that it performed its function satisfactorily and did not show except on close inspection. There had been a momentary sense of disappointment when Volescu had informed him that he did not know the exact whereabouts of Ubyenkov, but that was gone now and already his mind was working, thinking ahead in an effort to assess all of the possibilities and probabilities.
Now he racked his brain for a way of getting close to Ubyenkov without scaring the other. The man would be afraid, and a frightened man acted in strange ways, especially when he could not be sure who were his friends and who his enemies might be. As soon as one man got in contact with him, he would have to be one hundred percent certain that the man was who he said he was. Ubyenkov, although unused to the ways of espionage and counter-espionage, would have heard of double agents, would know that he could not even afford to make that single, first mistake, which other men may be allowed to make – and live.
Sitting back in his chair by the window, Carradine lit one of the Turkish cigars which Volescu had insisted on giving him claiming, and no doubt rightly, that the Western democracies did not know how to grow, or process, tobacco. He drew the sweet-tasting smoke down into his lungs, forced himself to relax, but it was only his body that he could relax, his brain kept on working overtime, coming up with various ideas, only to reject them almost at once. The fact that he had almost been killed that very morning, told him the nature of the opposition here, men who would stick at nothing. For the first time since he had left England, he was beginning to feel glad that he had accepted those weapons, which Forbes had thrust on him.
He spent the rest of that evening with Volescu and two of his men, discussing every piece of evidence they had as to the whereabouts of Ubyenkov and what the other’s most probable movements would be once he arrived in Bulgaria. At the end of four hours, with the air in the room full of blue cigarette smoke and empty cups in front of them, they were still no nearer the solution then when they had started. It was up to Carradine to locate him and then try to get him – or his secret – out of the country and back to the West. Volescu would put all of his resources at Carradine’s disposal once that was done, and offered to make things go a little more smoothly than usual in getting out of the country. Carradine was soon brought to the realisation that, as well as being one of the Chief’s most trusted agents in Bulgaria, the other had contacts inside the Governments there and in most of the Governmental departments. No doubt the enemy possessed similar facilities, but this did not detract from the usefulness of what Volescu could do and Carradine realised that.
“One of my men will drive you to Balchik early tomorrow morning. After the regrettable incident today, you will both be on your guard.” As he spoke, he nodded towards a big, broad-shouldered man seated at the table next to Carradine. “Kaltek here knows what to do in case of any trouble.”
“Good.” Carradine rubbed a hand over his chin thoughtfully. “What kind of place is Balchik?”
The other pursed his lips. “About the same size as Kazanluk. It’s on the coast, of course, and it may be that this is the way Ubyenkov used to get there, rather than overland through Romania.”
“It would certainly have been easier for him, m
ore able to avoid detection.”
“When will we reach there?”
“In a fast car, a little after midday. There is a man called Nerim in Balchik. He manages my local headquarters. A good man but stupid in one way. He prefers to use a knife rather than his brain. He uses it to such good advantage that there have been several occasions when I have been forced to reprimand him. Unless he learns to control his temper, it means that we shall lose more of the enemy agents I would like to have alive – at least, until there has been a chance to get them to talk.”
Carradine said nothing. He noticed the way in which the other’s dark, glittering eyes had suddenly gone opaque and he knew how Volescu would get the information he needed from such men as were unfortunate enough to fall into his hands alive.
*
The low-bonneted car sped swiftly through the streets of Kazanluk just as the dawn was breaking in the east, a greying dawn which swiftly flamed to a brilliant red. The clouds that hung low on the horizon where the undulating mountains formed sharp, ragged upthrusts of black shadow, lost their flat, cardboard appearance and filled out, became three-dimensional. The sun rose when they were thirty kilometres from Kazanluk, heading north-east. The mean twisting streets on the outskirts of the town were left behind now and they were out in the clean, pure air of the mountains. There was little traffic on the roads and Kaltek kept his foot firmly depressed on the accelerator. The dark, brooding forests occasionally pulled themselves down the slopes, closing in on both sides of the road and watching them through the window of the speeding car, Carradine had the feeling that the tales which were told of the Hertz mountains in Germany applied equally well here. This was a country where, with the night, black horror came creeping out of the shadows; a legend-haunted place of ancient ruined castles and a blood-stained history that went back over the long centuries. His instinct told him, as no doubt it must have told countless other travellers, that this was a place where he would be lucky to get out alive.
They drove on from the mountains, through Kornobat and Aitos, then turning north towards Cliflik. By eleven-fifteen, they were slowing down for the drive through Stalin, characteristically changed by the new regime from the original name of Varna. Somehow, Carradine thought he liked the old name better, and from Kaltek, he learned that most of the older inhabitants of the town called it by that name, refusing to recognise the change. Discreetly, of course. To have done so openly, would have been asking for trouble. They now took the coast road, which finally deposited them at Balchik.
Carradine looked about him with interest as Kaltek drove along a narrow cobbled street that led off from the main through road. This was apparently all part of the town. Far below, he could just glimpse the reflected light of the high noon sun off the waters of the sea. That would be the Black Sea, he thought to himself, with Sevastopol due east. Now he was very close to Russia.
The car stopped. Turning his head, breaking himself out of his reverie, he glanced about it. They were outside a bowl-roofed building which, from the outside, reminded Carradine of a warehouse. From the inside, he saw that this was exactly what it was. Kaltek lead him over the creaking wooden boards of the wide floor to a door set in the wall at the far end. There were huge crates stacked high along one wall. Black market? Or a legitimate business carried on as a front to the sort of work this man really did?
Kaltek led him through the door, into a large office, glass-fronted so that the man who rose to his feet behind the desk was able to look down into the entire building.
The other came around the side of the desk, took Carradine’s hand in a firm grip. He seemed to sense Carradine’s thoughts for he said with a faint smile: “Anton has perhaps given you a picture of what we are doing here. No doubt he has told you that we do nothing.”
“Not exactly, but – ”
Nerim laughed harshly. “You do not have to be embarrassed, my friend. I know Anton Volescu and he knows me. He gives the orders from the office in Kazanluk and I carry them out to the best of my ability. He says that my one failing is the work I do with this – ” He moved his right hand with a deceptive slowness. When it came back into sight, the bright light streaming through a skylight in the ceiling, glinted bluely off the long, double-edged blade of the throwing knife he held.
Carradine let his gaze stray down to the weapon, then looked up into the other’s face, gave a faint nod.
Nerim returned the nod, then thrust the knife back somewhere into the folds of his baggy trousers. “That is as I thought. However, for once he is wrong. My men have been keeping a close watch on the old castle just north of the town, overlooking the bay. There has been some activity going on there for a little while now. Lights seen at night. Naturally the townspeople will not go there. They are a superstitious lot. But I – I do not believe in these old tales. I say to myself, Nerim, why should there be light showing there unless because someone is up there, someone who does not want to be disturbed in what he is doing?”
“And what have you found out?” For some unknown reason, Carradine felt a stir of exhilaration.
“I think that is where they have hidden Professor Ubyenkov. He is the man you seek – no?”
“Yes. If that is where he is, then you must be able to contact them, whoever they are who are hiding him, get word to them who I am and why I’m here.”
Nerim shrugged. “It’s not as easy as that, I’m afraid. They will be wary and suspicious of everyone. They know what will happen to all of them, not just to this one man, if the Soviets get there first. They cannot be sure of me, or of you.”
“Then what do you suggest I do? You have had experience of the country around here. You must know a way of getting there without being seen.”
“It may be possible. They will be watching. But the two others may get through any guards they have. If only we knew who these people are who are helping him.”
“When can we go?” Quite suddenly, Carradine was anxious to have this over with, to waste no more time. He already knew that the Soviet agents responsible for Ubyenkov were playing for keeps and the sooner they got him out of the country, the better.
“Tonight. I will come with you. This is an operation that calls for a great deal of care and ingenuity. I know that old ruin from my boyhood. I can find my way through the underground cellars and the long passages which few people dream exist.”
This was far better than Carradine had ever expected. If Nerim knew that castle there on the hill as well as he claimed, they should have little difficulty in slipping past any guards, in getting to the men who were keeping Ubyenkov hidden. Once they got that close, they ought to be able to convince these men that they were friends, that all they wanted was to get the professor out of Eastern Europe and back to London.
“In the meantime, you will stay here,” went on the other soberly. “The fewer people in Balchik who know that you are here, the better. We will leave as soon after dark as is possible.”
*
Slowly, Carradine moved through the narrow alley filled with piles of stinking refuse, the high walls of the building outside bearing down on them, dark and featureless. There were a few windows that were unbroken but for the most part there were only ragged slivers of glass in them, sticking into the old mortar, reflecting the pale yellow light of the moon, which was little more than a scratch of light low in the west.
“There aren't many people abroad in this part of the town after dark,” Nerim said. “If there are, they mostly know me and move on without asking any awkward questions.”
They walked on down the alley, slipped across a patch of pale moonlight and across a small square where yellow lights showed in several of the windows; all the time working their way north until they reached the outskirts of Balchik.
Here, Nerim inched his way forward, picking his way over the huge cobbles which formed at the surface of the alley. There were long shadows here and in spite of the tight grip he had on himself, Carradine imagined that there were men in those shadows and unfr
iendly eyes watching their every move, biding their time to strike.
About a hundred meters from the spot where the narrow road wound out of the town and up into the craggy hills overlooking the bay, Carradine suddenly paused. Pulling Nerim into the shadows, he motioned the other to remain quiet. A tram clanked its way up the hill in the distance, rumbled into view for a few seconds across the far end of the alley along which they had worked their way, then vanished. The sound faded slowly.
Nerim cautiously turned his head, looked round at Carradine. “What is it?” he asked in a soft whisper.
“There’s someone following us,” Carradine said tautly, his voice reaching the other and no further. “There he comes.”
Nerim let his breath go in a soft hiss close to Carradine’s ear. One of the shadows, fifty metres away had suddenly moved. A man materialised out of the gaping mouth of one of the narrow intersecting alleys, hung poised on his feet for a moment, then darted noiselessly along the wall of a building that fronted the square.
Carradine had caught only a brief glimpse of the other as he darted across that open space, but it had been enough for him to recognise who it was. His grip on Nerim’s arm tightened convulsively.
“You know him?” murmured the other. It was more a statement than a question.
“I met up with him for a brief period in Tamariu, in Spain,” Carradine said tonelessly. “He’s a Red agent. I’m sure of it.”
“Then we must take care of him,” murmured Nerim. “In this business we cannot afford to take chances.” He reached down, withdrew the long-bladed knife from his belt. Padding forward, he kept close to the wall, a wraith-like shadow just visible to Carradine. The other waited for a moment, then followed him. His instinct told him that the Red spider would stand no chance against the knife, if inwardly, he felt a faint sense of revulsion at the idea of killing a man in cold blood as Nerim was about to do. He had killed men himself, in the past, but always the other had had an even chance of defending himself.
