The Secret Enemy (A Steve Carradine Thriller)

by John Glasby

  With an effort, he forced his eyes to take in what lay behind the glare. He saw the indistinct shape that sat a few metres away, blinked his eyes as the water ran into them from the hair plastered over his forehead. Straining the muscles of his neck, he lifted his head. The quick look around him made the throbbing at the back of his temples hurt even worse than before. Dimly, he made out the shapes of various implements about him, of light shining off rusted metal and twisted leather straps.

  “Do you think you could turn that light in the other direction?” he said, forcing evenness into his tone. “I don’t think too well with it glaring into my eyes.”

  “Ah, how inconsiderate of me.” The light suddenly swung away from Carradine’s face and he was able to make out details more clearly now. The man who sat in the chair a short distance away was short, stubby, a large moon face set above a thick-set neck. He sat bolt upright as though on a judge’s bench addressing some felon in the dock and there was a faintly mocking smile on his thick, rubbery lips.

  “Thank you.” Experimentally, Carradine felt the bonds that tied him to the chair. They had been pulled tight, giving him no play at all, the knot evidently having been made by an expert.

  “Now, to get back to the all-important point,” went on the other smoothly. “I know a great deal about you, why you came to Balchik. But there are one or two things I do not know, but I am certain that you will provide me the answers very soon.”

  Carradine thought fast. There was the scent of danger in his nostrils, something he had learned to recognise. He squeezed his eyes tightly together, then open them again. “If you know so much about me,” he said quietly, “then I suggest you know enough. I don’t intend to tell you anything until I know what is going on around here.”

  “I rather fear that you are in no position to temporise,” said the other softly. He spoke in a quiet, conversational tone, yet there was an undercurrent of danger audible in it. “We also have your companion. He may not know as much as you, but I think that if I were to allow my – associates – to work on him in your presence, you might be persuaded to talk. If not, then we have our own ways of loosening stubborn tongues.”

  “Just who are you?” Carradine asked.

  “I should have thought that was obvious. Since there is no chance of your escape from here, I have no hesitation in telling you. One of my countrymen made a very big mistake. He decided to leave Russia, taking with him a very valuable secret, which he discovered while working for us, while taking the money we provided for his research. His ingratitude means little. But the fact that he intended to sell the secret to the West, means a great deal. Naturally, this could not be allowed to happen.”

  Very slowly, Carradine let his pent-up breath go in small pinches through his nostrils. He eyed the round, bland face of his interrogator closely. So they had been too late anyway. The Reds had got to Ubyenkov already. What had happened to him, and the men who had helped him, was anybody’s guess. Carradine doubted if their end would have been swift and painless. Ubyenkov himself was possibly still alive. They would want to take him back to Russia where they could deal with him in their own inimical style.

  “You express yourself most vividly,” he said.

  “Naturally. I have the feeling that you are, perhaps, a British or American agent. We took into consideration the possibility that you would make an attempt to contact Ubyenkov once you learned of his disappearance from Russia. It was essential that we should forestall you.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Carradine saw the two men who stood behind the other’s chair. The usual type of Soviet executioner, he thought grimly. Men who thought nothing of pain, particularly when it was someone else who was suffering it. Simple-minded men, more like animals than human beings, who obeyed orders blindly, without any question. Around the huge underground vault of stone, he could now make out the various contraptions that Nerim had spoken about; the old torture methods, first originated in the Middle Ages, but nonetheless effective because of that. Many of them are just as efficient in loosening a man’s tongue as the more subtle modern ways, scopolamine or hypnosis, or a dozen new drugs which obliterated a man’s control over his mind and actions. He felt a little shiver run through him as he saw the wide, empty eyes fix themselves on his face. A trickle of sweat formed on his forehead and ran down into his eyes. The man would use the old ways first, he knew; if only because it would give him an added pleasure to see a fellow human being suffer.

  How long could he hold out against this man? he wondered tensely. He tried again to loosen the thongs around his wrists, felt them chafing into his flesh, was forced to give up the attempt.

  The sadistic eyes watched him for a moment with an almost amused expression. Then the other leaned forward a little in his chair. “It is quite useless,” he murmured softly. “Mischa is an expert at tying knots. But we are wasting time. Very soon, we shall be taking Professor Ubyenkov back to Russia but first I want to know about you. I dislike leaving anything half-done. You have made things difficult for me already. One of my men died in the car which followed you from Sofia.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Carradine said, forcing a smile. “But I assure you that you are quite wrong about me. I was simply told in Balchik about the castle and decided to come and see it for myself. According to everything I was told, the place was deserted, had been for more than two hundred years. The man who was with me, acted as my guide. That’s all.”

  The other shook his head, said in a faintly bored voice: “Please try to understand. No one tells Aleksandre Kreznikov that he has made a mistake. You underestimate me. I doubt if you have managed to find out anything at all about me. You have evidently been sent here to find Ubyenkov. He is here. I will tell you that because you will be totally unable to make any use of the fact. He is here in the castle, which, because of the ignorant superstition of the people living around Balchik, forms an excellent hideout for us until we leave, which will be very soon. It may be that they will find your body when we have left. But there are treacherous undercurrents in the Black Sea just below the castle and these have been known to drag down swimmers to the bottom and these poor, unfortunate men have never been seen again. The Black Sea appears to be particularly reluctant to give up her victims.”

  Carradine sighed loudly. “How often do I have to tell you that I don’t know what you’re talking about. Ask the man who was with me if you don’t believe me.”

  “Ah yes, Nerim. We know of him.” The way the other said it, gave Carradine a little sinking feeling in his chest. He cursed himself inwardly for not realising that Kreznikov would have a file on all of Volescu’s agents in Bulgaria. He closed his eyes again. His mind was whirring inside his head, coming up with ideas, instantly dismissing them. Somehow, he had to try to stall the other. Whatever happened, he must not give any hint of his reason for being there to Kreznikov. While he was still alive, while Nerim was alive – and the other had claimed he was – there was just a slender chance that an opportune moment might arise and when it did, he must be in a better position to make the most of it. If only he had his hands free. There was a possibility that the other might consider the odds so tremendously waited against him that he might agree to release his bonds. After all, with those two guards in this place, and God alone how many more scattered throughout the castle, he was taking scarcely any chance at all, letting him free.

  He turned his head slowly towards the other. “There seems to be this obsession in your mind that I’m a spy or something. Why can’t you get it through that thick skull of yours that I’m not. If the man who led me here is known to you, that is no concern of mine. I merely asked for somebody who would guide me here.”

  “Yet you came up the cliff, along the point where it is virtually unscalable and into the castle through the dungeons. Had your story been the truth, you would have come by the normal way, up the pass and in through the ruins. No, your story is a lie from start to finish. Evidently, too, you will not tell me without some
persuasion. Fortunately we have everything we need, here at hand.” He waved his thick fingers towards torture implements around the walls of the place.

  Turning his head, he snapped something in Russian to the men behind him and one of them moved forward, stood behind Carradine’s chair. His fingers, strong and pliable, moved around the other’s neck, found a nerve there and pressed sharply. An agony of pain lanced through Carradine’s body, from his head to his toes. He jerked, thrashed, in the chair, held there by the restraining leather straps. Savagely, he bit down on the cry of pain that rose to his lips. His eyes squeezed themselves tightly shut. Sweat boiled out on his forehead and along the small of his back.

  How long it went on, he had no way of telling. To him, it seemed like an eternity, although in reality it was probably no longer than five minutes. The man behind him knew his job perfectly. It was clear he had almost surgical knowledge of the precious spots in the human body, knew just where to find them and the right amount of pressure to bring to bear on them to provide the maximum amount of pain. Carradine closed his eyes tightly until red and yellow flashes began to shoot in front of them. Deliberately, he tried to slow down his great breathing. He had read that the fakirs of India could shut out all pain by simply controlling their breathing and pulse rate. But holding his breath only seemed to make it worse. The torment stabbed and lanced through his limbs as he writhed in the chair.

  At length, when it seemed he could hold out no longer, the fat man issued a harsh command. The torment ceased. The man moved away from him, resumed his place behind Kreznikov’s chair. There was absolutely no expression on his face. He had simply been carrying out an order given to him by a superior authority and the fact that he had been torturing a man had no place in his thoughts. The ideal man to have around when you want to question anyone, Carradine thought weakly.

  “Really, this is most regrettable,” went on the smooth, bland voice. “It is also utterly unnecessary. You are going to tell me everything I want to know. Your name. Why you are here. Who sent you. If I do not get the answers to these questions one way, be sure I shall get them in another. This is only making things more difficult and painful for yourself. Don’t you see that?”

  Carradine shook his head from side to side, his body hanging forward against the straps. It felt as though he had been pummelled by some ham-fisted Swedish masseur and then trampled on by a rampaging elephant. Slowly, he forced himself erect, sobbing air down into his chest. There did not seem to be a single square inch of his body that had escaped the scientific punishment meted out by the hatchet-man.

  A door in the wall behind Kreznikov, at the top of a short flight of stone steps, opened. The man who came in, walked down towards them, was of the same anonymous shape. Why did these Russians always look so similar? Was it a national trait, or did Englishmen all look alike to them?

  The man paused behind Kreznikov’s chair, bent and whispered something in his ear. Dully, Carradine watched. Something had undoubtedly happened, otherwise Kreznikov would not have been interrupted in this fashion.

  Carradine saw the other’s head lift, the dark, empty eyes stared at him, and there was a faint expression of recognition in them. Kreznikov said in a voice edged with a fresh interest: “So, you are Stephen Carradine. Forgive me for not recognising you earlier.” He nodded his head slowly. “Now I understand a great many things. The British Secret Service would naturally be very interested in Professor Ubyenkov and his process.” He paused, then went on: “This alters my plan quite a lot. The man, Nerim, means nothing to me. He will have to be removed. I have little doubt that the Communist Party in Bulgaria will be glad of his permanent removal. He has proved to be a thorn in their side for too long. But to you, I have something very special. We have a man in Moscow who would like very much to question you.” His lips twitched back in a smile of anticipation. No doubt, thought Carradine, he was looking forward to receiving some special award for bringing him back to Moscow.

  “Then you do not intend to kill me now?” Carradine asked quietly. It was suddenly, desperately urgent that he should know. He could do nothing but die, but he preferred to die fighting and on his feet if it were necessary; but if he was not to die just yet, almost any later opportunity for resistance would be less suicidal than this.

  “Not yet,” murmured the other. He got to his feet. “You will be my honoured guest back in Moscow. Perhaps it would be better for you if I were to get one of my men to shoot you now.” He smiled ominously. “They have ways of dealing with enemy spies in Moscow.”

  *

  There was a faint, panting hum in Carradine’s ears as he sat tensed in the chair. He had heard it for some time now, but it had only just dawned on him what it was. They would have to have an electrical generator somewhere in this place to provide them of the light and power they needed. Judging from the sound and the faint throbbing that he could feel through the soles of his feet it was very close.

  He leaned back, tried to find a comfortable position so that he was able to relax. He knew that the Russian counter-espionage agency was good, but this had certainly been excellent as far as he was concerned. They had managed to play on the superstitious ways of these people and take over this entire region. How long it had been in existence like this he did not know. It may have been one of their lookout places, deliberately set up to keep an eye on the Bulgarian people, especially after the abortive Hungarian Revolution. It did not seem likely that it had all been set up immediately after Ubyenkov was known to be in the area. Not even the Russians would have been able to work so fast, putting in all of the necessary equipment. Possibly, too, it was intended as a listening outpost on Turkey, one of the members of the Western Alliance, and a very close neighbour of Russia’s.

  Looking across at the man who sat in the chair near the door, he wondered what chance there was of getting the other close enough for him to make a grab for the gun. They had untied his arms, but his legs were still strapped to the chair. He flexed his fingers, saw the other’s head jerk up even at that slight movement, the gun in his hand swinging around so that the round black hole in the barrel lined up on his chest.

  The man grinned. “Ostorozhno!” he said tightly.

  Carradine tensed, then forced himself back. No chance at all. The other would have given him his orders, to stay where he was and take no chances, even though he held the gun and with his animal-like intelligence and cunning, he would do just that, nothing more and nothing less.

  They had taken away his own gun, had even removed the small knife blade that had been concealed in the heel of his shoe. They had not, however, thought to relieve him of the cigarette lighter and case. They both rested in his pockets, but would he get the chance to use them? They were now his only chance.

  How long he sat there it was impossible to tell. His watch had been smashed sometime before, the one he had got from Nerim to replace that which had been broken when the car had gone over the edge of the road. Two wristwatches in as many days, he thought with a grim amusement. What would the Chief say if he ever got back to put in a claim for them both?

  The panting murmur of the generator grew louder for an instant. The door at the head of the stone steps had opened, a gaping black mouth through which Kreznikov stepped a few seconds later. He came slowly down the steps, gave an order to the guard.

  The man got swiftly to his feet, pulled a knife from his pocket and stepped forward. For a second, Carradine had the feeling that this was surely the end, that Kreznikov had been playing with him all of this time, that he had never intended to take him back to Moscow as a prisoner, but had meant to finish him permanently. Then the guard bent, slashed at the thongs that held his ankles and stepped back. The knife disappeared as swiftly as it had come and the gun was back in the other’s hand, levelled on him as he leaned forward, ignoring the man while he rubbed his ankles where the skin had been torn and bloodied. Slowly, the feeling was restored.

  “We are ready to leave now,” Kreznikov said softly. “Pro
fessor Ubyenkov, the man you came to rescue, is outside. Needless to say, he will not be going to the West as he fondly imagined. The men who helped him here were stupid, bungling amateurs. They have been disposed of.”

  Carradine stretched himself, aware that the two men were watching his every move closely. This might be the only chance he would get and he had to play his hand very cautiously indeed. The slightest suspicion on their part and it would all come to naught.

  “I suppose you have no objection if I smoke one last cigarette,” he said calmly.

  Kreznikov eyed him narrowly, then shrugged, slid his gaze to where the guard was watching very closely. He nodded finally. “I suppose not,” he said, smiling faintly. “It is one of your curious English traits that you must have a cigarette before going to your doom. The stiff upper lip. The Public School image. You seem to consider that this image gives you a far higher standing in the eyes of the rest of the world. Nothing, my friend, could be further from the truth. It makes you appear as soft and degenerate as you really are.”

  “I'm glad you have such a high opinion of us.”" Moving his hand very slowly and carefully, he took the slender gold cigarette case from his pocket, held it in his hand for a moment. Opening it, he took out one of the Turkish cigarettes that Volescu had given him, placed it between his lips. There was a taut stillness in the room, so quiet that even above the panting hum of the distant generator, he could hear the thudding of his own heart against his ribs. Pray God that Kreznikov couldn’t.

  “Be very careful,” said the other quietly. His eyes never once left Carradine’s face. “If you make one move that I don't like, Mischa here will shoot you. Not to kill. Perhaps in the shoulder and then in the knee. Both can be extremely painful and crippling, I assure you. Such a high price to pay for a moment of folly.”

  “I agree.” Carradine nodded. He saw the guard take two paces towards him. The muzzle of the snub-nosed automatic did not waver by so much as a millimetre in the stone-like fist. He put his left hand casually into his pocket and pulled out the lighter. If it worked as Forbes had claimed it would, then he had a chance. A slim, fantastically remote chance, but a slender hope for all that.