Don’t Ask

by Donald Westlake

  This time, they didn’t stop, but just drove slowly through the town. Pretty little place, kind of an alpine village effect with the steep roofs and the gingerbread eaves and the cute shutters flanking the windows. It was the shopping street of the village, lined with small stores showing meat or bread or flowers in their front windows, with the tall green mountain as a backdrop.

  The narrow street was crowded with pedestrians. They were all in their native costume, wide skirts and full blouses with scoop necks for the women, bright, full shirts and dark pants with elastic bottoms below the knee for the men. Almost all wore buckled shoes, and many of the women had on old-fashioned sunbonnets. Many of these women were young and damn good-looking. Most of the people smiled sunny smiles and waved at the car as it went by.

  ‘Only official vehicles are permitted in the town center,’ Kralowc explained. ‘Residents and visitors must leave their automobiles at the parking lots outside town and come in by pony cart.’

  And, as he said it, a pony cart went by, half full of cheerful people, all of whom waved at the car as they went past. The pony, too diligent to wave, nodded at the car.

  ‘That’s our policy throughout the country,’ Kralowc went on. ‘Livable spaces for human beings. We refuse to be slaves to the machine. Not like your friends the Tsergovians. Oh, I wish I could show you one of their cities. The bloodred sky, the greenish sewage running in the gutters, the grit and grime on every face that has been outdoors for more than five minutes, the public statues eaten away by acid rain to mere lumps, the hopeless look on the faces, the hunched bodies of the children …’ Kralowc paused, overcome by his own eloquence. ‘To think,’ he managed to say, ‘that they plan such a future for these people.’

  Terment, at the wheel, said something fast and low, and Kralowc reacted, saying, ‘Yes, yes, you’re absolutely right.’ To the prisoner, he said, ‘Now we must blindfold you again. I apologize—’

  Everything became dark for the prisoner.

  ‘—for the necessity.’

  ‘That’s okay.’

  ‘Thank you, Diddums.’

  Soon the car sped up, and now it ran along for a good half-hour or so. From time to time, Kralowc had more bushwah he wished to impart, but the prisoner paid no attention. (It’s easy to ignore people when you’re blindfolded, without them knowing you’re doing it.) While Kralowc pointed with pride and viewed with alarm, the prisoner devoted his thoughts to the question of which direction they were now traveling. Southwest? When they got wherever they were going, when he got his opportunity to escape – would he be able to see those salt and pepper shakers? Those were his beacons to steer by; they would lead him out of Votskojek and into Tsergovia and safety.

  After a while, it grew silent inside the speeding car; apparently, even Kralowc was tired of all that political Muzak. The big lumpy soldier bodies to both sides of the prisoner were warm, supporting; the hum of the tires on the road was sedative; he hadn’t had much sleep last night …

  The prisoner was jolted awake by the sudden jolting of the car, like a bucking bronco, followed by a whole series of imprecations – these were definite imprecations – from Kralowc, interspersed with querulous whines from Terment. The car kept bucking, then it coughed, then became silent. Still rolling, but silent.

  They ran out of gas! The prisoner couldn’t believe it. How did they do that? And what was in it for him?

  A long walk, blindfolded, probably.

  The car rolled along. The prisoner could feel it slowing, could feel the ba-dump when it left the pavement, could hear the squnchy-creenk as the tires crushed weeds, could feel the little stutter in their progress as Terment tentatively tapped the brakes, and finally he felt them roll to a stop. The sound of Terment applying the hand brake was like a joke in bad taste.

  But, then, all jokes are in bad taste, aren’t they? Isn’t that what they’re for?

  ‘Unfortunately, Diddums,’ Kralowc said into the new silence, ‘this idiot seems to have permitted us to run out of fuel.’

  Whining from Terment. Ignoring it, Kralowc said, ‘Fortunately, we are very near our destination. We’ll be able to walk from here.’

  Oh, will we? ‘You’re the boss,’ the prisoner said.

  ‘Yes, I am. I think, therefore,’ Kralowc added, with barely suppressed rage, ‘we should begin by getting out of the car.’

  This last wasn’t directed at the prisoner. Kralowc spoke to the prisoner only in honeyed tones. The sound of car doors snapping open was followed by the removal of those warm, comforting, supportive bodies from the prisoner’s flanks, followed by the removal of the prisoner himself from the car, in the usual fashion; hands clutched various parts of him and yanked. This time, the process was a little worse, since the soldiers were taking out their sense of injustice on the prisoner, as soldiers do.

  At last, he was set on his feet. And briefly left alone. Lifting his head to peer down past his own front, he saw grass around his feet, grass and weeds. Putting out his hand, he touched the side of the car and took one step in that direction to lean against it.

  Meantime, his captors were hurriedly plotting together in their native tongue; at the end of which Kralowc reverted to English, saying, ‘You won’t be needing that blindfold anymore, Diddums. There’s a path we can take that goes near no secret installations. And we wouldn’t want you to fall and hurt yourself.’

  ‘Good thinking,’ the prisoner said, and the blindfold came off yet again, was converted back to a dirty handkerchief, and was replaced in its owner-soldier’s jacket.

  The prisoner looked around. They were parked near a broad, leafy tree. Tire tracks crushing weeds led back around the tree and out at a long angle to the two-lane road. Beyond the road was another view of the Schtumveldt Mountains, with another of those long meadows cut into it. Maybe it was logging. Unfortunately, the salt and pepper shakers couldn’t be seen. Still, up there was the sun, so over there – no, over there – was southwest. Tsergovia.

  On this side, a simple dirt track up from the road skirted around to the other side of the tree and headed upward into the pine forest. That must be where they were going.

  But not yet. First, Kralowc had to point at the path and give a lot of quick orders to Terment, who nodded and nodded and nodded and turned to trot away up the path, soon disappearing.

  One of the soldiers made a comment, apparently a warning of some kind, with a gesture at the road, and Kralowc said, ‘Yes, of course. Come along, Diddums.’

  The prisoner went along. For a while, they just slogged up the path, through the pines, listening to the bird song and batting at the blackflies. Nasty blackflies, bite chunks out of you. Kralowc went first, then one of the soldiers, then the prisoner, then the other soldier. Up they went, feet thudding on the packed-down path, and the prisoner was pleased to hear, from the panting of the soldiers, that they were in worse shape than he was.

  After about five minutes of this, they emerged from the forest into a large, sloping meadow, with Terment way out there on its far side, bobbing right along. Beyond the meadow, more trees clothed a further upward slope, and at the top of that slope was … the castle.

  Oh, boy. Black against the blue sky, stone, turreted, there it stood, on top of the mountain. The prisoner automatically jerked to a stop at the sight of it, and the soldier behind him went ‘Oof!’ when he blundered into the prisoner’s flinched-back elbows.

  Kralowc turned, saw the effect the castle was having, and came back a pace to say, ‘Yes, Diddums, that’s where we’re going.’

  ‘I figured,’ the prisoner said, trying to act cool.

  Kralowc stood beside him, and they gazed up at the castle together. ‘Few men who go in there,’ Kralowc said, ‘ever come out.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ The prisoner swallowed and cleared his throat. ‘I guess Dr Zorn’ll be there.’

  ‘Waiting for you. And General Kliebkrecht.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Diddums, they have ways to make men talk.’

&n
bsp; ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘I don’t want this to happen to you, Diddums. You and I understand each other; we’re both gentlemen; we don’t want to have to deal with thugs.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘I hoped, when I showed you the peaceful village of Schtum, you would understand. Tell me where the relic is; don’t force me to have Dr Zorn ask you.’

  The prisoner licked his lips. He gazed at the castle. He said, ‘I gotta pee.’

  ‘Of course,’ Kralowc said, as one gentleman to another. ‘And do take the opportunity of that time to think things over.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  The prisoner moved back down the path into the forest, one of the soldiers following. In tandem, they veered away from the trees, until the prisoner stopped and said, ‘Gimmie a little privacy, okay? You wait on this side; I’ll go around that side.’

  For answer, the soldier – who was still more or less pretending not to speak English – stood where he was but aimed his machine gun at the prisoner, who said, ‘Fine. Just like that,’ and walked around the big pine tree.

  He really did have to pee, and, as he’d promised Kralowc, while he was doing so he thought things over. And here, even before he was finished, came the soldier, just making sure. ‘Come on, will ya?’ the prisoner said, and then looked down and became wide-eyed as he cried, ‘A snake! Jesus, shoot it!’

  The soldier came closer, peering. The prisoner’s free hand pointed shakily at something under the lowest branches of the tree. The soldier extended the gun barrel down ahead of himself into the mass of old needles and general mulch, and the prisoner, all his weight behind it, coldcocked him with a beautiful right across that big jaw.

  The soldier fell into the pine tree like a bale of cotton thrown off the River Queen, and the prisoner ran pell-mell into the depths of the forest.

  Ten extremely painful minutes later, no longer hearing the sounds of pursuit, the ex-prisoner stopped long enough to zip up. Then he looked for the sun, figured out which way was southwest, and made tracks. Next stop, Tsergovia.

  22A*

  Just five hundred yards south of the island of MANHATTAN (qv) and even closer to the onetime proud city of BROOKLYN (qv) across Buttermilk Channel, but nevertheless governmentally considered a part of the borough of MANHATTAN (qv), lies a darling button of an island that the Indians called Pagganck, which seems unkind, but there you are.

  In 1637, some enterprising Dutchmen bought the island from the Manhatas Indians (so that’s why!) for two ax heads and a handful of nails and beads, and changed its name to Nutten, which wasn’t much of an improvement. But they were still a lot sharper than those other Dutchmen who bought Manhattan Island itself from the Canarsie Indians, who didn’t own it, but were just passing through and knew a live one when they saw a live one.

  The Dutch held on to Nutten only twenty-seven years before the British adopted it, not payin nobody nuttin for Nutten, and changed its name to Governor’s Island, because the governor of the colony of New York was going to live there. And so he did. The first one, Lord Cornbury, was asked to leave when he insisted on wandering around in lady’s clothing and instituted a bachelor’s tax, but some of the others kept a lower profile and would surely be proud to learn they are utterly forgotten.

  Soon the colonists of eastern America declared themselves ready for self-government, and in 1797 built Fort Jay on Governor’s Island to deter anybody who might wish to argue the point. The British did argue the point, as it turned out, but John Jay’s one hundred big guns deterred them from shelling the bejesus out of New York, so they went and shelled the bejesus out of Washington, D.C., instead, and God bless them for it.

  During the Civil War, one of those awful Civil War prisons was set up on Governor’s Island, from which only one Confederate prisoner ever managed to escape. He was Capt. William Webb, and he didn’t escape to either Manhattan or Brooklyn, though both were quite handy. A true Southerner, he escaped by swimming south. Twelve miles later, he found New Jersey, which was enough to keep him heading south, and after the war he became a United States senator from TENNESSEE (qv).

  Around the turn of the century, two transportation developments elsewhere impinged on Governor’s Island. One was the Lexington Avenue subway line; earth excavated from that tunnel was used to expand the landmass of Governor’s Island from 100 acres to 175 acres, all of them charming. And the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel, four lanes of automobile traffic between Manhattan and Brooklyn, ran directly beneath the island without stopping.

  During World War I, Gen. John J. PERSHING (qv), commander of the American Expeditionary Force (AEF) in FRANCE (qv), lived in one of the nice old colonial houses on Governor’s Island, which seems pretty darn far from the front, but never mind. In World War II, the island was headquarters of the First Army, but it was a hard place to march to, so in 1966 the army turned it over to the Coast Guard, who intend to keep it. They like it.

  Well, why not? It contains Manhattan’s only golf course, the only Burger King in the world that serves beer (it’s in the bowling alley, and as one Cmdr. Richard R. Bock explained to the NEWYORK TIMES (qv), ‘You can’t have a bowling alley without beer. That’s un-American’), and, best of all, nobody else can go there unless the Coast Guard says okay.

  The five thousand residents – four thousand mostly deskbound Coastguardsmen and Coastguardswomen, plus their families – have their own frequent ferry service over to a slip at Battery Park on Manhattan right next to the Staten Island ferry, but they rarely use it unless they have to. After all, these are real Americans, which means they’re afraid of New York. They’d much rather stay on their neat little island, golf by day, bowl or watch television in the evening, and tuck in nice and early; the morning bugle sounds at 7:55 A.M. and everyone on the island is expected to be up and saluting, clear-eyed, pink-cheeked, as mentally and physically alert by 8:00 A.M. as that Burger King beer allows, when the loudspeakers that are spread across the island like something from 1984 all start chugging out ‘THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER’ (qv).

  The shore of Governor’s Island is ringed by nautical installations. The Coast Guard cutter Gallatin lies up here when it isn’t rousting undesirables in the Caribbean and other eastern waters, and there’s a marina where other Federal services – including the DEA – sometimes keep boats, and of course the ferry dock for scary old New York City.

  There is also one small structure just off the right shoulder of the island, like an epaulet, that is under the control of the Coast Guard but not directly concerned with its mission. This structure is round and brick-clad and it sticks up out of the water like an extra bit of Vulcan’s smokestack. It is connected to the island by a narrow pier, and it is a ventilation tower from the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel, down below.

  23

  Andy Kelp’s head appeared over the top edge of the ventilation tower. Fox eyes in a fox face scanned the darkness. It was two in the morning, and while the dishonest burglar in the ventilation tower conned the scene the honest burghers of Governor’s Island lay peacefully asleep in their beds, dreaming of strikes and spares. (Some were having nightmares about splits.)

  The fox face withdrew. The snipping of wire cutters vibrated faintly in the air, like the chirps of an android cricket. Then, folding up and away, came the thick mesh screen that kept Coastguardschildren from falling into the ventilator and plummeting like Alice down the rectangular sheet-metal opening with the repair-access metal ladder rungs fixed into its side and through the other mesh screen at the bottom; don’t strain yourself.

  Kelp climbed out, a lithe, narrow figure all in black except for the gray elks on the ski mask he’d just donned and the amber coil of rope slung over his shoulder. A large four-clawed metal hook was attached to one end of this rope; Kelp fixed it to the edge of the tower opening, dropped the rope over the side, and shimmied down to the narrow wooden doughnut circling the tower not far above the waterline.

  Once down, and before crossing the open pier to the main island, Kelp briefly rem
oved the ski mask, leaned back, and just breathed for a while. The air in the ventilation tower, even with the low volume of traffic in the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel at this hour, had been less than ideal. Gratefully inhaling air that had not been treated by the automakers of America and Japan, Kelp fingered the ski mask with its cheerful prancing elks and remembered buying it some time ago in a sport shop on Madison Avenue. Him and Dortmunder, they’d happened to need ski masks for a certain thing they planned to do, which didn’t include skiing. His had these nice chipper elks loping around it, and Dortmunder had wound up with a purple mask splotched with big green snowflakes; not really attractive. Kelp had never told his friend this, but, with the ski mask on, Dortmunder’s head looked mostly like a diseased eggplant. With eyes.

  And where was John Dortmunder now? Not here on Governor’s Island, or his pal Andy Kelp would certainly take the extra few minutes to rescue him – if it seemed safe. Where was the poor guy?

  Ah, well. There is, first of all, the task at hand. Pulling the ski mask over his head once again, Kelp moved away from the tower’s brick wall. Bent low, he hurried across the open pier, with New York Harbor lapping away below him on all sides, and in a few minutes he stood on a smooth, uncracked sidewalk containing not even one cigarette butt.

  No one around. So far, so good. Kelp strode along silently on his crepe soles, almost invisible in his dark garb, absolutely alone. What theoretical security measures there might be on this military base were lax to the point of inexistence, since the real security was at the frontier of the island’s only (normal) access; that is, the ferry dock over on Manhattan.

  Kelp continued to stroll, past neat houses in neat settings, with unlocked bicycles neatly placed at their sides, and he could understand why the residents here preferred to see Manhattan – that big thing over there, with all the lights – exclusively on their television screens. After all, it is well known that if you keep a creature for a long time in an antiseptic environment and then put it out in the normal world, it will immediately get sick and die.