Curiosity Didn't Kill the Cat

by M. K. Wren

  Demetriev…

  He moved, his eyes flashing open, and Zimmerman reacted suddenly, jamming the gun into his stomach.

  “Just keep it up!” he snapped, his voice tight and vicious, too much nerve in it. “Come on—give me an excuse! I’ll blow you wide open, ol’ buddy. Don’t think I won’t. It’s not my idea to bring you along.” He paused, then brought his face close to Conan’s, grinning with malicious relish. “The KGB is interested in you, Cone. They want to have a little talk with you; they figure maybe the two of you have a lot in common.”

  Conan absorbed this in silence, and after the initial shock he closed his eyes wearily and laughed, wondering how the proprietor of a small, out-of-the-way village bookshop had become an object of suspicion in the eyes of the two major world powers.

  “Listen, ol’ buddy, you won’t think it’s so damned funny later on. Now, on your feet!”

  Zimmerman helped him up with no pretense of kindness. Conan leaned against the wall, waiting until the dizziness passed, looking down at Demetriev, who apparently hadn’t moved, and seemed incapable of moving. Conan wondered if Demetriev was even aware of the gun in his pocket.

  Conan turned his bound wrists to look at his watch: 7:50. And the countdown was still ticking.

  Zimmerman jerked Demetriev to his feet, unconcerned at his choked moan, and turned on Conan.

  “I’ve got something to say to you, Cone, and you’d damn well better listen, and listen good. I got one aim in life right now—to get Demetriev on his way home. And I got nothing to lose. If the FBI picks me up, I’ve had it. I’ll die before I give up, and I’ll see both of you dead before I die. And the old man goes first. That clear?”

  Conan nodded mutely, then Joe snapped his wrist up and looked at his watch, his features settling into taut, determined lines; but there was a hint of desperation, too, and that offered Conan no encouragement.

  The .45 came up.

  “Okay, you two, we’re going for a little ride, and neither one of you better give me any trouble. And, Cone—remember what I said. The old man goes first.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Conan looked around the deserted dock desperately. The quiet slapping of water and the creaking of wood were the only sounds. Two dim lights cast exaggerated shadows of masts and rigging across the planking; shadows that moved as the boats rocked with the waves, giving the illusion of movement to the planks themselves, and the fluid quality of a dream to the whole scene.

  But he could hear Zimmerman’s and Demetriev’s footsteps only a few paces behind him, and he thought of the .45 pressed against the physicist’s side.

  There was nothing dreamlike about that gun.

  He looked north toward the Coast Guard station. In a fenced area on one side of the building, a helicopter rested like a monstrous, sleeping dragonfly. At the small dock below the station, the Coast Guard cutter was moored, rocking placidly, silent and unmanned. There were lights in the station; a crew was always on duty. But if anyone there noticed the three men walking along the dock, there was no indication of it.

  Only a few boats were moored at the dock. On the south side, he noted the familiar outlines of the Josephine, but he saw no sign of life aboard her. Probably Sven had cured her mechanical ills and gone home long ago.

  “Okay, Cone—hold it right there!”

  Conan stopped and waited as Zimmerman, with Demetriev in tow, moved up ahead of him. To their right, a small, ill-kept fishing boat was moored; on the stern were the words “Sea Queen, Crescent City.”

  He could barely see the dial of his watch in the dim light: 8:03. His hands curled into fists, and he found himself surprised at the slow passage of time. It had been only half an hour since he left the bookshop.

  And yet the time was slipping by too fast.

  Charlie. He must have found the note by now.…

  A wiry, dark man in faded dungarees and a stained sweat shirt moved out of the Sea Queen’s pilothouse.

  “You’re late,” he observed sourly.

  Joe responded curtly, “Listen, Harrison, you think I can’t tell time? Get the engine started.”

  “They told me just one passenger.” Harrison squinted dubiously at Conan. “And where’s the woman?”

  Zimmerman glanced toward the Coast Guard station. “There’s been a change in plans, and forget the woman. She’ll just have to fend for herself.”

  Conan caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, and looked up, past Zimmerman, and saw a shadowy figure emerge from the Josephine’s pilothouse, then hesitate and draw back. Harrison was still arguing with Joe, but Conan wasn’t listening.

  Sven.

  If he could make him understand…

  But the light was dim, and he couldn’t be sure Sven would recognize him, or even if he did, that he’d realize anything was wrong. Sven was a curiously incurious man.

  Zimmerman’s voice had taken on a sharp edge in his short and heated dialogue with the pilot. Conan looked from one to the other; neither had apparently noticed the movement aboard the Josephine. Joe had his back to the boat, and Harrison’s view was blocked by the Sea Queen’s pilothouse.

  “Damn it, Harrison, they won’t wait much longer. Now, get this tub started and let’s get the hell out of here. Conan, you—”

  “Listen, I got my orders,” Harrison interrupted testily. “And I ain’t—” He stopped abruptly as Joe brought his gun out and aimed it directly at him.

  “I said start the engine, you stupid—”

  “Okay! Okay!” He threw up his hands helplessly and turned toward the pilothouse. “But I still don’t like it.”

  “You don’t have to like it. Just do what you’re told and you won’t get hurt.” He glanced fleetingly at the Coast Guard station again, then focused on Conan as the boat’s motor throbbed into life. Zimmerman shouted over the roar, “Come on, get in—and hurry up!”

  Conan risked one look at the Josephine and saw Sven through the windows of the pilothouse. Conan stepped backward, glaring at Joe, watching him closely, calculating the risk.

  “This is as far as I go, Zimmerman!” The roar of the motor gave him an excuse to raise his voice to a shout he hoped Sven could hear.

  Joe’s face went red, and he snapped the gun up against Demetriev’s head.

  “One last warning, Flagg! You just keep pushing me and see where you end up—both of you!”

  Demetriev moaned, his eyes rolling around toward the gun, and Conan stood a moment, as if undecided, gazing at him. Finally, he let his shoulders sag, then turned and stepped over the railing into the Sea Queen, fighting for balance as Zimmerman hurried him on his way with a hard shove.

  “Into the stern, Cone, and stay down. Okay, Doctor, you’re next. Up by the pilothouse. I’ll get the anchor ropes, Harrison. You just tend to the wheel and get this damned tub headed out!”

  Conan sank against the stern with the hectic roar of the engine rising to a vibrating crescendo as Joe leaped aboard, and the boat lurched away from the dock.

  He had one last glimpse of Olaf Svensen before he lowered himself to the deck. The old fisherman was still watching from the shadows of the Josephine’s pilothouse.

  Conan closed his eyes, hoping that the man of little curiosity would find something in what he’d just seen to wonder about.

  *

  Beyond the narrow channel of Holliday Bay, the Sea Queen moved into a tangible, oppressive darkness. There was a faint glow from the running lights atop the pilothouse; red on the port side, green on the starboard, but they were shielded at the back. The white mast light made a weaving beacon against the stars, but it was too high to cast any light into the boat.

  Inside the pilothouse, a three-walled affair, open at the back, there was a faint glow from the binnacle light. Conan could see Zimmerman standing next to Demetriev, holding the handrail along the side wall to brace himself and the old man against the rising and falling of the waves.

  Demetriev seemed oblivious to everything. His head rested against the
wall, rolling back and forth with the motion of the boat. And Conan wondered exactly how bad his heart was; how much longer he could hold out.

  And he was wondering how long it would take the Sea Queen to reach the trawlers. Fifteen minutes, perhaps; twenty at the most.

  It didn’t matter. It wasn’t enough.

  He’d felt some hope on seeing Sven; embraced the hope blindly. But now it was crumbling into helpless despair. He was intensely aware of the leaden pounding of his heartbeat in every artery, and a kind of static change running along the nerves under his skin.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating on bringing himself under control, reining the rising panic.

  He still had a few high cards left in his game. Charlie, of course—Charlie was his ace; and there was the gun in Demetriev’s pocket; and the slight advantage of having his hands tied in front of him rather than behind his back; and Sven.

  But as the Sea Queen moved on into the darkness, the chances of any of these factors turning the game in his favor were becoming more remote with every passing minute.

  There were too many square miles of ocean between the Bay and the trawlers. Even if Charlie reached Travers and the Coast Guard was alerted, finding one small fishing boat on a moonless night wouldn’t be easy; not in the short span of time left to them.

  And the gun; with Joe so close to Demetriev, there was little hope of getting at the gun. The slight advantage of having his hands tied in front was offset by the weakness of the shoulder. It ached constantly, and he could still feel the warm dampness under the bandages.

  And Sven—Conan almost laughed. Sven had probably watched Zimmerman push him and Demetriev into the boat, shrugged his shoulders, and gone home.

  Zimmerman was holding all the high cards now.

  He became aware of the burning in his wrists; he’d been pulling at the ropes. And that was futile; they were a light, tough nylon cord, and he’d only succeeded in tightening the knots.

  He felt the anger and frustration—and the fear—eating like acid, corrosive and bitter; his nerves seemed to be disintegrating with that mordant infusion. His muscles tightened, caught in an uncontrolled, unconscious tetany between the mental signals that shouted act, and the conflicting signals that recognized the futility of action.

  But he would not wait passively, hoping for the deus ex machina. He would act, whatever the risk to Demetriev—or himself. In the end, the results would probably be the same. Any action was better than…

  His head came up, and for a long while he was motionless, not even breathing, his senses straining. A sound. A drawn-out, mournful moan repeating itself at regular intervals.

  It was faint against the rumble of the engine, but still, that desolate, sighing sound amplified itself in his awareness, carrying with chilling clarity.

  The marker buoy.

  That buoy was anchored at the three-mile limit; the borderline between United States and international waters.

  CHAPTER 26

  For God’s sake, will you at least try?” Charlie Duncan was shouting into the phone, staring across Conan’s desk into the mocking face of Mrs. Edwina Leen.

  The feminine voice at the other end of the line was cold.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Travers gave me strict orders that he would accept no calls. He’s in conference.”

  Duncan glared at Mrs. Leen, choking back his frustration as he looked down at his watch: 8:10. And where the hell was Conan? And Carl?

  “Look, this is an emergency. Tell Travers—”

  “If it’s an emergency, sir, I suggest you call—”

  “Will you shut up and listen!” Mrs. Leen laughed softly, and Duncan snapped, “Look, Granny, you’re just lucky I never hit a woman when she’s tied down.”

  The secretary made a choked sound. “Really, sir!”

  “I wasn’t talking to you, lady. Now, get Travers on the line and tell him—”

  “Sir, I’m sorry,” she interrupted, with no hint of apology in her tone, “but I can’t do that. I’m only acting under orders.”

  He pulled in a deep breath, controlling his voice with an effort, staring down at the file card on the desk. Demetriev. If Conan was right…

  “Yes, ma’am, I understand. But this particular emergency concerns Mr. Travers. Tell him I’m calling about Conan Flagg.”

  “Well, I can’t just—”

  “Listen, damn it! Did you get that name?”

  There was a slight pause, then, “Did you say Flagg? Conan Flagg?”

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s exactly what I said.”

  Duncan was taken entirely off guard by the short, uneasy laugh that followed.

  “Oh, well, why didn’t you say so to begin with?”

  “Lady, I’ve been trying—”

  “Just a moment, sir. Of course, I’ll connect you with Mr. Travers.”

  The line clicked to hold, and Duncan braced the phone against his shoulder as he lit a cigarette, too relieved to be annoyed. And now, he could meet Mrs. Leen’s eye and watch her growing anxiety with some relish.

  But something was drastically wrong, and Mrs. Leen’s anxiety offered little reassurance. Carl Berg was too good an operative to get out of reach of his radio for more than a few minutes, and Duncan had tried to contact him four times in the last half hour. He’d even attempted to telephone Dominic’s house, but the line was out of order. And that damned courier—Duncan blew out an impatient stream of smoke. He had to give the man credit; he was quick, and he knew all the tricks for shaking a tail.

  “Hello. Conan, is that—?”

  Charlie straightened. “No, Steve, this is Duncan.”

  “What’s the problem, Charlie? My secretary said—”

  “You can tell your secretary to—never mind. Steve, I need help. Can you get hold of somebody with some authority fast? Conan may be in trouble, and I’ve got a man down there with a two-way radio, but I haven’t been able to raise him. You’d better—”

  “Wait a minute. Just slow down a little. What’s going on?”

  Duncan sighed. It would take so long to explain.

  “Get hold of the FBI and see if the name Alexei Demetriev rings any bells.”

  Travers paused. “Hold on a minute.”

  It was only a matter of seconds. The next voice was unfamiliar.

  “Mr. Duncan, I’m Inspector David West, FBI. Mr. Travers and I were just discussing—”

  “Thank God.” Duncan breathed a long sigh of relief. “Inspector, I haven’t got time to be polite. Will you tell Travers to get a patrol car to Demetriev’s house—now.”

  A brief hesitation, then, “Yes, just a moment.”

  Duncan waited again, watching Mrs. Leen. She’d turned noticeably paler at the word Inspector.

  “All right, Mr. Duncan, he’s taking care of it.”

  “Good. By the way, I have somebody here at the bookshop for you. Mrs. Edwina Leen.”

  “We checked the name, but—”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s probably an alias, and she’ll keep. I’m worried about Conan. He left here alone, headed for Demetriev’s place about—”

  “How did he know about Demetriev?”

  “I don’t know. All I have is a note and a file card. Do you guys have any idea what’s going on down here?”

  West said sharply, “Mr. Duncan, we do have agents keeping Dr. Demetriev under full-time surveillance. I sent another man down this morning when Mills didn’t check in, and there are more on their way now. In fact, they should be arriving within a few minutes.”

  “That’s encouraging. But when did you last hear from your agents in the house blind?”

  “The house—well, they’re supposed to report at eight. I haven’t checked the Portland office to—”

  “I can save you some trouble. There was no eight o’clock report from them.”

  “But, what—?”

  “Inspector, somebody’s about to walk off with your prize defector.”

  “Are you sure? How do you kn
ow?”

  “Maybe Conan’s wrong, but I don’t think so. I had a man working surveillance on Demetriev. Is Steve there?”

  “Yes, Charlie,” Travers replied. “We have a conference phone; I’m listening.”

  “Okay. I couldn’t raise Carl, and he wouldn’t get away from his radio for half an hour when he knew I might be calling. And if something’s happened to him, Conan’s on his own in very unfriendly territory. I even tried calling Demetriev’s house. The phone’s dead.”

  West’s voice betrayed his chagrin at that.

  “The phone’s dead? Mr. Duncan, perhaps you should call the local police until our agents—”

  “No, for God’s sake, not the local police.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Travers cut in, “I’ll explain that to him, Charlie. Look, I checked and we have a couple of patrol cars in the area. I sent them to Demetriev’s.”

  “Good.” Duncan crushed out his cigarette hastily. “You better send one of them to the Bay, and alert the Coast Guard to check out any boats leaving the dock. Mrs. Leen’s tied down here at the shop. I’m heading for Demetriev’s.”

  “Wait,” West put in. “What about the Bay?”

  Duncan thrust his gun in his belt holster, glancing impatiently at his watch.

  “Conan took a little fishing trip earlier this evening and caught a signal light between Mrs. Leen’s house and those Russian trawlers. You figure it. Now, you two can sit there and ponder this thing if you want; I’m going to Demetriev’s and find out what the hell’s going on.”

  “Charlie, hold on,” Travers said. “How long ago did Conan leave?”

  “Maybe half an hour ago. I don’t know exactly. Oh—put out an APB on a tan Ford, license number ETM581.”

  “Okay, but who—?”

  “No time to explain now. Where can I reach you?”

  “Here. I’ll keep the line open for you.”

  “That’s a relief. I might not have time to work through your secretary again. Thanks. And good-bye.”