James Hadley Chase
Believed Violent
1968
Synopsis
The Russians will pay $4,000,000 for the top secret formula of a revolutionary new metal . . . and the C.I.A. will do anything to stop them.
American inventor Dr Paul Forrester is the man that both sides want. For he alone can decipher the vital code. But for two years Forrester has been in a mental asylum - ever since that bloody day he walked in on his beautiful wife and her lover . . .
So pretty Nona Jacey, Forrester's former lab-assistant, becomes a helpless pawn in the power struggle to possess the scientist . . . for she is the key to unlocking Forrester's mind.
He walked silently to the bedroom door, holding the knife by his side. He heard the sound of movement. He heard the one man he had regarded with trust, say, “Who wants a drink, baby ? I know what I want.”
“Get me a drink !” There was snap in her voice that always dominated any man. “We have all the time in the world. He won't be back until tomorrow. "
“Okay. Maybe I could use a drink myself, but you stay right where you are . . . understand ?”
He heard her laugh.
“I'm not going to run away.”
The bed creaked — the bed he hadn't shared with her now for a long time. He listened to the sound of naked feet padding over the parquet floor. The door swung open.
The two men confronted each other. The tall man drove the blade of the knife forward and down, then ripped up . . .
Table of Contents
Synopsis
Curtain Raiser
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
CURTAIN RAISER
“Don’t move,” she said breathlessly, her fingers moving down the length of his naked back. “Stay still . . . don’t move.”
So he waited, pressed down on her, knowing from experience to let her have her way, knowing that when she was ready she would suddenly become an eel-like thing, and they would be transported into an explosive fusion that would create yet another memorable moment of lust.
Their clothes, discarded in the frenzy of desire, lay by the bed in disorderly heaps.
As she suddenly arched her body, her breathing becoming convulsive, the bedroom door opened silently. Neither of them became aware that a third person had joined them.
The tall man stood motionless, watching them. When she cried out — a cry he had only heard once during their miserable marriage — he closed the door and moved back into the untidy sitting-room.
The room with his and her things scattered around, with dust on the occasional tables and on the face of the television set, with the ash trays still unemptied, with all his papers, his books and the unopened mail became four dimensional. He found he was no longer able to focus. Everything in the room he looked at became blurred and distorted.
As he heard her cry out again, he pressed the cold palms of his hands against his temples. Then through the bedroom door, he heard her moan, a sound that could have come from the throat of an animal.
The fragile thread that had been holding his reason together snapped. This thread had been under threat for some months. Sooner or later, it was certain to break. It was unfortunate for the man in the bedroom that it snapped at this moment.
The tall man suddenly felt lighter. Everything in the room came abruptly into focus. He paid no further attention to sounds coming from the bedroom. He walked silently out of the sitting-room and across the lobby and into the kitchen with all the gadgets that she had insisted he should buy as status symbols and which she never used. He took from one of the drawers a barbecue knife she had given him as a Christmas present. Its four-inch blade glittered in the beam of the sunlight coming through the kitchen window. The wooden handle, studded with brass-headed nails, fitted comfortably into his cold grasp.
He returned to the sitting-room and waited, standing by the window where he could see the low wooden huts of the Experimental Station where he had worked with ceaseless application for the past three years. He waited for some twenty minutes and from time to time, he tested the edge of the knife which was razor sharp. Then he heard his wife say, “I must have a drink. Go on, darling . . . for God’s sake get off me! I’m dying for a drink!”
He walked silently to the bedroom door, holding the knife by his side. He heard the sound of movement. He heard the one man he had regarded with trust, say, “Who wants a drink, baby? I know what I want.”
“Get me a drink!” There was that snap in her voice that always dominated any man. “We have all the time in the world. He won’t be back until tomorrow.”
“Okay. Maybe I could use a drink myself, but you stay right where you are . . . understand?”
He heard her laugh.
“I’m not going to run away.”
The bed creaked — the bed he hadn’t shared with her now for a long time. He listened to the sound of naked feet padding over the parquet floor. The door swung open.
The two men confronted each other. The tall man drove the blade of the knife forward and down, then ripped up.
The man he thought he could trust fell against him, sending him staggering back. This gave the woman, lying naked on the bed, time to save her life. She had instant reflexes. She was off the bed and had slammed and locked the door before the tall man could reach her.
But she knew she was within only a few heartbeats away from a horrible death. She snatched up the telephone receiver and screamed to the startled operator, “Come quickly . . . I’m being murdered!”
Then as the bedroom door shuddered under the maniacal attack, she fled into the bathroom, slammed and bolted the door. She began to scream through the high window, too small for an escape.
CHAPTER ONE
Herman Radnitz crossed the entrance hall of the Bristol Hotel Kempinski and handed the Hall Porter his room key.
“Good evening, sir.” The Hall Porter gave a little bow, reserved only for the most important clients staying at the best hotel in West Berlin. “Your car is waiting.”
Radnitz nodded. He was a square shaped, fat man with hooded eyes and a thick, hooked nose. Internationally known as one of the richest men in the world with financial machinations spread like the tentacles of an octopus over the whole globe, Radnitz wielded enormous power over Foreign Embassies, the Gnomes of Zurich and the New York and London Stock markets. He was a deadly spider, sitting in the middle of his financial web, snapping at every unwary fly that could add to his vast wealth.
He was wearing a black Broadtail cap and a black cloth overcoat, lined with dark wild mink. The diamond of his stick pin, in his black silk cravat, was of the quality a Rajah would have envied. He exuded power, money and luxury living. It was only when one looked directly into the hooded, slate grey eyes that the cold ruthlessness of his nature became startlingly apparent.
He made his way to the double glass doors. The doorman, waiting, held open the doors. He lifted his peak cap and bowed. Radnitz ignored him. He walked down the steps into the bracing cold air where Ko-Yu, his Japanese servant and chauffeur stood waiting by the black and silver Rolls-Royce.
“I have an appointment at the Brandenburg Gate at is o’clock. You will have to allow forty minutes to pass the frontier,” Radnitz said. “I will leave the timing to you.”
He got into the car and Ko-Yu shut the car door. He slid into the driver’s seat. The car moved off.
Radnitz selected a cigar from the cedar-wood box, built into the elaborate cocktail cabinet that faced him. The Rolls had been built to his specifications. It lacked nothing: the cocktail cabinet, a short wave receivi
ng and sending set, a Sony television set, a telephone, a tiny refrigerator and an electrically heated box where a hot meal could be kept. He lit the cigar, then switching on a pilot light, he took papers from his brief-case and began to study them.
Ten minutes later, the car slowed. They had reached the West Berlin terminus. Facing them was a big sign in English, German and Russian that read:
You are now leaving the American sector of Berlin.
A guard waved them through with a cheerful grin. Now, driving at a snail’s pace, the Rolls approached the big red and white steel pole, set across the road in concrete pillars that blocked the way into East Berlin. The car stopped. A fur capped guard, pistol at his hip, stared into the car. Radnitz handed him his passport through the open window. His fat face was expressionless. He wanted no trouble. His business beyond the barrier was far too important to risk upsetting some touchy guard. The passport was handed back, the barrier raised and the Rolls moved into a no-man’s land. Ahead, was a cunningly constructed maze of concrete blocks so formed that no car could get up enough speed to crash through the barrier. To the right was a row of wooden huts. A few cars were parked near the huts. Ko-Yu who had been briefed by the Hall Porter, drew up, got out and opened the door of the car. He followed Radnitz into the first of the huts. Their passports were checked, then they were given forms: name, nationality, birthplace and how much money each man was carrying. Ko-Yu had no money. Radnitz had DM.1000. They went to another desk and handed over their completed forms. Their passports were examined. Both men were asked to show the contents of their wallets. Ko-Yu had no wallet and giggled uneasily. His fat face still expressionless, Radnitz revealed the contents of his gold-edged, seal-skin wallet. He was given four small red tickets and waved to another hut. Here he exchanged two West Berlin DM.5 bills, a compulsory exchange that gave the Communists a steady trickle of hard currency.
Leaving the hut, they found a guard walking suspiciously around the Rolls. Radnitz had been warned the search would be thorough, and it was. While he stood back, Ko-Yu and the guard removed the seats from the Rolls. The engine and the boot were examined. Working with a powerful flashlight, the guard took his time. Finally, he produced a three foot wide mirror, mounted on wheels which he parked under the car, using his flashlight to reflect the underneath of the car.
Then satisfied there was no one concealed there, he waved them on.
Radnitz got back into the car and Ko-Yu drove him through the maze of concrete until they reached yet another barrier. Again their passports were examined and Radnitz handed over the red tickets, then the bather was raised and they drove into East Berlin.
“Careful people,” Ko-Yu remarked and giggled.
Radnitz wasn’t in the mood for such a remark. He glanced at his watch. They had three minutes before his appointment. He had no need to tell Ko-Yu the way. Ko-Yu always knew the way, no matter in what country he was driving. He was the best and the most intelligent chauffeur Radnitz had found. He was also the best cook, the best valet and houseboy, and Radnitz paid him accordingly.
The Rolls moved along Friedrichstrasse, turned left at linter Den Linden, and in a few seconds came in sight of the Brandenburg Gate, floodlit and impressive in the big, deserted square where it stood.
“Stop here,” Radnitz said, then pressed a button that raised the glass partition between himself and his chauffeur.
As the car pulled up, a stocky man came out of the shadows. Even in the poor light, it could be seen that he was shabby. His trousers were baggy, his hat shapeless, his dark overcoat hung anyhow. He came up to the car as Radnitz, who recognized him, opened the car door. The man whose name was Igor Douzenski got into the car. He settled himself beside Radnitz who picked up the hand microphone and told Ko-Yu to drive around.
“Not quickly . . . just keep driving,” and he turned off the microphone.
“Well, my friend,” he said to Douzenski, “I hope we can now finalize this affair. Your country, of course, is not the only one interested. Enough time has already been wasted.”
Douzenski folded his grimy hands in his lap. The heating in the car after the long cold wait was relaxing. The smell of the expensive cigar, blending with Radnitz’s after-shave lotion made him aware of his own bitter poverty. If this Capitalist, whom he and his Government suspected to be crooked, hoped to intimidate him, he was in for a surprise.
“We can’t be overheard?” he asked, speaking in German.
“No.”
“Your chauffeur is reliable?”
“Yes.” Radnitz’s cryptic answers showed his boredom. There was a pause, then Douzenski said, “I have consulted my people. They think it is most unlikely that what you offer could become a reality.”
Radnitz drew on his cigar.
“That I can appreciate. I too was doubtful, but I am now satisfied it can be arranged. Briefly, I can give your Government Formula ZCX.”
“That I can believe,” Douzenski said unpleasantly. “It is quite possible for us to get this formula without your help, but it would be as useless to us as it is to the American Government. Do I have to remind you that the formula is in code and this has proved to be unbreakable? For two years the American Government has tried to break the code. Now, they admit defeat.”
“I propose to break the code,” Radnitz said quietly. “Nothing is impossible if you have brains and money. I have both. I am offering your people the formula decoded. In exchange for a financial consideration, you get the formula. If you are not satisfied, I don’t get the money.” Radnitz regarded the glowing tip of his cigar. “It is as simple as that. What is less simple is how much do you bid?” He glanced out of the car’s window. They were driving down Karl Marx Alle with its lighted shops — the best, but still unimpressive, shopping district of East Berlin.
“You are serious?” Douzenski asked, his voice startled. “You really mean you can break this code that has defeated all the American experts?”
“I wouldn’t be wasting my time here if I wasn’t serious,” Radnitz said in a bored tone. “You don’t imagine I enjoy going through your ridiculous formalities just to meet you and to see this,” and he waved to the dismal shops and the deserted streets.
“I ask again: what do you bid?”
Douzenski drew in a long breath.
“I have been instructed to tell you that we agree to pay in cash two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.” He paused, then went on, his voice rising: “A fortune!”
Radnitz regarded the end of his cigar. He had expected such an offer. He had to restrain the white hot rage that surged through him to have to deal with such a shabby creature.
“Are you serious?” he said, repeating Douzenski’s words mockingly.
Douzenski looked in his direction. He couldn’t see Radnitz clearly in the dark car.
“Of course, but we will have to be satisfied it is the formula under discussion.”
“To be of any real value, the formula can only be owned by one country,” Radnitz said quietly. “I am prepared to let your people examine the decoded formula for two days, then if you fail to pay me, I would sell a copy of the formula to another country. You understand that?”
“How do we know you wouldn’t try to sell the copy after we have bought the original?” Douzenski demanded, delighted with his shrewdness.
“Because I deal with Nations,” Radnitz returned. When I make a bargain, I keep it.”
This Douzenski had heard and he nodded.
“So we are agreed?”
“Agreed? Did I say so? I understand you are making an offer of a quarter of a million dollars. That I can understand. Everyone makes an offer, but everyone does not make a ridiculous offer,” Radnitz said, an edge to his voice. “Now let me tell you something, my friend. One of my agents has hinted — no more than that — to the Chinese Government that the Formula ZCX, decoded, of course, could be for sale.” Radnitz paused. His hooded eyes regarded Douzenski’s face, caught from time to time by the passing street lights. The Chinese
Government know the value of the formula. Without hesitation, they have offered three million dollars. Did you hear what I said . . . three million dollars!”
Douzenski sat bolt upright.
“Three million dollars!” he gasped. “That is absurd!”
“You think so?” Radnitz’s cold contempt was now apparent both in his voice and his attitude. “The Chinese Government don’t think so.” He paused to draw on his cigar. “Very well, then let us consider the deal is off.” Picking up the microphone, he switched it on and said to Ko-Yu. “The Russian Embassy.”
Douzenski took a grubby handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his sweating hands.
“My Government would never pay such a sum,” he said hoarsely.
“No? Are they so poor?” Radnitz touched off the long ash from his cigar into the silver ashtray at his elbow. “How sad. However, I don’t take such a remark made by a lower civil servant — is that how you describe yourself? — seriously. Because I like the Chinese less than I like the Russians I would be prepared to make a quick deal — three and a half million dollars in cash. The formula, decoded, could be in your people’s hand in three months. It would be understood that I do not get paid if I cannot supply the formula, decoded.”
“I haven’t the authority,” Douzenski began feebly, but Radnitz cut him short.
“I am quite aware of that. We are now returning to your Embassy. I will leave you to make the necessary arrangements. I will be returning to the Bristol Hotel. Send me a telegram there if your people decide they wish to buy the formula at my price.”
“I must ask you to stay the night at an hotel here,” Douzenski said, trying to regain his lost authority. “Then I could come and see you. I am unable to come to see you at the Bristol.”
“I have no intention of staying at any of your miserable hotels,” Radnitz said as the car slowed to a stop outside the Russian Embassy. “Send me a telegram,” and he opened the car door.
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