Дональд Уэстлейк - Forever and a Death

Luther trailed the others. The air was cool but slightly dank, probably because of the water streaming through two of the pipes overhead. It made him think of the family’s tomb in the cemetery outside Dusseldorf, where five generations of Rickendorfs and their spouses were stowed away in stone drawers, or the cremated ones in urns on an ornate stone shelf. There had been family occasions, mostly church-related, when the whole family had driven out to visit the cemetery, when Luther was much younger and his grandparents still alive, but those customs had fallen into disuse now. It used to amuse him to think of presenting Jerry’s body to the family for storage in the tomb in the drawer beneath the one reserved for himself; now, when he remembered that, he could only think: No, no one will visit Jerry’s grave, ever.

They walked ten minutes before they reached the seawall, where the building manager explained that the blank end wall they saw was three courses of brick behind the visible sheathing of concrete. Where the pipes vanished into the wall there were thin black grommets.

They hadn’t spotted anything out of the ordinary, but they repeated the flashlight inspection on the return trip, moving even more slowly than before. Luther still trailed, not really with the group, following them but not a part of them, not studying the wall as the others did, his thoughts far away.

Then he heard a sound. A faint scraping sound. He moved on another step before the sound registered, and the fact that it had come from behind him. Behind him. But the others were all in front.

Luther turned to frown at the empty tunnel behind him. Would they have rats in this place? No, it was all kept very clean, and the whole tunnel was sealed, no way in or out except that door down there that the group was converging on, and then the flight of metal stairs leading upward.

But he had heard something, he knew that. He took a step back the way he’d come, seeing only the converging lines of the pipes overhead, the dim lights at regular intervals, the pools of darkness between, the seawall now only a vague blur, far away. He took a second step back, trying to see, trying to hear.

Again. The tiny brushing sound of someone trying not to move, but unable to stay forever still.

Luther looked up, and the man hurtled onto him from on top of the left side pipe. He’d been hiding up there, on that too-narrow space, out of direct light, above the area they’d been searching with the flashlights. He hadn’t expected anybody to come in here, and had only managed to hide just barely out of the way, but the pipe was narrow and it had been difficult to maintain his balance, so he had made that sound.

And now he was committed. Luther looked up, and had only time to register with blank astonishment that it was the man Bennett from Singapore, the man who’d killed Jerry, when the weight of him knocked Luther back and down, hitting his head against the curved-in concrete wall just above the metal floor. Bennett’s weight stayed on him, Luther dazed from the hit on the head, Bennett’s hand clamping down hard over Luther’s nose and mouth, his other hand closing on Luther’s windpipe.

The others were too far away, they were almost to the door. Luther had been behind them, and then he’d stopped, and then he’d turned back, and by now they were too far away, they couldn’t have heard the small thud of the bodies falling, the small scrapes and grunts of the struggle.

Luther was tall and slender, strong but not as powerful as this big man bearing down on him, his weight pressing down, his hand squeezing shut Luther’s throat, Luther feebly struggling, not really conscious.

Far away, they started through the doorway. Even if one of them were to look back, what would they see? Shadows, between the dim lights.

Luther’s hands pulled helplessly at the man’s hand on his throat, he tried to kick the floor but Bennett’s legs held his legs down, he tried to twist his head this way or that way, but the other hand stayed clamped on his nose and mouth.

The door down there shut. The lights switched off.

Mark had been terrified for so long that it had become dull, like an old wound that wouldn’t heal. It was dulled by fatigue, and by hunger, and by physical pain, and the despair that comes from knowing they are going to kill you, when they please, how they please, and that by the time it happens you’ll be relieved that at last it’s over. So the terror was dulled, and familiar, and no longer struck at him with such sharp pangs of agony and disbelief, but it was still there, inside his head, every waking second and every second of exhausted sleep; absolute unrelenting terror.

It had begun — it felt as though it had begun years ago, that he’d been a slave in this underground place most of his life, but it had begun less than a week ago, when he left Singapore with Richard Curtis. Curtis had told him they would fly to Sydney, but when he got to Changi Airport Curtis handed him a first-class ticket to Taipei instead.

Mark expressed surprise, naturally, and Curtis said, “This is to throw the competition off the track.” And he never thought a thing about it.

He’d trusted Curtis, he’d believed in Curtis, and more than that, he’d believed in himself, in his own decision to be loyal to Curtis from now on. Having made that decision, everything should have been all right.

He still hadn’t been worried when they got to Taipei and the plans changed again. They took the transit passenger route through the terminal, as though to pick up their Sydney flight, neither having checked any luggage, but then they were met by a pilot from a small charter company, and Curtis had explained to Mark they would be making a small sidetrip to Okinawa to see someone there who was a part of the new secret enterprise. Tomorrow they would fly from there on to Sydney. And still Mark had believed him.

This was a night flight, so it had taken him longer to realize they weren’t traveling over water. If they were on the way to Okinawa, shouldn’t there be water below? Clearly, they were on their way to some other part of Taiwan.

That was when doubt first touched at Mark, and a little shiver of fear. What was going on? He was alone in this small plane with Richard Curtis and the pilot. Had Curtis found out that Mark had been spying on him? Was he going to open the plane’s door and hurl Mark out into the jungle below?

But then he would rather throw Mark into the ocean, wouldn’t he? To be sure no body was ever found. So it had to be something else. But what?

As they were about to land — somewhere — Curtis had given him another explanation: “I like it that you don’t ask a lot of questions, Mark,” he’d said. “That shows you can keep quiet, keep discreet.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’ve probably noticed we’re flying over land.”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“We’ll be landing at Kaohsiung, it’s a port on the southern coast of Taiwan.”

“Are we taking a ship, sir?”

“Good man,” Curtis had said, and smiled at him, and patted his arm. “This thing I’m doing is absolutely hush-hush, Mark,” he’d explained, “but you can’t keep your movements private when you travel by commercial air. A boat it is.”

And a boat it was. A black Daimler met them at Kaohsiung airport and drove them to the port, where a cabin cruiser waited for them. Not as big as Curtis’s yacht, it probably slept six, had a very small galley kitchen, and a crew of two, husband and wife, both Chinese. The ship was called Granjya , it flew the Chinese flag, and it was aboard her that the terror began.

The instant they were aboard, the wife cast off and the husband steered them away from the dock and toward the harbor mouth. Curtis led the way through the small common room to the cabins aft, saying, “I’m in the cabin on the right, and that’s yours on the left. You might as well unpack, we’ll be aboard for nearly twenty-four hours.”