Микки Спиллейн - Together We Kill

“Time. You need time. You want to know something. Okay, so do I, so quit wasting time.”

They passed a quick look between them and the other one nodded. Jones said, “Sometimes we have to take certain risks in this business. But first let me tell you something... from this moment on, you’ll be involved with national security. Break it and you’ve had it. Clear enough?”

“Clear enough,” I repeated.

“You know what you’re doing?” Del said angrily.

“Keep quiet, Reed,” Jones told him. “It’s out of your hands now.” He leaned forward, staring at me. “When the Russians folded in Cuba, they shipped their missiles out. Aerial photos showed them lashed to the decks of ships, and information from our agents confirmed the fact up to a certain extent.”

“Go on.”

“Whether or not the nuclear warheads were removed couldn’t be proved. Let’s suppose something, Mr. Fallon. Suppose one of those devices were installed in a ship and that ship headed for some strategic port here in the States and blown while it was docked.”

He stopped there and sat back, waiting for me to digest it.

Finally, I said, “So that’s what ‘banana’ is.”

The look went between them again. “What’s that, Mr. Fallon?”

“Banana. It’s a boat. A ship.”

“Where did you find that out?”

“Tucker Stacy mentioned it in passing.”

“No jokes, Fallon.”

“Is it a ship?” I asked softly.

“Yes. That isn’t the name, but it’s a ship. It’s a code name the Cuban underground gave it.”

I looked at the three of them. “Where is it?”

“Someplace at sea.”

“You don’t know?”

“We can’t get inside the hurricane area to find out. It cleared Cuba to get away from the storm and that’s all we know. But what we want is... what do you know, Mr. Fallon?”

“No more than you do, but Tuck knew about it.”

“We knew he was involved with them. What else did he tell you?”

“Nothing, but it was obvious why he was killed.”

Jones’s eyes narrowed at the word. “That’s right, he was murdered. Apparently he was bringing someone back from Cuba in the Beech and a dynamite bomb got loaded aboard with him. Somebody else had to get out fast with the information so Gonzales went. He got knocked off before he could talk too.”

Jones grunted, “Stupid.”

“Why?”

“We should have had him before the committee. They wanted him recovered from the trip. We could have gotten the information earlier. Damn amateurs.” He took a heavy breath and settled back. “That isn’t locating the ship, Fallon.”

“You won’t get it from me. That’s all I know.”

This time it was Smith who spoke. His voice was a hoarse growl that didn’t go with his face. “We’re beginning to wonder. You might have a personal angle.”

“Like what?”

“The Hays woman. It could be a pay-off for a news story. It could be something else.”

I just looked at him.

“You’re looking for a kick in the teeth, boy.”

“It’s just a thought we’ll keep in mind. I hope you don’t plan on going anywhere soon.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to be your closest companion until this thing gets settled. Someplace in your mind you got a bug. It says you got something we want to know. I’ve been in this business too long not to smell things like that — and sooner or later I’m going to get it out of you.”

“Lots of luck.”

He ignored the crack. “Tucker Stacy told you something else. You’re still thinking about it. I want to be around when you find out what it is.”

Jones and Del Reed got up then, but Smith didn’t move. They weren’t kidding anymore. They said good night pleasantly, opened the door and left. I looked at Smith and he grinned, then switched on the TV. A newscaster appeared. Hurricane Ingrid was a blaster. All ships were being warned out of the area and the local citizens were being warned to batten down. Ingrid was over Cuba, still on course, picking up speed and increasing in wind velocity.

I walked to the phone, told the switchboard operator to get me a direct line and take time and charges, then I dialed through to George Conway up in Jersey. I asked him if he had seen Whitey Thompson about his old squadron pictures.

“Got right to him, Cat. Look, we went over everything, but he couldn’t remember anybody named Cristy and Verdo. He wanted to know, could it’ve been a squadron call name or anythin’? He remembers the names, but not who they belonged to.”

“We were all color and animal calls, George. Red three and four. Tiger Two... you know.”

“I’ll keep working on it. You’ll call me back?”

“Roger.”

I hung up and went back to watching television. Verdo and Cristy! Who were they? What were they? They hung there in the past of 20 years ago, meaning something Tucker thought I’d understand without any trouble at all. Why? What made him think I’d get the angle? So we were fighter pilots. We flew Mustangs and escorted B-17s and B-24s in and out of Germany. We did some low-level strafing, a little photo-recon work, covered the invasion and horsed around London. What else? I couldn’t figure it. I squatted down on the edge of the bed and gave up.

Lois Hays was due in. It was going to be a long night.

Maybe. The little gust of air on my neck turned me around.

Smith turned, too, and died before he ever saw who it was. The bullet from the silenced gun caught him right in the middle of his forehead.

Andre Marcel said, “You have been speaking to the wrong people, my friend. Now you will come with us. You will speak with us, too, and if you will speak well you will die quickly like your government friend there not slowly like so many others have died before him.”

It was a small room filled with the smell of the sea, and I could hear the waves lashing at pilings beneath my feet. The wind was alternately shrill and sorrowful, building in strength.

They had me on a table, stripped to the skin, an overhead light blazing in my eyes. The hypo had worn off and I was fully awake. I could feel my heart pounding inside my chest. Andre stood above me, the two goons on either side. Very delicately he ran a finger over two scars on my body. “I’ve seen these marks before, Mr. Fallon. They were professionally inflicted.”

“Algiers,” I said. “I’m still here.”

“Quite. They never had a chance to finish, did they?”

A shudder ran through me, I wasn’t as brave as I thought. I strained at the ropes that held me spread-eagled. I was lucky the last time in Algiers. The French had come just in time. And I couldn’t have talked because I had nothing to say. Still, the Wogs would have gone ahead with the job. It was that way now, too.

“You are familiar with Arab torture?”

I didn’t answer him.

“Ah, I see you are. In that case, let us forego a few of the more basic steps and come quickly to those appliances that seem to guarantee results.” He reached for something attached to the table and brought up a pair of insulated wires. On the end of each one was a battery clip that could carry a lot of amperage.

“In case you have forgotten, this is an unusual instrument. One end we attach like so...” Andre Marcel snagged the clip in my earlobe. I winced, but it was nothing compared to what was to come.

“The other end,” he said, “will be attached to your testicles. At given intervals, a switch will be thrown and... ah, I see you realize what will happen. Not only is it most painful, but totally destructive. You would no longer be a man if you lived. You would never again know a woman or even want to. Most probably, however, you would die right here after hours of living with the pain centered in your vitals. Unpleasant to contemplate, isn’t it, Fallon.”