Alistair MacLean - Circus

The search, which lasted perhaps ten minutes and left Van Diemen’s quarters in an indescribable shambles, yielded precisely nothing. Bruno stood in momentary indecision. For all he knew, time might be running out very fast indeed. “Let’s try his clothes.”

They tried his clothes. Again they found nothing. Bruno advanced on the bound and gagged figure sitting up in bed, regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then reached down and gently lifted the gold chain he wore round his neck. No crucifix for Van Diemen, no Star of David, but something that was probably even more precious to him than those could have been to Catholic or Jew: dangling from the end of the chain was a bright and intricately-cut bronze key. Two whole walls of Van Diemen’s main office were lined with metal filing cabinets. Fourteen in all, each with four sliding drawers. Fifty-six holes. Roebuck was unsuccessfully trying his thirtieth. Every pair of eyes in the office looked at him intently. All except Bruno’s. His did not leave Van Die-men’s face, which had remained expressionless throughout. Suddenly there was a tic at the corner of his mouth.

“That one,” Bruno said.

That one it was. The key turned easily and Roebuck pulled the drawer out. Van Diemen tried to throw himself forward, which, if an understandable reaction, was a futile one, for Kan Dahn had one massive arm around him. Bruno advanced to the drawer, started leafing quickly through the files. He picked out one sheaf of papers, checked the other files, double-checked them and closed the drawer.

Roebuck said: “Yes?”

“Yes.” Bruno thrust the files deep inside the inner pocket of his garish suit.

Roebuck said complainingly: “Seems like a bit of an anticlimax.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Bruno said encouragingly.

“The climax may still be to come.”

They descended to the eighth floor. Van Diemen had his mouth taped and hands bound behind his back, for the prison staff lived there and it seemed highly likely that Van Diemen might have wished to call attention to their presence. There were no guards here, either asleep or awake, and no reason why there should have been: guards were expendable but Van Diemen’s papers were not.

Bruno headed directly for the door at the foot of the stairs. It was not locked and neither were the filing cabinets inside, and again there was no reason why any of them should have been. Bruno began opening filing drawers in swift succession, extracting files, leafing through them rapidly and discarding them in turn by the elementary process of dropping them on the floor.

Roebuck looked at him in some puzzlement and said: “A moment ago you were in one God almighty damned hurry to get out. What place is this anyway?”

Bruno looked at him briefly. “You forget the note you passed me?”

“Ah!”

“Yes, ah. 4.30. West entrance. No question. My life on it. They keep the prison records here.”

Bruno offered no further explanation to anyone. Suddenly he appeared to find what he wanted, a highly detailed schematic diagram with rows of names printed on one side. He glanced briefly at it, nodded in what appeared to be some satisfaction, dropped it to the floor and turned away.

Roebuck said: “We are doing our mentalist bit again?”

“Something like that.”

They eschewed the elevator, walked down to the fifth floor, and crossed to the detention block by way of the glass-enclosed passage-way. There was an admitted element of risk in this, but slight: the only people who might reasonably have been expected to have a watchful eye on that goldfish bowl corridor were the watch-tower guards and they were in no condition to have their eyes on anything.

Bruno halted the others as they reached the closed door at the far end of the passageway. “Wait. I know where the guardroom is — just round the corner to the left. What I don’t know is whether the guards will be patrolling.”

Roebuck said: “So?”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No. Nobody’s recognized you yet. I don’t intend that anyone shall. Don’t forget that true trouper Roebuck is performing tonight. And Kan Dahn. And Manuelo. And not forgetting, of course, Vladimir and Yoffe.”

Manuelo looked at him in something approaching stupefaction.

“Your brothers?”

“Of course. They’re here. Where else do you think they would have been taken?”

“But — but the ransom demands?”

“Courtesy of the Secret Police. So my brothers can perform with impunity. Nobody’s got anything against them. How can they? They were just pawns, hostages for my good conduct. And do you think the police are going to admit they abducted them and sent ransom demands? Now that would cause an international uproar.”

Manuelo said complainingly: “You do play the cards pretty close to the chest.”

“It’s one of the better ways of surviving.”

“And how are you going to survive any longer?”

“I’m getting out of here.”

“Sure. No problem. You just flap your arms and fly away.” “More or less. Roebuck has a little gadget in that bag of his. I just operate it and a whirlygig should be here in about twenty minutes.”

“Whirlygig? Helicopter? From where, for God’s sake?”

“American naval vessel lying offshore.”

There was no ready answer to this. Then Roebuck said: “Very, very close to the chest. That means that you’re the only one of us who’s leaving?”

“I’m taking Maria. The police have recorded tape evidence that she’s up to her ears in this.”

They stared at him in complete incomprehension.

“I think I forgot to mention. She’s a CIA agent.” Roebuck said heavily: “Very, very, very close. And how do you propose to get her?”

“Go up to the circus for her.”

Kan Dahn shook his head sadly. “Quite, quite mad.” “Would I be here if I weren’t?” He depressed the top knob of the black pen, slipped off the safety catch on his machine-pistol and cautiously eased open the door.

It was a prison just like any other prison, rows of cells on four sides of the block, passageways with four feet high railings bordering the deep well that ran the full vertical height of the building. As far as Bruno could see there was no one on patrol, certainly not on that fifth floor. He moved out to the railing, glanced up and then down the fifty-foot drop to the concrete below. It was impossible to be certain, but there appeared to be no one on patrol, nor could he hear anything. And prison guards, especially military guards, are not noted for the lightness of their steps.

Light came from a glass-fronted door about twenty feet to his left. Bruno pussy-footed his way towards it and peered in. There were two guards and two only, seated one on either side of a small table. Quite clearly they weren’t expecting any senior officers or NCOs around on a tour of inspection, for they had a bottle on the table and a glass apiece. They were playing the inevitable cards.

Bruno pushed the door open. Both men turned their heads and looked down the uninviting muzzle of the Schmeisser. “On your feet.”

They complied with alacrity.

“Hands behind your necks. Close your eyes. Tight.” They wasted no time over this either. Bruno pulled out the gas pen, squirted it twice, then whistled softly for the others to join him. While they were immobilizing the two guards, Bruno inspected the rows of numbered keys hanging on the guardroom wall.

On the seventh floor, Bruno selected the key numbered 713 and opened the cell door. The two brothers, Vladimir and Yoffe, stared at him in open disbelief, then rushed out and hugged him wordlessly. Bruno pushed them smilingly aside, selected more keys, opened up 714 then 715 and 716 in succession. Bruno, standing outside 715, smiled without mirth at his two brothers, companions and Van Diemen, who had moved up to join him.