Десмонд Бэгли - Running Blind

I wasn’t going to kill anyone. Not that I didn’t want to, but bodies you can’t get rid of are inconvenient and lead to the asking of awkward questions by the appropriate authorities. A wounded Russian, on the other hand, would be eliminated just as much as a dead one. He would be smuggled by his friends on to the trawler which was undoubtedly to hand, probably already in Reykjavik harbour. The Russians have more non-fishing trawlers than any other nation on earth.

No, I wasn’t going to kill anyone, but someone would soon wish to God he were dead.

Kennikin had disappeared and the three other men were engaged in a heated discussion about how to solve their little problem. I broke it up by firing five spaced shots in thirty seconds. The first hit the man standing next to the jeep in the kneecap, and suddenly there wasn’t anyone else around to shoot at. He lay on the ground, writhing and shouting, and he’d have one leg shorter than the other for the rest of his life — if he was got into a hospital quickly. If not, he’d be lucky to have a leg at all.

I re-sighted and squeezed the trigger again, this time shooting at the off-side front tyre of the jeep. The rifle was one of the best I’ve ever handled and, at a hundred yards, the trajectory was so flat that I could put a bullet exactly where I wanted it. The tyre wasn’t just punctured; under the close-range hammer blow of that big .375 bullet it exploded into bits, as did the other front tyre when I let fly again.

Someone popped off with a pistol. I ignored that and fed another round into the breech. I centred the cross hairs on to the front of the radiator and fired again, and the jeep rocked on its springs under the impact. This rifle was chambered to shoot big game and anything that can crack open the frontal skull bone of a buffalo wouldn’t do an engine block much good. I put the last bullet in the same place in the hope of putting the jeep permanently out of action and then withdrew, keeping my head down.

I walked up to the Land-Rover, and said to Elin, ‘It’s a good rifle.’

She looked at me nervously. ‘I thought I heard someone scream.’

‘I didn’t kill anyone,’ I said. ‘But they won’t be driving that jeep very far. Let’s go on. You can drive for a bit.’ I was suddenly very tired.

We drove out of the Óbyggdir and hit the main road system. Even if Kennikin was able to follow us we would have a good chance of losing him because this was one of the main areas of population and there was a network of roads harder to police than the simple choices of the Óbyggdir. Elin drove while I relaxed in the passenger seat, and once we were on the good roads were able to pick up speed.

‘Where to?’ she asked.

‘I’d like to get this vehicle out of sight,’ I said. ‘It’s too damned conspicuous. Any suggestions?’

‘You have to be at Geysir tomorrow night,’ she said. ‘I have friends at Laugarvatn — you must remember Gunnar.’

‘Weren’t you running around with him before you met me?’

She smiled. ‘It wasn’t serious — and we’re still friends. Besides, he’s married now.’

Marriage, to a lot of men, doesn’t mean an automatic cancellation of their hunting licence, but I let it lie; a more-or-less civilized butting match with Elin’s old boyfriend was preferable to a more deadly encounter with Kennikin. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Head for Laugarvatn.’

We were silent for a while, then I said, ‘Thank you for what you did back there when I was on Búdarháls. It was a damned silly thing to do, but it helped.’

‘I thought it might distract their attention,’ she said.

‘It sure as hell distracted mine for a minute. Did you know you were in the sights of a rifle all the way — and there was a finger on the trigger?’

‘I did feel uneasy,’ she admitted, and shivered involuntarily. ‘What happened up there?’

‘I gave headaches to a couple of men. One of them will probably wind up in hospital at Keflavik.’

She looked at me sharply. ‘Keflavik!’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘They were Americans.’ I told her about Fleet, McCarthy and the waiting helicopter. ‘I’ve been trying to make sense out of it ever since — without much success.’

She thought about it too, and said. ‘But it doesn’t make sense. Why would the Americans co-operate with the Russians? Are you sure they were Americans?’

‘They were as American as Mom’s apple-pie — at least Fleet was. I didn’t get to talk to McCarthy.’

‘They could be sympathizers,’ said Elin. ‘Fellowtravellers.’

‘Then they’re travelling closer than a flea to a dog.’ I took out Fleet’s pass to the remoter recesses of Keflavik Air Base. ‘If they’re fellow-travellers then the Yanks had better watch it — their furniture is riddled with woodworm.’ I examined the pass and thought about the helicopter. ‘It’s just about the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard of.’

‘Then what other explanation is there?’

The idea of a nest of communist sympathizers being convenient to hand at Keflavik and able to lay their hands on a navy helicopter at a moment’s notice was untenable. I said, ‘I doubt if Kennikin rang up Keflavik and said, “Look, boys; I’m chasing a British spy and I need your help. Can you lay on a chopper and a sharpshooter and stop him for me?” But there’s someone else who could do it.’

‘Who?’

‘There’s a man called Helms in Washington who could pick up a telephone and say, “Admiral, there’ll be a couple of guys dropping in at Keflavik pretty soon. Let them have a helicopter and a crew — and don’t ask too many questions about what they want it for.” And the Admiral would say, “Yes, sir; yes, sir; three bags full, sir,” because Helms is the boss of the CIA.’

‘But why?’

‘I’m damned if I know,’ I said. ‘But it’s a bloody sight more likely than Keflavik being white-anted by Russian agents.’ I thought of my brief and unsatisfactory conversation with Fleet. ‘Fleet said that his orders were to pin us down until someone — presumably Kennikin — arrived. He said he’d never heard of Kennikin. He also said that when Kennikin arrived his job was over and he could go home. There’s one more question I should have asked him.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Whether his instructions called for him to show himself to Kennikin or whether they specifically forbade it. I’d give a lot to know the answer to that one.’

‘You’re sure we were chased by Russians? I mean, you’re sure it was Kennikin?’

‘That’s a face I’ll never forget,’ I said. ‘And there was a lot of swearing in Russian back at the Tungnaá River.’

I could almost see the wheels whizzing round as Elin thought about it. ‘Try this,’ she said. ‘Supposing Slade is also chasing us, and suppose he asked the Americans to co-operate — but what he didn’t know was that Kennikin was closer to us. The Americans were supposed to hold us up until Slade arrived — not Kennikin.’

‘It’s barely possible,’ I conceded. ‘But it shows lousy liaison. And why go to all the trouble of a sniper hidden on a hill? Why not have the Americans just make a simple pinch?’ I shook my head. ‘Besides, the Department isn’t all that chummy with the CIA — the special relationship has its limits.’

‘My explanation is the more reasonable,’ said Elin.

‘I’m not sure there is any reason involved — it’s turning into a thoroughly unreasonable situation. It reminds me of what a physicist once said about his job: “The universe is not only queerer than we imagine but, perhaps, queerer than we can imagine.” I can see his point now.’