Десмонд Бэгли - Running Blind

Case nodded. ‘There’s just one thing, Alan. Be sure — be very, very sure — that your prejudices aren’t shouting too loud. I know why you left the Department and I know why you hate Slade’s guts. You’re biased. This is a serious accusation you’re making, and if Slade comes out of it cleaner than the driven snow then you’re in big trouble. He’ll demand your head on a platter — and he’ll get it.’

‘He’ll deserve it,’ I said. ‘But the problem won’t arise. He’s as guilty as hell.’ I may have sounded confident but there was the nagging fear that perhaps I was wrong. Case’s warning about bias and prejudice was sound, and I hastily re-examined the indictment against Slade. I found no flaw.

Case looked at his watch. ‘Eleven-thirty.’

I put down the whisky untasted. ‘It’s late — I’d better be going.’

‘I’ll tell Taggart all about it,’ said Case. ‘And I’ll also tell him about Fleet and McCarthy. Maybe he can get a line on that angle through Washington.’

I retrieved the sgian dubh from the dressing-table and slipped it into my stocking-top. ‘Jack, you really haven’t any idea of what this operation is all about?’

‘Not the faintest clue,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know anything about it until I was pulled out of Spain. Taggart was angry, and justifiably so, in my opinion. He said you refused to have anything to do with Slade, and you wouldn’t even tell him where you were. He said you’d agree to meet me here. All I am is a messenger boy, Alan.’

‘That’s what Slade told me I was,’ I said morosely. ‘I’m getting tired of running blind; I’m getting tired of running. Maybe if I stood my ground for once in a while I’d be better off.’

‘I wouldn’t advise it,’ said Case. ‘Just follow orders and get the package to Reykjavik.’ He put on his jacket. ‘I’ll walk with you to your car. Where is it?’

‘Up the road.’

He was about to unlock the door when I said, ‘Jack, I don’t think you’ve been entirely frank with me. You’ve dodged a couple of issues in this conversation. Now there have been some bloody funny things going on lately, such as a member of the Department coming after me with a gun — so I just want to tell you one thing. It’s likely that I’ll be stopped on the way to Reykjavik, and if you have any part in that I’ll go right through you, friendship or no friendship. I hope you understand that.’

He smiled and said, ‘For God’s sake, you’re imagining things.’

But the smile was strained and there was something about his expression I couldn’t place, and it worried me. It was only a long time afterwards that I identified the emotion. It was pity but by then the identification had come too late.

We went outside to find it was as dark as it ever gets in the Icelandic summer. There was no moon but there was visibility of sorts in a kind of ghostly twilight. There was a soft explosion among the hot pools and the eerie spectre of Strokkur rose into the air, a fading apparition which dissipated into wind-blown shreds. There was a stink of sulphur in the air.

I shivered suddenly. It’s no wonder that the map of Iceland is littered with place names which tell of the giant trolls who dwell in the roots of the mountains, or that the old men still hand down the legends of man in conflict with spirits. The young Icelanders, geared to the twentieth century with their transistor radios and casual use of aircraft, laugh and call it superstition. Maybe they’re right, but I’ve noticed that they tend to force their laughter sometimes and it has a quality of unease about it. All I know is that if I had been one of the old Vikings and had come upon Strokkur unexpectedly one dark night I’d have been scared witless.

I think Case caught something of the atmosphere because he looked across at the thinning curtain of mist as Strokkur disappeared, and said softly, ‘It’s really something, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ I said shortly. ‘The car’s over there. It’s quite a way.’

We crunched on the crushed lava of the road and walked past the long row of white-painted pillars which separate the road from the pools. I could hear the bubbling of hot water and the stench of sulphur was stronger. If you looked at the pools in daylight you would find them all colours, some as white and clear as gin, others a limpid blue or green, and all close to boiling point. Even in the darkness I could see the white vapour rising in the air.

Case said, ‘About Slade. What was the...?’

I never heard the end of that question because three heavier patches of darkness rose up about us suddenly. Someone grabbed me and said, ‘Stewartsen, stanna! Förstar Ni?’ Something hard jabbed into my side.

I stopped all right, but not in the way that was expected. I let myself go limp, just as McCarthy had done when I hit him with the cosh. My knees buckled and I went down to the ground. There was a muffled exclamation of surprise and momentarily the grip on my arm relaxed and the movement in a totally unexpected direction dislodged the gun from my ribs.

As soon as I was down I spun around fast with one leg bent and the other extended rigidly. The outstretched leg caught my Swedish-speaking friend behind the knees with a great deal of force and he fell to the ground. His pistol was ready for use because there was a bang as he fell and I heard the whine of a ricocheting bullet.

I rolled over until I was prone against one of the pillars. I would be too conspicuous against that painted whiteness so I wormed off the road and into the darkness, pulling the pistol from my pocket as I went. Behind me there was a shout of ‘Spheshíte! ’ and another voice in a lower tone said, ‘Net! Slúshayte! ’ I kept very still and heard the thudding of boots as someone ran towards the hotel.

Only Kennikin’s mob would have addressed me as Stewartsen and in Swedish, and now they were bellowing in Russian. I kept my head close to the ground and looked back towards the road so I could see anyone there silhouetted against the paler sky. There was a flicker of movement quite close and a crunch of footsteps, so I put a bullet in that direction, picked myself up, and ran for it.

And that was damned dangerous because, in the darkness, I could very well run headlong into a bottomless pool of boiling water. I counted my paces and tried to visualize the hot pools area as I had often seen it in daylight under less unnerving conditions. The pools vary in size from a piddling little six inches in diameter to the fifty-foot giant economy size. Heated by the subterranean volcanic activity, the water continually wells out of the pools to form a network of hot streams which covers the whole area.

After I had covered a hundred yards I stopped and dropped on one knee. Ahead of me steam rose and lay in a level blanket and I thought that was Geysir itself. That means that Strokkur was somewhere to my left and a little behind. I wanted to keep clear of Strokkur — getting too close would be dicey in the extreme.

I looked back and saw nothing, but I heard footsteps following in the line I had come, and others away to the right and getting closer. I didn’t know if my pursuers knew the lie of the ground or not but, intentionally or accidentally, I was being herded right into the pools. The man on the right switched on a flash lamp, a big thing like a miniature searchlight. He directed it at the ground which was lucky for me, but he was more troubled about turning himself into goulash.

I lifted my pistol and banged off three shots in that direction and the light went out suddenly. I don’t think I hit him but he had come to the acute realization that his light made a good target. I wasn’t worried about making a noise; the more noise the better as far as I was concerned. Five shots had been fired, five too many in the quiet Icelandic night, and already lights were popping on in the hotel and I heard someone call from that direction.