Десмонд Бэгли - Running Blind

‘You ought to. He’s the man you take orders from in Iceland. You thought it natural, perhaps, that you shouldn’t be in command on this operation. Your people wouldn’t want to give sole responsibility to a man like yourself who failed once. A reasonable attitude, you would think; and maybe you could retrieve your reputation and your honour and aspire to your former dizzy heights by a successful completion of this mission.’ I laughed. ‘And who do they give you for a boss? None other than the man who torpedoed you in Sweden.’

Kennikin stood up. The pistol pointed unwaveringly at my chest. ‘I know who ruined the Swedish operation,’ he said. ‘And I can touch him from here.’

‘I just took orders,’ I said. ‘Slade did the brainwork. Do you remember Jimmy Birkby?’

‘I’ve never heard of the man,’ said Kennikin stonily.

‘Of course not. You’d know him better as Sven Hornlund — the man I killed.’

‘The British agent,’ said Kennikin. ‘I remember. It was that one act of yours that made me sure of you.’

‘Slade’s idea,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know who I killed. That’s why I left the Department — I had a flaming row.’ I leaned forward. ‘Vaslav, it fits the pattern, don’t you see that? Slade sacrificed one good man to make you trust me. It meant nothing to him how many of our agents were killed. But he and Bakayev sacrificed you to make Taggart trust Slade the more.’

Kennikin’s grey eyes were like stones. His face was quite still except for one corner of his mouth where the scar ran down which twitched with a slight tic.

I leaned back in the chair and picked up the glass. ‘Slade’s sitting pretty now. He’s here in Iceland running both sides of an operation. My God, what a position to be in! But it went wrong when one of the puppets refused to jump when he pulled the strings. That must have worried the hell out of him.’

‘I don’t know this man Slade,’ repeated Kennikin woodenly.

‘No? Then why are you all worked up?’ I grinned at him. ‘I’ll tell you what to do. Next time you speak to him why don’t you ask him for the truth. Not that he’ll tell you; Slade never told anyone the truth in his life. But he might give himself away to such a perceptive person as yourself.’

Lights flickered through the drawn curtains and there was the sound of a car pulling up outside. I said, ‘Think of the past, Vaslav; think of the wasted years in Ashkhabad. Put yourself in the position of Bakayev and ask yourself which is the more important — an operation in Sweden which can be reconstituted at any time, or the chance to put a man high in the hierarchy of British Intelligence — so high that he lunches with the British Prime Minister?’

Kennikin moved uneasily and I knew I had got to him. He was deep in thought and the pistol no longer pointed directly at me. I said, ‘As a matter of interest, how long did it take to build up another Swedish outfit? Not long, I’ll bet. I daresay Bakayev had an organization already working in parallel ready to go into action when you dropped out.’

It was a shot at random but it went home. It was like watching a one-armed bandit come up with the jackpot; the wheels went round and whirred and clicked and a mental bell rang loud and clear. Kennikin snorted and turned away. He looked down into the fire and the hand holding the pistol was down at his side.

I tensed myself, ready to jump him, and said softly, ‘They didn’t trust you, Vaslav. Bakayev didn’t trust you to wreck your own organization and make it look good. I wasn’t trusted either; but I was sold out by Slade who is one of your mob. You’re different; you’ve been kicked in the teeth by your own people. How does it feel?’

Vaslav Kennikin was a good man — a good agent — and he gave nothing away. He turned his head and looked at me. ‘I’ve listened to this fairy-story with great interest,’ he said colourlessly. ‘The man, Slade, I don’t know. You tell a fine tale, Alan, but it won’t get you out of trouble. You’re not...’

The door opened and two men came in. Kennikin turned impatiently, and said, ‘Well?’

The bigger of the men said in Russian, ‘We’ve just got back.’

‘So I see,’ said Kennikin emotionlessly. He waved at me. ‘Let me introduce Alan Stewartsen, the man you were supposed to bring here. What went wrong? Where’s Igor?’

They looked at each other, and the big man said, ‘He was taken to hospital. He was badly scalded when...’

‘That’s fine!’ said Kennikin caustically. ‘That’s marvellous!’ He turned and appealed to me. ‘What do you think of this, Alan? We get Yuri safely and secretly to the trawler but Igor must go to a hospital where questions are asked. What would you do with an idiot like this?’

I grinned, and said hopefully, ‘Shoot him.’

‘It’s doubtful if a bullet would penetrate his thick skull,’ said Kennikin acidly. He looked balefully at the big Russian. ‘And why, in God’s name, did you start shooting? It sounded like the outbreak of revolution.’

The man gestured towards me helplessly. ‘He started it.’

‘He should never have been given the opportunity. If three men can’t take another one quietly, then...’

‘There were two of them.’

‘Oh!’ Kennikin glanced at me. ‘What happened to him?’

‘I don’t know — he ran away,’ said the big man.

I said casually, ‘It’s hardly surprising. He was just a guest from the hotel.’ I seethed internally. So Case had just run away and left me to it. I wouldn’t sell him to Kennikin but there’d be an account to settle if I got out of this mess.

‘He probably raised the alarm at the hotel,’ said Kennikin. ‘Can’t you do anything right?’

The big man started to expostulate, but Kennikin cut him short. ‘What’s Ilyich doing?’

‘Taking a car to pieces,’ His voice was sullen.

‘Go and help him.’ They both turned, but Kennikin said sharply, ‘Not you, Gregor. Stay here and watch Stewartsen.’ He handed his pistol to the smaller man.

I said, ‘Can I have another drink, Vaslav?’

‘Why not?’ said Kennikin. ‘There’s no danger of you turning into an alcoholic. You won’t live that long. Watch him, Gregor.’

He left the room, closing the door behind him, and Gregor planted himself in front of it and looked at me expressionlessly. I drew up my legs very slowly and got to my feet. Gregor lifted the pistol and I grinned at him, holding up my empty glass. ‘You heard what the boss said; I’m allowed a last drink.’

The muzzle of the pistol dropped. ‘I’ll be right behind you,’ he said.

I walked across to the liquor cupboard, talking all the time. ‘I’ll bet you’re from the Crimea, Gregor. That accent is unmistakable. Am I right?’

He was silent, but I persevered with my patter. ‘There doesn’t seem to be any vodka here, Gregor. The nearest to it is brennivin, but that comes a bad second — I don’t go for it myself. Come to that, I don’t like vodka very much either. Scotch is my tipple, and why not, since I’m a Scot?’

I clattered bottles and heard Gregor breathing down my neck. The scotch went into the glass to be followed by water, and I turned with it raised in my hand to find Gregor a yard away with the pistol trained on my navel. As I have said, there is a place for the pistol, and this was it. It’s a dandy indoor weapon. If I had done anything so foolish as to throw the drink into his face he would have drilled me clear through the spine.

I held up the glass at mouth level. ‘Skal — as we say in Iceland.’ I had to keep my hand up otherwise the cylinder of butane gas would have dropped out of my sleeve, so I walked across the room in a pansyfied manner and sat in my chair again. Gregor looked at me with something like contempt in his eyes.