Десмонд Бэгли - High Citadel

His opponent flailed frantically with both arms and O’Hara knew that he was in no condition for a real knockdown-drag-out fight, with this man. He remembered the knife in his belt and decided to take a chance, depending on swiftness of action to kill the man before he made a noise. He released him suddenly, pushing him away, and his hand went swiftly to his waist. The man staggered and opened his mouth again and O’Hara stepped forward and drove the knife in a straight stab into his chest just below the breast-bone, giving it an upward turn as it went in.

The man coughed in a surprised hiccuping fashion and leaned forward, toppling straight into O’Hara’s arms. As O’Hara lowered him to the ground he gave a deep sigh and died. Breathing heavily, O’Hara plucked out the knife and a gush of hot blood spurted over his hand. He stood for a moment, listening, and then picked up the sub-machine-gun from where he had dropped it. He felt a sudden shock as his finger brushed the safety-catch — it was in the off position; the sudden jar could well have fired a warning shot.

But that was past and he was beyond caring. He knew he was living from minute to minute and past possibilities and actions meant nothing to him. All that mattered was to get up to the mine as quickly as possible — to nail the Cuban and the Russian — and to find Benedetta.

He looked into the cab of the truck and opened the door. It was a big truck and from where he sat when he pulled himself into the cab he could see the dying embers of the camp. He did not see any movement there, apart from a few low flames and a curl of black smoke which was lost immediately in the mist. He turned back, looked ahead and pressed the starter.

The engine fired and he put it into gear and drove up the road, feeling a little light-headed. In a very short space of time he had killed three men, the first he had ever killed face to face, and he was preparing to go on killing for as long as was necessary. His mind had returned to the tautness he remembered from Korea before he had been shot down; all his senses were razor-sharp and his mind emptied of everything but the task ahead.

After a while he switched off the lights. It was risky, but he had to take the chance. There was the possibility that in the mist he could lose the road on one of the bends and go down the mountain out of control; but far worse was the risk that the enemy in the trucks ahead would see him and lay an ambush.

The truck ground on and on and the wheel bucked against his hand as the jolts were transmitted from the road surface. He went as fast as he thought safe, which was really not fast at all, but at last, rounding a particularly hair-raising corner, he saw a red tail-light disappearing round the next bend. At once he slowed down, content to follow at a discreet distance. There was nothing he could do on the road — his time would come at the mine.

He put out his hand to the sub-machine-gun resting on the seat next to him and drew it closer. It felt very comforting.

He reached a bend he remembered, the final corner before the level ground at the mine. He drew into the side of the road and put on the brake, but left the engine running. Taking the gun, he dropped to the ground, wincing as he felt the weight on his bad ankle, and hobbled up the road. From ahead he could hear the roar of engines stopping one by one, and when he found a place from where he could see, he discovered the other trucks parked by the huts and in the glare of headlights he saw the movement of men.

The jeep revved up and started to move, the beams of its lights stabbing through the mist and searching along the base of the cliff where the mine tunnels had been driven. First one black cavern was illuminated and then another, and then there was a raised shout of triumph, a howl of fierce joy, as the beams swept past the third tunnel and returned almost immediately to show a low rock wall at the entrance and the white face of a man who quickly dodged back out of sight.

O’Hara wasted no time in wondering who it was. He hobbled back to his truck and put it in gear. Now was the time to enter that bleak arena.

Forester felt warm and at ease, and to him the two were synonymous. Strange that the snow is so warm and soft, he thought; and opened his eyes to see a glare of white before him. He sighed and closed his eyes again, feeling a sense of disappointment. It was snow, after all. He supposed he should make an effort to move and get out of this deliciously warm snow or he would die, but he decided it was not worth the effort. He just let the warmth lap him in comfort and for a second before he relapsed into unconsciousness he wondered vaguely where Rohde had got to.

The next time he opened his eyes the glare of white was still there but now he had recovered enough to see it for what it was — the brilliance of sunlight falling on the crisply laundered white counterpane that covered him. He blinked and looked again, but the glare hurt his eyes, so he closed them. He knew he should do something but what it was he could not remember, and he passed out again while struggling to keep awake long enough to remember what it was.

Vaguely, in his sleep, he was aware of the passage of time and he knew he must fight against this, that he must stop the clock, hold the moving fingers, because he had something to do that was of prime urgency. He stirred and moaned, and a nurse in a trim white uniform gently sponged the sweat from his brow.

But she did not wake him.

At last he woke fully and stared at the ceiling. That was also white, plainly whitewashed with thick wooden beams. He turned his head and found himself looking into kindly eyes. He licked dry lips and whispered, ‘What happened?’

‘ No comprendo ,’ said the nurse. ‘No talk — I bring doctor.’

She got up and his eyes moved as she went out of the room. He desperately wanted her to come back, to tell him where he was and what had happened and where to find Rohde. As he thought of Rohde it all came back to him — the night on the mountain and the frustrating attempts to find a way over the pass. Most of it he remembered, although the end bits were hazy — and he also remembered why that impossible thing had been attempted.

He tried to sit up but his muscles had no strength in them and he just lay there, breathing hard. He felt as though his body weighed a thousand pounds and as though he had been beaten all over with a rubber hose. Every muscle was loose and flabby, even the muscles of his neck, as he found when he tried to raise his head. And he felt very, very tired.

It was a long time before anyone came into the room, and then it was the nurse bearing a bowl of hot soup. She would not let him talk and he was too weak to insist, and every time he opened his mouth she ladled a spoonful of soup into it. The broth gave him new strength and he felt better, and when he had finished the bowl he said, ‘Where is the other man — el otro hombre? ’

‘Your friend will be all right,’ she said in Spanish, and whisked out of the room before he could ask anything else.

Again it was a long time before anyone came to see him. He had no watch, but by the position of the sun he judged it was about midday. But which day? How long had he been there? He put up his hand to scratch an intolerable itching in his chest and discovered why he felt so heavy and uncomfortable; he seemed to be wrapped in a couple of miles of adhesive tape.

A man entered the room and closed the door. He said in an American accent, ‘Well, Mr Forester, I hear you’re better.’ He was dressed in hospital white and could have been a doctor. He was elderly but still powerfully built, with a shock of white hair and the crow’s-feet of frequent laughter around his eyes.