Death trap, p.5
Death Trap, page 5
He laughed shortly and said, ‘And what has he to say?’
‘Something important, at least he thinks so. Just before he – er – went to have his little nap, he finally broke that English message he told you about, the one sent from Egypt.’
Aronson sat up, eyes flashing interest. ‘Yes, go on,’ he urged.
‘Well,’ Ilona answered, thrusting out those splendid breasts of hers so that he could see the nipples through the thin material of her peasant blouse, ‘the English have lost an aeroplane. It has come down somewhere in Yugoslavia. The recipient of the message was told to stand by for rescue. But if that failed, he was to—’ She shrugged. ‘According to the Prof the rest there was garbled.’
His mind racing excitedly, the pieces clicking into place already, Aronson asked, ‘Did they have a location for this crashed plane of theirs?’
‘Yes, somewhere in the mountains not far from an island called Vis. I don’t know where that is.’
‘I do,’ he snapped and he knew, too, what the Swordfish was up to in the Adriatic now. The Swordfish and its crew of rogues were the rescue team. He reasoned as well that whatever was in that plane was worth risking the English secret service’s prize bullyboys for. He would have to do something about it. But before he could make up his mind what to do on that score, Ilona had a pleasant little surprise for him.
‘I’m sure you’ve had a long hard day, darling,’ she whispered, looking at him with those bedroom eyes of hers smouldering.
He smiled back. He knew what was coming. Ilona was not a girl to wait to be asked by a man. She always took the initiative.
‘Yes, I have,’ he agreed. ‘But I’m still fresh enough for that.’
‘Horoscho,’ she said and walking swiftly to the door she turned the key and locked it. ‘I have a little surprise for you, darling.’
‘Well, surprise me,’ he said with a grin, his problem forgotten for the time being.
‘I will.’ She giggled deliciously. Hurriedly she slipped out of her long, drab office skirt to reveal a pair of shapely thighs and the fact that she was wearing black silk knickers trimmed with red lace.
Aronson affected surprise. ‘Comrade, comrade,’ he chided her in mock anguish. ‘Don’t you know that the modern Soviet woman does not powder her face or redden her lips! We leave that kind of degenerate business to the effete bourgeoisie. White cotton is good enough for a Soviet woman to have close to her intimate parts. Silk is decadent.’
She laughed and he laughed with her as she murmured, ‘Now will you help me remove this decadent and bourgeois garment? I’m in a hurry suddenly.’
‘Why of course, anything to liberate you from those bourgeois garments.’ He bowed and did what she wanted him to do. Moments later they were locked together on the office couch, the drab cruel world of the ‘Peasants’ and Workers’ Paradise’ forgotten for a little while.
But when Ilona had gone and the great building was beginning to settle for the night, his mind returned to the problem, the only sound the tramp of the sentry’s boots outside and the occasional moan coming from the cells, where the women prisoners would be spending their last night.
In the end he concluded he needed to know more. Of course, they had agents in the Royal Yugoslavian Secret police, but he didn’t trust people like that. If they could be bought once, they could be bought again. For more information he needed one of his own people, someone he could trust completely.
Then with a sense of almost total recall, he remembered that meeting in this very same office almost two years ago now. The man had been brought in under armed guard though he had volunteered to come here from the POW camp. He was a South Slav, Aronson had seen that immediately. The South Slavs, the Bulgarians, Serbs, and so on, were darker and not as broad-faced as the average Russian. And this one had a particularly interesting face, he couldn’t help but think at the time. It was fierce and determined in the manner of the South Slavs, who always regarded themselves as proud and to be respected, but there had been a wary, almost cunning look in the man’s pale grey eyes. It was the look of a man who had been always on his guard, as if he expected betrayal and treachery at any time. It had been one that had caught his attention, for he thought he saw something of himself in the man.
Precisely and without any hedging the prisoner, still dressed in the pale grey-blue uniform of the Austrian Hungarian Army to which he had once belonged before he and many thousands more had surrendered to the Russians back before the Revolution, had told his story. He had been a sergeant major in a Croatian Infantry Regiment, who had deserted because he could no longer bear the thought of fighting against his Slav brothers. Now, he was a convinced communist, and wished to go back to the newly united Yugoslavia to fight against the forces of oppression in the form of the dynasty.
Aronson had told himself, ‘You have other plans in mind, my friend.’ Aloud he had remarked, when the man had finished, ‘How do we know that you won’t simply disappear once we send you back?’
The prisoner of war had been very frank and again Aronson had liked him for it. ‘You don’t,’ he had replied and stared at Aronson with those grey, wary eyes of his.
That is how the ‘Grey Wolf had come into Aronson’s life. Thereafter Aronson had learned very little of the man; he didn’t even know to which of the country’s six nationalities he belonged. All he did know was that ‘Grey Wolf, as he had come to be known, had kept his word. He hadn’t simply disappeared when he had been returned to his native country with the plentiful supply of gold that Aronson had given him.
Instead he had built up a small but highly efficient guerrilla band which had become the bane of the country’s secret police and army. He had terrorised the villages in his operating area to support and supply Aronson. He had formed underground cells of young intellectual communists in the high schools and universities and had, in reality, started the nucleus of the Yugoslavia Communist Party.
Aronson lay on the couch, listening to the sounds of the night, a dog barked hysterically in the distance, the mournful sound of a foghorn on the water outside, the tinkle of the bell on a sound buoy, his hands clenched behind his handsome blond head. Dare he risk the most important communist in Yugoslavia on a mission such as he was thinking of?
Suddenly he knew he had to. Whatever the English were up to, trying to find that crashed plane was of vital importance. He had to know what it was. He sprang from the couch and reached for the telephone. He must activate the Grey Wolf…
Eight
Bully growled threateningly. Still asleep, Billy Bennett, who was lying on a ship’s locker snoring softly, reached out his hand and patted the little dog automatically. All was silent on the Swordfish, save for the lap-lap of the wavelets against her hull and the occasional cough of the man on deck-watch, who was probably catching a ‘crafty spit-and-draw’ against ship’s rules.
But Bully wouldn’t be pacified. He growled again, his hackles rising. Billy Bennett yawned sleepily and opposite him, lying on the floor, Ginger Kerrigan hissed angrily, his eyes still tightly closed, ‘Tie a knot in its frigging neck and shut the brute up. Can’t even get a bit o’ shut-eye in peace. I was climbing into kip with Mary Pickford.’
‘Be quiet, Bully,’ Billy said gently, patting the dog again. ‘Daddy’ll get yer a nice piece of corned beef later if you’re good.’
‘Daddy,’ Ginger sneered. ‘Oh my frigging Christ – daddy.’ He turned over with a sigh and went to sleep again.
Billy Bennett attempted to do the same, but the little mongrel dog wouldn’t let him. It fastened its teeth on the edge of his sleeve and started tugging on it fiercely. ‘Now stop it, yer little booger,’ Billy hissed. But Bully wouldn’t desist. It kept tugging, hindlegs flexed against the deck.
Suddenly Billy was wide awake. The dog knew something. It wanted him to come along. ‘Oh frig this for a game of soldiers!’ he whispered to himself. All the same, he reached for his boots and pulled them on. Then, with the little dog wagging its tail with delight that it had roused its master, he threaded his way through the sleeping bodies and clambered up the companionway to the upper deck.
Outside, a spectral moon scudded through the clouds, occasionally breaking through to flood the area below with silver light for a few moments. He stood there puzzled, wondering what to do and why he was there. Bully had gone quiet again and there was no sound save that of the little waves and the faint wind stirring the stunted trees. Still the dog had wakened him and he knew that dogs could hear and see things that ordinary human beings couldn’t. He turned and bent down. ‘What is it Bully?… What’s going on?’
Bully’s reaction was to reach up and lick Billy’s unshaven face with his warm wet tongue.
Behind him the planking creaked and a voice said scornfully, ‘Daft as a frigging brush… talking to frigging dogs. The men in the white overalls’ll take yer away for that, Bennett, yer know.’
Billy straightened up hurriedly. It was Thirk. He was obviously the duty watch.
‘Dogs know things, Chief. He woke me for somat or other.’
‘Ay, they know a daft bugger when they see one. Don’t yer know the time? It’s three in the frigging morning. But if you like to take my watch you can stay up for the rest of the night, as far as I care, playing with yer little doggie.’ He emphasised the words contemptuously.
‘Ner, ner,’ Billy said hurriedly. ‘But I just thought…’ he added lamely.
‘Yer know what thought did? He thought he’d shat hissen – and he had.’
At their feet Bully had started to growl, the sound low in the little dog’s throat, but menacing.
The two of them turned automatically and stared out at the stretch of water between their anchorage and the beach. They searched the area in the fitful light of the sickle moon.
‘There doesn’t seem nowt out there,’ Thirk said slowly, but he suddenly didn’t seem convinced.
At their feet Bully continued with his throaty growl.
Billy Bennett bit his bottom lip. ‘What do you think, Chief?’ he asked slowly.
‘How do you mean – what do I think?’
‘I mean should we wake Mr Smith. There’s something,’ Billy answered, a little flustered, anxious and somewhat apprehensive. For this quiet inlet in the middle of nowhere suddenly frightened him. He didn’t know why. Perhaps it was the little dog’s strange behaviour.
‘Can’t do that, you silly sod. Officers and gents,’ Thirk sneered, ‘need their ruddy beauty sleep, don’t—’ He stopped short. ‘Christ!’ he hissed. ‘There’s somebody out there!’
‘Where?’ Bully whispered anxiously.
‘At three o’clock,’ Thirk answered, ‘just beyond yon trees. Got it?’
Billy peered through the silver gloom, while at his feet.
Bully continued to growl menacingly. Then he spotted it, a form detaching itself from the shadow cast by the stunted trees. ‘Yer right. There’s more than one of them. Now I know I’ll have to wake up Mr Smith and let him—’
He didn’t finish his sentence. For now out at the entrance of the inlet, he caught another sound. The squeak and strain of oars. He spun round. A boat was moving slowly towards them from the sea and it was crowded with men, all armed. He could see that.
Suddenly Bully began to bark out loud and shrill.
Now, Billy Bennett didn’t need to wake Smith. The dog had done it for him. He came stumbling up on deck, his hair tousled and still half asleep. But cradled over his arm he had that Tommy-gun which C had specially imported from America for this trip. ‘What the devil’s going on?’ he called. ‘And stop that bloody pooch barking.’
‘Sir,’ Billy gasped. ‘There’s somebody out there.’ He pointed to the entrance to the inland.
‘And there’s others on the beach,’ Thirk said, ‘and they don’t look as if they’re up to much good, not at this frigging time of the night.’ He shook his grizzled head. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have come. This cruise has been jinxed right from the bleeding start.’
‘Shut up!’ Smith interrupted him severely. ‘Keep your opinions to yourself, Thirk. Can’t hear myself think.’ He cupped his free hand around his mouth and yelled to the men in the boat, ‘Ahoy, there! Who are you?’
The answer was immediate. Angry blue flame stabbed the silver darkness. A slug howled off the superstructure a foot away from where he was standing.
Smith raised his Tommy-gun. ‘Billy, rouse the chaps.’ He cupped his hand about his mouth once more and yelled, ‘Stay where you are, or I’ll open fire!’ He guessed whoever the intruders were they wouldn’t understand. But he told himself that his tone must have sounded threatening enough. Just to make sure the intruders understood, he raised the Tommy-gun and fired a short staccato burst into the sky.
Still the boat came on, somehow sinister and threatening. Behind him, Smith could hear soft splashes as whoever was on the beach started to wade through the shallows. He cursed to himself. The Swordfish was obviously under attack from both sides. What was he going to do? Stand and fight and hope for the best in a close-combat scrap? Or was he going to try to make a run for it while there was still time?
Now the crew came tumbling up the companionway, most of them armed, for they had heard the sound of the firing, with Dickie Bird in the lead, carrying the other Tommy-gun. ‘Where’s the fire?’ he gasped.
‘Every-bloody-where,’ a suddenly angry Smith yelled. ‘They’re coming in from both sides, whoever they are!’
Now he could see the men wading through the shallows. There were at least a score of them, some armed with ancient-looking rifles, while the rest carried great curved swords. And they were only a couple of dozen yards away.
‘Chiefie!’ he cried, as the intruders closed in on both sides. ‘Start the engines. We’re going to do a bunk.’ As Ferguson clattered up the steps to the bridge, Smith swung round on Dickie Bird. ‘Let’s keep them at bay till then. Fire a burst over their heads.’
‘Whatho!’ Dickie Bird chortled. ‘Stand by to repel boarders and all that stuff, what!’
At any other time Smith would have laughed at his old shipmate. Not now, however. The situation was too tense and the intruders were far too close. ‘Don’t mess about, Dickie,’ he snapped. ‘Get on with it!’
‘You, Ginger, man the Lewis. Fire a burst over the heads of those in the boat. They might be harmless, but I don’t think they are and I’m not going to get bogged down here in a bloody fire fight. Right, off you go.’
‘Ay ay, Skipper,’ the red-haired Liverpudlian cried and then he was swinging himself behind the twin machine-guns and cocking the breech in one and the same moment.
Down below, the engines started to whine and choke as Mac, the engineer, attempted to start them.
‘Come on, come on!’ Smith cried, the sweat running down his anxious face, willing the turbines to spring into life. At the rail, Dickie Bird leaned over and, taking aim, fired a quick burst across the water and over the heads of the men wading towards them.
Still they came on in grim purposefulness. There was something uncanny, almost eerie about them. The burst had not even made them hesitate.
‘Give them another, Dickie!’ Smith yelled desperately, as above him Ginger opened fire with the Lewis guns.
‘Christ, what’s wrong with those bloody engines?’ he moaned to no one in particular.
A moment later Ferguson gave him his answer. Leaning over the edge of the bridge, he bellowed over the chatter of the machine-guns, ‘Something’s wrong with the exhausts, sir. Mac thinks they’re bunged up. He can start her, but it could be dangerous.’
‘Damn… damn!’ Smith cursed. It was obvious what has happened. Someone had swum out to the Swordfish while they had slept and blocked the exhausts. This obviously was a planned attack. ‘Start her up. We’ve got to take the risk, Chiefie,’ he cried. ‘Once we’re out of this trap, we can heave to and clear the exhausts.’
Ferguson hobbled back inside to relay his order, while Smith turned on Thirk with, ‘Damnit, Chief, you should have heard the noise and stopped whoever it was.’
‘I never heard nobody, sir,’ Thirk began to whine. ‘I—’
‘Oh shut up! Let’s hope we can get underway.’
The engines fired. But it was not that familiar sweet, clear sound that they gave off. Instead the noise was thick and muffled. Hurriedly, Ferguson gave his order. The boat started to move to stern as the anchor was rapidly raised.
In the water the advancing line of men had started firing. There were huge blasts of sound from their ancient weapons. Wherever their slugs struck, they blasted away a great splintered hole and Smith told himself that they were probably using bullets they had cast themselves.
‘Keep low everybody!’ he ordered and with his legs spread wide he loosed off a vicious burst with a Tommy-gun, swinging from left to right like some gunslinger in a Western film. There were cries of rage and pain from the water and he spotted a couple of the attackers slumping to the bottom.
Painfully slowly, the Swordfish started to move backwards, her engines groaning and protesting, as if they were under great pressure. To the rear the boats started to move out of the way hurriedly. He could hear cries which he assumed were of anger and rage, but Smith told himself that in a few minutes they would be through them and heading for the open sea.
Then somebody could go over the side, once it was light, and clear the blocked exhausts. But that wasn’t to be. Just as they came level with the exit to the inlet there was the great, hollow boom of metal striking metal and Swordfish was stopped dead.
They were trapped!
Nine
Cautiously, very cautiously, Smith started to crawl across the littered deck. Behind him, Billy Bennett awkwardly did the same. Next to him, wondering presumably what all the fuss was about, Bully, his dog, followed.
Now it was nearly dawn. The sky was already flushed with ugly white that heralded its approach. Their attackers had withdrawn, but they were there all right, Smith told himself as he moved forward very gingerly, knowing that he was protected from their sight by the riddled superstructure.
