Seek and Destroy Page 2

  A holder of the Black Belt for Judo, an expert in the art of karate. An excellent knowledge of several languages, speaking Spanish and Russian fluently, the former due to his Spanish mother, the latter due to necessity brought about by several of his earlier missions for the British Secret Service.

  Dark-haired, aged thirty-one, his appearance was that of a man who was going somewhere in an urgent haste, a good-looking face but with a hint of humour in the thin lips and wide-spaced eyes of the palest grey that seemed to look through, and never at, anyone.

  The car turned off the main street, entered a narrow side-street between tall, dull houses which had been built the previous century and looked as though they had given up any attempt to regain a little of their past glory. The chauffeur handled the car skilfully between the double row of parked vehicles, brought the Rolls Royce to a gentle halt outside the tall building at the very end of the street. There was nothing about this particular building to indicate that it was any different from the score of others in the vicinity.

  Inside, the place was quiet. Carradine took the elevator to the fourth floor, made his way noiselessly to the door halfway along the corridor. There was the woodpecker tapping of a typewriter in one of the other rooms, the only sound, it seemed, in the whole of the building. Pausing outside the door, he rapped sharply on it, went inside as a man’s voice called on him to enter, closing the door behind him.

  Even though he had been inside this particular room on several occasions in the past, Carradine never failed to experience that quickening of his muscles, that faint tautness which came into his mind, almost as if there were some strange, hidden danger here which he had never been able to see. But there was nothing about the outward appearance of the room to give that impression. The simple, polished desk in one corner, arranged diagonally so that the light from the window fell slightly from behind. Three chairs, two against one wall and the third in front of the desk; five metal filing cabinets, locked and barred with a steel reinforcing rod containing Top Secret folders and, incongruously it seemed, a glass-fronted bookcase against the wall at the back of the desk.

  The man seated in the chair behind the desk was chubby and balding, his face bearing an oddly cherubic expression. He gave Carradine a quick glance, then nodded towards the chair in front of his desk. Carradine sat down, waited patiently for the other to stop riffling through the sheaf of papers on the desk in front of him.

  It was difficult to realize that this pleasant-looking man was the head of this, the least-known section of British Intelligence. Although he had worked with him for more than three years now, even Carradine did not know the other’s name, had never seen him outside of this room.

  Finally, the other looked up from the papers in front of him. Placing the tips of his fingers gently together, he said in a quiet, casual voice: “I’ve got something for you, Carradine.” His lips curled into one of his frequent smiles that seemed to light up his whole countenance. “You’ve no doubt been having a very easy time these past few months, but this is going to change all that quite drastically.”

  Carradine gave a brisk nod. There was no need for him to answer; the other expected him to listen, only to speak if he asked a question on some point he did not understand.

  “We know that the Reds have been pouring money at a fantastic rate into South America for the past two years. These —” He tapped the pile of papers in front of him with a long forefinger, “— are the reports of secret work that is going on down there. It seems clear that they are building launching sites for intercontinental ballistic missiles which they obviously hope to use to force a shift of military power with NATO.”

  “And the nuclear warheads for these missiles, sir?” Carradine asked.

  “So far as we know,” was the chilling reply, “these have already left Russia and are on their way. Your job will be to prevent them from reaching their destination — wherever that may be.”

  He paused to allow the full significance of his words to sink in, examining the face of the man in front of him.

  “South America is a big place, sir.”

  “Exactly. But we do have some additional information. Not much, but it may be enough for you to find something to go on.” His tone sharpened a little as he went on. “Ever hear of a man named Gunther Henkel?”

  Carradine searched his mind, then shook his head. “I’m afraid not, sir.”

  “Hmmm.” If the other was disappointed at this, he gave no other sign than the faint inflection to that single sound. He flicked the grey length of ash from the tip of his cigarette into the tray in front of him, leaned forward over the desk, resting his weight on his elbows. He went on: “Henkel was one of the top men in the field of German rocketry during the war. I’ve no doubt that both the Americans and the Russians would have liked to have got their hands on him, but somehow he succeeded in slipping through their fingers, vanished utterly and without a trace. He was an extremely clever man in those days, converted everything he had into diamonds. When he got out, he had a fortune with him.”

  He looked over the desk at Carradine with a mild expression. “It took almost seventeen years for anyone to locate him. The FBI finally traced him to Montevideo, living under an assumed name. I gather they were hoping to persuade him to go to Washington for consultations with their rocket people and then, if possible, to get him to work for them.”

  “But they didn’t succeed?”

  “No, they didn’t. Unfortunately, the Russians had not given up looking for him either While the FBI were trying to decide on stronger measures they might employ to get him out of Uruguay, the Reds beat them to the punch. Henkel was kidnapped from Montevideo six days ago and taken to an unknown destination, but we strongly suspect that his kidnapping is linked with this other business. By now he is no doubt working for them somewhere in this area.” While he had been speaking the other had opened a drawer of his desk and taken out a map case, sliding the linen map out on to the desk and spreading it out with his fingers, putting the two heavy paperweights on two of the corners, while he motioned Carradine to hold down the others, as he made a small circle with his finger on a part of South America which Carradine recognized as lying some five hundred miles or so to the west of Montevideo.

  “I realize that’s still one hell of a lot of country,” said the other mildly. “It doesn’t bring us much nearer to discovering where these launching sites are. We don’t know how they got the stuff into the country in the first place. It’s a certainty that little, if any, of it was manufactured in South America. It requires plenty of specialized equipment to make that sort of thing. And as for the nuclear warheads, there are possibly half a dozen ways they could get them into the country.” For the first time, the other’s voice held a tired note of resignation in it. Then his eyes became sharp and commanding. “This is going to be no easy assignment. Their agents will be watching this deal all the way. They know that the FBI were in contact with Henkel. That is possibly the reason they stepped in when they did. They’ll be expecting trouble, if not from the Americans, then from us.” He smiled again, said almost angelically: “You know, Carradine, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they haven’t already alerted some of their top men to keep an eye open for you. Not you personally, but whoever I decide to put on to this job.”

  * * * * *

  The silver, ornamented clock on the wall ticked with a maddening, incessant sound. Normally it made only a background noise and Gerda Henkel scarcely ever noticed it. But she had been sleeping badly for the past six nights, her nerves were shredded by what had happened. Every night she had awakened during the early hours of the morning, believing that she heard someone moving around in the house. Once she had got out of bed, taken the small pistol she always carried now from beneath her pillow, and gone down the stairs. But there had been no one there. Now, at last, she could stand it no longer and had decided to leave this place, leave the police to carry on their investigations into the kidnapping of her father and drive out in
to the country to stay for a little while with Rosa Calleros and her parents. She doubted if the police would get anywhere with this case. Had their organization been as effective and efficient as they claimed, they would have found something during the six days which had elapsed since that night when she had arrived home earlier than she had expected, had almost hit that car which had been travelling without lights — the car, she felt sure, which had been used to take her father away. If only she had called the police sooner when she had discovered that her father was not m the house, but there had been nothing out of the ordinary to suggest that anything was wrong. Not until she had found the two dogs lying dead in the shadows. By that time it had been too late. The kidnappers had slipped through any cordon which the police had been able to throw up around the city.

  Slamming down the lid of the case, she snapped the locks, straightened up sharply as the telephone rang, loudly and insistently. Picking it up from its cradle she found herself staring at the receiver strangely. For several days she had been half-expecting to receive a call from whoever had taken her father, demanding ransom money for his sate return. The voice at the other end was unmistakably that of Inspector Santos, the Chief of Police.

  “Señorita de Silva?”

  “Yes, speaking.” She forced herself to control the shaking in her voice.

  “I’d like you to come down to Headquarters if you would, please. There are a few further questions I would like to ask you.”

  “But I’ve already told you everything I know three times.”

  “Of course. But this will only take a few minutes. I think you should be told of new information we have received concerning your father; information which possibly has an important bearing on this case.”

  “Very well. If it is so important, I’ll come at once.” She replaced the receiver with trembling fingers. Leaving the suitcase on the chair, she walked to the door, turned to give a backward glance at the room, then opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. Suddenly she felt tensed and nervous. She did not know how much longer she could go on like this, not knowing anything for certain. If only she knew whether her father was dead or alive, where he was, why these people wanted him. But she knew nothing. The police, it seemed, knew very little more.

  Inspector Santos sat at his desk in the roomy office of the Police Headquarters in Montevideo. Carefully, he placed the cigarette into the end of the long, slender holder, lit it, and blew a cloud of smoke into the air in front of him, spoke through the drifting blue haze.

  “I deeply regret having to call you here again, Señorita,” he said, his voice smooth and silky. “But I have recently learned something which has put this case of your father’s disappearance into a very different light. Previously, I was inclined to believe that these people merely wanted money. After all, it is well known that your father is a very rich man. But then I asked myself: If that is so, why kidnap him, why not kidnap the one person who means more to him than anyone else in the world, namely yourself?” He grinned with a sly look of satisfaction.

  “Do you expect me to answer that, Inspector?”

  Santos shook his head very slowly. He said briefly. “No. You see, I now know who your father really is. This name, Carlos de Silva, which he adopted years ago was the only one known to me, until one of my assistants brought me this file.” He tapped the slender folder deliberately with his forefinger.

  “What is it?”

  “These are the records of a man named Gunther Henkel who came to Uruguay from Germany just after the end of the war in Europe.” He saw the sudden look that passed over her face. “I see that you understand, Señorita Henkel. Your father worked on certain secret projects for Germany during the war. When the Allies and the Russians overran your country, he decided to get out and he came here, bringing with him a not inconsiderable fortune in diamonds. He assumed the name of de Silva and in time, his past was forgotten. Now, it would appear to have caught up with him. We can never run away from fate, Señorita, no matter how hard we try.”

  Gerda Henkel sat quite still in her chair. Then she shrugged her shoulders with a hint of impatience. “Now that you know this, are you any closer to finding out where he is?”

  Santos straightened abruptly in his chair. His voice cut across the table at her like a whip. “Please remember where you are, Señorita. You are not here to ask the questions. I will do that. If I am to find your father. I shall need all of your co-operation.”

  “But I have already told you everything that happened,” protested the girl. “We’ve been over it three times.”

  “Then if necessary, we shall go over it again.” The other’s tone was deliberately hard. He picked up a pen and a pad, pulling it towards him. “The two men you saw in the car. Describe them again to me.”

  Gerda sighed. “The man who was driving was tall, exceptionally broad in build. His face was —” She broke off as a shudder went through her, swallowed, then continued: “it was brutish. That is the only way to describe it. He looked like a man who would kill for the sheer pleasure of seeing another human being squirm and suffer.”

  “And the other man?” So far, Santos had not written a single word on the pad in front of him. The pen was poised in his hand above the paper as if frozen there.

  “He was more slightly-built, thin-faced. His head was half-turned towards me and he seemed to be holding a gun in his hand. Everything happened so quickly that it was impossible for me to make out anything more. It was all over in a few seconds. It was only because the headlights of my car swept over them that I saw anything at all.”

  “Very well, Señorita.” Santos twirled the pen in both hands. “You can rest assured that we shall do everything in our power to find your father but in the meantime, 1 would suggest that you go away for a little while. I do not wish to frighten you, but I feel certain that if your father refuses to co-operate with these people, they may decide to force his hand by kidnapping you. Is there anywhere you can go for a little while?”

  "I was already packing to visit some friends in the country when you rang.”

  “Excellent.” Scraping back his chair, Santos got to his feet. “I think that would be wise. But leave the address of these friends of yours with Sergeant Cordilla as you leave. It is essential that we should know where you are.”

  * * * * *

  There were many cases in Montevideo which the police had never solved. Gerda Henkel, seated behind the wheel of the car, felt sure that this would be one of them. Inspector Santos was a man who thought that he had only to assign a sufficiently large number of men to a case and it would automatically be solved in a very short time.

  For a long moment she drove automatically, her eyes on the road in front of her, but her mind frozen by her thoughts. She could not put the image of that huge man who had been seated behind the driving wheel of that darkened car out of her thoughts. She had seen his face for only that one brief moment when the headlights of her car, swinging sideways through the night as she had turned the corner, had swept over the windscreen of the other car. She realized that her hands and forearms were aching with the convulsive strength of her grip on the wheel and with a conscious mental and physical effort, forced herself to relax a little.

  There was that man who had come to see her father on several occasions in the past year or so. Although she did not know for certain, she had the suspicion that he was a member of the Secret Service of one of the Western countries, either America or Britain. Should she try to get m touch with him? He was more likely to be able to help and advise her than the police in Montevideo. No, that was out of the question. She had no idea where he could be found, knew nothing about him. Desperately she cast her mind back, trying to recall anything which might help her find this man, but several moments of reflective introspection forced her to the conclusion that it was impossible. As far as she knew, he had made all of the arrangements as to times of meeting at the house, had arrived there without any warning as far as she had been concerned. If h
er suspicions concerning him were correct, this was what she would have expected. In a business of that sort you never made any prior arrangements, you turned up unannounced and left the same way.

  A little of the fear rose up in her mind again. She tried to rid herself of it in the sheer exhilaration of speed. The road was virtually empty. Only one car, far behind her, occasionally visible in the mirror whenever she reached a long stretch of straight road. Thrusting her foot down on the accelerator, she felt the car lunge forward like an unchained animal, full of power and strength. The wheels hummed on the road. The tall mountains formed a background panorama which scarcely seemed to move, in spite of the acceleration of the car. Five miles further on the road began to twist and turn and slowly, almost reluctantly, she eased her foot from the accelerator. The speedometer, which had been reading close to ninety miles per hour, now began to slip back, the red needle falling to sixty and then fifty. She drove expertly, handling the powerful car easily.

  A couple of cars passed her going in the opposite direction, and then a heavy truck trundling along at a more sedate pace. After that the road was clear again, but a quick glance in the mirror showed her that the car which had been some distance behind her had now closed up rapidly and was only a short distance behind. It was obvious that the other must have taken some of those sharp bends at high speed. Somebody in more of a hurry than she was, she thought, maintaining her speed so that the other would be able to overtake.

  The other car moved up swiftly on the outside. Then it was level with her. She expected it to accelerate away now that the road was clear for several miles ahead. Instead, it remained level with her and something, some hidden instinct, prompted her to turn her head and glance momentarily at the driver of the other car. She caught only a side view of the other’s profile. For several seconds, there was no feeling of danger in her mind. It took that length of time for recognition of the other to penetrate. The thin face, the flesh drawn down tightly against the cheek bones. The high-bridged nose, the lips drawn into a cruel gash of a mouth.