Seek and Destroy Page 3

  She felt her knees begin to tremble, tried to exert pressure on the accelerator to increase speed, to keep ahead of the other. Coldness was creeping up into her body. This was the man she had seen in the car, the man seated beside the driver. She remembered how the light had shone off the metal of the gun in his hand on that occasion, knew that she could not possibly be mistaken.

  The drone of the car engine grew louder in her ears. A mile or so ahead, the road curved right in a tight bend. She must slow down now, or she would be taking that curve at a dangerously high speed. Almost of its own accord, her foot moved off the accelerator on to the brake, pressing gently on it. The car began to slow.

  Too late she realized what was in the other man’s mind. The other car began to drift over to her side of the road, closing the gap between them, forcing her to pull further into the side of the road. The fear in her mind, dominating every other emotion now, controlled her actions. Tyres squealed in protest on the road as she continued to apply the brakes, aware that the other meant to drive her off the road. She tried to haul hard on the wheel, to force the car back away from the edge but inexorably, the other car swung towards her.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw the fiercely-grinning face of the man in the other car. Lips were drawn back over his teeth. His eyes were wide, staring. The front bumper of the car touched the door of her own. Acting impulsively, instinctively, she spun the wheel in an attempt to slide away from him, pushing her foot down hard on the accelerator, forgetting about the curve coming up now, intent only on getting away from this madman whose sole aim seemed to be to kill her. The other car hit hers again, harder this time. It was too much for her nerves, stretched to the utmost limit. With a faint scream, she pulled on the wheel, the car slithered sharply to one side. For a moment the front wheels clawed at nothing as the ground dropped away beneath the bonnet. She had a momentary glimpse of the ground hurtling towards her, felt the rear of the car lifting high into the air as it somersaulted, then nothing. …

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Bait

  The change in the note of the aircraft engines wakened Carradine. Pressing the button on the side of the inclined seat, he brought it back into the upright position, twitched aside the curtain across his window and glanced out. Beyond the smooth, circular mouths of the twin jet engines, he was just able to make out the city far below them. The old section of Montevideo, he remembered, occupied the low, rocky headland which projected westwards between the estuary and the bay which formed the harbour. Newer sections of the city extended westward in the faint morning mist which lay over the ground, over a beautiful tract of country. The sea was a faint purple in the half light, fading to a dark blue, almost black out on the horizon where the sun, although still out of sight, even at this height, touched the low band of cloud with a tint of flame.

  Steve Carradine glanced down at the watch on his wrist. The golden hairs on the back of his hand glistened in the faint light entering through the window. Now they were beginning to lose altitude, circling above the city which seemed no larger than a toy, laid out on some gigantic table. One by one, the other passengers were stirring, sitting up and taking stock of their surroundings. They descended into a layer of thin cloud. For a moment everything on the ground vanished from sight and there was only the white mist, holding them motionless in the air. Then, like smoke drifting past the window, the cloud thinned, the sun came bounding up above the horizon, throwing a wide swathe of red light across the sea, they were flying in over the bay and Carradine could see some of the landmarks he recalled from his last visit to this city. The Calle 18 de Julio, reckoned as one of the finest boulevards in the whole of South America, extending eastward from the Plaza de la Independencia, out to the suburbs of the city; the square towers and the large dome of the Cathedral, facing on to the Plaza de la Constitucion, perhaps the most conspicuous landmark in the entire city.

  The red light flashed over the door leading into the cockpit. The man seated in front of Carradine stubbed out the cigarette he had lit only a few seconds before, fastened his safety belt across his corpulent middle and sat back in his seat. Carradine fastened his own safety belt, relaxed in his seat as the drone of the engines dropped to the faintest whisper and the thin, high-pitched shriek of the air streaming just past the plane could be clearly heard. He reflected that in spite of all that he had been told in London, he still knew very little about this affair. Launching sites for ICBMs somewhere in the wilderness far to the west of Montevideo; a man who had been one of Hitler’s topmost rocket scientists disappearing without a trace a week earlier, and more ominous than anything else, the certainty — for the information gained by other agents of the Secret Service had always been disturbingly correct in the past — that the nuclear warheads for these missiles had left Russia and were on their way. How did these people hope to get them into South America? They must have given this problem a lot of thought, for it was not like the Reds to undertake anything like this unless they were absolutely positive that they could carry it through without a slip.

  The buildings slid swiftly beneath the metal belly of the plane as it dropped low over the outskirts of the city. Then there was the long white strip of the runway in front of them. It seemed to have swung up into position without any warning. A bleat of rubber, protesting as it struck the ground hard, a second slight shudder, then they were down. The man in front of Carradine uttered a faintly audible sigh of relief, unfastened the belt from around his middle and thrust out his legs in front of him. Turning his head, he looked directly at Carradine, said in English: "I always feel relieved whenever I’m on the ground again after being in one of these things.” The man was about fifty, iron-grey hair, thick-set and vigorous, the sort of man one would have expected to go to fat quickly, but somehow there was no hint of that in the other’s body. He went on softly, as they taxied around the perimeter track towards the Reception Building, “I read the statistics they publish every so often. They claim that there are fewer fatalities with flying than there are when travelling by train or car. Unfortunately, I never was one to trust in statistics. On paper, they look fine. In practice, they give me a little shiver along my spine.”

  Carradine nodded. "I know how you feel.” His voice was soft. “Perhaps it might help if you were a fatalist like me.”

  The man’s thick, bushy brows lifted a little. For a moment the blue eyes watched him, seemed to penetrate all the way back to the rear of his skull, as if he were searching him with all of his senses, trying to size him up. Was there something more than a casual interest in him, showing for a brief moment at the back of the other's eyes? A look of inner calculation? He dismissed it after a moment’s reflection. The plane came to a standstill. The whine of the engines climbed down from the almost inaudible shriek, moaned in their ears for a few seconds, then faded into silence.

  The passage through the Customs took little time. Then Carradine was out of the tall building, his cases beside him, lifting his hand to signal to one of the waiting taxis. Out of the comer of his eye, he saw his acquaintance from the plane step out of the entrance and look up and down the wide street as if expecting someone to be there to meet him. Then Carradine’s attention was directed away from the other. A black limousine purred to a standstill directly in front of him, the door was opened from inside, and the girl behind the wheel leaned forward.

  “Mister Carradine?” It was more of a statement of fact than a question.

  With an effort, he forced down the feeling of surprise, nodded, picked up his cases and stepped into the car, tossing the two cases into the rear seat. Was this some of Headquarters’ doing, or was this something else? he wondered.

  “You looked very surprised,” said the girl. She let in the clutch and the car roared away from the pavement, shot along the street, missed one of the cars in front of them by less than an inch, her left hand banging the gear lever up into third as she pressed with her foot on the accelerator pedal.

  “How did you know my name,
or that I would be on that plane?”

  “That was quite easy I asked to see the passenger list, saw that your name was on it and waited for you to arrive.”

  “And may I ask why?”

  The girl smiled tilted her head a little to one side. There was an accent to her voice which was certainly not that of a South American. “Let us simply say that we like to welcome visitors to our country. Do you object to me at all, Mister Carradine?”

  “Steve,” said Carradine softly. He settled back in his seat as the car thundered forward along the wide highway, an angry hooting behind them sounding briefly as they shot between a car and a heavy truck lumbering in the opposite direction. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the red needle of the speedometer was just below the hundred mark.

  Her smile widened, became a trifle more provocative. “Steve Carradine,” she said softly, her voice deep and warm. “I like that. My name is Valentina Veronova.”

  “Russian?”

  “Caucasian,” corrected the girl. “It may not seem so on the surface, but I do assure you that there is a subtle difference.”

  “If you say so.” There was a pause while Carradine looked at her profile, the delicately-cut features, the clear blue eyes that were now fixed on the open road ahead of them, the finely-chiselled nose and mouth. She did not seem to mind his close scrutiny. They drove around a bend in the road, entered a straight stretch and the car leapt forward as if it had been violently kicked from behind. Carradine grinned. He said: “Perhaps you could go a little faster if you really tried.”

  “Perhaps” The red needle crept still higher around the dial. The sides of the highway were a vaguely-seen blur as they flashed past the speeding car. He sat back calmly. If the girl was trying to scare him with this show of speed, then she was simply wasting her time. The car side-swiped violently as Valentina swung it sharply around a corner which came up on them apparently without any warning at all. Instinctively, the girl corrected, the car righted itself and they sped on along the white highway which led them towards Montevideo.

  *****

  When the car with Carradine and the girl had left the Airport, the man standing near the entrance walked down towards the street, stood for a moment staring straight ahead of him, then glanced round as a car left the line of parked vehicles on the other side of the street and moved slowly towards him. Kronovitch opened the door, waited until they had climbed in, then pulled out into the slow-moving stream of traffic leaving the Airport.

  “Were you successful?” asked Kronovitch shortly. Thoughtfully, as if this were the kernel of the entire problem, he added: “I saw Valentina leave a few moments ago with a man. That, I presume, was Steve Carradine.”

  “Da,” Chernogradtsky nodded slowly. “He sat behind me on the plane. I joined the flight in London as instructed. He was never out of my sight for a single moment until he got into the car with Valentina.”

  “Excellent.” Kronovitch smiled, drawing his lips back over his teeth like those of an animal scenting its prey. “He looks a particularly nasty customer!”

  Chernogradtsky’s face gave the impression of mild surprise. “He looked very little different to a great many men I saw in London,” he said.

  Kronovitch shook his head. “If you think that, Comrade, then you are making a very dangerous mistake which could be fatal as far as you are concerned unless you rectify it immediately. We know his record. It makes very interesting reading. But perhaps you have not seen it.”

  “No. I was merely ordered to follow him here,” said the other stiffly.

  “He is one of the most deadly of the British agents we have ever encountered. On several occasions he has thwarted our attempts to carry out our plans. We must never underestimate him. Valentina has her orders.”

  “Can she be trusted?”

  For a moment Kronovitch turned his head a little, taking his attention off the road in front of him, fixing the other with a hard stare. “She is perfectly trustworthy. The M.G.B. have investigated her background thoroughly.”

  “And this man, Carradine. What will happen to him?” Kronovitch’s smile took on a hard grimness. “Steve Carradine will meet with an unfortunate accident. It will be regrettable, but unavoidable. The trap was baited in Moscow as you are no doubt aware.”

  “For Carradine?”

  “For whichever agent the British Secret Service chose to come out here. We know they had discovered the fact that we are building here in South America. The FBI will have informed them of Henkel’s disappearance. It was anticipated that someone would be sent here. Now that we know the identity of that man, the rest should be relatively easy.”

  They idled their way along the wide highway leading into Montevideo and pulled up at the end of the wide plaza.

  Stopping the engine, Kronovitch pointed a finger. The black car was parked outside the Hotel Uruguayo.

  * * * * *

  Accommodation had been arranged in advance for Carradine. In the past he had grown to rely on the efficiency of the staff at Secret Service Headquarters in London and on this occasion they had really done him proud. The hotel was certainly well up to international standards. The commissionaire and the receptionist had not raised their well-trained brows by so much as a tenth of an inch when they had caught sight of the girl who accompanied him, and as far as Carradine was concerned, that represented the best and most reliable indication of the standing of any hotel in any country.

  Standing at the window, Carradine looked down into the wide, spacious street below him. Behind him, the girl moved forward. “Do you like it?” she asked in that rich voice of hers. “They tell me this is one of the best views of the city. You are indeed fortunate to have this room. Mine is across the corridor, facing the rear of the building and —”

  “You’re staying here?” An electric shock trickled along Carradine’s spine. His tone was expressionless as he spoke.

  “Why yes.” She smiled radiantly. She looked a little surprised. “You think that is wrong?”

  “Oh no, far from it,” Carradine said hurriedly. “It was just that it seemed to be a little more than coincidence.” He eyed her narrowly. Was there a faint look of guilt on her face, just visible for the briefest fraction of a second? He felt sure he had noticed something, but it was gone now and her gaze matched his own, calm and challenging.

  “Life is always full of coincidences, Steve. We must simply learn to live with them.” Her tone was faintly bantering.” A pause, then she went on lightly, “But I want to help you to enjoy your stay in Montevideo. I know all of the best places to visit.” Her eyes became teasing. “Do you like to gamble, Steve?”

  "I can take it or leave it,” he said casually. Inwardly, he felt worried, but tried not to show it. The girl was keeping something from him. He felt sure of that. What it could be, he did not know, but it would not be wise to go into anything with his eyes closed.

  “Good.” Valentina did not seem discouraged by his apparent lack of enthusiasm. “I know the very place. We will have supper in a little restaurant and then go on to the club. There are so many places to see and enjoy here that it is difficult to know where to begin.”

  Going back to the bed, Carradine opened one of the cases. There was a heavy Service revolver between two of the carefully-pressed shirts. It was very seldom that he ever used it; it was there more for show than anything else. With a careless man there was sometimes the chance that if he searched through the luggage and found this weapon, he did not look much further and consequently forgot completely about the other gun which Carradine carried in the shoulder holster beneath his left armpit.

  Valentina moved away from the window. Almost, thought Carradine tautly, as if she had seen something — or someone — down in the street, someone she had been watching for unobtrusively.

  “I’ll leave you to unpack,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll call for you in an hour’s time. Will that be all right?”

  “That would suit me fine,” Carradine said. He waited un
til the girl had gone, closing the door behind her, then moved catlike to the window, pressing his body well in to the wall, glancing obliquely down into the plaza. At first, he could see nothing out of the ordinary. The girl’s car was still parked outside the hotel. Then he noticed the other car, drawn up at the corner of the plaza, saw that there were two men seated in it. A little warning bell began to ring at the forefront of his mind. Although he could only just catch a glimpse of one of the men, he thought he recognized the bland features of his companion on the flight from London; the man who did not believe in statistics concerning the safety of air travel. Perhaps this too, was coincidence. As the girl had said; if so, then he would have to live with it. But a man in his profession could die because of coincidence if he was not careful. How innocent the girl had seemed — and how deadly. Brusquely, he closed his mind to her for the moment, tried to put his own thoughts into some form of order. Taking off his coat, he draped it over the back of the chair, sat down and relaxed. His mind was keyed to a razor-edged sharpness. Sooner or later, one of the FBI agents would get in contact with him. Then things ought to start moving. Always provided that he lived long enough. If the girl was a secret agent for the other side every move he made would be relayed back and plans would be made accordingly. If she was not, then it was possible he might be able to combine a little pleasure with business.

  * * * * *

  Valentina Veronova had indeed seen the black car standing at the corner of the plaza when she had looked down from Carradine’s window, knew that the first part of her mission had been successfully accomplished. How much this man really suspected, she did not know for certain, but she felt sure she would soon be able to find out. Her orders had been quite explicit Kronovitch had said they were direct from M.G.B. Headquarters in Moscow and she saw no reason to doubt that statement. Kronovitch was, she knew, high up in the organization, probably quite close to General Dernovsky Even now, she felt an echo of that thrill of fear she had experienced when the telephone in her room at the hotel had rung that morning a little over a week earlier and she had been told to be in the Paseo del Prado, one of the public gardens situated beyond the suburb of Paso Molino, some three kilometres from the city itself It was her first meeting with Jenko Kronovitch, although she had heard of him several times. Many things had been whispered about this man, reputedly the head of the M.G.B. organization in South America. She believed most of them from the moment she heard them and after seeing him, seated in the garden, she believed the rest.