Seek and Destroy Read online

  The other scribbled something on a piece of paper, pushed it across the desk to him. “Be at this address in two hours’ time. See that you are punctual.”

  “I understand, Señor.” Carradine took the paper and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket. “I will be there.”

  Carradine went out into the empty street, stood in the growing shadows at the corner for a while, keeping an unobtrusive eye on the red-brick building in the distance, but during the whole of that time, no one went in and nobody came out. He wondered what might be going on behind that seemingly innocent facade at that very moment. That squat man who was so obviously a Russian or a member of one of the countries of the Far Eastern Block — was he getting in touch with his colleagues by radio transmitter, informing them that a further batch of workers was due to arrive, sending details of every man so that there might be no slip-ups on the way? Might he be even checking further into Carradine’s story, seeking some tiny piece of information which did not quite tie in? Getting tired of waiting, knowing that he might also attract unwelcome attention, he made his way along one of the streets which radiated from the small plaza there and found a tiny, cheap restaurant where he ordered a meal, some inexpensive wine and settled back in the seat near the window, chewing his food thoughtfully as he watched the early night crowds outside. The sun was going down now, almost on the horizon, hidden behind the looming blocks of the buildings on the other side of the street, but it still made its presence felt by the deep crimson glow which now spread to almost every part of the sky. The few clouds that were visible were touched by it, like smears of blood painted on some strange canvas by a surrealist painter.

  The clouds broke up, the sky quickly lost its crimson hue and darkness began to settle over the city as he finished his meal, drained the last of the wine, feeling the warm, expanding glow in his stomach. He lit a cigarette, drew the smoke deep into his lungs, tried to get his thoughts into some form of order in his mind. The last time he had been in Montevideo, he had been a freelance photographer. There had been little danger attached to that job, a slight brush with the police perhaps who always, in these countries, seemed to find a delight in discovering fresh scenes which foreigners were not allowed to photograph for some obscure military reason.

  Those had been carefree days. He smiled wryly to himself, stared down at the grey ash on the tip of the cigarette between his fingers as if he could find the answer to a lot of the questions which had been troubling him lately, there. What had made him change careers, enter the British Secret Service, give up that life of ease for one of danger and intrigue? A spirit of high adventure? The desire to help his country? The urge to do something different? Maybe even the glamour which was generally supposed to be associated with the life of a Secret Service agent?

  With an effort, he put the thoughts of a dead youth from his mind, knowing that at the present moment they would only serve to clutter up his mind with a lot of useless information, at a time when he needed to be able to think clearly, quickly and decisively. Crushing out the butt of the cigarette, he pushed back his chair, rose to his feet and left the restaurant. Lights came on in some of the buildings. Far away, there was the dismal hooting of ships in the harbour. A couple of large trucks started up and growled along the street, heading out of the city. He checked the cheap watch on his wrist. He had another thirty-seven minutes left before reaching the address on the paper which had been given to him. Taking the paper out of his pocket, he checked the address. His brows lifted a little. It was somewhere on the northern outskirts of Montevideo. Obviously they would have chosen a place like this, out of the way, where there was little chance of them being interrupted.

  Brushing his hands down his clothes, he began to walk north, thinking ahead, digging into his memory of the city, to work out in his mind the quickest route to his destination.

  *****

  Carradine made his way swiftly through the quiet, shadowed streets on the outskirts of Montevideo, past low-roofed buildings that lifted to the full face of the moon, past long, oblong warehouses which had been empty for years, and finally along a maze of mean-looking streets that smelled of garbage, of the day’s heat trapped between the houses. The last light of the day had gone. Under the dark indigo sky, lit in the east by the round yellow moon, he came out into open country, was conscious of a momentary feeling of doubt. Was this a trap? Had he been given the wrong address? There was nothing here but open grassland, stretching away into the darkness as far as he could see.

  Now he walked even more carefully, cat-like, putting one foot in front of the other. The moon shone palely down on the scene in front of him. Three minutes later, he made out the dark shadow against the background of pampas grass. His breath eased from between his teeth. This was more like it. That long building could serve as a hangar. The ground beyond it was almost perfectly flat, held a lighter sheen in the moonlight than the rest. As he neared the building, he saw that he had not been mistaken. The silhouette of the plane was clearly visible in front of the hangar. The clean-cut lines of a Douglas DC-3. There was no mistaking it, even in the moonlit darkness.

  As he made his way forward over the rough, coarse grass, Carradine examined everything. There were glimpses of a huddle of low, smallish buildings about half a mile away and a windsock that stood out stiffly in the freshening breeze. A small, but he guessed legitimate, airfield, used exclusively for the Aroyo Mining Corporation. An excellent means of getting their men from one spot to another anywhere in South America. It could also be a good way of contacting a Soviet fishing vessel far out in the Atlantic, or maybe even a submarine. They had, at times, been reported from as far south as this.

  There was a small group of men working around the plane and another group just visible inside the hangar. As he walked forward, one of the men detached himself from the group inside the hangar.

  “You are the last of our passengers, Señor Perez,” said the man from the office in Montevideo. “But you are punctual. We leave in five minutes.” He gestured to Carradine to join the others.

  Outside, the propellers on the DC-3 began to spin, slowly at first, with a spluttering cough from the engines, then more quickly and the low hum rose to a shriller, raw-edged whine that grated on his ears. He gave his companions a quick look. All were of the usual peasant type, found in the old quarter of Montevideo, men who were prepared to take any kind of work so long as it paid well. The Reds must have engaged hundreds such men in the past couple of years, getting them out of the country by air. None of the men spoke. They seemed a little fearful of what lay ahead of them. Perhaps none of them had ever flown before and it would be a terrifying experience for them.

  In the dimness, he smiled a little to himself. At least, he had a very definite advantage there. Most of his life during the past five years seemed to have been spent in some aircraft or another.

  The thunderous roar of the engines came at him as he made his way towards the waiting plane. This type of aircraft had seen much use during the early years of the war, mainly as a troopcarrier. There were very few of them left in service now, but they were sturdy aircraft, well-built, and although this one shook and rattled in every rivet and seam, he did not doubt that it would get them to their destination in one piece.

  Many of the interior fittings had been stripped out of the plane, thereby giving it additional speed. With these special modifications, Carradine reckoned the DC-3 could possibly reach a maximum speed of over three hundred miles an hour. The hum of the engines arose to a harsh whine, the fuselage vibrated even more as the pilot fed power to the engines. Pressing his shoulders against the metal framework at his back, Carradine forced himself to relax. His fellow passengers sat stiffly on the twin steel benches which ran along either side of the interior. Their faces bore some sign of the strain they were experiencing. A man came through from the pilot’s cabin and passed down the length of the plane, walking steadily in spite of the fact that they were now moving away from the hangar, rolling forward towards t
he end of the runway. Carradine thrust his head back further against the cold, shaking metal, turning his face away from the nearest light so that the shadow fell on to it. It was the man who had been seated in front of him on the flight from London to Montevideo!

  Bits of the jigsaw puzzle began to slot themselves into place in his mind now. He had been shadowed all the way from London. These people never missed a trick. For the first time, he felt aware of the enormity of the organisation he was up against. He felt as if he were sitting on top of a smoking volcano, waiting tensely for it to erupt beneath him and blow him clear to Kingdom Come.

  The man had glanced at him without curiosity as he had moved past, more intent on steadying himself than examining the faces of the passengers on this trip. Settling back, Carradine felt the plane gather speed. Its progress was bumpy over the uneven ground, then there was a sudden change; the heaving, shuddering motion ceased and he knew they were airborne. He let his pent-up breath go in little pinches through his nostrils. The DC-3 gathered itself and soared up into the dark sky in a smooth, easy climb.

  Turning his head, Carradine glanced out of the small, square window close beside him. He was looking out into utter blackness. He could just make out the smooth sweep of the aircraft’s wing and the single engine on that side, the spinning propeller invisible, except on rare occasions when the moonlight touched the whirring arc with a faintly glistening sheen. They climbed higher and clouds began to gather beneath them now, solid-looking tufts of cloud, gleaming with the white moonlight, forming a sea of billowing cottonwool that looked so thick and solid it seemed impossible they could ever make their way back down through it again.

  There was no talking among the rest of the men, spread out on the benches. The plane throbbed on, high above the weather, above the wind for the moment, the engines roaring loudly in their ears. The lights inside the aircraft had been turned low and Carradine sat in the cool darkness, legs thrust out straight in front of him, outwardly calm, inwardly his mind a seething turmoil.

  He was on his own now; would be forced to make snap decisions. He—

  There came a sudden, stomach-heaving lurch. The plane seemed to drop like a stone for perhaps thirty feet. One of the men opposite Carradine yelled out, eyes wide with fear. He would have leapt to his feet had not one of the men next to him reached out and pulled him back. Another lurch, an ugly shrill whine as the pilot fed more power to the straining engines. Carradine turned his head instinctively. Outside, beyond the tiny window, the sky was suddenly darker than before. There was no moonlight and he saw to his surprise that they were flying in thick cloud that swirled and boiled around the plane, holding it in a tight-fisted embrace. There was a sudden vivid flash that seemed to fill the sky to its uttermost limits, a blue-bright glare which outlined the wing of the DC-3 in a weird halo of electric-purple light. Instinctively, Carradine drew back his head and a split second later, the crash of the thunder cracked against his ears, half deafening him. The plane leapt and bucked as if it had been struck by a giant hand. It seemed like the end of the world for everyone on board the plane. How the pilot was taking it, Carradine could not guess. Maybe he was used to these violent storms which could sweep up without warning across the flat, rolling plains of Argentina. There was the feel of danger in the air. Steve Carradine had felt it on too many occasions in the past not to be able to recognise it now. It was a real and tangible thing. A quivering of taut stomach muscles, a sudden ache pressure in the chest as if a network of small strings were being drawn tightly around the fast-beating heart. Again there was that ugly actinic glare of lightning outside the aircraft; a sickening bump, a violent tremor that ran throughout the whole length of the fuselage. How old were these DC-3s? he wondered. Nearly twenty years old perhaps. Long enough for the insidious fingers of metal fatigue to have penetrated the framework of the hull, wings and tail unit. There were forces at work in the heavens around them which could make a mockery of anything man could do. How could they hope to survive all of this?

  He had faced danger and death many times during his career, but it had always been something he could fight using whatever talents and weapons he possessed. But this was something different; something he could not fight, which had to be allowed to take its own course. This feeling of helplessness was the worst thing he had ever known.

  There was a movement at the far end of the long passenger cabin. The door leading into the pilot’s cabin slid open, a flood of yellow light streamed through into the dimness of the plane’s interior. For a few moments, the shapes of two men were visible, engaged in deep conversation. Carradine watched them narrowly from beneath lowered lids, focusing his whole attention on them. He recognised both of them. His acquaintance of the flight from London and the man who had hired him in Montevideo. For a moment he felt the cold clamminess of sweat on his face as he saw them both lift their heads and peer in his direction. The short, squat man said something in a low undertone, then stepped forward, threaded his way between the rows of sprawled men until he halted directly in front of Carradine. He stood with his legs braced well apart, swaying easily to every violent movement of the aircraft. Carradine lifted his eyes and stared straight at him, wondering what was going on in the man’s mind, whether there had been any recognition of him through his disguise.

  Relaxing a little, the other said: "You are a mining engineer, mon amigo. I do not doubt that you are a little above these other — peasants. They have no imagination at all.”

  Carradine said nothing, as the other seated himself beside him. Did the other intend to tell him something of the work which was going on at the secret launching site — knowing that as an engineer, it would not take him long to realise what was happening there, that it was no ordinary mining operation which was being carried out?

  The other’s next words confirmed this. "Now that we are on our way, and there is no possibility of turning back for any of you, perhaps it might help if you were to understand a little of what we are doing.”

  Carradine shrugged. "I gathered that you were a mining corporation Is it prospecting for a new field?” His tone was casual. His face betrayed nothing.

  The other uttered a short, sharp bark of a laugh which was almost drowned by the fearsome crash of thunder which enveloped the plane, slammed down against it from all sides.

  “You might call it that, amigo. A new field. But not in the way you understand it.” He made himself more comfortable on the seat “You must have realised by now that neither my colleagues nor myself are natives of your country.” His lifted brows gave an interrogatory note to the statement.

  Carradine gave a faint nod. “A lot of the experts in Uruguay are foreigners,” he answered non-committally.

  “Of course” The other gazed away from Carradine, letting his glance slide over the faces of the other men. Then he said in a lower voice than before. “As I said before, you are an intelligent man. When we arrive at our destination, you will see that what we are building is like nothing you have ever seen before.”

  Carradine put just the right amount of surprise into his expression. “But your office in Montevideo said—”

  “The sign outside the door said just what we wanted it to say, nothing more,” said the other in a relaxed, conversational tone. “You can help us with your engineering knowledge and there will be plenty of pesos in it for you. I’m sure you will not wish to turn down an offer like that.”

  Carradine looked gravely down at the floor of the plane under his feet. “I have no objection to being paid well for any kind of work. Business hasn’t been too brisk for me during the past year or so.”

  “That is as I guessed,” nodded the other. “Briefly we are building a site for the launching of atomic war-headed missiles which can be brought to bear on any country of the Western Alliance within minutes. It will effectively alter the balance of power in this part of the world, adding to our strength here and nullifying the power of the United States.”

  “I think I’m beginning to unders
tand,” Carradine said seriously. “And this work will all be top secret, of course.”

  “Naturally.” The other gave him a bright-sharp stare. “You must realise that we are doing it all for the good of your country, and the other states of South America. At present, you have no nuclear weapons with which to defend yourselves and we feel that it is only right that you should have some voice in any decision which may be taken at — perhaps, a Summit Meeting — when matters relating to you are discussed.”

  Naturally, thought Carradine dryly. This was the propaganda, the half-lies of patriotism was one of the words they bandied about whenever they had the opportunity. Knowing the fiery tempers and the idealistic outlook of these Latin peoples, they must feel that they were on quite an easy wicket talking in this way, making them feel that by working with the Soviets, they were making their country, one of the most powerful in this part of the world. There had always been this feeling of suspicion on the part of the smaller countries of the American bloc against the United States. Maybe it was because America was too big, too powerful and influential in world matters. Nobody really liked playing the part of little brother, any more than they like being considered an insignificant country, backward and illiterate.

  “Why are you telling me all this?” Very softly, Carradine matched the other’s tone. “I was engaged as a mining engineer. What if I should decide to go to the authorities and warn them of this — venture — of yours?”

  “You wouldn’t do that,” said the other flatly. His eyes pierced Carradine’s skull, the level gaze going right through the back of his head.

  “How can you be so sure? Either I do as I’m told or I don’t get paid, is that it?”

  The man smiled, showing his teeth. “Either you do as you’re told or you get killed. It is as simple as that. At the site, you will find yourself many miles from the nearest outpost of civilisation, cut off from the outside world by impenetrable jungle. Should you decide to try to get away, I assure you that you would not get very far, even if you managed to slip past the guards. We also have ways of learning about escapes before they actually happen and our methods of punishment might not appeal to a man of your intellect and imagination.” His voice sent a little shudder up and down Carradine’s spine. The man, he knew, was utterly evil.