18 - The Unfair Fare Affair (16 page)

"By and by I became a driver, and then I had my own trucks and I made a little money. And I saved. But still I could not find what I wanted. It is not much, you would think, for a man to want. I did not desire riches. All I wanted was a cottage from which I could regard the sea, a place to retire.

"But the sea has become a preserve for the rich. Every inch of coast is parceled out, each stone has its price—and the price is too high for people such as us. But I determined, nevertheless, that I too would have my rich man's morsel. I swore that I would get my cottage on a cliff."

Bartoluzzi stopped talking and stared unseeingly into the tenor of the dark truck. He drained the enamel mug beside him and poured more wine.

"Three years ago," he went on slowly, "I found the piece of land I wanted. It was secluded, it was covered in olive trees, it looked out to sea. It was on the Corniche d'Or. There was already a
cabanon
there where I could live—but I could also build more if I wished. It was of course very expensive––unbelievably expensive. I put down every penny I had saved, and that only bought me an option.

"And then I realized that however hard I saved, however hard I worked, I would never be able to raise enough to complete the purchase. Or if I could persuade them to wait, I would be too old to enjoy the place by the time I could take possession of it. And so I decided—quite suddenly—to find other means. If a man's work was not enough to gain him the small thing he wanted out of life, then life must be maneuvered and manipulated in such a way that the thing could be done."

"What made you decide to do... this?" Kuryakin asked in a curiously gentle tone.

The determined jaw swung around toward him like the prow of a ship. "It seemed right that I should help others, the less fortunate ones, such as I had been," Bartoluzzi said simply. "It was right that my own salvation should be through the salvation of others. Also, through my experience in transport, I already had the knowledge and the means to carry it out."

"You were not worried about the law?"

"The law?" The nut-faced little man spat scorn. "The law is an abstraction! Which side of the law you are on is a matter of chance. If you are on the right side, you cheat and lie and steal and they call you a smart businessman. If you do the same things and you are on the wrong side, they call you an embezzler and they put you in prison. If you are on the right side and you kill, they give you medals; if, like yourself, you are on the wrong—then again they execute you or they shut you up forever. Don't speak to me of the law…"

"Yes, a curse on it. Let a man take what be needs—and the devil take those who would thwart him!" Illya growled, suddenly remembering that he was supposed to be a bank robber and a killer. He changed the subject. "And have succeeded this way in... raising... the necessary capital?" he asked.

"Not yet," Bartoluzzi replied. "Two years have passed since I made my decision; fifteen months since I did the first job—for I had to spend a great deal of time planning and making contacts. But if I kept up a flow of operations like yours, my friend"—he glanced at the briefcase lying by Illya's feet—"I could probably make it in another three or four years."

"So long? At the prices you charge? It must be expensive land indeed!"

"It is. And do not forget, a fortune has to be dispensed to those helping me. They may not comprehend exactly what they are doing, but they know well enough that it is against the law. And silence comes expensive!"

"True. It is a long time, even so."

"It would have been twenty years, had I not started in this business. But do not worry on my account. If things go well in certain directions I shall in fact not even have to wait the three or four years."

"But you said…"

"I said it would take three or four years with cases like yours. In the case of people paying more, much more, evidently it would take less."

"Impossible! Nobody would pay more than I have! No one!"

"No
one
, perhaps," Bartoluzzi agreed craftily. "But an
organization
might—an organization that was all-powerful."

"An... organization?" Kuryakin repeated, trying to mask his interest.

"Certainly. An organization with an interest in helping such unfortunates avoid the spitefulness and malice of the fellowmen. An organization that might have an interest in contacting certain clients and making use of their talents, furthering their careers instead of just removing them from danger temporarily. Such people would pay more."

"And such an organization has already contacted you? On those lines?"

"Ach... it is better not to speak of these things," Bartoluzzi said, becoming suddenly evasive. "Come—it is time we were on our way..."

Kuryakin tried once more to draw the little man out on the subject of whoever was trying to buy into his organization. "One would be interested to hear more of such a group," he said, "if it existed; particularly if it was, as you said, all-powerful

"You don't want to bother yourself about that, friend," Bartoluzzi said. "A man like you. What need does a strong man have for others?"

"True," the Russian said hoarsely. "I manage my own affairs at that. And I'd like to see the organization that can stop me!" He climbed back into the van and pulled the doors shut. Bartoluzzi returned to the drivers' cab—and a moment later they were winding up the hill past the
Gasthof
toward the main road leading to Munich and the west.

Three hours later, the Corsican pulled up in a deserted parking area not far from Wangen. There were several rolls of carpet and linoleum in the van, and they had decided that Illya was to travel through the tunnel incarcerated in one of these. According to a spurious bill of lading, they were consigned to a decorator in Zurich. This last stop before the frontier was to enable him to get properly lost inside one of the rolls!

As soon as the engine cut out, he was aware that the weather had changed for the worse. There was a regular pattering on the top and sides of the vehicle, and every now and then it lurched in a gust of wind. When Bartoluzzi came around to open the doors, the Russian saw that the night was full of driving sleet.

Turning up his collar, he helped the Corsican manhandle the heavy rolls into a suitable position in the back of the van. It didn't take them long, but by the time they had finished, Illya was drenched from head to foot. Grasping his jacket by the lapels, he shook the material violently in an attempt to get rid of some of the moisture. At the same time he tossed his head to clear his face of the streams of water running down from his hair.

A heavy truck rumbled past, the beams of its headlamp, brightly illuminating the driving sleet, the parked van, and the two men standing by the open doors. In the vivid light Bartoluzzi's face, with its staring eyes and jutting chin, was abruptly changed into a mask of murderous hate!

Before he realized what was happening, Kuryakin found himself hurled backward into the body of the van as the Corsican shoulder charged him with brutal force. The doors of the vehicle slammed, and a bar dropped into place. A moment later, they roared out onto the main road.

Astonished, the Russian drew the transceiver from his pocket and tried to call up Solo. But either his teammate was otherwise occupied, or he was calling a little too early. There was no answer to his signal.

Not long afterward, the van shuddered to a halt. He could hear running footsteps, voices shouting commands.

Light flooded into the dark interior as the doors were jerked open. Facing him by a roadside police post were half a dozen German militiamen with leveled rifles. Behind them, he could dimly see an officer and Bartoluzzi, waving his arms.

"There you are!" the Corsican was shouting. "Stowing away in my van, he was! There he is. That's Kurim Cernic, the murderer who escaped from Prague… I'd know that face anywhere. Arrest him! Take him away! He was trying to get across the border in my van!"

Keeping out of the line of fire of the rifles, the officer motioned Kuryakin to descend. Cold steel embraced his wrists as handcuffs clicked shut.

Still stupefied with astonishment, the Russian allowed himself to be led into the guardroom. What had happened? What had given him away? For if Bartoluzzi had denounced him as the killer Cernic, it could only be for one reason—because he had in fact discovered that Kuryakin was an imposter!

At that moment he caught sight of himself in a mirror hanging over an old-fashioned mantelpiece behind the duty officer's desk. And at once he realized what had betrayed him to the Corsican.

Soaked by the storm of sleet, the dye that had darkened his blond hair to Cernic's color had run—and now his face was grotesque, streaked from one side to the other with the stain!

Chapter 15

Ambush In The East!

NOW THAT THE mechanics of Bartoluzzi's one-man escape network were known, now that he was morally sure that he had in fact been approached by THRUSH on the lines that Waverly had feared, Kuryakin felt justified in throwing the Corsican, as it were, to the wolves. On the other hand, he could hardly do this in his role as the Czech Kurim Cernic, for the wily Corsican would probably manage to talk his way out of it—especially since the military would be unlikely to take the word of an escaped convict, and Illya had no proof of his allegations. Moreover, as a recognized criminal rather than a political refugee, Kuryakin himself would probably simply be handed over to the East German authorities, who would in turn send him back to Czechoslovakia. Establishing his true identity then might take days, for he was deliberately carrying no papers, and in the meantime Bartoluzzi would have vanished and the trail would be cold.

He would therefore have to come out into the open and tell them now who he was. But this turned out to be more difficult than he had anticipated.

As soon as the Corsican had gone outside the guard room, Illya turned to the officer and said in German: "Now I can speak. You have the opportunity of pulling off a personal coup that will undoubtedly gain you much prestige with your superiors."

The young man stared at him. "What are you talking about?"

"I am not Kurim Cernic. I am an enforcement agent of—"

"Be quiet. Of course you are Cernic."

"I tell you I am not. I am
impersonating
Cernic—why do you think there is dye running down my face?—and this man thinks he is illegally taking Cernic out of reach of the authorities."

"You are talking rubbish. If he was doing that, why would he call us in and hand you over to us? Why would he seek the help of the military, of all people?"

"Because he discovered I was an impostor; that I am not Cernic."

"Now you are talking in riddles. That is enough."

"He is running an escape service for criminals. Now that he knows I am not a criminal, his organization is in danger so he wants me out of the way—don't you see?"

"I see it is time you were taken to the cells. Sergeant!"

"But you are making a mistake. I tell you—"

"Silence!... Sergeant, take this man to the cells and place a close guard on him. Transport will be arriving soon with an escort to take him to the East German frontier. Until then he is not to be left alone."

And so, until some time after midnight, Illya languished in a brightly lit room with barred windows and a peephole in the door through which young soldiers curiously and constantly peered. Judging from scraps of dialogue he could hear through the door, the place was an adjunct to a big frontier post some way down the road. But his escort was clearly coming from farther afield.

At last, nevertheless, he was once again standing handcuffed before the shabby desk in the guardroom. The stain on his face had dried, and now, in the mirror over the fireplace, he looked like nothing so much as a Maori warrior!

An escort of half a dozen soldiers with machine pistols— Belgian FNs, he thought—was drawn up outside the door, and beyond them he could see a vehicle like an Austin Gypsy, its canvas top silhouetted against the lamps bordering the road. The young lieutenant in charge of the escort was receiving his orders from the officer Illya had seen before.

"You will proceed directly northeast through Bayreuth after you have reached Nurnberg. It has been arranged that an escort of East German militia will rendezvous with you at the frontier post just north of Hof, on the new Autobahn. You will deliver this envelope to the officer commanding at the same time as you hand over the prisoner. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Captain."

As the young lieutenant saluted and reached out for the brown manila envelope, Illya exploded into action.

He had caught sight of the baton transceiver, which had been taken from him when he was searched. It lay on the desk next to the briefcase containing the remainder of the money that was to have been paid to Bartoluzzi as soon as they reached Zurich.

The Russian twisted away from the guards on either side of him and dived for the table. Snatching up the baton in his manacled hands, he hurled himself into the corner of the room as his fingers felt for the controls.

"Channel open," he gasped. "Listen, Napoleon... listen: the plan has misfired... Bartoluzzi has spotted me, and I have been handed over to the authorities as Cernic—"

Men flew at the Russian from all directions. Gun butts thudded into his back, hands tore at his shoulders, and an arm encircled his neck from behind as he crouched down facing the wall in a desperate attempt to reach his teammate. "…taken with military… East Germany... back to Prague..." he panted between efforts to beat off the soldiers.

But the sheer weight of numbers was too much for him. The transceiver, wrenched from his hands, fell to the ground and was smashed under a heavy boot; Kuryakin, heaving manfully against the overwhelming odds, was finally subdued.

A few minutes later, bruised, bloodied and only half-conscious, he was dragged out to the truck and pushed into the back with the escort, and they took off for Munich, Nurnberg and the north.