The Mammoth Book of Short Spy Novels (Mammoth Books) Page 35

  “For a time.”

  “Then you know that what I’m going to tell you has to be kept in the strictest confidence.”

  “What else?” Peter Baron said.

  Chadwick got his pipe going. “Will you help us?”

  “First let me have some inkling of the problem.”

  “Of course.” Chadwick composed his thoughts. “The flap concerns Deep-Sleep.”

  “Deep-Sleep?” Peter Baron laughed outright. “You’re putting me on.”

  “Seriously. Deep-Sleep is the working title of a battle gas developed by Dr. Blake Forester, a chemist whom you may know.”

  Peter Baron winked at Duke Farinese.

  “The properties of Deep-Sleep are fantastic. It is a knock-out gas, but the essentially unique thing about it is that it does not enter the human system through the nose and mouth, but through the pores of the skin.”

  Baron whistled softly.

  “I underwent an experimental dose of Deep-Sleep,” Chadwick went on. “It is unbelievable. At first I simply felt a mild tingling on my skin. Then, within seconds, a furious burning sensation, almost like the itch of poison ivy, enveloped me. Within moments, I was in a deep sleep, from which I emerged after two hours – with absolutely no after-effects!”

  Peter Baron nodded.

  “You can imagine the possibilities. Spray with the gas, take the objective without shedding a drop of blood, and disarm the enemy!”

  “What’s the drawback?” Peter asked.

  “The use of gas in warfare is controlled by means of masks. You spray the gas, knock out the enemy, don gas masks, and march over the fallen. With Deep-Sleep, the problem can’t be solved that way. Since the gas enters the pores of the skin, an antidote must be used. Airtight plastic work clothes with self-contained breathing devices do not work: no maneuverability. So Dr. Forester has been working to come up with an antidote – and he never got it!”

  Peter Baron sensed Chadwick’s agitation. “You use the past tense. Is Dr Forester dead?”

  “No. Two nights ago he was assaulted on the streets of Naples and now lies in deep coma in a hospital. Simultaneously, someone tried to enter the heavily guarded vault at his plant to secure the master copy of the formula for Deep-Sleep. No one but Dr. Forester knows the ingredients, you see. He worked it out all by himself.”

  “You mean there’s only one copy of the formula, and it’s in the vault?” Baron asked incredulously.

  “Not exactly. There is a duplicate of the formula in the Pentagon – its exact location so top secret it would take a bank of computers to locate it. It’s there in case something should happen to Chimici Consolidati – physical destruction, that sort of thing. The point is, with Deep-Sleep in our hands, we’re safe. But if the enemy should get hold of it – bingo!”

  “Did the thief obtain the formula?”

  “No. he was killed by a guard.”

  “Ah. Was the thief identified? Do we know who is after the formula?”

  “He was a nonentity. There was no way of ascertaining who hired him.”

  Baron frowned with disappointment.

  “Our security checks on the Russians indicate that they know nothing about it. Nor do the Chinese Communists. It looks as if some independent agency is bent on securing the formula and blackmailing both East and West with it.”

  “I.C.E.?” Peter Baron glanced at Duke Farinese, who shrugged. Baron faced Chadwick. “The problem then is to enter the guarded vault and destroy the formula?”

  “I wish it were that simple,” Chadwick said morosely. “The problem is more complicated. Last night one more development occurred. Mario Rimini, who is a section head at Dr. Forester’s plant, was kidnapped somewhere on the way home from Chimici Consolidati.”

  Peter Baron blinked. “How, exactly?”

  “He simply did not appear at his home after leaving the plant. Since the attempt to burgle the vault, we had increased the guard at the plant and put a loose check on several people. Mario Rimini was one of them.”

  “Quite a loose check,” Baron murmured. “The plant is located on the road to Avellino outside Naples, is it not?”

  Chadwick’s brows shot up. “Yes. Why?”

  “I believe Mario Rimini has been taken out of Italy completely,” Baron said. Briefly, he explained the strange adventure with the helicopter the night before.

  Chadwick was disconsolate. “Just our luck! Your theory is undoubtedly correct. Otherwise, why the helicopter? Why the unmarked fuselage? Why the eastward flight?”

  “Yugoslavia?” Duke Farinese murmured. “Rumania?”

  “Either, undoubtedly,” Baron said.

  Chadwick shifted in his seat. “You can now see why he cannot march in and destroy the Deep-Sleep formula. Whoever has seized Mario Rimini will demand the formula in return for Mario’s life. And the demand will most certainly be made on Paula Rimini, his twin sister, the mistress of Dr. Forester.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Dr. Forester feared some such attack on himself. He has given strict orders to Paula Rimini to open the vault and destroy the formula if ever he should be killed.”

  “If you knew this, why didn’t you have a watch on Mario Rimini?”

  “We didn’t know about it until last night, when we told Paula Rimini of her brother’s disappearance. She hadn’t done anything about the formula because technically Dr. Forester was not murdered, but simply assaulted.”

  “I still don’t understand why we can’t obtain the formula and destroy it.”

  “The Riminis are national heroes, Peter,” Chadwick said nervously. “People still remember their father, Prince Filipo. And they are royalty. If anything happened to Mario – or Paula – Dr. Forester, and America, would be blamed. Harboring a dangerous U.S. gas formula in Italy, and all that – why, it could blow NATO apart.”

  “Then you’re saying we must go through with the ransom, and then try to retrieve the formula?”

  “Exactly. Only after Mario Rimini is safe in our hands.”

  “Can’t we hand over a fake formula?”

  Chadwick’s head shook vehemently. “Under no circumstances. A chemical expert would spot a phony in an instant. It must be the real thing.”

  “What if we’re dealing with the Red Chinese and they do get the formula?” Duke Farinese wondered.

  “They’d use the stuff on us in Vietnam and drive us out of Asia!” Chadwick exploded. “Under no circumstances must that happen!”

  “Indeed not,” Baron assented softly. “What do we do first? Do you have a plan of action?”

  “Keep Paula Rimini under surveillance. When the kidnappers contact her for the ransom, watch her so that she is not betrayed before she can secure her brother’s release. Then get the formula back.”

  “I’d suggest apprehending the kidnappers when they make the contact and demanding Mario Rimini’s release,” Duke said acidly.

  “Absolutely not!” Chadwick snapped. “They would simply send more men. We would have revealed our intent and be unable to keep the Princess under surveillance.”

  Baron nodded. “What if the contact men move in and seize the Princess?”

  “It’s our calculated risk that they won’t. Top Echelon has decided we must play it this way, assuming the exchange will go through in the usual fashion. You will simply be chaperones, no more and no less.”

  Baron made a face. “Is the vault guarded adequately?”

  “High tension lines on the cyclone fence. Alsatian police dogs on the prowl for all strangers. Gate guard and inside guard alerted and instructed to shoot first and talk alterwards. No one but Paula Rimini can get to that formula.”

  Peter Baron breathed wearily. “The difficult we do immediately. The impossible takes a little longer.”

  Chadwick smiled thinly. “Not too much longer, I trust. We don’t have much time.”

  3

  THE MAN FROM I.C.E.

  In the opulent lobby of the Appartamenti D’Annunzio in suburban Na
ples, Peter Baron leafed desultorily through the morning newspaper. He was seated in a satin upholstered chair under an enormous, glittering cut-glass chandelier.

  It was 10.30 in the morning. Outside, the sun shone brightly. Birds in the trees chirped excitedly. Automobiles and trucks whirred by on the street. In the distance, the blue Tyrrhenian Sea sparkled brightly.

  A telephone rang and the clerk answered it. His face brightened. A hush descended over the lobby. The operator glanced at the arrow on the elevator bank.

  “La Principessa!” the clerk whispered loudly.

  A cleaning woman disappeared into the rear. The mail clerk straightened his tie and also watched the elevator indicator.

  Peter Baron lowered his newspaper as the elevator doors slid open. A dark-haired woman with enormous, haunted black eyes walked out into the lobby, staring straight ahead, her head regal as a queen’s. She wore an original Dior street coat and a splash of orange hat on her blue-black hair. Brilliant coral earrings set off the black of her eyes.

  The clerk on duty bowed from the waist, averting his eyes. She barely glanced at him. At the front entrance, a doorman pulled back with a flourish. Almost immediately the Princess was whisked away in a cab.

  Peter Baron continued to read his newspaper. He did not look up as a man in a white workman’s pullover appeared carrying a service grip. He approached the desk.

  “Il telefono,” the newcomer murmured.

  “Si,” said the clerk. “Go right on up.”

  The man nodded and passed by Peter Baron toward the elevator. It was Duke Farinese. Each pretended not to see the other.

  Baron smiled to himself at the thoroughness of Duke’s disguise. On the lapel of the work cloak the name “Giacomo Salzino” was stenciled in black letters.

  That was the beauty of Duke Farinese’s background. As a Sicilian, he had many cousins in the International Mafia. The Mafia had its members in organizations in almost every walk of life. Giacomo Salzino was an employee of the Naples Telephone Company.

  Twenty minutes later, Baron folded his newspaper and walked by the clerk toward the front of the apartment. He gave and received a warm, blank smile.

  In the Lancia, Baron slumped down and leaned his head back on the seat, absorbing the sun like a vacationing bather without a care in the world. Seven minutes and 30 seconds later, the R/T in his pocket let out its familiar beep-beep.

  “Duke this end. It’s all done. Her phone is tapped.”

  “Good. Where’s the tape recorder?”

  “I’ve got a man in the basement. One of my Mafioso.”

  “Get out of there fast and meet me. We’ll divide her into four-hour stretches. I want every move on paper.”

  “Right, Peter.”

  The call they expected came at ten o’clock that night. Peter Baron was in the villa, listening to a late newscast on FM from London, when Duke strode in through the courtyard.

  He held up a cardboard box of tape triumphantly. “Here it is.”

  “Good. Let’s put it on the tape deck.”

  Baron shut off the FM radio and switched over to the tape deck. Duke slid the aluminum reel out of the box, threading the tape through the empty sprockets on the deck. Baron flipped the switch to PLAYBACK.

  A woman’s voice spoke first. “Pronto.”

  Baron leaned forward. The Princess’s voice was clear and full of vibrancy. Her accent was elegantly Italian – the true Italian of Firenze, without a trace of dirty Neapolitan.

  “Is this Principessa Paula Rimini?” It was a man’s voice, full and heavy, with a menacing overtone of suppressed violence. He spoke with a strange inflection – as if he had learned Italian as a foreigner. Baron could not place the accent. Balkan?

  “Yes. Who is this, please?” The Princess’s voice trembled slightly. Peter could tell that she knew who this was, that she had been expecting the call.

  “It is about your brother.”

  Paula swallowed hard. When she spoke she was almost breathless. “Si.”

  “I have news of him. I must see you alone tomorrow evening. At Da Giacomino’s on Via San Carlo. You know it?”

  “Si.”

  Peter Baron knew it, too. It was a small, pleasant restaurant, a favorite of the sporting set. There would be no way for them to protect the Princess in the crowd, no way to rough up and seize the contact if he proved intractable. The place was too respectable.

  The male voice continued. “Exactly 6.30 at Da Giacomino’s.”

  “Si,” the Princess responded.

  “If you tell anyone about this, you will never see your brother again – alive.”

  “I understand,” she whispered, her voice trembling pathetically. The Princess, for all her courage and aplomb, was obviously on the brink of despair.

  Peter Baron bit his lip in anger.

  The caller hung up. The tape flipped off. Baron rewound it on the first spool. Then he lifted the reel and slid it into the box.

  “I want to hear every word of that scheduled meeting at Da Giacomino’s,” Baron told Duke.

  “I’ve a friend in the kitchen. A cousin.”

  “Good. He can help you set up the listening device. Isn’t there an alcove where I can observe out of sight? I want to see the contact man.”

  “Yes.”

  “Fix it up for me then.” Baron rose. “Bring that tape downstairs. I want to check it out. It’s quite possible we have a voice profile of the man.”

  Duke shrugged. “Maybe.”

  Peter Baron remembered the Balkan accent of the man in the helicopter which had taken away Mario Rimini. This was not the same man.

  “The accent sounds definitely Balkan,” Baron said.

  “I wouldn’t know. But the computer might.”

  They descended a stairway that wound down into the solid rock of Capri. Moisture glistened on the surface of the walls. Lights glimmered in the ceiling. They entered the wine cellar. High in one wall a tiny window looked out through bars onto the ocean. Stars were visible in the clear sky.

  The walls were lined with cribs of wine bottles. Enormous casks stood about. One sat astride a rack. Peter and Duke moved in front of it. Duke reached out and opened the lid as one might open a cupboard door. Actually, it was not a wine cask at all. It was a computer, its front panel lined with buttons, lights, and slots.

  Duke ran the reel onto the tape deck at the top of the control panel and pressed the ON button. Lights glowed and blinked in a strange flashing pattern and then stopped.

  The tape reel spun around. Finally it stopped and a card came out of the slot at the panel’s bottom. Duke picked it up. He read it and then handed it over to Baron.

  IDENTITY UNKNOWN.

  MALE. FORTY-SEVEN.

  FOREIGN TO ITALY. BASIC

  LANGUAGE POSSIBLY

  RUMANIAN, HUNGARIAN,

  YUGOSLAVIAN. SPEAKER IS

  HEAVILY BUILT,

  MUSCULAR, STRONG. I.Q.

  LOW. RESOLUTION HIGH.

  Peter Baron whistled. “You see? I was right. Probably Balkan. Let’s go, Duke. I want you to set up Da Giacomino’s for me.”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll bet we’re tangling with I.C.E. again.” The thought did not make him any happier.

  At 6.30, Peter Baron was seated at a tiny table in an alcove off the main dining room of Da Giacomino’s restaurant in Naples, sipping an Americano with an olive. In his ear he wore a device which resembled a hearing aid. He could observe the main dining room, but no one in there could see him unless he looked hard.

  A waiter hovered over him. He glanced up in annoyance. He had given Duke specific orders that he was not to be disturbed. When he saw who the waiter was, he smiled.

  “You make a perfect garçon, Duke. You should have taken it up as a profession.”

  “More fun in the suicide games we play,” Duke observed. “She is on her way. I followed her myself earlier this afternoon. She went to two shops in the Via Ciaia. Then she bought shoes at Renfro’s on Via Ro
ma. After that she came directly here.”

  Baron nodded. “Have you planted the device?”

  “Yes.” Duke stiffened. “There she is!”

  Peter Baron waved him off. Duke Farinese strolled into the dining room and watched the maitre-d’ seat the Princess. In the well-lighted room, she appeared under a great strain, her face pale and her eyes circled. She was beautiful; Baron realized, with the indefinable grace of royalty.

  She removed her gloves slowly and scanned the room impersonally. Several of the more knowledgeable patrons recognized her; these began discreetly whispering to their companions behind their hands.

  As the maitre-d’ hovered about her, she flicked her finger down the menu. Then she turned to Duke Farinese and gave a curt order. He bowed and moved quickly toward the bar. A moment later he was back, carrying a martini with an olive in it.

  He set it down in front of her and crossed to Peter Baron. Peter flicked the switch in his pocket where the batteries were located. He heard a humming sound in his ear. The maitre-d’ spoke to the Princess.

  “We shall serve you as soon as your guest arrives, Principessa,” he told her in Italian.

  Peter Baron nodded to Duke. Duke caught his eye and passed on through to the kitchen at the back of the restaurant. The miniature microphone-transmitter was shaped like an olive and floated in the Princess’s martini. It was working perfectly. Peter Baron was constantly amazed at the resourcefulness of the electronics people in supplying listening and seeing devices for use in the Cold War. He blessed his luck that Duke understood electronics from A to Z. Peter was himself such an all-thumbs technician that he could scarcely change a light bulb.

  Exactly five minutes later, a yellow-haired man with a stocky build and a square face with a bulldog chin stepped up to the Princess’s table.

  “My dear Principessa,” his voice said in Baron’s ear. “How pleasant to find you alone in these delightful surroundings.” Baron had heard the voice before – on the tape recording of the Princess’s telephone call.

  “Thank you,” the Princess said in a clear, defiant voice.

  “May I join you?” the heavy voice asked in the indefinable Balkan accent.