The Mammoth Book of Short Spy Novels (Mammoth Books) Read online

  She held the gun she had taken from Miko, weighing it in her hand. It was heavy and cumbersome, but she had seen it kill.

  In panic she had driven the kidnappers’s Cadillac back to her apartment. When she had entered, she had quickly found the new pair of shoes she had purchased that afternoon at Renfro’s.

  The heel of the right shoe slid to one side; inside was a hollowed slot where the film canister would fit: it was an artifice she had ordered prepared by a very special friend who worked at Renfro’s on Via Roma. It was in that slot that she would carry the precious film so that no one could take it from her. Her brother’s life depended on her now. She would not let anything happen to the film.

  Paula thought about the shoe with the false heel where it now lay in her closet, along with the rest of the purchases of the day. Dress, coat, shoes – all very innocent items. No one would guess the truth.

  The shattering jangle of the telephone bell sent her heart skipping.

  “Yes?”

  “Princess?”

  She recognized the heavy accent, but not the voice. “Yes.”

  “Our apologies, Princess. Some of my associates have delusions of grandeur. As a result of their stupidity, you now have the object which we want. With it, you may redeem your twin brother Mario’s life. It is your only chance.”

  Paula was angry. “I do not trust you! How am I to deal with someone I do not trust? Your friends killed two decent human beings!” Her voice was rising. She felt like screaming.

  “No melodramatics,” the voice intoned indulgently. “As soon as it is practicable, I shall arrange a rendezvous for the exchange of your brother and the formula. I guarantee there will be no more attempts to harry you.”

  “I can never trust you.”

  “And well you shouldn’t,” the voice said softly. “Nevertheless, I shall be in touch.”

  “I hardly intend to . . .”

  Paula stared at the phone. There was no point in talking any longer. The man at the other end had hung up.

  It was then that she heard the noise in her bedroom. The closet! she thought, panicky.

  She ran through the darkened living room and pushed open the far door, holding Miko’s heavy gun in her hand. Quickly she snapped on the lights. White brilliance flooded the room.

  She saw her closet in disarray.

  She understood: the telephone call had taken her away from the shoes and the film. Somehow these people had known everything. They had come to steal the shoes while she was talking on the telephone.

  She stepped forward and a man thrust himself against her, clamping a heavy hand over her mouth.

  5

  MR. SATIN

  When Peter Baron regained consciousness, there was only a dim glow of blue light all around him. Then when his eyes focused, he could see a small, cell-like room. In one wall there was a circular window with bars across it. Under him the floor swayed gently.

  After a moment he realized that he was not in a cell, but in a cabin on board a ship. The blue light was simply a night light. He had a roaring headache from a bump on the neck, and his shoulders ached.

  Cautiously he felt himself over for injuries. He had been savagely beaten, but he had no broken bones. Crawling to his knees, he tried to stand. The rocking of the deck was not pronounced. The craft did not seem to be moving; he guessed that it was anchored at rest in some quiet bay.

  He peered through the porthole at open sea and a cloudless sky. They were unidentifiable.

  He felt his way around the cabin. There was no furniture and only one entrance, a door that was locked. It was of heavy oak, not likely to lend itself to being easily broken down.

  Peter Baron sat in the middle of the deck and tried to draw his scattered thoughts together.

  He knew that he was a prisoner aboard a craft of some kind. He knew that Duke was either dead, in captivity with him, or neutralized by the attack on him in the kitchen of Da Giacomino’s. Princess Paula Rimini was in the hands of the kidnappers of her brother, obviously on her way to remove the formula of Deep-Sleep from Dr. Forester’s plant vault.

  Baron sat up straighter. There was one more thing. Hadn’t Duke recognized an I.C.E. agent at the last moment before being assaulted? I.C.E. was in it.

  I.C.E. International Combine of Entrepreneurs, commonly called International Combine for Evil. I.C.E.

  I.C.E. was a recent outgrowth of the Cold War. The International Combine for Evil profited monetarily from friction between East and West, recruiting its agents, many of whom were professional spies dismissed from one country or another for double-dealing, for selling secrets, or for arcane diplomatic reasons.

  I.C.E. was in the nasty game of espionage for the money it brought in from any side – by blackmail, by extortion, by murder. And it was making a fantastically successful job of bartering secrets.

  I.C.E. had kidnapped Mario Rimini in order to obtain Deep-Sleep. Once it had Deep-Sleep, it would sell to Russia, or to the West, or to some small emerging nation which needed to establish itself. World peace would not be secure from that moment on.

  Peter Baron clenched his hands in hopeless frustration. So long as he remained in this cabin, he would be unable to act against the insidious organization.

  He was dozing when the cabin door opened quickly. A shaft of yellow light from the corridor widened and blinded him.

  “Get up,” a voice told him in Italian.

  Baron stood.

  “Follow me.”

  He was led down a companionway into a sumptuously furnished cabin with large portholes which looked out over a placid bay. Baron recognized Naples in the background, with the hulking shadow of Vesuvius in the distance. Rapid calculation told him that the craft in which he was imprisoned was anchored not far from the Island of Ischia somewhat to the west of Naples.

  An enormous desk stood in the center of the cabin. At it sat a man who matched it – enormous, with white, almost translucent skin, rosebud lips, and intelligent blue eyes. He was utterly bald. His skull gleamed palely.

  Baron’s escort vanished and the cabin door closed behind him.

  “Sit down, Mr. Baron, please,” said the big man, smiling broadly.

  Baron sat in an upholstered chair. He tried to analyze the fat man’s accent, but, since it was next to imperceptible, he could not pinpoint it. The voice was silken and liquescent; the English impeccable, but unnatural; the timbre was slightly feminine, yet with a crude inner strength. This was a man of conflicting characteristics, certainly; a dangerous man.

  “I have heard so much about you,” the stout man said, laying his hands down on the desk in front of him, palms down. “It has taken an inordinate amount of energy to arrange this meeting. And a modicum of trouble.” The rosebud lips moved into a smile.

  Peter Baron waved a hand. “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, sir.”

  “A thing not easy in the achievement, certainly,” the big man murmured, pursing his lower lip. In a way, he resembled an overgrown babe – a Churchillian Kewpie-doll. “I am Mr. Satin.”

  Peter Baron smiled.

  “If you do not understand my affiliation, sir,” continued Mr. Satin, “I am with I.C.E.”

  Baron looked around, appraising the cabin’s furnishings meaningfully. “With I.C.E.? – Or simply I.C.E.?”

  Mr. Satin chuckled. “Touché, Mr. Baron. Indeed, you are in the picture. I am I.C.E. For a new organization, we have come remarkably far in the short time at our disposal, have we not?”

  “It isn’t always the distance which counts, ultimately, Mr. Satin, but the direction,” Peter observed quietly.

  Mr. Satin rubbed his hands together appreciatively. “At last I am lucky enough to face a man with a sense of humor. It is the pity of my life that not only my colleagues, but also my adversaries, usually turn out to be cretins, completely devoid of intelligence, perception, or imagination. You are a breath of spring, sir.”

  “I find it a surprise that a man of your obvious intellectual capaciti
es and social standing should stoop so low as to operate an organization like I.C.E.”

  Mr. Satin’s eyebrows shot up. “But sir, what possible censure could attach to such an organization as the International Combine of Entrepreneurs?”

  “International Combine for Evil, is the way we say it,” Peter Baron responded.

  “Poof. Assuredly you are loading your interpretation of I.C.E. with your own subjective prejudices. To be clearly objective about it, sir, I.C.E. is simply a group of intelligent and enterprising men who seek to make their fortune in a way somewhat removed from the routine.”

  “Decidedly removed.”

  “Pray tell me what is wrong with honest, individual enterprise? Was not the United States of America, the most powerful country in the world today, dedicated to that proposition by its founding fathers?”

  “Perhaps it is in the interpretation that we differ so irrevocably.”

  Mr. Satin’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed Peter Baron carefully. “You have in no way indicated to me yet, Mr. Baron, why you are involving yourself needlessly in what we have come to know as Operation Deep-Sleep.”

  Baron suppressed a smile. “The motivation for my involvement has something to do with freedom of choice and the privilege of individual enterprise.”

  “Touché, again, Mr. Baron!” cried Mr. Satin delightedly.

  “Perhaps it is beyond my purlieu, but I would like to ask what the immediate future holds for me,” Peter said.

  Mr. Satin pursed his lips and folded his hands on the top of his desk. He shifted himself in his chair. Baron could see that he wore a smoking jacket with a soft scarf around his throat.

  “Oh dear,” he said after a moment. “That rather puts the question out into the open, doesn’t it?”

  “That was my intention.”

  “I suppose you might say you will be a privileged guest on my private yacht, the Basilisk,” Mr. Satin replied.

  “Ah.”

  “At least, until the successful conclusion of Operation Deep-Sleep.”

  Brilliant, cold eyes pierced Peter’s. There was no weakness in Mr. Satin, for all the softness and delicacy of his surface movements. Inside, he was all power and brooding evil.

  “Conclusion?”

  “I mean, of course, when the formula is in our hands and Mario Rimini is back with his sister.”

  “You intend to go through with the exchange?”

  “But naturally!” Mr. Satin said softly. “I am a man of my word.”

  Peter Baron snorted.

  Mr. Satin leaned back, smiling. “Of course, I never did give my word yet, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “I shall now proceed to give my word, Mr. Baron.” The enormous man rose quickly from his chair, graceful and lithe as a huge jungle cat. He turned, his back to Baron, and paced quickly across the cabin to the portholes which looked out over Naples Bay.

  Now Baron could see that the fat man’s jacket was made of brilliantly patterned satin. Ochre slacks broke neatly over satinlined slippers of rich imperial purple. The man’s hands, which he clasped behind him, had the same pale translucence as his fleshy face.

  At the porthole Mr. Satin turned. Peter Baron joined the big man, gazing out onto the deck of the yacht. He could see the sinister silhouettes of objects mounted to the deck: machine guns under tarpaulins.

  “I promise you that if you venture outside this ship, Mr. Baron, before you are invited to do so specifically by me, you will be riddled with bullets. You may take my word for it that those are machine guns, sir. .50 caliber. American Brownings.”

  Baron nodded grimly. “I do not doubt you.”

  “You exhibit remarkable perspicacity. I would also like you to see another phenomenon which does not pertain to every craft in these waters.” Mr. Satin turned and touched a button at the edge of his desk. “Observe.”

  Instantly the waters around the yacht were flooded with brilliant light. “Is it not lovely? We like to keep the area well-lighted.” Mr. Satin’s smile vanished. “It discourages our guests from night bathing.”

  “Bathing with a view to long-range traveling, I take it,” Baron drawled.

  Mr. Satin instantly changed back into his smiling, gracious self. “Indeed, you are a perceptive guest.” He gestured to Peter Baron to take his seat again. As Baron settled back, the big man got to his desk and leaned forward.

  “You must excuse my dressing habit. My skin cannot stand the touch of the coarser linens, cottons, and so on. I must have satin. Only satin. Nor do I leave this cabin during the daytime. I cannot stand the sun. Or, rather, my skin cannot. A rare allergy, which could kill me. I prefer to do my dealings at night. A creature of the dark, you might say.” Mr. Satin shrugged. “To each his own special albatross. His own private eccentricity.”

  “Like murder,” Baron said flatly.

  Mr. Satin’s brows rose in astonishment. “Murder? Decidedly not. I abhor violence.” Mr. Satin shuddered. “To what are you referring, Mr. Baron?”

  “To the fate of my friend Francesco di Farinese.”

  “Ah, ha,” Mr. Satin said. “Il Duca.” He smiled broadly. “It has often been said, royalty does not work to good advantage in a public kitchen.”

  “In war strange occupations are the rule rather than the exception.”

  “War? We are at peace. The world is bursting with peace,” Mr. Satin said sardonically. “Have you not heard?”

  “Why did you kill Farinese?” Baron asked with a throb of anger.

  Mr. Satin lifted his hand. “My reports do not show that he is dead. He is simply neutralized.”

  “Then he is on board the Basilisk? Incidentally, I must commend you on the appropriate name you have chosen for your yacht.”

  “Thank you,” Mr. Satin beamed. “No, Il Duca Francesco di Farinese is not aboard. He is, as far as I can conjecture, still in Naples.”

  Baron rose. “Then, if you are finished, Mr. Satin, I assume our discussion is completed?”

  “Certainly. The lesson for the day has been assigned. No swimming at all. Perhaps you would do well to sit in your cabin and brood over the implications of the text, Mr. Baron.”

  The door opened and the guard who had brought Baron appeared. Mr Satin gestured, and the guard took Peter by the arm and led him out.

  The cabin was impregnable, Baron found. He sank onto the deck finally, trying to rest as much as he could. After a while there was no movement on the yacht. The entire contingent of I.C.E. seemed to be asleep.

  Once he thought he heard a slight sound toward the stern of the craft, but he could not be sure. He sank back, trying to let sleep come. Then he heard a muffled stirring at the door to his cabin. He moved quickly over and tapped once. Instantly he was rewarded with the sound of three quick raps.

  Duke Farinese.

  “In a moment, Peter,” Duke said. “Stand back.”

  Baron moved to the porthole; and hugged the bulkhead. After 20 seconds he heard a harsh whisper. “Now.”

  At the count of three there was a flash of light, and a hissing sound. Smoke puffed out of the door handle. An acrid stench permeated the air. The door moved quickly inward, the lock burned out by the intense heat of burning paste. Duke Farinese appeared, clad in a black wet suit. He carried another empty wet suit with him, and a scuba breathing apparatus.

  “Here you are!” Duke said.

  “Where are your tanks?” Baron demanded.

  “Hanging at the water line of the yacht,” Duke explained quickly. “I climbed in through the garbage shaft into the galley.”

  “I thought they had disposed of you at Da Giacomino’s.”

  “Cousin Dom saved my life. I.C.E. thought he had disposed of me. When I came to in Dom’s house, I sent him out to the Chimici Consolidati to see what he could observe there. Then I came immediately after you. I am happy to report that your homing device is working A-OK.”

  Peter Baron grinned. “I always thought we were idiots to wear those things,” he said. “I take i
t back now.”

  Baron referred to his homing device, a miniature radio transmitter which continually sent out UHF waves on a specific wavelength; the signal could be picked up by a radio direction finder in Duke Farinese’s wristwatch tuned to the same wavelength. The RDF, a needle in the wristwatch, would then lead Duke directly to Baron. The homing device was hidden in a false mole in Baron’s back.

  Duke Farinese had a similar homing device; Baron carried its RDF in his own wristwatch. Each man could locate the other, by electronics, in dangerous situations when they were separated.

  “Let’s go!” Duke urged nervously.

  “First I’d like to look the ship over for Mario Rimini,” Baron said calmly.

  Duke looked at Baron. “I’ve searched the whole bloody vessel already, Peter. He’s not here. I thought we had decided he was definitely in Yugoslavia or Rumania.”

  “Just checking up on you,” Baron grinned. “I agree that it’s time to get out of here. The yacht has a lighting system which illuminates everything on the sea surface for miles. We’ve got to keep far under.”

  “Right.”

  “We’ll both hook onto the tanks and swim buddy system,” Baron explained.

  They crept along the corridor and into the galley. Silently they went down the chute, hooked themselves into the scuba tanks, and fell back into the dark water.

  In 40 minutes they were sitting in Baron’s villa, in dry clothes, trying to reach Duke Farinese’s cousin Dom by R/T.

  “Duke?” a voice answered finally, almost breathless with excitement.

  “Dom?”

  “Yes. I’m at Chimici Consolidati. There are four dead men here. Two guards. Two gunmen.”

  Duke glanced at Baron, who winced. “The Princess has gone. I think she’s got whatever they were after. There’s a manila folder here, labeled Deep-Sleep. I’ll bring it in. But it’s been tossed aside.”

  “Did you just get there?” Peter Baron asked.