03-Copenhagen Affair Read online

  Suddenly there came a blast of cold air as the door was yanked open. A flashlight shone into her eyes, blinding her, and a gun barrel jabbed painfully into her ribs.

  Garbridge's voice came viciously: "Move over and don't try anything. Keep your hands in your lap."

  The flashlight beam swung over the seat, came to rest on the Walther. Garbridge said, "Give that to me—butt first. And don't attempt heroics."

  There was no choice. She handed the weapon to him.

  "Now move!"

  He got behind the wheel, switched on and let in the clutch. The truck bounced forward.

  "Who the devil are you and what do you think you're doing?" Karen demanded.

  He laughed humorlessly. His foot was hard down on the accelerator and his eyes fixed on the road ahead. He said, "You know perfectly well who I am, and I know exactly what I'm doing. If you sit quietly, like a good girl, you will have a pleasant ride. If you don't, I won't hesitate to kill you. Your friends have caused me enough trouble tonight."

  "Where are you taking me?"

  "That," he said, "you will find out in due course. Would you like a cigarette? No, of course, you smoke cigars."

  "You seem to know a lot about my habits."

  "It is my business to know about the opposition."

  Karen said: "I would like a cigarette."

  "You'll find them in my side pocket nearest to you. Matches, too. But again, my dear, don't try anything."

  She found the pack. The cigarettes were imported English. She drew the smoke into her lungs gracefully.

  He said, "Feeling better? Keep the pack; I have plenty."

  Karen laughed. "You seem to be taking things pretty calmly, considering that your factory has gone sky-high."

  "A temporary setback only. I hope that you will restore the balance."

  "How?" she asked, surprised.

  He didn't answer.

  They were on Highway 10 now, and traveling rapidly toward Horsens. Karen decided that as soon as they got on to Sonderbrogade or one of the other main streets she would scream and risk the consequences. Garbridge would hardly be able to shoot her quite so publicly.

  Her hopes were disappointed. On the outskirts of the town Garbridge swung the truck down a side road toward the fjord and turned into the drive leading to a large white house. As they went through the gate, Karen saw an illuminated board reading: SOLLYS MATERNITY HOME.

  She said, "No wonder we drew a blank here. Not even your best friend—if you have any—would connect you with tiny babies."

  He stopped the truck in front of the house, and said to the uniformed man who came running down the steps, "Take this thing and lose it. Run it into the fjord."

  He leaned over and opened the door on Karen's side. "Get out. And don't forget I'm right behind you with the gun."

  She obeyed. Garbridge gestured with the Luger. "Up the steps, please. Quickly."

  He followed her and opened the door. She found herself in a bright, white-enameled hall with a floor of highly-polished parquet. Bowls of flowers stood on tables of well-oiled teak. A tall Christmas tree twinkled beside the desk marked RECEPTIONIST.

  She said, "Cozy."

  "We try to make it so," Garbridge said. "This is a maternity home, you know. Though, of course, our doctors and 'patients' are all Thrush nominees."

  He waved the Luger again. "Along the hall, please, and into the first room on the right."

  The room was furnished as a study. It had wall-to-wall carpeting in a warm rust shade and spun-glass curtains in rich bronze. The center piece was an antique desk as big as a family dining table, which went with a chair that looked like a throne. On the table there were a heavy silver inkstand, a silver paperknife, and a couple of old glass paperweights that were worth several thousand kroner. Chest-high bookcases around the walls bore figurines and vases of the best Royal Copenhagen period.

  Garbridge sat at the desk and put the gun in front of him. He pointed to another chair and said, "Sit down, please. Are you hungry?"

  "A little," Karen admitted.

  He picked up the telephone and said, "Ask Sister Ingrid to bring some refreshments. For two, please."

  After a short interval a woman came in, carrying a tray of smorrebrod and a bottle of red wine. She was wearing nurse's uniform but she looked as if she had stepped right out of a Pollyanna book. She was small and round and pink-cheeked as a cupie-doll. She had snow-white hair, pulled sedately into a bun beneath her old-fashioned cap, and her blue eyes twinkled merrily behind steel-bowed spectacles.

  She put the tray on the desk in front of Garbridge and poured two glasses of wine. She gave Karen a plate and a knife and fork and put one of the glasses before her. Then she stepped back, bobbed a curtsy, and stood waiting for further orders.

  Garbridge said, "Thank you, Sister. That will be all...for the moment."

  She smiled understandingly. The point of her little red tongue popped out and circled her lips. Then she curtsied again and went out of the room.

  Garbridge pushed the tray toward Karen. It held open sandwiches of smoked eel, hard-boiled egg crowned with caviar, bacon and asparagus tips, beef with beetroot.

  He said, "Please help yourself. I am not hungry. I'll drink a glass of wine to keep you company."

  She looked at him, puzzled.

  "You are an extraordinary man," she said. "This is hardly the kind of treatment I expected."

  He shrugged. "We are both in the same line of business. Both professionals. The fortunes of war have put you into my hands. There is no reason why we should not be civilized about it. After all"—he smiled bitterly —" I was once a gentleman."

  He rose and walked to the door. "I shall leave you in peace to finish your meal. I must attend to a little urgent business."

  As soon as he had closed the door behind him Karen went over to the windows and examined them. They were double-glazed and there were stout steel bars between the panes.

  She crossed to the door. As she had expected, it was locked. There was no hope there. She went back to the table and ate a smoked eel sandwich philosophically.

  * * *

  The phone bell shrilled in the Jacobsen farmhouse, cutting in on the discussion of four very worried men. Viggo went to the instrument and took up the receiver. He gave his name, listened, then exclaimed, "What? Repeat that, please."

  He turned and looked to where Solo was sitting. He said, "It's Garbridge. He wants to talk to you."

  Illya said incredulously, "You're joking, of course."

  Solo took the receiver from Viggo's hand. He snapped, "Who is this?"

  There was no mistaking Garbridge's voice. It came loud and clear over the wire. It said, "Solo, listen and don't ask questions. If you interrupt I shall hang up. This is not a discussion. It is an ultimatum.

  "Your delightful if impetuous Karen is my guest. I give you my word that she is unharmed and is being well treated.

  "You have until seven o'clock tomorrow morning to withdraw your men and clear out of the district without further damage to the mine or its contents.

  "If you agree, she will be released. If you do not, I give you my word that she will be dead within the day...and the manner of her death will not be pleasant. I have an expert in such matters."

  The line went dead.

  * * *

  Garbridge replaced his receiver with a satisfied smile and returned to the study. He looked at Karen's empty plate and the depleted tray of sandwiches. "I am glad you ate well," he said. "I am afraid you may yet need all your strength."

  He poured another glass of wine for her and resumed his place in the thronelike chair. For a second or two he sat silent, looking at her steadily with those feline amber eyes.

  At last he said, "I have been talking to your friend Solo."

  "I don't believe it. How could you know where he is?"

  He made an inpatient gesture. "Do you think U.N.C.L.E. has the only efficient intelligence service? It is not hard to figure out that he would have made
the Jacobsens his base of operations.

  "But that is beside the point. What concerns you is that I have made him a simple, and, I think, generous offer—your life against my machine. Unfortunately, he is a stubborn man. I have a feeling that he may not accept. In that case I trust I can rely upon you to make one final effort to persuade him." He smiled. "I can assure you that I have no wish to kill you, my dear. I hate the senseless destruction of beauty. But sometimes, alas, there is no other course."

  Karen lit one of the cigarettes he had given her. She was glad to see that the hand holding the match was quite steady. She asked slowly, "What good would my death do you?"

  "Frankly, none—except the ignoble satisfaction of revenge."

  "I am expendable," she pointed out. "A tarveligt, run-of-the-mill agent. Can you really believe that whether you kill me or send me back Solo would cease to hunt you down?"

  He shook his head. "I do not expect that, nor have I asked it. I am concerned at this moment only with getting my machine safely away. Like yourself—I am expendable." He raised his glass and bowed to her mockingly.

  She snuffed out her cigarette in a silver ashtray. "Well, either way, there can be no argument," she said decisively. "I have not the slightest intention of asking Solo to change his plans."

  Garbridge sighed. "That is a pity. But I think you may change your mind."

  He picked up the intercom. "Send Sister Ingrid in, please."

  "Ah! Sister," he said, when the little plump woman appeared, "I think it is time we showed our young guest some of our facilities. We might begin with the labor ward, perhaps."

  "Ja, ja vist." She beamed at Karen, her blue eyes dancing, and held the door wide. "Vaer saa god...."

  She bustled ahead down the hall, her tiny feet in their low-heeled shoes clacking over the parquet, and pressed the button for the elevator. They descended two floors into the lower basement, a place of stark, unpainted concrete walls and floors and utter, eerie silence.

  Happily, the little sister unlocked and flung open a door and pushed Karen through.

  "Se!" she announced. "Fodselsstuen!"

  Involuntarily Karen gasped. For the first time she felt thoroughly frightened and terribly alone. She prayed that her terror did not show in her face.

  The ceiling, floor and walls of the high chamber were entirely covered by panels of sound-proofing material. In the center of the floor, directly under powerful operating lamps massed in batteries, was an iron couch from which dangled thick leather straps to secure chest, waist, legs and arms. There were racks of whips and canes, complicated arrangements of ropes, hooks and pulleys, and strange electrical devices whose sinister purpose the girl dreaded to imagine.

  She felt horribly sick and her body was shaking with a trembling she could not control.

  "This is Sister Ingrid's domain," Garbridge said. "Fodselsstuen, 'the labor ward,' is her own affectionate name for it. Perhaps I should have explained to you earlier that she was once in charge of the special interrogation unit of one of the more unpleasant concentration camps. She took a genuine delight in her work, and it was with great difficulty that Thrush kept her out of Allied hands. She is, of course, quite hopelessly insane."

  Karen's legs were giving way. She felt his arm go around her, heard him say quite gently, "You have seen enough." Then she fainted.

  * * *

  When she opened her eyes she was in a room she had never seen. She was lying on a white-enameled iron cot and brandy was trickling down her chin as Garbridge tried to force it between her teeth.

  She pushed the glass away and attempted to sit up but the effort was too much for her. Her head fell back on to the pillow and her eyes closed again. She felt as if she had just come through the crisis of a severe illness.

  Garbridge let her rest for a few minutes; then he spoke urgently, harshly. "Karen, be sensible. You have seen the room. You can imagine what the she-devil would do to you. For the last time—speak to Solo."

  She turned her head and looked straight into his yellow, white-lashed eyes. Somehow she even managed a smile. She said very slowly and distinctly, "Go to hell."

  His expression hardened.

  "Very well. You have had your chance. Now, you had better pray."

  He walked out of the room. The key turned in the lock.

  Karen lay staring at the ceiling. She did not feel heroic. She was drained of emotion. She tried to put out of her mind the horror that she knew she must face in a few short hours. She had no illusion that death would come quickly. The ghastly creature with the twinkling, merry blue eyes would not be robbed of one moment of her fun.

  Wearily, she turned on her side. Something hard stabbed against her ribs. She tried to ease her position. The pain persisted.

  Then she remembered...and thanked the guardian angel who had made Garbridge, in his over-confidence, forget to search her. Her hand went under her sweater and came out clutching the little black transmitter.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The old-fashioned clock was striking three when Illya and Sorensen walked into the farmhouse living room and took off their heavy jackets.

  The two men sitting at the table looked up moodily.

  Illya said, "The bombs are disarmed. We placed a couple of charges and blew in enough of the mine entrance to keep out intruders. Any news of Karen?"

  Solo spread his hands hopelessly. "We've moved heaven and earth to trace Garbridge's call. No dice. The truck—or what might have been the truck—was seen once, heading towards Silkeborg. And the man who saw it, a farm-hand, was more than half-drunk. He can't tell us a thing. Every policeman and every agent, between Aalborg, Esbjerg and Sonderborg is on the job. We've alerted the airports and the harbormasters and coast guard. And nobody's come up with a whisper. I don't have to tell you that Jorgensen's fit to be tied."

  "There must be something we can still do," Viggo muttered. "Something we have overlooked."

  Illya looked at his watch. "Five after three. Only four hours left. You think he's told her?"

  "That's a bet you can play on the nose. He wouldn't —"

  High-pitched bleeping stopped him suddenly. He snatched the two-way transmitter from his pocket and tuned in.

  A voice came faintly through the amplifier: "Come in, Solo. Come in, Solo."

  "Karen!" They yelled it simultaneously. Viggo slapped Knud so hard across the shoulder that the little man almost fell.

  Solo turned the tuner to full volume. "Are you all right? Where are you?"

  They heard her say, "I'm fine—for the moment. I'm in a phoney maternity home, the SOLLYS, just inside Horsens. It's on the right, off the main road. I don't know the street."

  "Garbridge?"

  "He's here." Her voice faltered. "He's got plans for my future."

  "I know. How many more in the place?"

  "I've only seen two—a kind of butler and a female homicidal maniac. But there must be others. Send the Seventh Cavalry. The Indians are hostile."

  Solo said briskly, "We're coming—at a gallop. Tune your transmitter onto the homing beam and leave the rest to us."

  Illya, Viggo and Knud were ready and waiting. Illya was slipping a fresh magazine into his Luger and humming some kind of Russian war-song. Solo grabbed up his anorak and headed for the door.

  They piled into Viggo's big Volvo, Solo beside the driver and Knud and Illya in the rear seats. Solo put the little transmitter in the glove compartment in front of him. The continuous note of the homing signal sounded loud and clear.

  "That," said Viggo, as he let in the clutch, "is the sweetest Christmas carol I ever did hear."

  Illya warned soberly, "Don't cheer too soon. We've got a long way to go."

  The big headlights cut tunnels of light in the blackness. Snowflakes danced in the beams like a hundred million fireflies and drove against the windscreen to make little hillocks at the base. Viggo started the wipers swinging. The engine crooned sweetly, eating up the miles of highway.

  * * *

  K
aren felt considerably happier. The talk with Solo had brought back all her confidence. She set the dials to homing, got off the bed and slipped the transmitter between the mattress and the box spring. She tucked the edge of the dyne back inside the raised frame of the bedstead and smoothed the surface neatly.

  For the first time she was able to examine the room thoroughly. Besides the bed it contained no furniture but a white chest of drawers, a straight-backed chair and a washbasin with chrome-plated taps. There was one big window, set high in the cream-washed wall and draped with bright chintz curtains.

  She set the chair below the window, climbed up and looked out. She could see nothing but the darkness of the night and her own dim reflection in the pane. She tried the catch, and to her surprise, it gave. Very gently, she eased the window open. Wind blew cold on her face. She looked down. The ground, illuminated by light from other windows, was a sheer drop far below. She was on the top floor of the house. There was no possible escape in that direction; the best she could hope to get was a broken neck.

  Even that, she reflected, was better and more merciful than the fate that awaited her in the "labor ward". If Solo failed to get through, a dive might be the answer. The end at least would be quick and clean.

  If this had been the United States, she might have made a rope with blankets and got away. But Danish sleeping habits are different. You can't do much with eiderdown and a sheet in the way of fixing an escape route.

  She climbed down from the chair and went over to look at the door. The lock was of the ordinary ward type. She knelt and squinted through the keyhole. The light from the passage shone through clearly. The key had been removed. She felt a sudden hope.

  The bulb that hung from the ceiling fixture had a conical parchment shade. With the aid of the chair she detached it and removed the wire stiffener from the rim.

  She straightened the wire and twisted it back and forward between her fingers until she had succeeded in breaking off a piece about six inches long. She bent it to the right shape and went back to the door. After several attempts the tongue of the lock snapped back.