Bagley, Desmond - The Freedom Trap Read online

  I put it back into the wallet and felt something else at the bottom of the pocket which I dug out. It was an old theatre stub dated two months previously -- the theatre, naturally enough, was in Sydney. Apparently I had been to see Fiddler on the Roof.

  I put it back carefully. 'Very nice,' I said admiringly. 'Very nice indeed.' I laid down the wallet and began to put on my shirt. I was just about to fasten the sleeves with the cuff-links when she said, 'Mr Cruickshank, I said all this stuff was your insurance.'

  I paused. 'Well?'

  'Hold him, boys,' she said sharply, and I was grabbed from behind and held cruelly tight.

  'What the hell . . . ?'

  'Mr Cruickshank,' she said clearly. 'This is our insurance.'

  Her hand came 'from behind her back holding a hypodermic syringe which she held up to her eyes and squirted professionally. With one movement she rolled up the unfastened shirt sleeve. 'No hard feelings,' she said, and jabbed the needle into my arm.

  There wasn't a damned thing I could do about it. I just stood there helplessly and watched her face go all swimmy. And then I didn't know any more about anything.

  II I woke up with the feeling of having been asleep for a long, long time. I didn't know why this should be, but it seemed a hundred years since I had gone to sleep in my cell, the new cell into which I had just been moved. I certainly didn't feel as though I had wakened from a normal night's sleep; after all, by now I had got used to the light being on all night.

  And I had a hangover!

  Hangovers I don't mind when there has been a cause for them; one takes one's pleasures and pays the consequences. But I strongly object to the consequences when the pleasure has been missed. I hadn't had a drink for eighteen months and to have an unaccountable hangover was abominable.

  I lay there in bed with my eyes closed stickily. My head felt as though there was a red-hot iron bar wrapped around it and it throbbed as a blacksmith beat lustily on it with his hammer. I also had the old familiar dehydrated feeling and my mouth tasted, as a friend once inelegantly put it, like the inside of a Greek wrestler's jockstrap.

  I turned over slowly and groaned involuntarily as the blacksmith gave an extra hard thump. Then I opened my eyes and looked at the ceiling vacantly. With care I traced the elegant moulding of the cornice which was picked out in gilt, being careful not to go too quickly in case my eyeballs fell out. 'Funny!' I thought. "They've given me a nice cell this time.'

  With grudging movements I leaned up on one elbow just in time to see someone leave. The door closed with a gentle click and there was the sound of a key turning in a lock. That was familiar enough, anyway, which was more than the cell was.

  As 1 stared uncomprehendingly at the dove-grey walls and the gilt rococo panelling, at the Dolly Varden dressing-table and the comfortable armchair standing on the thick-piled carpet, it hit me suddenly. My God, I made it! I got out of the nick!

  I looked down at myself. I was dressed in silk pyjamas and the last time I had seen those was in the bottom of a suitcase in a moving-van.

  A moving-van?

  Slowly and painfully it all came back. The frantic grab at the rope; the wild swing over the barbed-wired wall; the jump into the truck, then into the mini-van, then into the pantechnicon.

  The pantechnicon! That was it. There was a blonde who had dyed my hair and who gave me a wallet. My name was Cruickshank and I was an Australian, she said. And then the bitch doped me. I put my hand to my arm and rubbed it where it felt sore. Now, why the hell had she done that?

  I threw back the bedclothes and swung out my legs. No sooner was I standing upright than I felt violently ill, and so I staggered to the nearest door which gave at a push and I fell into a bathroom. I lurched to my feet and over to the water-closet where I retched up my guts, but nothing came forth but a thin brown mucus. Still, when it was over I felt fractionally better, so I got to my feet and swayed towards the wash basin which I clutched hard as I stared into the mirror at the unfamiliar face.

  She was right, I thought; the five o'clock shadow does give the game away. The blond hair with the black-bearded face looked incongruous and the whole ensemble wasn't improved by eyes which looked like burnt holes in a blanket. I rubbed my arm again and, on impulse, rolled up the pyjama sleeve to see five red pinpricks.

  Five! How long had I been unconscious? I fingered my beard which rasped uncomfortably. That felt normal for about thirty-six hours, or maybe a bit longer. Unless they'd shaved me when I was dead to the world -- which was a distinct possibility.

  I turned on the cold tap and ran some water into the basin, then gave my face a thorough dousing, spluttering a bit. There was a clean towel at hand and, as I wiped myself dry, I began to feel better but the feeling tended to ooze away when I caught sight of the bathroom window. There were thick steel bars on the inside and, although the glass was frosted, I could see the outline of similar bars on the outside.

  That was going one better than the nick. Even in there they had but one set of bars to a window.

  I dropped the towel on to the floor and went back into the bedroom. Sure enough the bedroom window was also barred inside and out, although here the glass was clear. I looked through the window and saw a courtyard surrounded by buildings. Nothing moved except a blackbird foraging for worms on a neatly mown lawn.

  I watched the courtyard for five minutes but nothing happened, so I turned my attention to the bedroom. On the dressing table by the window was the toilet case and the shaver that the blonde had provided. I opened the case, took out a comb and combed my hair. Shaving could wait a while. I looked into the mirror and stuck out my tongue at the changed man who faced me. He did the same and I hastily pulled it in again as I saw the coating on the tongue.

  Then I stiffened as I looked over his shoulder, and I whirled about to face the room. There were two beds; the one I had occupied had rumpled sheets, but the other bed was occupied. I strode over and found Slade breathing heavily through his mouth and totally unconscious. I slapped his cheeks and prised open his eyelids all to no avail; apart from the breathing he was a reasonable facsimile of a dead man.

  So I left him to it, principally because I had seen a newspaper lying by the side of the armchair. Whoever had been waiting for me to wake up hadn't taken his Sunday Times with him.

  We were front page news. The headlines blared in a most uncharacteristic Sunday Times manner, but I'd bet the News of the World outdid them in that respect. There was a photograph of the outside of the nick with a thick, pecked line to show the course of events -- there was a photograph of the cherry-picker with its neck collapsed across the entrance to a street, looking a bit like a dead Disney dinosaur from Fantasia; there was a photograph of someone being carried to an ambulance on a stretcher -- Senior Prison Officer Hudson had unaccountably broken his leg!

  The front page news story was pretty factual and they hadn't got much wrong as far as I could see. I read with interest that the exterior closed-circuit TV cameras had been rendered inoperable by having paint sprayed on to the lenses. That was a nice touch. It was also interesting to read that the small open truck had been found abandoned near Colchester, and the black mini-van near Southampton. Police had established road blocks around both areas.

  Slade captured most of the limelight. What was a jewel thief compared with a master spy? But Brunskill had a go at me. 'This man is dangerous,' he said, with a straight face. 'He was convicted for a crime of violence and has a record of violence extending back for many years. The public should be wary of him and should on no account try to tackle him unaided.'

  That was the most libellous thing I've ever read. Two convictions for violence over twelve years and I -- was being described as a Jack the Ripper. All Brunskill was trying to do was to build up the original arrest. I hoped his bosses threw the book at him for talking out of turn.

  Insight had nothing to say about it, but they would, they would -- I'd have to wait until next week's issue to get the inside story on how we'd escaped. B
ut the editorial went off pop! The escape was described as a colossal piece of impudence and that if criminals were going to use such methods as mortar-fired smoke bombs then it was time that the prison authorities should also use military means to defend the integrity of the prisons.

  I thought so, too.

  Lord Mountbatten was not availabl e for comment, but lots of other people were, whether they had anything relevant to say or not. One man especially fulminated about it -- a Member of Parliament called Charles Wheeler who spoke bitterly about gangsterism in our English streets and swore he'd put a question to the House at the first available opportunity. I wished him luck. The mills of government grind slowly and it takes a hell of a long time to close even a stable door.

  I quite enjoyed reading that Sunday paper.

  I had just finished when the door clicked open and a man in a white coat wheeled in a trolley on which were several silver covered dishes. Behind him followed a tall man with a balding head fringed with silvery hair. 'Ah,' he said. 'I'm sure you would relish a light meal.'

  I looked at the trolley. 'I might,' I said cautiously. 'If my stomach will stand it.'

  He nodded gravely. 'You feel a little ill; that I can understand. You will find two bottles on the table. One contains aspirin and the other a stomach preparation. I had assumed you would find them.'

  'I didn't,' I said, and held up the paper. 'I was more interested in this."

  He smiled. 'It does make interesting reading,' he agreed, and tapped the white-coated man on the shoulder. 'You can go now.' He turned back to me. 'You don't mind if I stay for tea?'

  'Not at all,' I said magniloquently. 'Be my guest.'

  White Coat had laid the table and pushed out the trolley; he closed the door behind him and again I heard the snap of the lock. They weren't taking any chances even with one of their own in the room. I looked with attention at the tall man; there was something incongruous about him which I couldn't put my finger on -- and then I had it. He was tall and thin but had a curiously pudgy face, ill-suited to his build. It was as though the face of a fat man had been grafted on to a thin man's body.

  He gestured. 'You'll find a dressing-gown behind the bathroom door.'

  I crossed to the table and found the two small bottles, then went into the bathroom. The stomach preparation I ignored but the aspirin was very welcome. I put on the dressing-gown and returned to the bedroom to find Fatface in the act of pouring himself a cup of tea. 'You don't mind if I'm Mother?' he asked sardonically.

  I sat down and picked up the glass of chilled tomato juice. Fatface pushed over the Worcestershire sauce. This improved it. I laced the juice liberally, added pepper, and drank it quickly. Almost immediately I felt better, but not so much better that I could face the breakfast that faced me when I lifted the silver cover from my plate. I looked down at the yellow eyes of eggs, with sausages for eyebrows and a bacon moustache, and shuddered delicately. Pushing the plate away distastefully I picked up a slice of toast and buttered it sparingly.

  I said, 'If you're being Mother you can pour me a cup of tea.'

  'Certainly -- anything to oblige.' He busied himself with the teapot.

  I crunched on the toast and said indistinctly, 'Anything? Then perhaps you can tell me where I am.'

  He shook his head regretfully. Then you'd know as much as me -- and that would never do. No, Mr Rearden; that is one of the things I can't tell you. You realize, of course, that because of that particular restriction your movements must be, shall we say, circumscribed.'

  I'd already figured that out; the double bars at the windows weren't there for nothing. I jerked my head at the bed behind me. 'Slade is a bit too circumscribed right now.'

  'He'll be all right,' said Fatface. 'He's older than you and takes longer to recover.' He passed me a cup of tea. 'You will be confined to these two rooms until the time comes to move you again.'

  'And when will that be?'

  'That depends entirely on you. We hope to make your stay here as comfortable as possible. If you have any special preferences at meals -- grapefruit juice instead of tomato juice, for instance -- we will do our best to please you.' He rose to his feet and crossed to a cabinet which he opened. It was well stocked with bottles. 'You can help yourself to a drink at any time. By the way, what cigarettes do you prefer?'

  'Rothmans filter.'

  He produced a notebook and made an entry like a conscientious maitre d'hotel. 'That we can manage easily.'

  I grinned at him. 'I'd like a half-bottle of wine with lunch and dinner. White, and on the dryish side; a hock or moselle, preferably.'

  'Very well.' He made another note. 'We try to run a top-class establishment. Of course, our expenses being what they are, our charges are high. In fact, there is a standard charge no matter how long you stay here. In your case I think it has been agreed already -- twenty thousand pounds, wasn't it, Mr Rearden?'

  I picked up my tea-cup. 'It wasn't,' I said economically. Ten thousand pounds is lying on that bed over there. That was the deal.'

  'Of course,' said Fatface. 'I forgot."

  'No, you didn't,' I said amiably. 'You were trying it on. Your, tea is getting cold.'

  He sat down again. 'We would prefer to settle the account as soon as possible. The sooner it is settled the sooner you will be able to go on the next stage of your journey.'

  'To where?'

  'I think you can leave that to us. I assure you it will be outside the United Kingdom.'

  I frowned at that. 'I don't like buying a pig in a poke. I want a better guarantee than that, I want to know where I'm going.'

  He spread his hands. 'I'm sorry, Mr Rearden; but our security arrangements preclude your knowing in advance. You must understand the importance of this. We cannot take any chances at all on the penetration of our organization by ... er ... undesirable elements.'

  I hesitated, and he said impatiently, 'Come, Mr Rearden; you are an intelligent man. You must know that we have a reputation that rests entirely on our ability to keep our promises. Our good faith is our stock-in-trade and it would need but one dissatisfied client to do us irreparable harm.' He tapped gently on the table with his teaspoon. 'In any case, I believe you were informed of what would certainly happen to you if you did not keep your side of the bargain.'

  The threat was there again -- veiled but unmistakable. I had to play for time, so I said, 'All-right; get me a cheque form of the Zuricher Ausfuhren Handelsbank.'

  Fatface looked pleased. 'And the number -- the account number?'

  'You'll know that when I put it on the cheque,' I said. 'I have security precautions, too, you know.' I did a quick calculation. 'Make it out for 200,000 Swiss francs. You take your share and let me have the balance in the currency of the country in which I'm being dropped.'

  He nodded. 'A wise precaution The sensible man never leaves himself short of liquid funds,' he said sententiously.

  I looked down at myself. 'Do I have to live in pyjamas?'

  He looked shocked. 'Of course not. I apologize for not telling you sooner. Your clothes are in the wardrobe."

  'Thanks.' I crossed the room and opened the wardrobe. Hanging up was a business suit and, next to it, a more sporty and informal outfit. Underwear was neatly laid out on the shelves and two pairs of highly polished shoes-black and brown -- nestled in the shoerack.

  I went through the pockets of the suits quickly and found them empty, then I clicked open the suitcase which stood at the bottom of the wardrobe and found it as empty as Mother Hubbard's cupboard. I swung on Fatface. 'No passport,' I said. 'No wallet -- no identification.'

  'We let you look at those to show our good faith, Mr Rear-den -- or should I call you Mr Cruickshank? We wanted you to see the lengths to which we would go to ensure a successful outcome of this enterprise. But there is no necessity for you to have them just yet. They will be returned to you prior to the next stage of your journey.' He wagged his finger at me solemnly. 'Security -- that's the watchword here.'

  That I coul
d well believe. This mob considered all the angles.

  Fatface said, 'If you want anything, all you have to do is to press this button -- like this.' He waited, looking expectantly at the door, and White Coat arrived within two minutes. 'Taafe will look after you, Mr Rearden; won't you, Taafe?'

  White Coat nodded, but said nothing.

  'I must be going now,' said Fatface regretfully, as though he desired nothing more in the world than to stay and chat. 'We have to get on with our business.' He looked at me closely. 'I advise you to shave; you look most uncivilized. I daresay that while you are attending to your toilet Taafe will tidy up the room.' He gave me a brief nod and departed.

  I looked curiously at Taafe who was busying himself with the breakfast crockery and leaving only his broad back for my inspection. He was a big man with the battered face of a small time bruiser -- small time because good boxers don't get hit about like that. After a while I shrugged and went into the bathroom. It was a good idea, no matter who had suggested it.

  I ran a bathful of hot water and settled down to soak and think. The mob was good -- there was no doubt about that. Provided I could come up with the money I would undoubtedly be released in some foreign country with adequate, if fraudulent, identification and enough money to see me right. Of course, the converse wasn't too good -- if I couldn't provide the funds required then I would probably occupy a cold hole in the ground in an isolated place and my bones would be discovered to mystify some rural copper in the distant future.

  I shook my head. No -- this mob was too efficient for that. They would leave no bones to be discovered. I would probably be encased in a. block of concrete and tipped over the side into the deepest part of the sea available. It would be an act of charity if they killed me before pouring the concrete.

  I shivered a little in spite of the hot water and thought glumly of the Zuricher Ausfuhren Handelsbank and that cold-minded bastard, Mackintosh. I had better begin making plans to break out of this luxurious nick.

  That brought me to another question. Where the hell was I? Fatface had played safe on that one, but maybe he had slipped up, after all. I thought about Taafe. That wasn't an English name at all -- so could I be already out of England? It hadn't been smart of Fatface to let that name slip out.