The red menace 1, p.20
The Red Menace #1, page 20
“You are not what you pretend to be,” she insisted. “This man in red whom everyone searched for. He appeared last night during the time you were missing from your hotel room. I suspect that I did not search your room as well as I should have.”
“Lady, I have no idea what you’re even talking about. I’m here at the invitation of your fearless leader. For Pete’s sake, you’re the one who flew over and picked me up in Africa, remember? I was only happy to stay there with my cannibal buddy Idi.”
“I believe you were in Africa under false pretenses. I believe that you were there to trick Castro into inviting you to Cuba. I believe you are the man this Russian Colonel Strankov fears, this Red Menace. Now give back my gun to me, you fool,” Ameriga snapped, holding out her hand. “Before someone comes along and shoots you.”
“Oh, well, since you put it that way,” said Podge, nodding very reasonably. He heaved the gun into the ocean where it made a little far-off splash.
“Idiot American,” she snarled. She tried to slap him across the face, but he caught her by the wrist and replaced her hand at her side.
Ameriga allowed him to hold her wrist a fraction of a second longer than she should have, and when she finally pulled away it lacked her usual forcefulness. He smiled down at her, their faces now mere inches away.
“I’m a big fan of flattery,” Podge said.
She was perspiring, and it had nothing to do with her anger or the warm night air.
Her chest heaved as she gulped air and her face was flushed. She pushed him away, but the shove was almost gentle, and she took a step back.
“We are on the same side. Did it not occur to you that I could have reported everything I just told you to my superiors at any time today? If I had, they would be torturing you for the truth right now. Although your torturer would have to be someone other than Captain Suarez, since you somehow poisoned him this morning.”
Clearly Podge had underestimated the young major’s intelligence. He knew with certainly that she had not seen him poison Suarez’s coffee at breakfast, but still she had managed to deduce it. The same went for her figuring out his real reason for helping Idi Amin in Africa. And it was true that a loyal Cuban major would have had him dragged to one of Castro’s torture chambers if they even suspected the true identity of the Red Menace. Since the truth would have eventually come out of him under torture, there was a better than fifty percent chance she was telling the truth. Still…
“So you’re not a loyal Castroite,” he said. “So what does that make you?”
Her face was deeply shadowed, and she glanced around as if the very air might hear. When she spoke, she kept her voice so low Podge could scarcely hear her over the pounding of the surf behind and the party above.
“My tio, my uncle, was Juan Carlos Pena, a friend of this Red Menace from many years ago. He raised me for a time after my parents died. He was murdered a month ago. I do not know why they killed him. The records were closed even to someone with my security clearance.”
Podge remembered Juan Carlos well from several visits the Red Menace had made to the island nation back in the Fifties. He did not know that Juan Carlos had been killed. But the timing was right. He had probably aided Jeb Wilson and MIC, and wound up with a bullet in the brain for his trouble. “So, you love America now, just like that? I knew it. No one can be as hostile as you pretend to be without harboring some deep-seated lust. What got you? Our purple mountain majesties? The Liberty Bell’s curves?”
“America,” she snarled. A glob of spit rose in her throat and she expelled it into the sand. “My uncle was nearly killed because of America’s betrayal at the Bay of Pigs. I have no love for your country, make no mistake.” Her chest puffed out proudly, nearly bursting the buttons on her tight-fitting uniform. “I love Cuba. I love her people. And for that, I hate Castro and his filthy Russian allies and all they have done to bring her to ruin. Still, I am only one. I cannot hope to make the change for better. Until I find out this Red Menace, this great shadow of death my uncle spoke of, has returned to Cuba. ”
“That’s going to be a problem for you, sister, since I heard from a guy at breakfast that this spy you must be talking about was killed. Drowned or something.”
“So my superiors they think,” she replied. “They have called off the search for him, but we are still meant to be looking for the allies.”
Podge thought of Wainwright. The doctor was out somewhere right now trying to wheedle information out of Strankov’s favorite mad scientist. He was probably safe wherever he was. Whatever Plassko was playing at with that bacteria, it was a side issue. The greatest threat right now was the nukes. Besides, Wainwright would be subtle in his questioning of Plassko and knew enough not to draw the attention of Cuban authorities. On the other hand, Wainwright would be furious at Podge for that which the younger man was contemplating.
Wainwright would say Podge was crazy for trusting the girl. His old friend would surely bring up Vegas, Olga Cherblonya, and the massive scar on Podge’s torso. But Podge also knew that Major Ameriga Blanco was probably his only chance of getting back onto the Russian missile complex. In the end, reward outweighed risk.
“So the Cubans think the Red Menace is dead,” he said. “What about the Russians?”
“That I do not know. They still have the body. Up there, with Strankov. The Russian is demented. I am afraid what he will do with those missiles. Yes, do not pretend you do not know about the missiles,” she snarled. “If he fires them at the United States, this could be the end of Cuba, of my home.”
Another round of fireworks shot off the balcony, whizzing crazy circles through the star-flecked sky. The light illuminated hot tears in Ameriga’s eyes.
Podge nodded. “Okay, if the Red Menace is alive, he’d probably want help getting up there. Think you can do that?”
Ameriga sniffled and nodded. “Si.”
Podge rubbed his palms together. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s vaya con dios, darlin’”
STRANKOV WAS marching aimlessly down one of the many underground corridors that crisscrossed beneath the Cuban jungle. While this indolence aggravated him, Ivan Strankov was a logical creature. He understood that there was nothing he could do at this stage but wait for the scientists to finish their work.
Of course, there was the matter of Oleg Plassko. The irritating little fat man had gone missing at a crucial time. Oh, his work on the bacteria was finished, and engineers were responsible for constructing the encasements for his great creation, but Plassko still should have been at the base. Strankov would deal with the scientist once the rockets were on their way to the United States. If it had not been for the absentminded fool’s accidental release of the bacteria a month ago, the Red Menace would have remained in retirement. Not that it mattered much now. The shark-eaten body that had been discovered was surely that of Strankov’s old nemesis. As the hours passed and the end drew near, it had been easy for Strankov to convince himself this was the case. Yes, the Red Menace was gone. Soon, too, would be the nation he had loved so dearly. And then Strankov himself would follow into the abyss.
Strankov had decided only in the last hour that these would be the last hours of his life. There would be no parades in his honor. Moscow would not understand. Nor would he wait for the cancer to claim him. If Russia survived after the unprovoked attack on America, he would not allow the Politburo to dispatch their Cuban lackeys to clap him in irons. No, Strankov’s end would come at his own hand.
He felt the weight of his automatic against his thigh as he walked. One bullet, through the roof of the mouth. Oblivion.
Strankov kept his hands clasped behind his back as he walked. He liked the cool, windowless subterranean corridors. It was almost like strolling through his own tomb.
The colonel allowed himself a rare smile, which vanished when the voice chimed in behind him.
“Comrade Colonel Strankov!” The Ukranian base physician was red-faced and sweating as he ran up to the base commander. He clutched a single sheet of paper in his sweating hand. “My autopsy findings on the body the Cubans discovered. I knew you would want to see this as soon as possible, comrade colonel.”
Strankov snatched the paper. When he scanned it, the ghastly purple flesh of his face paled. “Are you absolutely certain?” he demanded.
The physician nodded. “He was no older than twenty-six. I have checked with my counterparts in the Cuban military, and they say a young soldier of that age disappeared last night while on patrol. He and his jeep, both vanished.”
Strankov crumpled the paper and pressed it against the doctor’s chest. He was beyond rage, beyond fear. Yellowed eyes twitched back and forth, looking at everything and seeing nothing.
He thought of the missiles, only one so far ready for launch. Of the bullet in the chamber of his automatic. In whose brain would that bullet now end up?
Strankov turned wordlessly. The Ukranian physician watched the base commander hustle away down the hallway. As the doctor smoothed the crumpled autopsy report, he made a mental prediction. One week. Ten days at most, and it would be the sickly old former Motherland director lying on his autopsy table.
The doctor pocketed the report and listened to Strankov’s footfalls fade in the distance.
21
Wainwright drove Plassko’s car to the foot of the jungle hills. They were stopped twice by Cuban military patrols. Fortunately, Wainwright’s Russian was good enough for the Russian speaking Cuban soldier in the first instance and his phony Russian accent was good enough for the English-speaking Cuban soldier the second. Plassko dozed much of the ride in the passenger seat with his face pressed against the window. He became alert only long enough to growl at the soldiers and wave his credentials.
“Uneducated witnits,” he said to Wainwright the second time before passing out in the puddle of drool that stained his necktie.
The beefed up patrols confirmed Wainwright’s earlier fears. It would be next to impossible for the Red Menace to sneak back onto the base this night.
Before the first Soviet checkpoint, Wainwright fished in his black bag and produced a small vial of liquid. The contents had an acrid, minty odor. He waved the bottle under Plassko’s nose and the Russian’s eyes popped open wide.
“What is—?” He blinked the drowsiness away and glanced around. “Ah, yes, yes. Very good, very good.”
“I think it would be better if you drive the rest of the way,” Wainwright suggested.
“Of course, of course,” Plassko agreed. The scientist was quick and alert as he darted around the car and hopped happily behind the wheel.
Wainwright corked the vial and slipped it back in his bag. The special smelling salts were not bottled sobriety. The Russian’s brain would be greatly stimulated for only half an hour, and after that the liquor crash would be fast and severe. He hoped it would be enough time.
At the Russian checkpoints, no one questioned Wainwright’s presence in the car. Plassko was waved through almost without having to slow down.
It was clear to Wainwright that Plassko was expected at the base, and since all the guards appeared to be aware of the fact, and none were willing to stop Plassko even for a minute to search his car or question his passenger, Wainwright could only assume that he was wanted at the top. Strankov.
The fat little scientist was thankfully oblivious to the fact that his presence was required by the base commander. He parked near his quarters and rushed Wainwright over to the bunker.
“Come along, hurry, hurry!” he insisted, waddling between the two sentries at the door. “Ignore them.” The scientist’s general urgency and the fact that he was hustling his guest along in Russian was enough to allay any suspicions of guards who had no desire to interfere with Colonel Ivan Strankov’s orders.
The stairs and the hallway were blessedly free of Russian or Cuban military all the way to the door of Plassko’s lab. Florescent lights flickered on, revealing a large subterranean pair of connected rooms.
Plassko hustled his guest through the main room with its flourishing tanks of plants to a long back greenhouse made bright with artificial light. There were tables here to work on, and cabinets and shelves spaced evenly all around. The workspace was a far cry from Plassko’s cramped office at the university.
Many of the tanks were sealed tightly and contained wilted stubs of plants, the results of Plassko’s experiments.
As Wainwright passed a table on which was carefully arranged dozens of tools, he slipped an object into his palm unseen and continued on after the Russian scientist.
“Have you ever grown tomatoes?”
“Yes,” Wainwright said, a hint of impatience in his voice. He placed his black bag on a workbench. “And not without difficulty, since they weren’t eaten in my time.”
Plassko frowned. “What you mean? Man, he has been eating the tomatoes for centuries.”
“A numskull with a fat yap by the name of John Gerard convinced everyone they were poisonous.” Wainwright waved a hand in the air and glanced back into the outer room and the hallway door. “Forget it. Immaterial. And, frankly, I have neither the time nor the energy to pretend to find you scintillating any longer, you execrable communist globoid. Strankov’s thugs could be looking for you at any moment.”
Plassko was not certain, but he thought he might have just been insulted. And how did this American know of Colonel Strankov? He was going to ask, even got so far as to open his mouth, when the tall man who had been so friendly all day long suddenly did something that could only be interpreted as very unfriendly indeed.
Wainwright grabbed the fat little scientist and spun him around, pinning his ample belly against the workbench. Before Plassko could protest, Wainwright clamped one strong hand over the Russian’s mouth. Something silver flashed in the doctor’s free hand, the object he had surreptitiously picked up from the outer room. Up and sharply down, the blades of the pruning shears impaled the back of Plassko’s hand, pinning the scientist to the bench. He screamed but the sound was muffled by Wainwright’s hand.
“That is only a little pain,” Wainwright whispered in the Russian’s ear. “I can deliver you from this little pain, or I can increase it.” He twisted the shears and the Russian gasped as his watering eyes widened like saucers. “I’m going to let you speak now. If you call for help, someone may come. If they do, I will kill you before they can save you. If no one hears you, I will punish you for shouting. Either way, shouting will make things worse for you. Do you understand?” Plassko nodded desperately. “Good.” Wainwright released his grip on the scientist’s mouth. “You drooled on my hand,” he said, wiping his palm on the back of the botanist’s jacket. “Godless savages.”
“What do you want?” Plassko whispered hoarsely.
“I know you’ve weaponized the bacteria. I know it attacks every living plant and I know you’re loading it onto the missiles here to launch at the United States.”
“How—”
“You’re a loquacious drunk — a boring one at that — and I am a genius,” Wainwright explained. “Where is the bacteria stored?”
“Here. In lab. Over there.” He pointed to a series of ordinary General Electric refrigerators which were lined against the wall.
Wainwright hustled over and popped one of the doors. There were dozens of vials of the green goo that the Red Menace had brought to the Revolucion Grande in the early hours that morning. “No more back in Russia? Nowhere else in the world?”
“No. Here alone. Two small refrigerators out front. This is all.”
Wainwright opened the doors on the next three fridges. The shelves and freezer compartments had been removed to free up space within them. Two of the fridges contained barrel-sized containers of the green substance. The third was empty. Wainwright spun to Plassko and stabbed an angry thumb at the empty fridge.
“They must have loaded up in first missile already,” the Russian said, rapidly replying to Wainwright’s unasked question. He had tried to pull his hand free when Wainwright’s back was turned, but the pain was too great. There was blood all over the workbench. Plassko detested the sight of blood. His eyes welled with tears.
“How soon until Strankov launches the missiles?”
“Hours, if first one is all set to go. Work on other two, this is quickly done. Quickly. By dawn, surely.” Plassko was practically balling. “Please let me go. I only do what Strankov tells me to do. I am just man of science, like you.”
Wainwright’s lip curled in disgust. He was grateful at that moment that he was not armed, for he might not have been able to stop himself from putting a bullet between the eyes of the blubbering Russian botanist. As it was, he marched over to Plassko in three big strides, grabbed the cowering scientist by the lapels and hauled him to his tiptoes until the two men were nose-to-nose. Wainwright’s jaw was clenched and he glared fury down at the trembling Oleg Plassko.
“Tell me how I kill the bacteria,” Wainwright snarled, “and it is just possible that I might — and I stress might — not kill you along with it.”
And as much as he had always feared Colonel Ivan Strankov, Dr. Oleg Plassko realized that he had finally met a man far more frightening, and that maybe, just maybe, he should have found happiness after all in his tiny office at the Universidad de Habana.
AMERIGA HAD little trouble driving the supply truck up through the checkpoints and onto the Soviet missile base. Her security clearance was high and the Russians on the base viewed the native Cubans as an unworthy servant caste. Her presence in the cab was scarcely acknowledged and the bed and undercarriage given perfunctory searches each time she was waved further along up the hillside.
Only one guard dog at the last blockade sniffed the air and growled and she held her breath and thought they had been found out, but when the Russians searched the truck they found only food, lumber and tools.
