Traitor's Doom Read online

  A man came with the landing party, questions were asked, José and Hermandes approached him and exchanged greetings.

  José led the man to the cottage, and once inside saw that he was looking at a tall, well-built man in a drab black battledress, but nothing of the uniform could hide the fact that he was English. His Catanese was fluent but heavily accented.

  ‘We’re all ready,’ he said. ‘We’re relying on you for transport and details, sir.’

  ‘We have them ready,’ said José. ‘We have guides and routes prepared. The farthest point where you will attack is a little more than a hundred miles from here, and there is another eighty miles away. You will not use English commandos for that?’

  He collected the data he required, then went out and met his officers. The invaders were divided in columns, men clambering in lorries which the Patriots had ready. Within an hour of their arrival they were moving across country, and as they moved, aircraft from a carrier out at sea drew near, ready to give support at any point where they needed it.

  José and Hermandes were with the first column, heading for Torvil. They travelled in a car fitted with radio, and as they went the attack on the nearest point where the Guarda was gathered began - a swift, devastating assault with light tanks, artillery ready to support, and aeroplanes flying overhead. But a dozen shots from automatics were all that was necessary, the bloodshed was negligible. The men reached the stores and began their work of destruction, others rounded up the Guarda, disarmed them, and locked them in buildings already arranged for that purpose by José.

  The news of the success reached the radio car.

  ‘It is superb!’ exclaimed Hermandes. ‘It is perfect!’

  ‘There are five others,’ said José quietly.

  News of the second attack, launched with the same devastating suddenness, came as they approached Torvil, where an unsuspecting Guarda Nationale headquarters staff was at ease.

  It will be done as we planned,’ said José gently. ‘The Marquis did not betray us, Hermandes. My hope is that he is safe.’

  As he spoke, and while the column moved forward on a road cleared by advance guards of small tanks and Catanese Social Patriots, the Marquis was with Silverra in a room at the Hotel da Casino.

  Silverra was talking swiftly, imagining that he was carrying all before him. In three days, said Silverra, the Government in Orlanto would be overthrown and he would be the Dictator of Catania. He went into detail of what he would do.

  ‘Good,’ said the Marquis. Or, ‘Admirable, Excellency,’ or, ‘Such planning, General!’ He watched Silverra narrow-eyed as the man went on discussing his grandiose plans, doomed to failure whether the move against the Guarda succeeded or not, for there would be no consideration for Catania in the plans of the Axis.

  ‘Superb,’ said the Marquis, into a pause.

  ‘I am glad that you appreciate the subtlety, señor. I would like—’ Silverra stopped abruptly and frowned as the telephone rang. ‘You will excuse me, señor.’ He stepped to the instrument and raised it. The Marquis saw his harsh, humourless face, without expression until that moment, suddenly change until it held a look of sheer horror. He exclaimed into the mouthpiece, and then began to pour out a torrent of words. Finished, he rattled the receiver hook up and down, then shouted: ‘Send de Barros—send Silva—send Sebastian. At once!’ He banged down the receiver, turned to face the Marquis and declaimed: ‘The accursed Patriots have attacked our positions, two have been destroyed! It is incredible—they have tanks and artillery, they are fully armed with machine-guns, they have everything they need, even air support. Air support!’ roared Silverra. ‘There is not an aeroplane in the possession of the Patriots, I know that! Where have they come from—where?’

  ‘It is a mistake, perhaps,’ murmured the Marquis.

  ‘Mistake! It is true, I have just been told. Aeroplanes and tanks, whence did they come?’ He paused for a moment and stared at the Marquis, and his eyes suddenly flamed. ‘Only from the accursed English. Only from the English. You! You have—’

  The Marquis took an automatic from his hip pocket, and said softly: ‘Keep quiet, Silverra.’

  The General stood gaping at him, but obviously the Marquis did not feel it wise to trust him to keep still. He went forward swiftly. Silverra backed away, dropping his hands to his sides, but the Marquis moved abruptly and struck him on the temple. He struck again as Silverra fell backwards, and then turned towards the door as the General fell.

  He entered the passage quickly, and hurried along it. He passed a man he knew as Silva, bowed, and went on. As he reached Drusilla’s door it opened, and de Barros stepped through. His face was pale, and as he saw the Marquis he-snapped: ‘His Excellency has sent for me—there is trouble.’

  ‘Here is trouble,’ said the Marquis. ‘Go back into the room, de Barros, and keep quiet.’

  He brought out his gun again, and the commandant backed slowly into the room.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Into the Light

  ‘Señorita, this is madness, you cannot betray us!’

  ‘Can you betray betrayers?’ asked Drusilla. Then to the Marquis: ‘He knows where they are.’

  ‘Commandant de Barros,’ said the Marquis gently, ‘we are going to find our friends, and you are leading us. Do you understand that?’ He placed his gun in his pocket, but kept his hand on it. ‘Drusilla will lead the way, you will follow, and I shall be behind you. If you are foolish enough to attract attention or call for help—’ His square shoulders shrugged. ‘You have the sense to know what will happen.’

  ‘But the Guarda will be striking tomorrow, you are on the winning side while with us, you—’

  ‘There will be no Guarda Nationale after tonight,’ said the Marquis very calmly. ‘The headquarters here will be raided within the hour, but before then we want Palfrey and the others.’

  De Barros turned his incredulous gaze from the Marquis to Drusilla, and then raised his hands helplessly.

  They passed a dozen people strolling on the boulevards, some recognising de Barros and others Drusilla. De Barros walked on, looking neither right nor left. Drusilla nodded and smiled in acknowledgment but did not slacken her pace. She knew that they had to move swiftly while the shock lasted with de Barros.

  In a narrow lane off one of the boulevards Drusilla turned quickly and Stefan’s great figure loomed out of the darkness. Drusilla stopped short.

  ‘You are in good time,’ said Stefan softly. ‘And I have a friend who can show us part of the way. Vasca Bombarda, who else?’

  The Catanese joined him, as Drusilla answered: ‘We know. Hurry, Stefan.’

  The Russian made no comment at the sight of de Barros, but at a word from the Marquis ranged himself alongside the man. Stefan’s great hand gripped de Barros’s elbow as they walked through the darkened streets. The drone of aircraft filled the sky, ’planes were circling round and waiting for the land forces to approach.

  They reached another side-street. De Barros stopped, and tapped on a door. In the stream of light coming from it as it opened they saw the man’s pale face and narrowed eyes. A man in the uniform of the Guarda saluted. The Marquis pressed his gun into the commandant’s ribs.

  ‘We are in a hurry,’ said de Barros tensely.

  ‘Si, Commandant.’ The man stepped aside, and they filed through after de Barros. They went along narrow passages and then down narrow flights of wooden stairs. Soon they heard the lapping of water, not far away. There were guards stationed at some of the places, and once a company of these ran towards them, and de Barros and the others pressed themselves close to the wall to let the men pass.

  An officer followed, and pulled up at the sight of de Barros.

  ‘You have heard, de Barros?’

  ‘Yes, I—’

  ‘We are going to interrogate the prisoners,
’ interpolated the Marquis.

  ‘You’d better hurry,’ the officer said brusquely. ‘Orders have been sent through for them to be shot.’

  ‘All of them?’ Drusilla asked abruptly.

  ‘All who can name the leaders,’ snapped the officer. ‘Hurry, if it is important.’

  They pressed on, Drusilla half-running along the dimly-lighted passages. The way seemed interminable, and eventually they went through a doorway which led to a long, damp passage where the lights were so low that they could see no more than ten feet ahead of them. Water streamed from the walls, and they splashed through shallow puddles.

  At a corner de Barros stopped abruptly.

  The Marquis, immediately behind him, realised that the man had screwed himself up to a pitch of revolt. De Barros turned with a clenched hand, and the Marquis thrust his gun forward.

  ‘A shot will be heard!’ snapped de Barros. ‘You fool, I—’

  ‘This will not be heard,’ said Stefan quietly.

  He drove his fist into the man’s face as the Marquis evaded the first blow. The full weight of Stefan’s body was behind the punch, and de Barros thudded back against the wall; even in the dim light they could see his eyes rolling.

  ‘We can’t find them ourselves,’ gasped Drusilla.

  ‘Straight on, straight on!’ exclaimed Bombarda. I have been here before. Hurry!’

  Stefan pushed past Drusilla, and led the way. They left de Barros unconscious, and did not give him a further thought. They reached a door where a guard was standing, and the man lowered his rifle with fixed bayonet. The Marquis snapped: ‘We come from his Excellency.’

  ‘You have the password?’ said the guard.

  ‘Why, yes,’ said Stefan. He stretched out his long left arm and pushed the bayonet aside, the steel touching his fingers. With his right hand he drove home a punch which sent the man thudding against the wall. Stefan stopped the rifle from falling, and took the bayonet from its fitting. ‘It will be a good password,’ he said. ‘Come on, now.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake hurry!’ Drusilla said, shrill-voiced.

  ‘That door, señorita, that door—I recognise it.’ Bombarda pointed to a door which Stefan opened, and they found it led to another plaster-walled passage, and in turn to another as dank and wet as the first. There, for the first time, they heard shooting. Occasional shots crashed, and sometimes a scream followed. There were a dozen shots in all as they hurried along, past another door which was open. Ahead they could see members of the Guarda flinging open the door of a cell. There were two guards, both with rifles.

  ‘I think we dare shoot,’ murmured the Marquis.

  He fired twice, and both bullets found their mark. The guards sprawled forward and Stefan reached them, peering through the doorway. He saw a man and a woman, standing in one corner and staring defiantly at the door.

  ‘Clive,’ murmured Stefan. ‘Clive and his lady!’

  Leah Gentry had her head heavily bandaged and was standing only with Clive’s help. Clive seemed paralysed at sight of them, while Stefan snapped: ‘Can you get her away?’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No time for questions!’ roared Stefan. ‘Can she walk? No?’ He hurried across the cell and lifted the American girl, whose lips were moving as if in a prayer. He pushed the bayonet into Clive’s hand and snapped: ‘Turn right, and hurry!’

  Drusilla, Bombarda and the Marquis had gone on, and they found Palfrey and Brian two cells away.

  It was a moment when everything Drusilla had prayed for seemed to come true, for the men were alive and standing near the door, one on either side of it. The door was locked, but the Marquis had picked up a bunch of keys from the hands of the fallen guards, and he spoke as he fitted one in the lock and turned it.

  ‘We’ve a chance, Brian. Hallo, Palfrey.’

  ‘My oath!’ exclaimed Brian. ‘I—Drusilla!’

  Ahead of them Bombarda was calling: ‘There is a way out, not far from here—a way to the fields.’

  Shooting was echoing in their ears, as they hurried after Bombarda. Now and again they saw the guards at their murderous work, but there was no opportunity to stop them: and for the most part the work was finished. They crossed the underground chamber through which the river flowed, and then turned towards the passage Bombarda indicated.

  A doorway, standing open, was close to the water’s edge.

  Bombarda stopped and waited for Drusilla and Stefan to go through. Clive followed. Bombarda peered beyond them, and then gasped: ‘The guards, the guards!’

  He drew a pistol from his pocket. Directly in front of him was Clive, and the Englishman moved to one side, but he would have been too late to avoid the bullet had Palfrey not raised a hand and pushed Bombarda’s gun away. A bullet struck the ground not far from Clive, and Bombarda screamed: ‘The guards, they are coming!’

  Palfrey put out a hand and wrested the gun from the man’s hand, then pushed him towards the door. The others had gone, only Clive was waiting; footsteps were echoing behind them, but no one was in sight.

  ‘Go on,’ said Palfrey savagely.

  Together they hustled Bombarda along the passage. The man was gasping for breath, and his feet dragged. They did not let him fall, but went on until they reached a wider cavern and again heard shooting. It was coming from one side, and they saw the backs of a dozen Guarda who were standing by the walls, firing quickly, oblivious to what was happening behind them.

  The fugitives stopped.

  Bombarda, gasping for breath, seemed to be shaken by apoplexy. Stefan, who had led the way, lowered Leah Gentry to the floor, while the Marquis raised his automatic. Clive took Bombarda from Palfrey, and then Stefan emitted a single shout of command. Not a man of the twelve standing by the wall, and firing, kept still. All swung round, finding themselves covered by the automatics, and by Stefan, who had recovered the bayonet from Clive. There was a short, tense silence, the greater because the shooting had stopped. I think we’re through,’ said the Marquis quietly. Something thudded into the wall.

  Palfrey stepped forward swiftly, raising his voice and calling out in English: ‘Hold your fire, there, hold your fire!’

  ‘Englishmen!’ breathed Brian.

  ‘Be quiet,’ snapped the Marquis, ‘and forget that!’ He opened one of the doors by which the guards had been standing, and several men jumped into the cavern. They were dark-faced, soot and dirt also covered their hands. They wore black battle-dress, but a distinct Cockney voice said: ‘Got the perishers! We’re okay.’

  Men streamed through, fifty or sixty of them going ahead and retracing the steps of the party which had just arrived. A man in battle-dress approached Brian, and then drew back, amazed. ‘Debenham!’

  ‘We must get outside quickly,’ said the Marquis. ‘Reunions later—the later the better.’ He spoke quickly to the English officer who had spoken, and then the party was led out to the side of the hill—the hill where Brian had seen two men disappear a few days before.

  He did not know for certain where he was, for lights from cars blazed about the countryside. Tanks were lined up outside, and men continued to stream through the entrances, most of them carrying Tommy-guns. Overhead droned the aeroplanes covering the movement, watchful but unneeded.

  Then Bombarda moved. He had recovered from the shaking fit, and was standing on his own, with Clive nearer him than any of the others. Quite suddenly he threw up his arms, then turned and ran towards the darkness beyond the circle of light. Drusilla, Brian and the Marquis stared at him in amazement, but Palfrey and Clive moved as swiftly as the Catanese. They were still in the radius of the light when they caught him. He struggled furiously, but to no purpose. The others joined him as Palfrey straightened up, and Clive kept the Catanese fast.

  ‘Has he gone mad?’ demanded the Marquis.

  ‘Mad, no,’
said Clive with feeling.

  ‘It’s just plain fear,’ said Palfrey softly. ‘Quite a shock coming to you, I think.’ In the garish light his smile was apologetic and hesitant. ‘Vasca Bombarda’s the man you’ve been looking for, he’s been working for both sides. Clive knew it—eh, Clive?’

  ‘I did,’ said Clive grimly.

  ‘And Bombarda realised that,’ said Palfrey jerkily, brushing his hair back. ‘Tried to shoot Clive inside, but it didn’t work. He didn’t realise that I knew him for what he is, either.’ Palfrey laughed on a high-pitched note. I wouldn’t have done but for his monkey. It proves that you shouldn’t make ‘em into pets. But is this the time to talk?’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Much is Explained

  They went first to the cottage where Stefan had been in hiding, finding much excitement in the streets but nothing to suggest that the public realised what was happening. Bombarda was with them, a shivering wreck of a man.

  There was no opportunity for talking at the cottage, for soon after reaching it Smith arrived. Gone was his woodenness, and he allowed it to be seen that he was in the throes of a deep excitement.

  ‘All but one of ’em over, bar shouting,’ he declared as he entered the room where they had gathered. ‘No stiff fighting—a cakewalk. Grand news, what?’ He beamed at the Marquis. ‘Everything as ordered, sir!’

  The Marquis chuckled.

  ‘And Señor José is at the casino,’ said Smith. ‘In what he calls brief authority. They missed Silverra, who got away, but caught Corra. Herculano and several of the others have committed suicide.’ He paused, and then went on: ‘They massacred the prisoners, only a few escaped. Bad show, that.’