'You know,' she said, 'I meant to mention it earlier, but I'm sure the second chopper that passed us on the way here was not the same machine as the one which tracked us to the maize field. Now I think the same chopper, that is the second one, which was smaller, has just flown over us.'
'Lots of choppers about these days.'
A distance behind them Marler strolled with Newman. He stopped abruptly, his hand grasping the Walther inside his jacket. He was sure he had just seen Barton. When the man turned round he saw he was wrong. He resumed his stroll.
'False alarm,' Newman commented and grinned.
A little way behind them Nield was walking with Lisa. He had too much in one of his pockets. His hand was trying to sort out one thing from another when he pulled out his Walther. It fell down on to the smooth paved area of the pedestrian street. Lisa wandered ahead as he scooped up the gun, slipped it into his hip holster, where it should have been anyway. He looked round to see if anyone had noticed his mistake. The few people who were about were staring into shop windows.
Lisa came to an archway on her right. She walked under it into a small deserted square with an opening beyond. She passed the Tourist Office on her left, continued on and through the second exit. It was very quiet and there were narrow alleys leading off at intervals. She peered into one stone-paved alley, saw another at the end running at right angles, guessed it would lead her back into the Grosse Strasse.
She passed an open door in one of the long terrace of old buildings. She heard a noise behind her, then a gloved hand covered her mouth. She kicked back but it was like kicking a tree trunk. She saw another hand holding a cloth appear, caught a whiff, sucked in a deep breath a second before the cloth was pressed over her nose. She'd detected the smell of chloroform. Then the cloth was pressed hard over her face.
Her assailant used one hand to keep the cloth in place, his other to slam the wooden door shut, then to drop a lever which locked it. Both hands and arms were now free to hold her round the waist and she made her body go limp to fool him into believing she was unconscious. Even so, her mind was swimming and she felt she was living in a nightmare as he switched on a feeble light. Forty watts maximum. Then he gripped her under her knees and began climbing what she thought was a narrow staircase. She could hear the clump of his heavy boots on stone steps, which pounded through her head like the tolling of some dreadful bell.
He stopped briefly, used his shoulder to push open another door. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Moving inside a dark room until he switched on another light. She saw the room through a mist. She quietly let out the breath she had held, now he had removed the cloth from her face. Although she had only absorbed a whiff of the foul stuff she was feeling nauseous, addle-headed.
She was vaguely aware that he had sat her down in a chair and she slumped forward more than she need have done. She was terrified and she was furious. He straightened her up so her back leant against the chair. Then he was doing something with her hands, her wrists. She felt the cold metal of handcuffs clamped over her wrists. When he released them she realized there was at least a foot of chain linking one wrist to the other.
Now she felt him tying her ankles together with a length of rope. Then he stopped messing about with her. She heard his feet clumping away from her and took the risk. She began to take in long deep breaths.
The next thing she knew he was pouring cold water over her face. It drove away the lingering nausea. She still remained limp. Without warning he slapped the right side of her face a hard blow, then the left side. She let her head swing with the blows. Her terror was giving way to a murderous fury. She opened her eyes and gazed at her captor. It was Delgado.
She wanted to kill him. It was not a momentary emotion. If she ever got the chance she was going to kill him, using whatever method presented itself. She took the opportunity to study her prison. It was an old room built of wood, with two weird wooden doors alongside each other in the wall she was facing. She could see daylight filtering between the joins. What the hell was this place? Doors on the first or second floor? She had been carried up a lot of steps.
Lisa glanced round the room. The only furniture was a large old wooden table which Delgado was standing in front of a few feet away from her. In corners of the room were short lengths of heavy chain, rusted, looking as though it had lain there for years. Another corner was stacked with old canvas sacks. One sack had fallen over, tipping some of its contents on the planked floor. It was caulk.
She recognized the blocks of caulk like these she had once seen in a maritime museum. They had been used years ago to seal up seams in bulwarks with oakum and melted pitch. The door he had carried her through into the room was closed with a wooden bar dropped into place. The room smelled musty and she felt trapped.
Very carefully, she worked her toes inside her shoes to keep and strengthen, the agility in her legs. She stared at Delgado as though he were a filthy creature, which was the way she saw him. He had a dirty black beard and greasy hair. He was wearing a shirt which had once been white, the short sleeves cut off below his wide shoulders, exposing his hairy chest, with denims that carried the traces of spilt food and maybe beer.
'Ready to talk, lady?' he sneered.
'What did you say? I didn't hear,' she lied.
Anything to give her more time to work out how she was going to kill him. He came forward, slapped her face on both sides again. She twisted her head to minimize the force of the blows. Her face was stinging. Then, for the first time, she thought of her companions. They would never find her. She wanted to blow her nose. Just before he had grabbed her she had been going to do that, had her handkerchief in her hand. She sniffled and he mistook her action for fear. He grinned, exposing bad teeth.
'You got plenty worry. I play rough, lady.'
He gave her his dirty grin. Then he came forward, stooped, took out a knife, cut the rope binding her ankles together. He looked up at her.
'No good with legs tied together. Get in way later. After you talk.'
She could have spat in his hideous face. She didn't, since that would be bad tactics, might trigger him off. He stood up, stepped back close to the table. She was careful not to move her freed feet. She wanted him to think she was terrorized, limp as a doll, still not fully recovered from the drug. The chain between the cuffs was wide enough for her to clasp her hands over her knees, working her fingers, making sure they had strength,
'Talk, lady. How many men Tweed have?'
'Most were shot. By your men.'
'Good.' Then suspicion came into his yellowish eyes. He came forward, raised his hairy hand as though to strike her yet again. 'You lie.'
'Why should I? What difference, now you've got me?'
He liked that. He grinned. He rubbed his hands together like a man contemplating some great pleasure to come. She read his mind, kept her expression blank. Keep him talking. Buy time.
'I got you,' he said and grinned again. 'Nice for me.'
'All right. What else do you want to know?'
'How many men come with you here Franzburg?'
The ignorant swine couldn't even pronounce 'Flensburg', she thought. How many should she say? Too many might worry him, cause him to attack her and then get away from this strange room.
'Only one. He went to have a long lunch. He was hungry.'
'Only one?' He clenched his right hand into a claw. 'Break his neck. OK?'
'He has a gun.'
'Gun!' Delgado exploded into raucous laughter. He produced a long-bladed knife. 'I cut him. Small pieces. OK?'
'Whatever.'
'Now you talk. Not lie. Nice face.' He gazed at it. 'Not nice if burned. Then you tell truth.'
From a jacket thrown across the end of the large table he extracted a crumpled pack of cigarettes, a match- book. For a moment she was flooded with fear. Then the urge to kill him submerged the fear. She watched as he fumbled with the matches, a cigarette hanging loosely from his cruel lips. He lit the cigarette, puffed at it. The cigarette went out. He wasn't a smoker. And he had made one mistake. Perhaps two.
He lit another cigarette, grinning at her. It went out. He dropped the match-book, bent down, picked it up, stood up. Her legs were already stiffened. She stood up, leapt at him, threw him off balance, toppled him across the table. She hoisted her handcuffed wrists high, brought them down behind his neck, jerked her hands forward, then twisted one wrist over the other. The chain was round his neck, pressing savagely into his throat. She pulled her
