Mac wingate 4, p.9
Mac Wingate 4, page 9
It made no difference. He kept squeezing. Fedora fell to his knees, his hands just beginning to claw at Wingate. He made tiny little choking noises in the back of his throat. He was a ridiculous, pitiful sight. Wingate’s initial kick had caused him to slam headfirst against a tarp support, driving the hat down on his head and crushing the crown. His desperate, bloodshot eyes peered out just under the fedora’s rim.
Angered he wasn’t dead yet, Wingate kicked him in the stomach and renewed his pressure on his neck. The two sudden moves did it. Fedora’s head snapped forward in response to the stomach blow, then snapped back as Wingate’s strong hands grew ever tighter. His neck couldn’t take it. He stopped breathing, but his eyes stayed open. Wingate dropped the well-dressed rag doll. Fedora slid soundlessly to the truck floor, his hat finally falling off.
Wingate didn’t relax even then. He quickly turned back to crew cut. The other Ovra was sitting on the bench, the knife still high in his chest, his eyes opened in shock as well. Wingate turned his attention to the back of the truck. There was no one in sight. He looked around the truck floor. The two Ovras were the only occupants besides himself. He was lucky. All the other bodies had been taken out before him. It would have been an American tragedy if this double assassination had been ruined by tripping over a Corsican corpse.
Wingate only hoped his luck would hold out. He leaned down and rolled fedora over. The dead eyes continued to stare up, greasy black hair hanging down over his forehead. Wingate ignored the face and pulled open the Ovra’s jacket. It was just as he had hoped. The fellow was wearing the latest in Italian suits—baggy and wide-shouldered. Even though he was thinner than Wingate, the American could fit very well in the outfit. He went to work pulling the clothes off the Italian corpse.
He made quick work of it. He didn’t want his escape interrupted by any curious or bored Ovra who thought he might check on the truck’s unloading. Less than two minutes later, Wingate had pulled on the man’s jacket, pants, and overcoat. The knife was out of crew cut’s chest, wiped on crew cut’s sleeve, and back in Wingate’s leg scabbard. He had found fedora’s Beretta in a belt holster which was too small for Wingate to wear. He checked the rounds—only five left—and stuck it in his overcoat pocket.
Last but not least, he took the fedora, pushed it back out to its regular shape and pulled it on his head. At a distance—a good distance—Wingate imagined he could pass as the dead Ovra. But he had no intention of testing the disguise. Laying his Corsican pants over the stripped Ovra’s naked legs, he moved to the rear of the truck. First he looked out the back. He saw that the truck had stopped in a courtyard surrounded by a stone fence. It was a handsome stone fence, smooth, gray, and even. Beyond the fence Wingate could see some hills and the Mediterranean Sea. This courtyard stretched as far as he could see to the right.
Wingate moved over to the right side of the truck rear. On that side he saw more of the cobblestoned courtyard and the edge of an unused fountain. He moved back to the left edge and stuck his head out. Behind the fountain, he now saw the back of a rather impressive building. The tall windows were surrounded by gilded wood and the edges of the walls held elaborate decorations. It seemed to be a mansion the Ovra had taken as their own. Wingate moved his head back inside and looked down. Over the lip of the truck he could see the piled bodies of the Corsicans. At least their eyes were closed.
Wingate knew he couldn’t afford to wait too long to make a decision. He tried to think while loosening up his shoulder muscles, still tight after the double killing. After a few seconds of rubbing, he nodded to himself. He would escape over the stone wall. Wingate took another look out the left side of the truck. He could see nothing living along the building or in the windows. He glanced to his right. Just cobblestones, wall, vases, air, and water as far as the eye could see. He nodded again and hopped out of the truck. As soon as he hit the courtyard’s stones, he ran for the wall, ignoring the pain in his stiff legs. He made it to the wall in nine long strides, placed his hands on the top, and threw himself over.
His eyes bulged, his hands became claws, and he was hard pressed not to shout with surprise. With an incredible effort he got his arms wrapped around the ledge and slammed his legs on the side. The only thing beyond the stone wall was a drop of fifty feet, straight down.
Wingate would have slugged himself for his stupidity if his hands weren’t so busy scrambling for a hold. He quickly redistributed his weight and pulled himself back over into the courtyard. Leaning heavily against the wall, he saw the open space was more of a stone patio, jutting off the mansion like building. Wherever the structure was located in terms of the main section of Bastia, it rested upon a small mountain of its own. Wingate looked back over the low stone wall. All there was below to cushion his fall were rocks. The cliff wall itself was sheer. Wingate was trapped once again.
Nervously he ran back to the truck. After a fast, but thorough check of the cab, he could find nothing to help him. There was no rope, no maps, not even any extra bullets. Wingate sat on the step on the driver’s side, the truck between him and the mansion. It was a wonderful mess, he thought. Two men dead in the truck, a pile of corpses behind the truck, and a fifty-foot drop to a bed of rocks. Not to mention a blood-encrusted American wearing a Corsican shirt and boots as well as an Italian suit too small for him.
Wingate smiled suddenly with honest good humor. His situation was so ludicrous, his actions so severe, his experiences so extreme, just the smile relieved him. He would have laughed if another part of his mind hadn’t reminded him it would be dangerous. He ran his hands across his face, pulled off the fedora, and scratched his head. He didn’t have to decide what to do next. The only thing he could do was brave the interior of the mansion until he found a way out. His decision now was to decide when to do it. The thought sobered him immediately. The sudden smile, he had no doubt, had come with the realization of what he had to do and the extremely bad odds that came with it. One wrong move, one slip, and he’d be fighting all the Ovras in the middle of Ovra headquarters.
He steeled himself and rose, slipping his hand in the overcoat pocket to feel the comforting steel of the Beretta. Five bullets and a fedora was about all he had. It would have to do. Wingate moved around the truck and strode purposely toward the building. He threw a glance toward his left and froze. The sight of the fountain reminded him that his face was still a blood-smeared mess. He made a quick detour toward it. The water lying at its bottom was brackish and scum covered, but effective. With a few fast splashes, Wingate had washed his face of all redness. He felt no telltale sting when the water bounced off his forehead, which he hoped meant his wound had started to heal. He rubbed his features on the overcoat sleeves, and for extra protection, carefully pulled the hat back on—over the tear at his hairline.
He tilted his head to scan the line of tall windows on the building. He could still see no one inside. Maybe he had misjudged the mansion’s use. Maybe it wasn’t Ovra headquarters. Maybe it was a makeshift hospital or laboratory. Maybe he would have no trouble walking right through and out the other side. And maybe the blow on his temple would make him see little pink elephants wearing tutus. Wingate did not relish his chances.
Straightening, he lifted his head to the midday sun, figuring the warm rays would dry any excess moisture before he made it inside. His eyes stayed on the building facade, spying a door in the middle of the wall’s base. Praying for the best, Wingate moved toward it. He couldn’t help approaching it cautiously from the side. Even though he had decided to take the bull by the horns and enter, he figured that was no excuse not to be careful. The fewer people that saw him the better.
He stood calmly beside the door, peering inside through one of the four window panes set in the entrance. All he saw was a thin, simple marble staircase. He tried the latch. It gave. He pulled down and swung the door open just far enough to slip through. Pulling the door open slowly would only have accentuated any creak the hinges might have. Thankfully, there was none. So far, so good. He was inside the building and no one the wiser.
Staying on the left side, he moved slowly up the steps. There were eight of them. As Wingate reached the third, he could see a long, tall hallway over the top. It was surprisingly wide and ornate, topped by a vaulted ceiling and dotted with unused, dark chandeliers. As far as Wingate could see, the hallway was empty. He silently moved from the steps into the hallway proper, looking for any kind of exit. The area was unusually devoid of decoration. Between lines of closed doors on either side were tattered remnants of tapestries, broken sets of furniture, small piles of rubble, and slight discolorations where paintings must have once hung. Wingate imagined that the mansion had lost all its grandeur to two sets of enemy occupiers.
Still, he could see nothing else and no one down the entire hall length. It was a big building, so it was possible that everyone was in another hall or on another floor. Not caring which, Wingate moved quickly and quietly down its length, his head darting to the right and left. He checked every doorway to see what was inside. In the first few cases he saw only high ceilinged rooms, devoid of furnishings. The central part of the hall held only wall space. As he neared the far end, however, he noticed a subtle change. The doors had become plainer, more severe, with frames of metal, rather than wood. In addition, the knobs and latches were replaced by locks, while their windows were boarded over.
Curious, Wingate rested a moment and placed his ear on one. He heard nothing. Shrugging, he continued on his way, coming to an ornate double door at the end of the hall. He stopped before it, looking over his shoulder to see if he had missed anything. The hall was as empty as it had been when he was at the other end. Wingate’s worries returned with renewed vigor. Another door, he thought, with who-knows-what on the other side. His problem was that he’d have to find out. This particular door had a rather impressive silver latch, which gave with a certain reluctance when Wingate pressed on it. Its loud click when opening made Wingate cringe. He pulled it back just enough to fit his body, then stopped.
He heard a noise other than his own. He remained motionless, jammed in the doorway, listening. He heard the unmistakable sound of movement and voices. It seemed as if his exit would not be effortless after all. He thanked Providence that he had had the wisdom not to knife the Ovra with the fedora. The one thing he didn’t need was a rip in, and blood all over his disguise. Closing his eyes, he silently recalled all the conversational Italian he knew. “Capisce” “ciao” and “cara mia” wasn’t much to go on, but would have to suffice. Reopening his eyes, Wingate stuck his head through the doorway for an advance peek.
To his relief, the new hallway was not crawling with people. To his distress, it wasn’t empty either. It certainly was better furnished, having chairs and tables placed intermittently along the walls. Unfortunately, on one of those chairs and standing in front of one of those tables were two men. He would have to pass them if he wanted to move down this new hallway. The two men were involved in a friendly conversation and both were smoking. Beyond the subdued murmur of their voices, Wingate also heard activity in several of the rooms. Through the closed doorways he could distinguish the sound of Italian curses and sharp slaps. It didn’t make him feel any better that he was right all along. This was Ovra headquarters and most of the men were entertaining themselves by bashing the captured Corsicans around. The only positive thing to say for the arrangement was that they might not notice an extra Ovra in a fedora sneaking quietly out the building.
Wingate was just about to move forward when the door closest to the two men opened and another man stuck his head out. Wingate pulled himself back into the slightly opened doorway and waited. The third man spoke quickly to the others, who ran up to him. All three disappeared into the room and the door closed with a thump. Wingate breathed a sigh of relief, although he couldn’t help noticing the abrupt slam of the door had loosened a panel that swung lazily open. Through it the sounds of vigorous violence could be heard more clearly.
Just then Wingate realized the nature of the Ovra’s position in Corsica. Their fellow Italian soldiers had surrendered, leaving them more or less on their own. The Germans were just passing through, in a hurry to get to the Italian mainland. Most of the Corsicans tried to stay neutral, but the constant attacks of the maquisards made it tough. Consequently, the Ovras took advantage of the situation. With no real governing control and no real way to prove any Corsican they picked up wasn’t a maquisard, they must be having the times of their sadistic lives. Wingate had no doubt that upon investigation an incredible array of physical and sexual atrocities would be attributed to the Italian secret police.
But the American had no pressing desire to check out the skeletons in the Ovra closets. He wanted to find an Ovra window, an Ovra door, anything that would get him back into town. Once he found and blew up the train the Wernzellis wanted him to, he’d leave the Ovras to the French retribution. Wingate slipped through the doorway and moved down the new hall. He slowed when he neared each successive doorway, taking pains to check that they were not ajar and the panels were shut. He had passed two sets of closed doors when he noticed something unusual in the middle of the floor. It was a shaft of light.
Wingate stopped and looked to his left. The light was coming from a doorway directly across from the room with its door panel open. It meant that the door was ajar and that there was a window inside the room. A window Wingate hoped led to something other than a cliff. He moved slowly to the right side of the hallway, stopping just before the door the Ovras had disappeared into. He still heard the sounds of brutal interrogation, but he welcomed them. As long as the punches and shouts kept up, it would mask any noise he might make. He focused his eyes on the end of the hallway. There was another double door. Rather than brave the chance of a third hallway, Wingate decided to check out the room across the way.
He tiptoed across the hall, having a hard time quelling the excitement that was bubbling up inside him. He stopped against the wall, just short of the room with the door ajar. He would have to glance in the room before he entered. He only hoped that the men in the room across the way would be too occupied to be looking through the open panel in his direction. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he pushed his head into the open doorway. He saw nothing but a marble table, a cushioned chair tipped over on its side, and a big, beautiful glass window with a glorious strong tree right outside it.
Wingate pulled his head back, leaned against the wall, and inwardly cheered. He was as good as out. Even if the window had no natural opening, he knew ways to break the panes quietly. And even if the window was high above the ground, a tree could not grow on air. Wingate could climb down easily.
He was ready to make his move. He stepped forward to the doorway. Just before he slipped inside, he hazarded a glance at the open panel across the way to make sure none of the interrogators were looking in his direction.
They weren’t. The man being interrogated, however, was.
He was sitting in a plain wooden chair, his arms secured behind his back. His face was a mass of bruises, and blood was dribbling out of his nose down into his beard. His eyes stared straight ahead, boring into Wingate with an awful strength. A flood of recognition blasted into Wingate’s brain with the power of a howitzer.
It was Abu, the missing member of Operation Granite.
Chapter Five
It was difficult to check the torrent of anguished thoughts that assailed the American. The Goum had survived his mad attack of the other night. Somehow he had charged into the midst of gunfire without getting killed. Somehow he had fallen into the clutches of the Ovra. It certainly didn’t make sense that he would wander off even after the shooting stopped. He would have returned to the cliff edge to help Thomas. The incident of the children shooting, the wild-haired woman, and the maquisards suddenly took on even more layers of intrigue.
Those thoughts moved through the back of Wingate’s mind. In the forefront were thoughts of what the hell he was going to do and the silent, selfish prayer that Abu would not blow his cover by shouting out or pointing at him.
The Goum was made of stronger stuff. A moment after their eyes had locked, Wingate saw Abu’s eyes move away and an Italian fist swing into his jaw. A moment after that Wingate’s decision was made for him. He heard the double door at the end of the hallway start to open. He looked in that direction, seeing the silver latches moving downward. He immediately slipped through the doorway and into the room. Without looking back, he moved to the window, found an iron latch on the left side, pulled it down, and pushed the window open.
Warm air tumbled in, making Wingate blink even as he was pulling himself out. The tree rose majestically alongside at a distance of about ten feet. Its branches stretched in every direction but toward the window. Wingate looked down. It wasn’t a terrible drop—about fifteen, twenty feet—but the incline below and the proximity of a tall stone wall flanking the tree’s base made jumping risky. If he didn’t land squarely on his feet, which was likely, since the ground beneath the tree trunk was severely sloped, he would probably bash his head against the tree or the wall.
He looked to his left. The building’s wall was flat, hemmed in by the same tall stone wall that ended abruptly at a corner. Wingate imagined the patio he had come from was beyond the wall at the back. He looked to his right. It was almost the same. The wall moved in at the front corner to cut off this courtyard as well. If Wingate was going to get out this way, he’d have to use the tree as a bridge to get to the wall. If there was another cliff on the other side, he’d have to walk, crawl, or climb along the wall to the front. He certainly couldn’t risk walking through the halls anymore.
