Background to Danger (26 page)

The tank was still warm from its use earlier that day. The atmosphere reeked of hot rubber. It would not, he thought, be long before unconsciousness put an end to his fear and misery. Meanwhile there was time to be endured, seconds, minutes, perhaps hours of it; time in which his brain would go on working and his body feeling. It was that, he decided, which he feared. The actual business of dying seemed, by comparison, unimportant. Whether his soul went fluttering on its way to the fires of Purgatory or whether his being succumbed without passion to the laws
of bio-chemistry, did not, at the moment, matter. There was time to be killed. Cornelius de Witt, he remembered, being tortured to death, had passed the time by repeating the Regulus Ode of Horace. He began to repeat to himself some odd scraps of verse of which he was fond—a sonnet of Donne’s, a piece of Wilfred Owen’s, part of “Kubla Khan,” a speech from Marlowe’s “Tamburlaine”—but after a time he found himself repeating the same line over and over again and gave it up. Poetry concerned itself with the love of life and the fear of death rather than with the prospects of immortality. It was curious, he reflected, how little comfort it brought to physical adversity. Perhaps de Witt had been seeking merely to hurry his executioners. Perhaps …

“Kenton!”

The word was spoken in a whisper, but it rang in the confined space.

“Is that you, Zaleshoff?”

“Yes.”

“Have you just woken up?”

“No; I came round as they picked me out of a car.”

Kenton was silent for a moment. Then:

“You know where we are, then?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. It was my fault.”

“How do you feel?”

“Not so good. I’ve been trying to persuade a pneumatic drill in my head to lay off; but it just keeps on drilling.”

“Did you hear what Saridza told me?”

“No, but I heard what you told Saridza. You were yelling at him like a crazy man when I arrived.”

Kenton decided to break the news.

“This is a vulcanising tank.”

Zaleshoff grunted.

“I guessed that.”

“It’s pretty well airtight.”

“I guessed that too. What’s the diameter of the door?”

“I don’t know. About two metres, I suppose.”

“And how far back does this go?”

“Saridza said it took two trucks of cable. About four metres, I should say. Why?”

Zaleshoff muttered to himself for a moment.

“That means,” he went on, “that we’ve got about twelve and a half cubic metres of air in here. Allowing for the volume of our bodies, say eleven. Is Grigori alive?”

“I don’t think so.”

“That gives us five and a half cubic metres each. With a bit of luck and if this tank cools fairly quickly that might keep us alive for as long as seven hours if we keep still and don’t talk. The workers should be here by then.”

Kenton checked the reply that rose to his lips.

“Is there any chance,” he said, “of Tamara or your other man, Peter, looking for us here?”

“Tamara will if she knows we’re here; but she won’t think of looking in this hole. Besides, she’s got her work to do. You heard those three shots?”

“Yes.”

“That was Tamara’s signal that she was making her getaway. She’ll be keeping tabs on Saridza and getting in touch with our people in Prague. What puzzles me is why Saridza didn’t shoot us. He must be getting tenderhearted.”

Kenton took a deep breath:

“I wish he had shot us. You see, Andreas, there will be no workers here for another thirty hours. It’s Sunday.”

For a minute there was not a sound but the ticking of the watch on Zaleshoff’s wrist. Then the Russian laughed softly.

“I see,” he said; “that means we shall have to do some thinking.”

“Such as?”

But Zaleshoff did not answer. For a long time neither spoke. Kenton felt that it was getting hotter. He began to sweat profusely and found that he was breathing a little faster than usual. He guessed that the amount of oxygen in the tank had begun to diminish. He lay perfectly still trying unsuccessfully to keep his breathing deep and regular.

“Are you sure,” said Zaleshoff after a time, “that Saridza said this held
two
trucks?”

“Yes, why?”

“The air’s getting bad already. We can’t have been in here more than an hour.”

“It seems like more.”

“It would. Isn’t there a watchman?”

“Slugged by Mailler.”

“We must do something. Have you got anything we can knock on that door with? If Tamara comes or if the watchman got free we might be able to attract attention.”

Kenton felt that this was rather a slender chance but it provided something to think about.

“I haven’t got anything. What about Grigori?”

“They might possibly have left his gun. Have you got any matches?”

“In my pocket, but I can’t get at them.”

“Roll over beside me.”

Kenton did as he was told. He felt Zaleshoff’s manacled hands fumbling at his coat pocket. A moment or two later, Zaleshoff grunted that he had the box.

“We can’t afford to waste oxygen on matches,” he said; “I’m going to strike a match and put it out after three seconds. In that time you must see where Grigori is lying and where his right side pocket is. He kept his gun there. Then lever yourself across with your back to him and feel for the gun.”

The stalk of the first match broke.

“Fingers numb,” muttered Zaleshoff.

A second later a match flared, lit up the black side of the tank and went out. Kenton began to wriggle his way towards the body. It took him several minutes to get into position. The exertion made him pant for breath and the sweat ran into his eyes, but at last he rolled over and his knuckles pressed against the dead man’s coat. The pocket was empty. He rolled over again and lay still striving to regain his breath.

“No?” said Zaleshoff.

“No. But I can tell you why the air’s going quickly.”

“Why?”

“There’s a truck with a drum of cable on it in with us.”

“Is the core of the drum hollow?” “I didn’t notice.”

“If it is it’ll take up nearly a third of the volume with the cable itself and the truck. It looks as though we’ve only got about four and a half hours to go now.”

“Four and a half too many.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

They were silent. Kenton’s head was beginning to ache. He tried to sleep but in spite of the lassitude he could feel stealing over his body, sleep would not come. It seemed to him that he lay there weeks and years. He wished that his heart would not pump so rapidly in his head. Perhaps if he raised himself to a sitting position on the rails and leaned against the curved side of the tank the blood would drain from his head. But he found that he could not summon sufficient energy to make this move. Again and again he counted up to ten mentally resolving that as he came to eleven he would make the effort to sit up; but each time it was only in his imagination that he moved. His body remained where it was. There was a faint singing in his ears. It was curiously like the whine of a mosquito. Suddenly he
gave a convulsive start. He had been dozing. He knew now that he did not want to go to sleep, that he must keep awake at all costs. Someone might come. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than, following it, came the bitter reflection that of all human follies the most pitiful was the hope that sprang eternal, the refusal to accept the inevitable even when the footsteps of the executioner were ringing in the corridor outside. Someone might come. Something, the impossible, might happen. The age of miracles … a stitch in time … amazing escape. His eyes filled with tears.

“Zaleshoff,” he said at last, “do you think we could untie each other’s hands?”

There was no reply.

“Zaleshoff!” he cried sharply.

“All right, I was thinking. Did you happen to notice how the door was fastened?”

“I thought you’d gone to sleep. Yes, there’s a kind of lug with a slot in it. A long thick bolt with a wheel-nut on it goes into the slot, then the nut is done up.”

“Is the lug part of the door or bolted on to it?”

“Part of the door, I think. Why? You can’t touch it from this side.”

“What about the hinges?”

“They’re about four inches thick.”

“Part of the door?”

“I don’t know. What are you getting at?”

“A little while ago we were looking for something to bang on the door with. We’ve got it.”

“What do you mean?”

“That truck of cable. It’s on rails. One of them is sticking into the small of my back; that’s what reminded me of it. If we get behind the truck we’ll have about a six-foot run to the door. Is the drum full of cable?”

“Yes.”

“Then it probably weighs nearly half a ton with the truck. If we could get a bit of momentum on it, it would give the door a bad shaking.”

“And make plenty of noise. Yes, I see.”

“It might do something more than make a noise. I’ve been feeling the surface of that door. There’s not much pressure inside a vulcanising tank and no need for anything like boiler-plating. It’s made of cast iron. That’s why I asked you if the lug is cast as a part of the door.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Cast iron is brittle.”

Kenton’s heart missed a beat. For the first time there was a minute scrap of justification for hoping. He repressed his rising spirits firmly.

“But we can’t do anything with our hands and feet tied.”

“No, that’s the first thing to tackle. We can try undoing each other’s hands as you suggested but I don’t think it’ll do much good with wire. My fingers are paralysed.”

“So are mine, but we can try.”

They rolled over and manœuvred until they were back to back with their arms touching. Kenton felt his hands pressing against something, but his fingers were numb and he could not tell whether he was touching Zaleshoff’s wrists or the rail below them.

“It’s no use,” he said after a minute or two “there’s not a scrap of feeling in my fingers.”

“Same here,” said Zaleshoff; “the only thing we can do is to file a wire through on the edge of the rail. The inside edge is quite sharp.”

“We’ll never do it.”

“We’ve got to try.”

Kenton heaved himself into a sitting position and found that by turning sideway, he could get his hands on either side of the rail. It was impossible in that position, however, to get any pressure on the rail. He was forced to lie alongside
the rail on the short steel cross-pieces that functioned as sleepers. He started on the strand nearest his hands.

The two men worked in silence. For a time the rail edge scratched from side to side across the inch of wire between Kenton’s wrists; but eventually it made a nick in the copper and he found the going easier. But even so, the exertion in the rapidly fouling air and the cramped position soon left him gasping for breath and bathed in sweat. At last he lay still, his aching head resting against the warm side of the tank.

“Keep at it,” panted Zaleshoff.

“All right.”

Setting his teeth, Kenton attacked the wire again. He made no effort now to conserve his strength. Bruising his wrists and arms and cutting his fingers, he hacked desperately at the wire. His entire consciousness became centred in a small cross-section of hard copper wire. Another twenty strokes would cut it through. The twenty became forty, eighty, a hundred. He started counting from one again. But still the wire held while the time went on and the supply of oxygen became smaller and smaller. He was nearly sobbing with exhaustion when, suddenly, Zaleshoff let out a hoarse cry of triumph.

“Made it!”

Kenton put out his last ounce of strength. Two minutes later the wire gave and the tension on his wrists slackened. He rolled on to his back and stretched out his fingers luxuriously. He began massaging his fingers to restore the circulation. They started to ache. The ache became excruciating pins and needles as the blood flowed back into his hands. He reached down, freed his ankles and then, very gingerly, stood up. A hand touched his coat.

“O.K.?” said Zaleshoff.

“More or less.”

“Now for the truck.”

“What about Grigori?”

“We’ll have to get him out of the way.”

“There’s a space below the rail sleepers.”

They felt their way to the body and dragged it to the centre of the track. Then they slid it forward and downward, feet first, between two of the cross-pieces. As they eased the head down Zaleshoff murmured some words in Russian.

“He was a good Soviet citizen,” he added, “and also of the Greek Church.” He was silent for a moment. “Come on,” he said at last.

They squeezed their way past the truck and found that there was a foot to spare between the cable drum and the end of the tank.

By this time the air had become almost insufferably hot and foul. Before attempting to do anything further, they stripped themselves to the waist.

“Now,” panted Zaleshoff, “we push together. Take care not to put your foot between the sleepers.”

They heaved at the truck. It squeaked forward a few inches.

“Again!”

The truck gathered speed. The next moment there was a loud crash as it hit the door. They stumbled after it and tried the door; but it was firm.

“Back with it.”

They lugged the truck back into position and tried again; but still the door held. After the eighth attempt Kenton sank to his knees exhausted. His head was swimming and there was a pain in his chest; he wanted to retch and his arms and legs felt as if they did not belong to his body.

“It’s no use,” he managed to gasp out, “we’re finished.”

He could hear the Russian struggling to get his breath.

“Must go on,” Zaleshoff muttered at last; “but rest first.”

Kenton abandoned himself to the desperate fight to get
enough oxygen into his lungs. A great weight seemed to be pressing down on him, crushing him, forcing his head down lower and lower …

A stinging slap on the face brought him round with a jerk.

“Kenton!”

“Yes?”

“Come on, get up.”

He crawled slowly to his feet and lurched forward against the side of the truck.

“Back with it, Kenton … for God’s sake push!”

Scarcely knowing what he was doing, the journalist put his shoulder to the truck and stumbled forward. The truck rolled ponderously to the end of the tank.