Stranger at the Gates (19 page)

Softly the lift came to a stop. There was a red light on the wall by the buttons and it glowed. Savage was on the level with the laboratories. He pushed back the grill, opened the door and stepped out. He found himself in a short corridor, constructed of concrete blocks, with soundproofed ceiling and fluorescent lighting. There was no other exit that he could see. The entrance to the laboratory was at the end of the passage. Savage left the lift door ajar; so long as the little red eye was alight, the lift couldn't be called upstairs, leaving him trapped.

The door to the cellar was steel. He examined the lock and couldn't see any signs of an alarm system being attached to it. If anything existed like an electric beam, he had already broken it. He began to try the keys on Brühl's chain, and with the second try he was successful. The massive door was on a weight mechanism; it swung open and then closed behind him. He felt for a light switch, found something and clicked it down. Instantly there was a flood of brilliant light. Six enormous strip lights bared what had been the château cellars and was now a single room some sixty feet in length. Savage stood for a moment, looking round him. A part of his brain registered that no alarm had sounded. There were long tables with scientific instruments, drawing-boards, some of the paraphernalia of all laboratories. Along the left-hand wall hung a row of twenty gas-masks, suspended like gargoyles from hooks, under each of them a white overall. He stepped into the room. There were two big steel cabinets down the centre, with rows of drawers. He went to one and pulled; it opened, disclosing a thick hessian file. The other drawers were the same. He wandered round the tables and the drawing-boards. He understood nothing which was written on them. Formula XV was in that room; the gas-masks proved it. But where? In what guise? He walked from one end to the other and could see nothing. Back to the filing cabinets again. Records; millions of words, the history of their researches, carefully documented. There must be a safe, a vault below the present level where what they were working on was kept … It was in the middle of the wall of steel cabinets. A large square box standing at chest height. There was nothing marked on it to indicate what it contained, only a single word in German, printed on a pasteboard slip inside a slot on the front.
Caution
. The lock was inset into the top, covered by a metal flap. Savage went to where the gas-masks hung, stuffed Minden's hat into his pocket and put one on. For a moment he couldn't see clearly; he wiped the goggles with a handkerchief. There was an odd-looking key on Brühl's chain, a thick key with a stubby snout and two irregular-shaped teeth. It fitted the lock.

And there, sitting squat on a shelf inside the steel box, were two glass containers. The contents looked like water. Completely colourless; he tipped one slightly and the formula moved sluggishly, like oil. A pure concentrate, enough to stock hundreds of bombs, to throw hundreds of thousands of people into the violent paroxysms that preceded death. If he spilt the stuff on the floor it would kill the German garrison at the Château. And it would seep out and destroy the people in the area, spreading God knew how far, carried like the plague. He couldn't do it. Savage put the container down. He didn't think of his own life; frustration brought a sweat of agony out on his body; it ran down his face inside the mask, making his eyes sting. He had the formula there, a hand's reach away. All he had to do was destroy it. But how? How? He almost shouted the word, and it came muffled through the filtered mouthpiece. There was an answer and he couldn't find it—there was something, something he knew … And then he saw them, up above his head. A dozen eyes in the ceiling, round and black, at five-foot intervals in two rows. Water. Water neutralised the gas. That was what Brühl's memo said, what Minden's notes had repeated. The formula was still imperfect because rainfall would render the gas harmless. ‘We must find a solution.' Minden had underlined those words. And there, right above him, was a sprinkler system, installed in case of fire. He pulled off the mask, slipped the rubber headstrap over his wrist, and began to run to the near end of the room. There was the little glass box, with the lever behind it and the instruction in Schrift printed above in red.
In case of fire break glass and depress lever!
He paused for a few seconds, deciding how best it could be done. Water would destroy the formula. And the records. Two years of work and research on how to murder millions of people in the extremity of agony. All neatly documented in those filing cabinets. He went to the first of them and opened every drawer to its length. He did the same with the second. Then he took out both containers of the formula and stood them on top of the steel safe. He pulled on the gas-mask and went to the emergency lever; lifting the glass flap, and taking the handle, he pulled. Immediately there was a drenching downpour from the system overhead. Water cascaded from the sprinklers. Savage drew Minden's revolver, cocked it and took aim. He fired twice; the glass jars shattered, their deadly contents spurted outwards, lost in the flood pouring from the ceiling. Savage turned and ran to the exit. He locked the steel door and pounded down the passage to the lift. Inside, he slammed the gate shut and punched the button marked ‘ground floor'. He tore off the gas-mask, smoothed Minden's cap and pulled it on; he suddenly noticed that his hand was shaking. The lift stopped in its noiseless way. Carefully he opened the outer door; the dimly lit main hall was silent. Nobody had heard the two shots, buried down beneath the floor. If the corridor had been soundproofed, so was the laboratory itself.

He stepped out of the lift and pushed the door closed behind him. If nobody heard anything or went near Brühl till the morning, that laboratory would be under ten feet of water. Everything in it, every record, every drawing, would be destroyed. And the murderous fluid floating in globules on the surface of the water could harm no one. Not even its creators, when they discovered what had happened. The two guards were at the entrance; they were sitting down, one had his head sunk forward, lightly dozing. Savage didn't hesitate. He walked towards them. ‘You!' He barked the word. ‘Sleeping? Stand to attention!'

They leaped to their feet, rigid; the man who had drifted off for a few minutes gasped out loud with fear. ‘Open the door,' Savage snapped. ‘Immediately!'

He stepped out into the night and into the courtyard. For a moment he couldn't see the car; it was hidden in a patch of shadow. He slipped his hand into the greatcoat pocket and came out with Brühl's keys. One quick movement flung them into the darkness. He got into the car; there was a horrific moment when the ignition wouldn't fire. He pressed the starter and there was nothing but a sleepy rattle. Then suddenly it burst into a steady throb as the engine turned; the chassis trembled, and he let in the clutch. He stopped at the gate; two guards came up to him, their torches shining. He fumbled for Minden's card, swearing furiously, thrust it through the window and, on an impulse, punched the horn. The gates were opened quickly, the guards were at the salute as he swept past them. Not until he had turned away from the Château and was on the road to St. Blaize, did he realise he had forgotten to switch on his lights. He also realised something else: the shoulders of Minden's greatcoat were soaking wet. He swore, more from a sense of petty anticlimax than from anxiety. A wet coat was no problem. Nothing was any problem now. He had done the impossible and come out of it alive. So far. He found a cigarette and lit it. Perhaps now he could think about Patricia. Never about his child. That was impossible, the mind couldn't endure it. But his wife, whom he had failed in all that really mattered. Perhaps now he could think about her, because Brühl was dead, and what had killed her was destroyed. He looked at his watch; it was three-thirty. He had told Louise de Bernard to keep Minden occupied until four o'clock. His inclination was to drive fast, but he restrained it. Steady now. No accidents, no stopping, no puncture. The idea almost made him laugh. It was three-forty-five when he glided into the garage under Minden's batman's sleeping quarters, his engine cut off, the car coasting home on its own impetus. The Château was completely dark; he moved very quietly, using the little torch to find his way upstairs. Outside Louise's door he paused; there was a line of light showing under it and he could hear soft voices. He went on upstairs to Minden's room, stripped off the uniform, pushing the wet greatcoat to the back of the cupboard, changing Minden's second coat to its place on the rack. The briefcase was there; he removed his photograph from the yellow pass, put it back in the briefcase and closed it, snapping the lock shut. A look round the room showed everything in place; there was no sign that anyone had been there or that anything had been moved. Savage went out, closing the door without making a sound and slipped into his own room. Four-ten. He lay on the bed, waiting; his body felt stiff, his neck ached with the onset of tension. He tried for a moment to think about his wife, but a strange inhibition closed her image out of his mind. Out of the weariness, the mingled sense of exultation and the inevitable let-down after so much pressure on the nervous system, Savage found that he was thinking of Louise de Bernard as if she were the only woman he had ever known in his life.

‘I'm very happy,' Minden said. ‘I hope you are happy too.' He stood by the bed looking down at her.

‘Yes,' Louise said, ‘of course. But I really must sleep now.'

‘I've tired you.' Minden bent over her, one hand stroked her shoulder. ‘I'm sorry. You're the most beautiful woman in the world. I adore you.'

Louise raised her arm; her watch showed four-fifteen. ‘Here, your chain. You'd better put it on.'

‘It wouldn't do to lose it,' he smiled, fastening the chain with the locket and the key round his neck. ‘Let me kiss you once more. Then I'll go.'

‘No,' Louise said. ‘Please—I'm so exhausted.'

‘Good night then,' he whispered, taking her hand in both of his and pressing it to his mouth. He murmured something in German which she didn't understand. When the door closed, Louise lay back and for a moment her eyes closed, and real exhaustion overcame her. The first time he had made love like a pig; the second time, after he woke from sleep, he had decided to arouse her; she didn't know which had been the worst. He had become very emotional; the mixture of sexuality and sentimentality nauseated her. She ran her hands over her body and shuddered. The back of her hand was still moist from his kiss. When she went to his room she had expected some query. He had been in bed reading, when she opened his door and stood just inside it. ‘I'm lonely,' she had said. ‘I thought you might be too.' He had thrown the bedclothes off and come to her; immediately excited, he had wanted to take her there, and it was with some difficulty that she persuaded him to follow her to her room. He hadn't asked a question. Four-fifteen. Four-twenty. She got up and put her nightdress on and dressing-gown. She had begun to tremble; the sense of degradation passed into panic as she thought of Savage. Had he come back—if she went to his room and it was empty, would that mean he had been caught, and had he swallowed the lethal pill in time …? Or was he at that moment in the hands of the guards, carrying Minden's pass and wearing Minden's uniform? She hadn't faced the reality before; her decision to seduce the Major was an emotional one, like giving Savage shelter, taken without a proper calculation of the risks involved. If Savage failed, then they were all doomed, she and Jean and the helpless old Comte, even the children … Her husband was right. To risk her own life was one thing, but to put Paul and Sophie at risk …

When the door opened and she saw Savage she gave a cry.

He didn't say anything; he came and put his arms round her. He could feel her trembling. ‘It's all right,' he whispered. ‘Everything worked. All thanks to you.'

‘I was so terrified,' she said at last. ‘I stood here and suddenly realised what would have happened to us all if you'd been caught. To the children too. I must have been mad.' She shook her head. ‘Quite mad to do it.'

‘Maybe.' Savage lit a cigarette and gave it to her. ‘But you've just helped to win the war. Calm down now and listen to me. My job was to kill Brühl, to stop him getting the gas to the production stage. Without him, it would take months. And they haven't got months. The invasion is only weeks away. I did my job and I did more. I wrecked the laboratory and destroyed the stocks. Okay, you've slept with a German and you risked the lives of your whole family. But it was the right decision. Even if it went wrong, it would still have been right. Look at me.' He bent down and kissed her mouth; her lips were cold and they didn't open.

‘Quit worrying,' he said.

‘You killed him,' she said. ‘It doesn't worry you …'

‘No,' Savage said, ‘it doesn't. You forget. He murdered my wife and child.'

‘I'm sorry,' Louise said. ‘I didn't mean to say that. I'm just not used to people being killed.'

‘Let's hope you never have to be,' he said.

‘Would you tell me about her?' He didn't answer at once. He drew hard on the cigarette and blew the smoke out with violence.

‘I've been trying to think about her tonight,' he said. ‘And I can't. I've had a picture of her in my mind, ever since I knew what had happened. We had a boat, a nice thirty-footer, I used to take her sailing round Cape Cod. She loved the sea; it was the only thing I did she really enjoyed. I remember her sitting up in the bows, with her hair blowing all over the place, looking out to sea. She used to tan very dark. She was Belgian. Her name was Patricia.'

Louise took the cigarette stub out of his fingers. ‘What happened? Why wasn't she in the States?'

‘Because she left me,' he said. ‘We'd been married four years, she was never happy in California; I tried moving to New York to practise, but that was worse. I met her in Switzerland. I married her when she was just a kid, straight out of convent school. She didn't know what had hit her. But she tried; goddam it, we both tried. She was sweet and gentle, and full of guts. Your kind of guts, all heart and no head.