DER ZIGARETTENANZÜNDER
He didn't need to pretend to be messing with the car. It really did need a tune-up. Chief was surprised they'd been able to drive it this far, all the way into Basel's market square. He stuck his hand out toward Casino. "Hand me the wrench."
Casino slapped it into his outstretched palm. "How much longer?"
"Almost done."
"No, stupid. How much longer do ya think we'll have to wait for the hand-off. The guy's late."
Chief straightened and wiped his greasy hands on a rag. The square was still busy with end-of-week shoppers grabbing up what was left in the stalls and shops. Garrison still sat on a stone bench on the opposite side of the square, patiently throwing chunks of moldy bread to a growing flock of pigeons. These shadowy connections with other agents never happened on schedule. Lots of things could get fouled up, and Casino had the patience of a two-year-old. But the afternoon was dying. Chief wondered how much longer the Warden would wait before calling it a day.
He went back to adjusting the spark plugs, scraping away the built-up crap with the edge of his small blade, the one he kept stowed in his boot. It'd need a good sharpening when he got the chance. But it felt good to have something useful to do with his hands while they waited, instead of just watching and trying to blend in.
"Hold on. I think we got some action." Casino leaned down and joined him under the hood, but continued to watch what was playing out across the square.
The pigeons scattered as a well-dressed older man joined Garrison on the bench. Neither acknowledged the other, and the pigeons returned as Garrison tossed them more crumbs. The man took off his hat and laid it between them on the bench, then pulled out a newspaper and started reading.
"They're gonna drag this out, aren't they?" Casino complained.
Chief was tightening the last spark plug into place when he saw Garrison pull the pack of cigarettes from his pocket and shake one out. He put it in his mouth, then started searching for matches, unsuccessfully. Casually, he turned to the man next to him and said something. The man smiled and nodded, and took a cigarette lighter from his jacket pocket. He flicked it into a flame, and Garrison reached up to hold it steady as he lit his cigarette. Then he nodded a polite "merci". You had to be watching closely to notice Garrison palm the lighter and slip it into his own pocket along with his pack of cigarettes.
Chief pretended to play with the engine for another ten minutes, while Casino pretended to be interested. Finally the older man folded his newspaper and got up to leave. He strolled across the square and past their car, as he headed into the side street to their right. Two guys in dark suits followed him.
Chief nudged Casino.
"I see it."
There was nothing they could do but watch as the guys pulled hand guns, grabbed the old man by both arms, and hustled him away.
Garrison still fed the pigeons, oblivious to what was happening.
"That ain't good." Chief slammed the hood shut, nearly catching Casino's fingers in it. There were two other guys in suits heading towards the stone bench. Garrison's head snapped up at the sound of them approaching him from behind. When Garrison stood to confront them, he found pistols trained on him. He raised his hands defensively, but they were immediately yanked down and tied behind him.
"Oh shit," Casino breathed. "'Ain't good' is an understatement. Now what?"
Chief didn't have to think for long. "We follow the Warden."
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The car that the men had shoved Garrison into wound through the narrow streets of Basel at a leisurely pace. Chief knew how to detect a tail, and how to lose one, but trying to stay out of sight of a car you were following was a different game, especially when the car was moving as slow as this one.
"You're gettin' too close," Casino complained.
"Will you shut up."
"I'm just sayin', they're gonna see us."
"No, they ain't." For the second time, Chief tried a calculated move, turning left, taking a parallel street, then picking up the tail again several blocks down the road.
Finally the car turned into an alley next to a bar. Chief pulled to the curb just short of it. "If they get him inside, we're outta luck. We'd be goin' in blind."
"Wait here." Casino opened the car door and got out. "Be ready to come around that corner fast."
Chief knew what Casino had planned. He pulled forward slightly, just enough so he could see Casino staggering toward the parked car, doing a pretty good imitation of a drunk. The two men were just pulling Garrison from the back seat.
Casino's words were slurred Italian, but they were enough to get the attention of Garrison's captors, who both turned in his direction. One shouted in German, evidently telling him to get lost. But Casino stumbled up to the nearest, throwing his arm around the guy's shoulders like he was his long lost best friend.
With his hands still tied behind him, Garrison tensed and backed up against the car, ready for whatever was going to happen. When Casino's friend tried to pull away, Casino lashed out with a powerful right that sent the guy sprawling back into the garbage cans. His buddy didn't react fast enough to avoid Casino's left upper-cut.
The tires squealed as Chief popped the clutch and swerved into the alley. Casino already had Garrison by the arm, pulling him away from his kidnappers, when the gun fire started. Bullets smacked into the grill. One blasted through the windshield and whistled past his ear. Casino yanked the back door open, shoved Garrison onto the seat, and jumped in after him. Even before the door was closed, Chief threw the car into reverse and slammed down on the accelerator. The open door smashed against a stanchion at the end of the alley as he careened backward into the street. Then he spun the wheel, pushed it into a forward gear, and floored the accelerator again, the rear door hanging on by a hinge.
The dangling door fell off at his first sharp turn. After a couple more miles of random turns, making sure they weren't followed, his heart rate slowed. The damaged motor sounded like a cement mixer full of bricks, and smoke billowed from under the hood. He turned onto a side street and cut the engine. "We gotta get new wheels. This wreck ain't goin' any farther."
"Make it quick. The Warden's hit."
Oh shit. He turned in his seat. "How bad?"
"I'm okay." Garrison pushed himself up, clutching at his right side. Blood oozed between his fingers and soaked his shirt.
"You ain't okay," Casino insisted. "You're bleedin' like a stuck pig. Where's the first aid kit?"
"Under the front seat." Chief got out of the car. "Stay here. I'll find a new ride."
As he ran back toward the main street, he heard Casino yell after him, "Where the hell do ya think we're gonna go?"
There was no time to be choosy. He picked the first car he came across and had it hot-wired in under a minute. When he got back, Casino was tying off the bandage he'd wrapped around Garrison's middle.
"How bad is it?"
"I'm fine. I'll make it."
They both helped the Warden out of the damaged car. He was able to walk on his own, but the tight lines around his eyes gave away the pain he was trying to hide. He eased carefully into the back seat of the new car. Casino got in after him, carrying the first aid kit.
When Chief climbed into the driver's seat, Garrison said, "Head north, out of town."
"North?" Casino exclaimed. "What's north besides Germany?"
"The Hegler farm. There's a radio. If we're lucky, we'll be able to get a plane out of here."
"Ya wanna show me where we're goin'?" Chief asked.
"They took the maps. And everything else I had on me. Just get on the first road heading north."
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On the drive out of town, Garrison explained that the Maquis, just across the border, used the abandoned farm to store supplies and the radio. The empty fields were used for supply drops and late-night landings. It was their closest refuge and best hope for getting out of Switzerland without the Krauts catching on.
The two-room farmhouse sat 50 yards from a barn, in a clearing overgrown with weeds. Chief parked at the edge of the woodland, and as quickly as he could, circled on foot through the trees around the house, making sure they were alone.
Garrison eased gingerly from the back seat. Chief took his arm, trying to support him, but the Warden shook him off. Once inside he limped to the lone bed in the far corner and stretched out on the bare mattress. Fresh blood soaked the bandage.
Garrison was trying hard to mask his pain, but Chief didn't like the looks of all that blood. He headed for the kitchen area to his right, where there was a hand pump, a sink, a few pots and pans, and a wood stove. There were only ashes and a half burned log in the stove. "We need to get a fire started," he told Casino. "There's some dry wood stacked right outside."
"There's a root cellar in the barn." Garrison's voice was tight, his breathing shallow. "There's a door hidden behind some shelving. There should be some supplies and the radio. You'll have to bring it up here to get any reception."
Chief had expected some kind of smart-ass complaint from Casino, but instead he set to work, first bringing in a couple of logs and some kindling, and then heading out for the barn.
Chief got the fire started, and filled one of the pots with water from the pump. It didn't take long for it to start to simmer. He took it over to the bed and set it on the floor, then carefully removed the blood-soaked bandage. Garrison winced as he pulled the gauze loose. With clean gauze from the first aid kit, dampened with the hot water, he tried gently to clean the wound. The bullet had gone all the way through flesh, hopefully not hitting anything vital. There was a clean hole in his back that had stopped bleeding. Just under his ribs, a larger, messier exit wound in front still bled freely. "This needs closin' up."
"It'll have to wait."
"Wait? Wait for what? For you to bleed to death?" This was something Actor usually took care of, but Actor wasn't here. Chief dug through the first aid kit, trying to remember the training they'd gotten soon after starting this gig with Garrison. He could sew it up. He'd stitched up a knife gash in his own thigh once. But he didn't have a needle. Or anything to use as sutures. His next best option was his heated blade.
The stitching he could handle, but he wasn't so sure about the cauterizing. He tried to remember all the details from that one day of instruction, about how to clean the blade, how hot to make it, how to keep from damaging too much tissue. His stomach knotted.
The door banged open as Casino pushed through with an armload of supplies and the radio. "How's he look?"
"Any medical supplies out there? Bandages, sulpha, maybe some morphine?"
"Bandages. And food and weapons. That bad, huh?"
"I said it'll have to wait..." Garrison tried to sit, but Chief held him down with a hand on his chest. It didn't take much.
"It waits, you die."
Garrison again tried to sit. "Chief, the mission..."
"Screw the mission, Warden. You're bleedin', and Actor ain't here."
He went back to the stove, snapping his blade from its sheath. He found a half-empty bottle of whiskey on a top shelf, and he pulled it down. He popped the cork and drizzled the liquid over his blade. As he held it over the open flame, he felt the heat build in the handle. When it was almost too hot to hold, he turned back to sit on the edge of the bed, holding the bottle out to Garrison. "You wanna finish off the whiskey before I get started?"
Garrison was sweating and pale, and his eyes glistened with the effort to control the pain. The look he gave Chief was...fear? Resignation? Trust? Garrison drew in a ragged breath. "No. No whiskey."
Chief looked to Casino. "Hold him down. This is gonna smart."
Kneeling on the floor at the head of the bed, Casino pinned Garrison's arms to the mattress, above his head. "You sure you know what you're doin'?"
"I'm sure," he lied. He steadied his hand with a deep breath and a tighter grip on the knife.
At the first touch of the scalding blade to torn flesh, Garrison sucked in a breath, straining against Casino's grip. Chief tried to work fast, with short applications of the red-hot blade. He had to return to the stove several times to reheat it. He wiped away the blood as he worked, so he could see what he was doing, carefully closing off the bleeding a little at a time. He tried to focus, to disconnect from the burning smell, and the moans that escaped between the Warden's clenched teeth, tried to concentrate on the process, the mechanics. Tried to forget that this was a man he trusted, who had saved his life too many times to count. A man who believed in him. And now he was probably killing him.
When he glanced up, Casino's eyes were closed, and he looked as pale as Garrison. Or maybe it was just the dying light.
Garrison was too tough for his own good. He remained conscious through most of it, tears squeezing from his eyes. He finally passed out as Chief pressed the scalding blade one last time to the singed wound, making sure all the bleeding had stopped.
The room was quiet in the fading light as Chief applied sulfa powder and a loose bandage. He ran his tongue over his dry lips and swiped his sleeve across his mouth, watching the Warden's shallow breathing. Chief hoped he hadn't put him through the agony for nothing.
Casino finally stood, laying Garrison's arms gently by his sides, and went to the counter to sort through the supplies he'd brought in from the barn. Chief stretched out his cramped fingers and joined Casino at the sink to scrub his knife in what was left of the hot water.
"Where's Dr. Beautiful when you need him, right?" Casino popped the tops off of two ration cans of stew. "Runnin' some kinda cushy con back in London with that lucky little limey."
"Nazi spooks in London have guns same as the ones over here." Chief dried his blade on his pants leg and shoved it back in its home.
Setting the stew on the room's only table, Casino pulled up a chair and had a seat. "You know how to radio London?"
"No. Don't you?" Chief took the chair opposite him.
"I know how to work the radio, but I got no idea what frequency. Or the code."
Chief dug into the sloppy stew and stirred it up, but he couldn't bring himself to eat it. His stomach was still wadded in a tight knot.
"He gonna be alright?"
"How should I know," Chief snapped, instantly regretting it. He looked over at his commander, who appeared to be sleeping peacefully now. "Yeah, I think so, if we can get him back to England." He hoped it wasn't another lie.
Casino was almost done with his stew when he finally spoke again. "Whaddaya think he meant about the mission?"
"You know the Warden. He don't like to leave things half done."
"He's crazy if he thinks we got any chance of gettin' that lighter back."
"He's the boss. If he says go, we go."
"You're as crazy as he is." Casino bolted from his chair and took his empty can to the sink. "You two are gonna get us killed."
"I can hear you, you know." Garrison's voice was raspy but strong.
Chief was immediately at his side with the canteen. "How's it feel?"
"Like a third degree burn."
He helped Garrison sit up carefully to lean back against the wall, and handed him the canteen. Garrison took a few tentative sips, then handed it back. "The mission's not over."
"Whaddya mean, 'not over'?" Casino spit. "The Krauts made us. If they have that lighter, the microfilm's long gone."
"Not necessarily. Those guys didn't seem to have any idea what they were looking for. They were just foot soldiers." Garrison paused and took a careful breath. "They're expecting some big wigs from Berlin tomorrow. We can't let them get hold of the lighter."
"So whaddya suggest? We just walk up and ask them for it?"
"Something like that."
"You're outta your mind. I always knew you had a screw loose." Casino turned to the radio and started flipping switches. "Gimme the frequency and the code. I'm callin' London, and we're gettin' outta here on the first plane headin' west."
Chief knew there was no use arguing. "What's your plan, Warden?"
Garrison sat a little straighter, trying to hide his wince. "They were going to take me into the back of that bar, right? Their hideout is probably in a back room or basement. First we have to case the bar, see what we're up against. Then we can improvise a plan."
"That's insane." Casino turned from the radio. "First of all, you ain't goin' nowhere. Secondly, they'd recognize me right off."
"I don't think so. It's not like they got a good look at you. Nice move, by the way." Garrison managed a smile. "You just need a disguise. A hat, a different shirt."
"Yeah, and where am I suppose to get that?"
"Do I always have to remind you what you did for a living?"
Casino shook his head and turned back to the radio. "No way. That's suicide. I ain't doin' it."
Garrison pushed away from the wall and tried to stand. "Okay, Chief, it's you and me."
Chief caught him as he faltered. "Ain't happenin', Warden. You won't even make it to the car. Me and Casino'll check the place out."
"Speak for yourself, Indian. I ain't..."
"We get the lighter, or you don't get the radio code," Garrison threatened.
Casino huffed a sigh of frustrated resignation. "Suicidal idiots. Both of you."
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They'd left Garrison well supplied with food and water within easy reach of where he sat on the bed. They'd also left him a good supply of weapons and ammunition, including a half dozen hand grenades from the stash in the root cellar. He told them that if their refuge was discovered, he'd blow the place up, himself with it. Chief didn't doubt that he'd do it.
By the time they got back into Basel, it was late. They'd passed a second-hand shop on the way, and Chief had pulled onto a side street while Casino quickly broke in through a back door and swiped a disguise. He got back into the car wearing a smelly sweater and a misshapen tweed newsboy's cap.
"Here, I picked up a little somethin' for you, too." He plopped a beat-up fedora on Chief's head.
"Funny." Chief ripped it off and threw it into the back seat, ignoring Casino's amused chuckle.
When Chief parked across the street from the bar, it was the only business still open. They walked down the dark alley first. It was now empty except for a stray dog snuffling through the garbage from the overturned trash cans. There was a back door, but it was bolted tight.
When they entered the barroom through the front, it was loud and smokey, busy with an after-work crowd of local laborers. Chief chose a table in a dark corner, while Casino ordered, returning with a couple of beers and a bowl of stale pretzel pieces. He sat and took another look around the room. "Our friendly, neighborhood spies apparently ain't drinkin' tonight."
"So we wait." Chief popped a pretzel chunk in his mouth. He needed something to keep the beer from going to his head. As an hour dragged out, the crowd thinned. Casino refilled the pretzel bowl several times.
Garrison was alone, injured and vulnerable out at the farm. The old man who'd handed off the lighter had probably spilled his guts and was dead by now. The waiting finally ate away the last of Chief's patience, and he drained the dregs of his second beer. "This ain't gettin' us nowhere. I say we go in through the back door and take our chances."
"Sounds good to me. I can't drink much more of this swill." Casino stood to leave, but halted when a tall, thick-set character dressed in a pin-striped suit emerged from a door in the back and went to speak to the bartender.
Casino quickly sat back down. "That's one of 'em."
Chief studied the newcomer. He was heavy-set, but looked powerful. A prominent scar down his left cheek distorted his mouth, and a weapon bulged under his suit jacket. "Wonder where his buddy's hidin'."
"Good question."
They settled back to wait and watch, as the goon in the suit leaned casually on the bar, chatting with the bartender and one of the patrons, a wiry little guy in coveralls. The conversation seemed friendly, judging by the laughter. Coveralls pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and stuck one in his mouth. Scarface was quick to whip out a lighter and do the honors.
"Could we be so lucky?" Casino breathed.
"Everybody's got a lighter. How do ya know that's it?"
"Look, it has that fancy thing on top. And that sparkly inlay, like the Warden said."
"So now what? You gonna go ask him to give it back?
Casino stood and flexed his fingers. "I've lifted a few wallets in my time. And I've been watchin' Goniff."
"Watchin' ain't doin'."
"What's the worse that could happen? So it's not the same one. So I'll have a fancy new lighter."
"You're nuts..."
But Casino had already walked away, striding confidently up to the bar. He moved in beside Scarface, leaning in to order a drink. When the bartender handed him the glass, he stepped back and deftly collided with Scarface, spilling the whiskey down the front of his pretty suit. Casino gushed apologies in Italian, pulling a rag from a back pocket and wiping down the front of Scarface's jacket. Casino's hand slipped into the goon's side pocket so quickly that Chief almost missed it.
But it wasn't slick enough. When Casino started backing away, Scarface caught him by the arm. Casino attempted to stay with the con, pretending not to know what the problem was, trying to pull from the tight grip. It didn't work. Scarface swung out and landed a powerful blow, sending Casino flying back into a table and crashing to the floor.
Damn Casino and his clumsy arrogance. Chief bolted from his chair, trying to formulate a plan as he reached Casino, lying among pieces of the broken table. Maybe he could just give the lighter back and ease them both out of here. He tried to help Casino up, but he was out cold.
And Scarface was standing over him, with a gun pointed at his head. "Gib mir den Zigarettenanzünder."
Slowly Chief stood and backed away, his hands out.
Scarface yanked Chief's pistol from where it was tucked in his belt, then smiled as he pulled the switchblade from its sheath, flicking it open with glee. He reached down and retrieved the lighter from Casino's pocket, but never let the gun waver from its target between Chief's eyes. "Hol ihn ab."
Chief just stared at him, uncertain what he wanted, but acutely aware that his hesitation could get him shot.
"Hol ihn ab! Nehmen Sie ihn durch dort." With the gun, Scarface gestured at the door in the back that he'd come through earlier.
Chief got the picture. Reaching down, he pulled Casino's arm across his shoulders and lifted him. Scarface punched him in the back with the gun, and he dragged Casino's dead weight toward the rear door.
Past the door was a steep wooden stairway twisting down into a dark corridor. Scarface continued to prod him until they reached the end of the hall, where he opened another door and pushed them inside. It was a utility room, with an oil furnace in the center. Pipes ran up the walls and along the ceiling. There were a couple of chairs that looked like they'd been salvaged from a dump, and a sturdy, shiny new safe.
At a beat up desk, a skinny bald guy sat with his feet up, smoking. He straightened as they entered. "Wer ist das?"
"Diebe. Sie stahlen mein Zigarettenanzünder," Scarface growled.
Chief sat Casino against the nearest wall and tried to get a look at the bleeding cut on his left temple, where he'd evidently hit the edge of the table.
"Lass ihn in Ruhe." Scarface grabbed his arm and pulled him away, shoving the bore of the gun into his ribs.
Baldy issued sharp orders and pulled ropes from a bottom drawer. While Baldy held the gun, Scarface tightly knotted a rope around Chief's wrists, then tied his hands over his head to a pipe that ran along the back wall, near the ceiling. The pipe was just low enough so that if he stood straight, he wouldn't pull on the ropes. Still, they were wrapped tight enough to cut off circulation. After Scarface finished with Chief, he tied Casino's hands behind him and bound his ankles, leaving him lying against the wall where Chief had put him.
The two Krauts congratulated each other as they opened the safe and threw the cigarette lighter inside. They didn't take the time to inspect it, but they must've guessed it was important. Laughing and slapping each other on the back, they left, turning off the light and locking the door behind them.