Not With a Whimper

  NOT WITH A WHIMPER

  An original Cold War Thriller by Peter A. W. Kelt

  Edited by Pamela Kelt

  If you enjoy this book, please leave a review or connect with the editor.

  http://pamkelt.blogspot.co.uk/

  pamkelt@gmail.com

  This book is a work of fiction.

  All rights reserved. Aside from brief quotations for media coverage and reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without the author’s permission. Thank you.

  This title was originally published in 2014 by Crooked Cat Publishing.

  This latest version contains a revised author’s note.

  Copyright 2019 by Pamela Kelt

  Cover design by Pamela Kelt

  ***

  Dedication:

  To Dad

  ***

  CHAPTER ONE

  I went up a flight of steps onto a concrete balcony. There were three doors. It was the third one along I wanted. There was a card with “Vance Hoggart” in thick felt-tip pinned to the door. Under the name a wag had scrawled, “Advance Hoggart!”. I thumbed the bell. Inside there might have been the sound of someone moving.

  While I waited, I leaned on the rail and surveyed the street below. There was a barber’s shop, open and lit, with a customer getting a haircut. Nine o’clock in Spain, you can always get a haircut. A plump guy in a too-tight suit was reading his paper in the light from the barber’s. He was leaning on the wing of a dark Mazda pick-up. There was a young couple looking in the window of a jeweller’s. She was working his arm. A nun bustled down the street then a boy on a Vespa 90 blasted past.

  I was waiting a long time.

  I tried the bell again and put my ear to the door. I couldn’t hear anything, could I? I just had the feeling there was someone behind it, holding his breath and waiting for me to go away.

  I wasn’t going to.

  Not when I’d spent three hours on a DC-10, driven for four hours in the SEAT 124 I’d hired from Avis in Seville, over roads with potholes you could have hidden a sniper in, found the house McIntyre had rented for me in Rota and all without having had a drink.

  McIntyre.

  Not when a week ago I had been behind my desk in Hawesmere and Mclntyre had walked in. My old boss. Wanted me back temporarily. Lynd had died in a shooting accident at Rota, the American nuclear submarine base. Francis Lynd. I’d worked with him in Cisneros, Madrid and Barcelona. Francis the birdwatcher who had never shot a sparrow in his life.

  I wasn’t going away.

  I banged harder and shouted louder. The guy with the paper looked up, turned to another page. The couple had gone but I could see an assistant lifting a tray of rings out of the window. She must have won.

  I rattled the handle and said, “Jesus, Hoggart.”

  A thick voice said, “Who is it?”

  “Christian.”

  “Who?”

  “Alan Christian. You sent for me.”

  “I did?”

  I thumped the door again.

  “Christ. Can the noise.”

  “I won’t make any noise your side of the door.”

  “Christian?

  “Yes.”

  It sounded like swearing but he wasn’t putting his heart and soul into it. Finally a bolt snicked, a chain unlatched and a key turned. He wasn’t taking any chances. And the light was out.

  A hand grabbed my arm, hauled me in and the door slammed. I could feel the heat of his body, smell the sweat and brandy. The light went on.

  “Christian, huh?” He swayed up close and didn’t smell any better. “You’re taking Lynd’s place?

  “How do you know that?

  “Ah, ol’ Vance isn’ tha’ stupid. I know – know lotsa things.” He teetered, steadying himself with a hand on my arm.

  I freed it from his grip. “You’d better sit down.”

  “Right, sit down. Both sit down.”

  It was a square low-ceilinged room. The light had a ripped green cloth shade. The walls were bare plaster which had been painted white a long time ago. The door was blistered and the sagging curtains were missing a few hooks. There was a wooden dresser with two mismatched cups on it, along with several empty brandy bottles.

  The bottle on the coffee table was half full and kept company with three or four small thick glasses.

  He fell into a wooden-framed armchair, bounced off the back and sat leaning forward looking at his hands. He had butcher’s hands, thick red fingers with small cuts and a bandaged thumb. I sat across the table from him.

  “What did you want to see me about?”

  He raised his head. His eyes had the dim faraway look of the long-distance drinker. “You’ve gotta stop them.”

  “Stop who?”

  “I tol’ Franny ev’rythin’. Shouldn’t have. They killed him. I thought he could stop them.” He bit the bandage on his thumb.

  “Who killed him?”

  “Monday, bang, boom, ev’rybody dead, all dead. You gotta, stop them.”

  “Stop what?”

  He tried to empty a glass which was already empty, dropped it onto the carpet and used a lot of willpower to get the neck of the bottle into another glass. He filled it slowly. I waited.

  “See the commander. That’ll fix it. Uh-huh.” He nodded.

  I crossed my legs, leant back.

  “The commander.” He put the glass half way down his throat and emptied it, wiped his mouth and belched. “’s better.” He looked cunningly at me. “Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly. I gotta serve that commander ’til I die, heh? I hate cats.” He fed his glass again. “Ev’rybody hates cats.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do. Ev’rybody hates cats. You gotta hate cats. And what’s he gonna do? Tell you, most evil thing in the world, that’s what he’s gonna do.”

  I scratched my knee, frowned, wondered how to handle him. He wasn’t making much sense.

  “El Toro Negro.” He slapped the glass to his face. Some of it went where it was meant to go. The rest joined the stains on his blue polo neck.

  “The black bull?”

  “’s it.”

  “What about him?”

  “You don’ know, do you? How you gonna stop him if you don’ know. Thought you knew.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Can’t. They’ll kill me. I was goin’ in with them but I can’t. Can’t kill ev’ryone, millions of people. You can’t do tha’, can you?” His eyes looked wide, tearful.

  “No.”

  “Great, you stop them. Somebody’s gotta stop them.” He wiped his eyes savagely, shook his head, slumped back, rested his glass on the curve of his belly.

  “Who is El Toro Negro?”

  “I thought you knew.”

  “You were going to tell me.”

  “Not me.” He gave me a sly up-and-under look. “They’ll kill me. I tol’ Franny, he knew. Killed him. Poor Franny.”

  “How can I stop them if you won’t tell me?”

  I got another of his cunning looks. “Miguel will tell you.”

  “Miguel?”

  “He knows. He worked for Franny.”

  “Miguel who?”

  “Din’ Franny tell you?”

  “No.”

  “My fault he’s dead, should never have told him, gotta tell someone, gotta stop it.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Miguel. You ask Miguel. I got Franny killed.”

  “Miguel who?”

  “48 Calle Santa Clara.”

  “His address?”

  “An’ don’ forget the commander.”

  “What commander?”

  “I tol’ you, din’ I?”

  “No.”

  “Did so. Commander B
yrd. Mus’n forget him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Gil Byrd.”

  “Is he El Toro Negro?”

  “Huh?”

  “Is he– ”

  “You crazy or somethin’?”

  “Tell me, Hoggart,” I snapped. He blinked and frowned.

  “You know what happened to Franny?”

  “He was a friend of mine.”

  “You really wanna know?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t .” He heaved himself onto his feet. “Not fair to you, not fair to me.”

  “Tell me, damn it.”

  The bell rang. He turned slowly to it, then back to me. “’s bell.”

  “Answer it.”

  “’s bell. Maybe it’s him.”

  “I don’t think so, not with me here.”

  “’Course not, not with you here.” It rang again. “You’re okay, Christian, you really wanna know, I’ll tell you, alright?”

  “Fine. The door.”

  “Right.” He laid a finger along his nose. “Door first, then I tell you. Forget Miguel.”

  He swayed to the door. I slumped back and reached in my pocket for pipe and tobacco. It had been hard work. I got the pouch out as he opened the door and said, “Juan!” He said it in a sharp clear tone that got me out of the chair and halfway to the door but I was too late. He turned slowly left, his right shoulder hitting the door and closing it, round to face me. His mouth was open, neck stretched towards me, tendons standing out, his hand cupped up under his chest. Blood spouted thickly over his hand. His heels slid away from him and he sat down slowly as I reached him. His eyes rolled upwards under his lids. I reached down, felt the pulse in his neck but it was still. I slid him sideways enough to open the door and out onto the balcony.

  The fat guy with the paper was standing, holding it folded small, about to get into the Mazda as I appeared. Feet slapped the pavement under the balcony and a lad with wide shoulders and black hair appeared. I yelled and the fat man ducked into the Mazda.

  I raced along the balcony, down the stairs. There was no sign of the lad. I rapped on the Mazda. He opened the door.

  “Which way did he go?”

  “He went that way.” He pointed to an alley. “What is happening, señor?”

  I took off down the alley. It was dark and empty, opened into a square with three others off it. I tried left. Empty. There was a woman in the second and she hadn’t seen anyone. The third, also empty. I tried a few streets but I saw no-one who looked like the shoulders I’d seen from the balcony. I was out of breath and I’d lost him.

  I made my way back to Hoggart’s. The Mazda had gone. There were people on the balcony and Hoggart’s door was open. There was no need for me to ring the police.

  I could feel the shakes coming on.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I killed the shakes with a brandy and a hot shower. I changed into slacks and a woollen shirt and then had another brandy to make sure the shakes didn’t return.

  I was about to start a third one and do some serious thinking about what Hoggart had been trying to say when there was a knock at the door.

  I wasn’t in the mood for company, but I was in the mood for killing off the brandy bottle, and maybe another. Then I was in the mood for killing a young Spaniard called Juan. With a name like that I should find him easily. There weren’t more than a million and a half Spanish guys called Juan. That was what I was in the mood for.

  Not one of those Americans who introduce themselves with a biography and a handshake that wants to separate your arm from your shoulder. “You must be Christian. I’m Gil Byrd next door. Commander Byrd.”

  My jaw didn’t drop more than a yard and I stuck out my hand. He had a strong well scrubbed grip.

  “Just realised you were home. You must come next door and meet Ruth, have a drink. Nothing worse than moving into an empty house.” He was neatly dressed in a grey shirt, charcoal sweater, and slacks with black moccasins. He had a wide forehead, thick fair hair, bright blue pouched eyes, a short straight nose.

  “Thank you, Commander.”

  “Gil, call me Gil.” His smile showed nicely capped teeth.

  We squeezed past a juniper crowding the front of the house while he told me it was his second tour of duty in Rota; he and Ruth loved Spain but it wasn’t the same since Franco died, he had a son, Jonathan, at Annapolis and his daughter, Carol, had just flown in from the States.

  He held the door open for me. “Okay, here we are. Ruth!”

  She came into the hall, a solidly-moulded matron with blue rinsed hair, huge horn rims, enough hardware on her fingers to open a market stall and a five Martini-breath.

  “Ruth, Alan Christian.”

  “Alan.” I got a damp muscular hand, then she tucked her arm into mine. “I’m sure Alan would like a drink, Gil.” She wheeled me into the lounge which had well polished clay tiles, dark wood furniture, and rough cast whitewashed walls.

  “Scotch , brandy, Martini?”

  “Brandy.”

  “Coming right up. Ruth?”

  “Martini.” She flopped onto the couch, patted it beside her. I ignored that and shared a chair with a leather handbag and an out-of-date Cosmopolitan.

  “And two Martinis. What line are you in, Alan?”

  “I’m an estate agent.”

  “Real estate?”

  I nodded.

  “How about those drinks, Gil?” She pulled her glasses down and frowned over them.

  “Coming right up, I said. Business trip, Alan?”

  “Sort of.”

  “There isn’t much coastline left in Spain, eh, Ruth?”

  “I like Spain.” She tried to snap her fingers, failed, frowned at them.

  I got a brandy large enough to drown a cat in.

  She looked at her Martini. “Call this a drink?”

  “Did you know the guy who had the house before you? He was English too.”

  “I don’t call this a drink.” She swirled it round in her glass. The ice clinked. I spent some time browsing over the brandy. I didn’t want to rush an answer to that question.

  “Had a car hire business, Francis Lynd.”

  “I liked Francis,” Ruth said. She saw off the Martini. “That wasn’t a drink.”

  Good old Mac. Saving the department money, using up the lease on Lynd’s house. Well done, Mac. And setting me up as his replacement. Oh, well done, Mac. No wonder you didn’t tell me. No wonder Hoggart knew how to find me. And if he could… I nodded and looked sober.

  “Not for you, maybe, honey.” The smile was ice cool. Then to me, “You know what happened to him?”

  I nodded again, looked sober again.

  “I liked Francis,” Ruth repeated.

  “You would.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Lynd suggested I should have a look at the area,” I said.

  “That was a dirty crack, Gil Byrd.” She pushed her glasses back and glared at him.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Uh-huh? That’s all – just uh-huh?” She pushed her glasses back and glared at him.

  “He gave me some names to look up.” I invented a couple. “Jerry Patrickson, Bill Brandt.” Then, “Vance Hoggart.”

  “Hoggart, eh? Well, well, well. I don’t think Hoggart will be of much use to you.”

  “Really?”

  “You’re always making dirty cracks, that’s why we’ve got no friends.” She held the glass against her cheek.

  “One of my men. Funny guy, queer… how shall I put it… ?”

  “That’s the navy for you,” Ruth giggled. “A queer…”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “You said he was queer.”

  “I meant funny-peculiar odd.”

  “Lotsa sailors are queers.”

  “No they’re not.”

  “You said he was a queer, didn’t he, Alan?”

  Byrd sounded cold. “You should listen, honey, if it isn’t too much trouble.
I said he was queer funny odd. I mean he hasn’t any friends among the men. He pals around with Aberaccín for example.”

  “So he pals around with Aberaccín. Who’s he for Chrissake?”

  “Miguel Aberaccín, one of the gardeners. That’s the sort of guy he pals around with, Spanish –”

  “With a name like Miguel whatsit, he’s a Kraut?” She giggled and looked at me for approval.

  “Spanish workmen on the base, that’s where he finds his friends.”

  “That would be why Lynd mentioned him,” I said smoothly.

  Byrd looked startled as though he had forgotten me.

  “I need English-speaking contacts if I’m to do business here.”

  “Yeah, yeah, sure.”

  “How about a proper drink this time, for Chrissake?” Ruth held her glass in a tight fist.

  He took it from her slowly. “Alan?”

  “Not for me, thank you.” I finished the brandy. “Time I was going. It’s been a long day.” It had. Ten minutes with the Byrds hadn’t made it any shorter.

  He came to the door with me. At the door he said quietly, “Ruth has been a bit under the weather, you know what I mean, that time of month.” It would always be that time of month for them. He rubbed the end of his nose with a forefinger. “Still, that’s life,” he said more loudly. “Okay. See you, Alan.”

  The door shut, the night air feeling cool and still on my face. I breathed it in and stretched, then started back past the juniper. A voice said, “So, how do you like Commander and Mrs. Byrd?” The voice belonged to a girl sitting on the low street wall, her back to me. “I’m Carol Byrd.”

  “Alan Christian. Your father asked me round for a drink.”

  “Stepfather.” She stood up, swung round to me. “They make you feel right at home, huh?”

  “So we’re neighbours.”

  “You’d think my first night home –” She stopped, put a fist to her mouth.

  I unflapped my tobacco pouch and started to fill a pipe. “Do you mind?”

  “My daddy smokes a pipe, my real daddy. He’s in Dallas. He’s a banker. I’ve not seen him in years.” She dragged a foot against the wall and watched herself doing it. “I wish I had the guts to tell them to go to hell.”