The Baron's Thriller Novel : Part 8

The Elk's Shaft, Vienna, Austria 9pm:

Ally Rivera arrived at the Elk's Shaft with plenty of time to spare. She picked a table near the back where she could watch the entrance and settled in to the creaky old booth. It was her intention to observe Detective Mostac as he entered, watch the way he walked, the way he surveyed his surroundings. Ally could likely learn a great deal about this man and his past training through his body language.

She ordered herself a heaping plateful of some sort of meaty slurry and picked at it disinterestedly as it quickly congealed. She desperately wanted a drink but that was out of the question. She needed to be at her best if she hoped to learn everything that the mustachioed detective knew.

Precisely on time, Detective Mostac slid through the heavy wooden doors. He seemed to glide between the tables with scarcely a pause. In a single smooth sweep, he took in the restaurant's patrons and located Ally in the rear corner. His movements were subtle, relaxed and unassuming. He had a tremendous amount of confidence in his own abilities yet was as inconspicuous as a ground level hotel bathroom in a hobo-dense city. Either Mostac was a narcissist, or he was trained by some high level agency.

Without even a nod of recognition, Mostac turned quickly to the bar. He ordered an enormously tall, stein of ale. Ally could see the thick black liquid sloshing about as he paid, and made his way over to her table.

"Agent Rivera." He said, sliding into the chair across from hers.

"Detective Mostac."

"What the heck did you order? Looks like polar bear vomit."

"Puree of mule scrotum. They tell me it's a delicacy here."

He snickered derisively. "Well, they lied. Stuff probably came out of the drain traps."

"Well, I'm glad I didn't eat any then." Ally said, making a mental note to piss all over the women's room when she got the chance.

"It scarcely matters now Ms. Rivera." Mostac quipped, scratching the tip of his large, red nose with a single forefinger.

"Now, what was it you needed to tell me earlier?"

"You're all business aren't you?" He smiled, flashing his beige teeth "I admire that in a woman. Especially one as attractive as you."

"It's the only way to get noticed in the agency...besides having bodacious tits that is." Ally said, with a quick glance down at her luscious rack.

Agent Mostac chuckled but his gaze remained fixed on hers. This man was very well trained indeed. Few had resisted the draw of her immaculate hooters. Mostac had the discipline of a monk.

"You must understand that everything I tell you is to be kept in the strictest confidence. Although I gained this intelligence decades ago, my life is still in imminent danger if it gets traced back to me. Do you understand Agent Rivera?" He said, taking a mighty pull of the thick black beer.

"Of course detective, the agency knows how to keep secrets. You might say it's our job. But if you're uncomfortable with this don't feel pressured into revealing anything you don't want to. I'm a little puzzled as to why you'd reveal such sensitive information to a relative stranger like me?"

"My boys did a little background check as soon as you arrived. We agree that you can be trusted with the information you're about to hear. In fact, we think that you need to have this information." Mostac punctuated the sentence with a grim smile.

"Well relieve my suspense then detective."

"Alright then.." Mostac muttered, he leaned in very close to Ally, so close that he could smell her delightful body butter and began:

I was trained by the British Intelligence Agency in the late 1950's. A time of crisis and uncertainty that breeds a particular brand of national paranoia. I excelled in basic training and it quickly became apparent to the higher ups that I had a rare kind of resolve which made me suitable for the most treacherous of assignments. I started off with red-level ops in East Germany and Yugoslavia and brought back reams of useful intelligence for the protection of my country.

The commander appreciated my unique skills and recommended me for an ultra-black level assignment in the USSR itself. I was subjected to additional years of training in language, military history and espionage. That's where I learned to speak without an accent. It was crucial to the kind of deep cover mission I would be performing. If I mispronounced a single syllable, the Russians would descend on me like a pack of dogs and make me regret ever being born.

In the summer of 1965 I was planted deep in Moscow through a series of field operatives. Over a hellish series of months, I travelled by rail, boat and finally horseback to my final destination, Camp 17. Nestled in a rocky crevice on the Eastern side of the Kamchatka peninsula this ultra secret installation performed some of the most important scientific experiments the Soviets could devise. Secluded in this forbidding waste the men and women of Camp 17 were unencumbered by the morals and restrictions which might otherwise have been placed upon them.

Stalin was long dead, but his paranoia still seemed to drive these scientists and enlisted men at a frenzied pace.

The snow began to fall in late August and before long I was trapped there with these madmen in perpetual darkness illuminated by only the briefest glimpses of the sun. I was to pose as a common security person, but at this forlorn institution this meant that I was expected to have more training than most Soviet commandos and I was treated with a certain level of deference.

The working hours never ceased as wave after wave of dedicated researchers toiled through the endless arctic nights. My shifts were 6 hours on, 6 hours off, 6 hours on and so on. I didn't notice the passage of time because of the artificial lighting and the lack of sunshine. I was drawn into a trance of sorts, but I never forgot my duty. I was to observe everything I possibly could and record it on tiny scrolls of plastic. These miniature scrolls were hidden in narrow cylinders inserted beneath the skin of my abdomen in a daily ordeal of silent pain.

Of course my pain was nothing in comparison to the atrocities I witnessed on a daily basis. Snow-Tracks loaded with political prisoners from the 4 corners of Russia and her satellite states arrived every Friday. After the long uninsulated trip, many of the emaciated serfs had succumbed to the raging Siberian winter, and they were the lucky ones.

The rest were hurriedly assigned to one department or another. Bio weapons, radiation research, biomedical, or the dreaded Violet program. I can yet scarcely sleep as a result of the things I saw.

Men flayed alive as they struggled against slippery leather straps. Pregnant women bombarded with gamma rays so that the effects of gestational radiation sickness could be studied. I can hardly recall the extent of these experiments but I can still see those people's faces as they were wheeled to the incinerators.

And then there was Violet. This department was run by two brothers, The Duvonoskis, Vasili and Andronev. These men were part of a family who have been the personal guard of the Tsars for generations. They were ruthless and unbelievably skilled killers who never hesitated and never relented.

These two were given only the strongest of the prisoners. Yet, despite the truly huge number of corpses Violet produced, it seemed that only a single experiment was ever performed.

Men would be loaded, ten at a time into a large chamber. A vacuum would be pulled and the men would scrabble about for a few terrible minutes before they finally expired. The freshly dead would be rushed from the chambers and prepared to receive transfusions through an artery in their neck. A large bellows like machine would draw out the victim's blood and it would be quickly replaced with a thick, purplish fluid.

The corpses were then shocked with flat metal paddles attached to a small dynamo. The bodies would twitch and convulse and once one even screamed but always death remained implacable, much to the macabre scientist's displeasure.

When it was clear that these experiments had failed, they attempted to transfuse the living. Again they were met with hideous failure as the blood draining procedure left the men as dead as before. It was then that I witnessed a truly terrible thing.

They began infusing the purple fluid before removing the prisoner's blood and the reaction was stupendous. Within seconds, the men screamed like a wounded animal and strained against their bonds with such force that several broke bones in their arms and legs. A cascade of red foam would gush from their open mouths and seemingly from every pore in their body. And they would fall dead within seconds.

The Violet team realized they had stumbled upon a potent toxin and began feverishly researching the properties of the purple stuff. They tried hundreds of routes of administration but none worked as assuredly as intravenous delivery.

It was clear that they had hoped to develop an assassin's tool in the purple fluid, but IV injections were too cumbersome and prone to failure. Then, one especially sadistic doctor decided to try a rectal delivery of the poison and the results were spectacular. And it is this day that I shall never forget as much as I might want to.

As if god were trying to increase my own suffering, the man chosen to receive this deadly enema was one I had known in my early training days, Martin Overhoff. He has obviously been captured during an operation but that he should end up here seemed unconscionably cruel.

The dose was delivered in a massive syringe as Martin cried out for mercy. Our eyes met for a brief second and I cannot tell if he recognized me but it is fortunate that he made no sign to betray my presence.

Nearly 99% of the dose was delivered to the blood and my comrade died mercifully rapidly. They had found their route of delivery and in no time at all, these human monsters had designed a sophisticated delivery probe. And I was witness to it all.

Spring came and my time at the installation was nearing its end and none too soon. I was scheduled to leave by Snow-Track but the thaw came sooner than anticipated and I was placed on a boat for the long trip back to Kiev. The boat was a small cutter and there were only two other passengers, Vasili and Andronev Duvonoski.

Although they had been the direct supervisors of Violet, I had never seen them in the laboratory and hence they had never seen me save for a few times in the mess. They talked amongst themselves mostly and never so much as glanced in my direction.

During the first week of the trip, the ship was encased in a thick coating of rock-hard sea ice which made the vessel dangerously top heavy. I was on the top deck smoking one day and met Vasili doing the same.

He nodded in my direction and lit my cigarette with a heavy scrimshaw covered lighter and resumed ignoring me. We smoked in silence for several minutes and I finally tossed my butt into the sea. As I was about to head back into the crew quarters an unexpected wave sent the ship pitching hard to the port side. Vasili and I were thrown roughly against the railing and barely avoided being thrown into the icy sea.

I was bruised but not otherwise injured. Vasili seemed to have sustained a head injury and remained prone on the slick deck boards. I approached him slowly, as one would approach a wounded bear and saw a terrible gash upon his forehead. In the manner of wounds sustained during cold weather, it had not yet begun to bleed and I could see the various layers of skin and fat which had been torn free of the gleaming white bone beneath.

Then, slowly at first the wound began to ooze. The blood was nearly black but quickly turned a vibrant maroon-purple on exposure to the air. My heart nearly stopped. Here's was the same fluid which had killed all those unfortunate men. This man's own blood was a toxin of unbelievable potency.

This information would be nearly invaluable so I quickly stooped to the deck and produced one of my plastic scrolls. Being careful not to touch the substance I smeared some on the plastic, rolled it tightly and sealed it back within its protective cylinder. I jabbed the tiny thing back into my skin and set about waking Vasili.

Like a fish dragged from the deep, the man gasped at my first slap and sat bolt upright glaring about himself with his deep set, beady little eyes. I handed him a kerchief and he held it to his forehead as the dark fluid slowly soaked it through and through.

I didn't see the brothers again and after what seemed like an endless voyage we arrived off the coast of Saudi Arabia in the final leg of our journey. I made my escape one night in a lifeboat and clambered ashore. I never looked back for fear of what I might see and by pure will, I reached land.

I soon met up with a contact and was spirited back to England over a series of weeks. I was anxious to reveal the fruits of my year spent at Camp 17 and as soon as I had recovered enough to look presentable I made my way to the secret offices of our intelligence agency. As I had my breakfast in a pub across the street from the agency I saw something that would make me an exile from my own country and a fugitive to boot.

The head of my department, a man whose real name I never knew, arrived in his private car. He stepped forth into the sunlight. But, as eager as I was to speak with him I knew better than to approach him outside of the offices. So I watched, sipping at a pint, as my life unraveled.

He took a cigarette from his front pocket and began searching for a lighter which had evidently been lost. Flummoxed, he strode about to the tinted driver's side window of the sedan and rapped gently at the window. It rolled down and my supervisor leaned in to allow his cigarette to be lit. A large rough hand protruded from within gripping a whalebone lighter. As the flame flashed, I caught a glimpse of a face I supposed I would never see again. Vasili Duvonoski.