Passage by Night - Jack Higgins [36]
'That's what I thought,' Manning said. 'I'm only worried about one thing. The noise when we jump him. He's certain to put up a fight.'
'No one will take any notice. As I said before, there are rows up here every night.'
'Okay, then,' Manning said. 'All we need now is a way of faking the thing.'
That shouldn't be too difficult. As I am smaller than you, I shall take the post of honour while you scream hysterically at the door. Let me have your belt.'
Manning gave it to him and then held up his lighter so that the Russian could work in its glow. He fastened his own belt around his waist under the armpits and then buckled Manning's through it, forming a loop which he pushed round to the back.
He grinned gaily. 'I hope to God I'm not too heavy.'
Manning grinned back. In spite of the short time they had known each other, a well-defined personality had already emerged. It was that of a brave and aggressive, physically tough man, highly intelligent and with a strong vein of humour never far below the surface. A man it was impossible not to like.
'And now your back,' he said.
Manning braced himself and Orlov climbed up quickly and then very carefully balanced on his shoulders. Manning held the lighter at arm's length and then the weight was removed from his shoulders and he turned.
Orlov had one arm around the beam and hung there as he reached for the loop of leather with his free hand. He was obviously immensely strong. He slid the loop over a hook, took a deep breath and gently lowered himself. His body swung with a slight eerie creaking and when he dropped his head to one side, the illusion was complete.
'How do I look?'
'Bloody marvellous,' Manning said. 'Now hold it like that.'
He slipped his lighter into his pocket, turned and started to batter against the door with his clenched fist. As the sound echoed along the corridor, he put his face to the grille and cried out in Spanish, 'Cienaga, for God's sake, help. He's killing himself.'
A moment later, the door at the end of the corridor was flung open and a band of yellow light cut through the darkness. As Cienaga emerged, a flashlight in his hand, Manning redoubled his efforts.
'For God's sake, hurry! He's killing himself.'
Cienaga laughed harshly. 'Killing himself, eh? That's a new one.'
As the brutal face appeared at the grille, Manning drew back slightly. A second later, the beam of the powerful flashlight pierced the darkness and settled upon the figure of the Russian. His body swayed rhythmically from side-to-side, eyes wide and staring and his tongue protruded between his teeth.
Cienaga gave a cry of dismay and the light was withdrawn. A moment later, the key rattled in the door and it was thrown open. He rushed forward into the room and Orlov reached up, grasped the beam firmly and kicked him in the face with both feet held together.
The Cuban lurched back against the wall and the flashlight fell from his hand and rolled across the floor. He started to get to his feet and Manning moved in to finish him off. He lifted his knee into the smashed and bleeding face and then the great arms fastened around him and started to squeeze.
Manning struggled desperately to free himself as the air was driven from his lungs and then Orlov arrived on the scene. He directed the flashlight onto Cienaga's face then carefully struck him under the right ear with all his force. Cienaga's eyes rolled until only the whites were showing and he released his grip. He keeled over onto his face and Orlov kicked him on the side of the head.
The key was still in the lock, the rest of the bunch hanging from it and they locked the door quickly. They stood listening for a moment or two, but nothing stirred. The gallery was dimly lit and the whole block wrapped in quiet as Manning worked his way through the bunch of keys until he found the right one. They moved outside quickly and locked the gate after them.
Only a single