The Last Frontier by Alistair MacLean Read Free Book Online Page B

the latter was hidden in deep shadow, but both hands, holding some of Reynolds' papers, were exposed to the pitiless glare of the lamp. They were terrible hands, Reynolds had never seen anything remotely like them, had never imagined that any human being's hands could be so scarred, crushed and savagely mutilated and still serve as hands. Both thumbs were crushed and flattened and twisted, fingertips and nails were blurred into a shapeless mass, the little finger and half of the fourth finger of the left hand were missing, and the backs of both hands were covered with ugly scars surrounding bluish-purple weals in the middle, between the tendons of the middle and fourth fingers. Reynolds stared at these weals, fascinated, and shivered involuntarily, he had seen these marks once before, on a dead man: the marks of crucifixion. Had these been his hands, Reynolds thought in revulsion, he would have had them amputated. He wondered what manner of man could bear to live with these hands, not only live with them but have them uncovered. He was suddenly possessed of an almost obsessive desire to see the face of the man behind these hands, but Sandor had halted several paces from the desk and the blackness of the shadow by the lamp defeated him.

The hands moved, gesturing with Reynolds' papers, and the man at the desk spoke. The voice was quiet, controlled, almost friendly. 'These papers are interesting enough in their own way -- masterpiece of the forger's art. You will be good enough to tell us your real name.' He broke off and looked at Sandor who was still tenderly massaging his neck. 'What is wrong, Sandor?'

'He hit me,' Sandor explained apologetically. 'He knows how to hit and where to hit -- and he hits hard.'

'A dangerous man,' Szendro said. 'I warned you, you know.'

'Yes, but he's a cunning devil,' Sandor complained. 'He pretended to faint.'

'A major achievement to hurt you, an act of desperation to hit you at all,' the man behind the desk said dryly. 'But you mustn't complain, Sandor. He who expects that death comes with the next breath but one is not given to counting the cost.... Well, Mr. Buhl, your name, please.'

'I've already told Colonel Szendro,' Reynolds replied. 'Rakosi, Lajos Rakosi., I could invent a dozen names, all different, in the hope of saving myself unnecessary suffering, but I couldn't prove my right to any of them. I can prove flay right to my own name, Rakosi.'

'You are a brave man, Mr. Buhl.' The seated man shook his head. 'But in this house you will find courage a useless prop: lean on it and it will only crumble to dust under your weight. The truth alone will serve. Your name, please?'

Reynolds paused before replying. He was fascinated and puzzled and hardly afraid any more. The hands fascinated him, he could scarcely take his eyes off them, and he could see now some tattooing on the inside of the man's wrist -- at that distance it looked like a figure 2, but he couldn't be certain. He was puzzled because there were too many off-beat angles to all that was happening to him, too much that didn't fit in with his conception of the AVO and all that he had been told about them: there was a curious restraint, almost a cold courtesy in their attitude to him, but he was aware that the cat could just be playing with the mouse, perhaps they were just subtly sapping his determination to resist, conditioning him to be least prepared for the impact of the blow when it came. And why his fear was lessening he would have found it impossible to say, it must have arisen from some subtle promptings of his subconscious mind for he was at a conscious loss to account for it.

'We are waiting, Mr. Buhl.' Reynolds couldn't detect the slightest trace of an edge through the studied patience of the voice.

'I can only tell you the-truth. I've already done that.'

'Very well. Take your clothes off -- all of them.'

'No!' Reynolds glanced swiftly round, but Sandor stood between him and the door. He looked back, and Colonel