The Tightrope Men / The Enemy (37 page)

‘I think so,’ I said. ‘But I don’t know if it’s going to do me a damned bit of good. Thanks for your time, Professor.’

He smiled. ‘If you need more information I suggest you ask Penny.’ He glanced at her. ‘I suggest you take the day off, Penny. You’ve had a nasty shock - you don’t look too well.’

She shivered. ‘The thought that there are people in the world who’d want to do that to you is unnerving.’

‘I’ll take you home,’ I said quietly. ‘Jack Brent can follow in your car.’ She made no objection, and I turned to Lumsden. ‘I suggest that any crank letters - no matter how apparently innocuous - should be forwarded to the police. And telephone calls should be reported.’

‘I agree,’ he said. ‘I’ll see to it.’

So I took Penny home.

My relationship with Penny improved although neither of us referred to marriage. The shock of Mayberry’s error had been shattering and I stuck around and helped her pick up the pieces; from then on propinquity did the rest. She was persuaded by Lumsden to stay with her work and her life took a triangular course - her home, her work, and whatever hospital Gillian happened to be in at the time.

Mayberry was thoroughly investigated, by a band of psychiatrists and by Mansell, the department’s best interrogator, a soft-spoken man who could charm the birds from the trees. They all came to the same conclusion: Mayberry was exactly what he appeared to be - a nut case. ‘And a bit of a coward, too,’ said Mansell. ‘He was going for Lumsden at first, but thought a woman would be easier to handle.’

‘Why did he pick on Lumsden’s crowd?’ I asked.

‘A natural choice. Firstly, Lumsden is very well known - he’s not as averse to talking to newspaper reporters as a lot of scientists are. He gets his name in the papers. Secondly, he hasn’t been reticent about what he’s been doing. If you wanted a handy geneticist Lumsden would be the first to spring to mind.’

Mayberry was the deadest of dead ends.

Which caused the problem Ogilvie and I had anticipated. If the acid attack had been fortuitous why should Ashton have bolted? It made no sense.

Once Mayberry had been shaken down the guards were taken from Penny and Gillian, and my legmen were put to other work. Ogilvie had little enough manpower to waste and the team investigating the Ashton case was cut down to one - me, and I wasted a lot of time investigating mistaken identities. Ashton’s bolt-hole was well concealed.

And so the weeks - and then the months - went by. Gillian was in and out of hospital and finally was able to live at home, managing on a quarter of her normal eyesight. She and Penny were making plans to go to the United States where she would undergo plastic surgery to repair her ravaged face.

Once, when I persuaded Penny to dine with me, she asked, ‘What did you find in that big vault of Daddy’s?’ It was the first time she had shown any interest. ‘Nothing.’

‘You’re lying.’ There was an edge of anger.

‘I’ve never lied to you. Penny,’ I said soberly. ‘Never once. My sins have been those of omission, not commission. I may have been guilty of
suppressio veri
but never
suggestio falsi
.’

‘Your classical education is showing,’ she said tartly, but she smiled as she said it, her anger appeased. ‘Strange. Why should Daddy build such a thing and not use it? Perhaps he did and found it too much trouble.’

‘As far as we can make out it was never used,’ I said. ‘All it contained was stale air and a little dust. My boss is baffled and boggled.’

‘Oh, Malcolm. I wish I knew why he disappeared. It’s been over three months now.’

I made the usual comforting sounds and diverted her attention. Presently she said, ‘Do you remember when you
told me of what you really do? You mentioned someone called Lord Cregar.’

‘That’s right.’

‘He’s been seeing Lumsden.’

That drew my interest. ‘Has he? What about?’

She shook her head. ‘Lummy didn’t say.’

‘Was it about Mayberry?’

‘Oh, no. The first time he came was before you told us about Mayberry.’ She wrinkled her brow. ‘It was two or three days after you opened the vault.’

‘Not two or three weeks?’

‘No - it was a matter of days. Who is Lord Cregar?’

‘He’s pretty high in government, I believe.’ I could have told her that Cregar had smuggled her father out of Russia a quarter of a century earlier, but I didn’t. If Ashton had wanted his daughters to know of his Russian past he would have told them, and it wasn’t up to me to blow the gaff. Besides, I couldn’t blab about anything listed under Code Black: it would be dangerous for me, for Ogilvie and, possibly, Penny herself. I wasn’t supposed to know about that.

All the same it was curious that Cregar had been seeing Lumsden before we knew about Mayberry. Was there a connection between Ashton and Lumsden - apart from Penny - that we hadn’t spotted?

I caught the eye of a passing waiter and asked for the bill. As I drained my coffee cup I said, ‘It’s probably not important. Let’s go and keep Gillian company.’

Ogilvie sent for me next morning. He took an envelope, extracted a photograph, and tossed it across the desk. ‘Who’s that?’

He wore a heavy coat and a round fur hat, the type with flaps which can be tied down to cover the ears but which never are. Wherever he was it was snowing; there were
white streaks in the picture which was obviously a time exposure.

I said, ‘That’s George Ashton.’

‘No, he isn’t,’ said Ogilvie. ‘His name is Fyodr Koslov, and he lives in Stockholm. He has a servant, an elderly bruiser called Howell Williams.’ Another photograph skimmed across the desk.

I took one look at it, and said, ‘That be damned for a tale. This is Benson. Where did you get these?’

‘I want you to make quite sure,’ said Ogilvie. He took a sheaf of photographs and fanned them out. ‘As you know, we had a couple of bad pictures of Ashton and none at all of Benson. You are the only person in the department who can identify them.’

Every one of the photographs showed either Ashton or Benson, and in two of them they were together. ‘Positive identification,’ I said flatly. ‘Ashton and Benson.’

Ogilvie was pleased. ‘Some of our associated departments are more co-operative than others,’ he remarked. ‘I had the pictures of Ashton circulated. These came back from a chap called Henty in Stockholm. He seems to be quite good with a camera.’

‘He’s very good.’ The pictures were unposed - candid camera stuff - and very sharp. ‘I hope he’s been circumspect. We don’t want them to bolt again.’

‘You’ll go to Stockholm and take up where Henty left off. He has instructions to co-operate.’

I looked out at the bleak London sky and shivered. I didn’t fancy Stockholm at that time of year. ‘Do I contact Ashton? Tell him about Mayberry and persuade him to come back?’

Ogilvie deliberated. ‘No. He’s too near Russia. It might startle him to know that British Intelligence is still taking an interest in him - startle him into doing something foolish. He had a low opinion of us thirty years ago which may not
have improved. No, you just watch him and find out what the hell he’s doing.’

I took the sheet of paper with Henty’s address in Stockholm and his telephone number, then said, ‘Can you think of any connection between Cregar and Professor Lumsden?’ I told him Penny’s story.

Ogilvie looked at the ceiling. ‘I hear backstairs gossip from time to time. There could be a connection, but it’s nothing to do with Ashton. It
can’t
have anything to do with Ashton.’

‘What is it?’

He abandoned his apparent fascination with the electric fittings and looked at me. ‘Malcolm, you’re getting to know too damned much - more than is good for you. However, I’ll humour you because, as I say, this is only servants’ hall rumour. When this department was set up we took a sizeable chunk from Cregar which diminished his outfit considerably, so he began to empire-build in a different direction. The story is that he’s heavily involved in CBW - that would explain any interest he has in Lumsden.’

By God it would! Chemical and bacteriological warfare and what Lumsden was doing fitted together like hand in glove. ‘Is he still in security?’

‘No, he’s executive. He mediates between the Minister and the scientists. Of course, with his experience he also handles the security side.’

I could just imagine Cregar happily contemplating some previously inoffensive microbe now armed for death and destruction by genetic engineering. ‘Is he in with the Porton Down crowd?’

‘The Ministry of Defence is closing down Porton Down,’ said Ogilvie. ‘I don’t know where Cregar does his juggling with life and death. Microbiology isn’t like atomics; you don’t need a particle accelerator costing a hundred million and a power plant capable of supplying energy for a fair-sized city.
The physical plant and investment are both relatively small, and Cregar may have a dozen laboratories scattered about for all I know. He doesn’t talk about it - not to me.’

I contemplated this, trying to find a link with Ashton, and failed. There was only Penny, and I said so. Ogilvie asked, ‘Has Cregar talked to her?’

‘No.’

‘I told you it can’t have anything to do with Ashton,’ he said. ‘Off you go to Sweden.’

There was something else I wanted to bring up. ‘I’d like to know more about Benson. He’s probably filed away in Code Black.’

Ogilvie looked at me thoughtfully then, without speaking, got up and went into the room behind his desk. When he came back he was shaking his head. ‘You must be mistaken. Benson isn’t listed - not even under Code Green.’

‘But I took him up as far as Code Purple,’ I said. ‘Someone is monkeying around with that bloody computer.’

Ogilvie’s tips tightened. ‘Unlikely,’ he said shortly.

‘How unlikely?’

‘It’s not easy to suborn a computer. It would need an expert.’

‘Experts are ten a penny - and they can be bought.’

Ogilvie was palpably uneasy. He said slowly, ‘We aren’t the only department on line with this computer. I’ve been pressing for our own computer for several years but without success. Some other department…’ He stopped and sat down.

‘Who determines what material is added to the files - or removed?’

‘There’s an inter-departmental review committee which meets monthly. No one is authorized to add or subtract without its approval.’

‘Someone has subtracted Benson,’ I said. ‘Or, more likely, he’s been blocked off. I’ll bet someone has added a tiny
subprogram which would be difficult to find - if Benson is asked for say there’s no one here of that name.’

‘Well, it’s for me to deal with,’ said Ogilvie. ‘There’s a meeting of the review committee on Friday at which I’ll raise a little bit of hell.’ He stuck his finger out at me. ‘But you know nothing about this. Now, go away. Go to Sweden.’

I got up to leave but paused at the door. ‘I’ll leave you with a thought. I got into the Ashton case by asking Nellie about Ashton. Two hours later I was on the carpet in your office with you and Cregar asking awkward questions. Did Cregar come to you with it?’

‘Yes.’

‘In two hours? How did he know who was asking questions about Ashton unless the computer tipped him off? I don’t think you have far to look for the chap who is monkeying around with it.’

I left leaving Ogilvie distinctly worried.

It was dark and cold in Stockholm at that time of year. All the time I was in Sweden it didn’t stop snowing; not heavily most of the time, but there was a continual fall of fine powder from leaden-grey clouds as though God up there was operating a giant flour sifter. I was booked into the Grand, which was warm enough, and after I had made my call to Henty I looked out over the frozen Strömmen to the Royal Palace. Edward VII didn’t like Buckingham Palace, and called it ‘that damned factory’. It’s not on record if he said anything about the Palace in Stockholm, but that afternoon it looked like a dark satanic mill.

There were swans on the Strömmen, walking uneasily on the ice and cuddling in clusters as though to keep warm. One was on an ice floe and drifting towards Riddarfjärden; I watched it until it went out of sight under the Ström bridge, then turned away feeling suddenly cold in spite of the central heating. Sweden in winter has that effect on me.

Henty arrived and we swapped credentials. ‘We don’t have much to do with your mob,’ he commented as he handed back my card. He had a raw colonial accent.

‘We don’t move out of the UK much,’ I said. ‘Most of our work is counter-espionage. This one is a bit different. If you can take me to George Ashton I’ll buy you a case of Foster’s.’

Henty blinked. ‘Good beer, that. How did you know I’m Australian? I’ve not been back for twenty years. Must have lost the accent by now.’

I grinned. ‘Yes, you’ve learned to speak English very well. Where’s Ashton?’

He went to the window and pointed at the Royal Palace. ‘On the other side of that. In Gamla Stan.’

Gamla Stan - the Old Town. A warren of narrow streets threading between ancient buildings and the ‘in’ place to live in Stockholm. Cabinet ministers live there, and film directors - if they can afford it. The Royal Palace is No. 1, Gamla Stan. I said, ‘How did you find him?’

‘I got a couple of crummy pictures from London, and the day I got them I walked slam-bang into this character on the Vasabron.’ Henty shrugged. ‘So it’s a coincidence.’

‘By the laws of statistics we’ve got to get lucky some time,’ I observed.

‘He has a flat just off Västerlånggatan. He’s passing himself off as a Russian called Fyodr Koslov - which is a mistake.’

‘Why?’

Henty frowned. ‘It’s a tip-off - enough to make me take the pictures and send them back. There’s something funny about the way he speaks Russian - doesn’t sound natural.’

I thought about that. After thirty years of non-use Ashton’s Russian would be rusty; it’s been known for men to forget completely their native language. ‘And Benson is with him in the flat?’

‘Benson? Is that who he is? He calls himself Williams here. An older man; looks a bit of a thug. He’s definitely British.’

‘How can I get a look at them?’

Henty shrugged. ‘Go to Gamla Stan and hang around outside the flat until they come out - or go in.’

I shook my head. ‘Not good enough. They know me and I don’t want to be seen. What’s your status here?’

‘Low man on the bloody totem,’ said Henty wryly. ‘I’m junior partner in an import-export firm. I have a line into the Embassy, but that’s for emergency use only. The diplomats here don’t like boys like us, they reckon we cause trouble.’

‘They could be right,’ I said drily. ‘Who do I see at the Embassy?’

‘A Second Secretary called Cutler. A toffee-nosed bastard.’ The iron seemed to have entered Henty’s soul.

‘What resources can you draw on apart from the Embassy?’

‘Resources!’ Henty grinned. ‘You’re looking at the resources - me. I just have a watching brief - we’re not geared for action.’

‘Then it will have to be the Embassy.’

He coughed, then said, ‘Exactly who is Ashton?’ I looked at him in silence until he said, ‘If it’s going to be like that…’

‘It always is like that, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose so,’ he said despondently. ‘But I wish, just for once, that I knew why I’m doing what I’m doing.’

I looked at my watch. ‘There’s just time to see Cutler. In the meantime you pin down Ashton and Benson. Report to me here or at the Embassy. And there’s one very important thing - don’t scare them.’

‘Okay - but I don’t think you’ll get very much change out of Cutler.’

I smiled. ‘I wouldn’t want either you or Cutler to bet on that one.’

The Embassy was on Skarpögatan, and Cutler turned out to be a tall, slim, fair-haired man of about my age, very English and Old School Tie. His manner was courteous but rather distant as though his mind was occupied by other, and more important, considerations which a non-diplomat could not
possibly understand. This minor Metternich reminded me strongly of a shop assistant in one of the more snob London establishments.

When I gave him my card - the special one - his lips tightened and he said coolly, ‘You seem to be off your beat, Mr Jaggard. What can we do for you?’ He sounded as though he believed there was nothing he could possibly do for me.

I said pleasantly, ‘We’ve mislaid a bit of property and we’d like it back - with your help. But tact is the watchword.’ I told him the bare and minimum facts about Ashton and Benson.

When I’d finished he was a shade bewildered. ‘But I don’t see how…’ He stopped and began again. ‘Look, Mr Jaggard, if this man decides to leave England with his manservant to come to Sweden and live under an assumed name I don’t see what we can do about it. I don’t think it’s a crime in Swedish law to live under another name; it certainly isn’t in England. What exactly is it that you want?’

‘A bit of manpower,’ I said. ‘I want Ashton watched. I want to know what he does and why he does it.’

‘That’s out of the question,’ said Cutler. ‘We can’t spare men for police work of that nature. I really fail to see what your interest is in the man on the basis of what you’ve told me.’

‘You’re not entitled to know more,’ I said bluntly. ‘But take it from me - Ashton is a hot one.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t do that,’ he said coldly. ‘Do you really think we jump when any stranger walks in off the street with an improbable story like this?’

I pointed to my card which was still on the blotter in front of him. ‘In spite of that?’

‘In spite of that,’ he said, but I think he really meant because of it. ‘You people amaze me. You think you’re
James Bonds, the lot of you Well, I don’t think I’m living in the middle of a highly coloured film, even if you do.’

I wasn’t going to argue with him. ‘May I use your telephone?’ He frowned, trying to think of a good reason for denial, so I added, ‘I’ll pay for the call.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ he said shortly, and pushed his telephone across the desk.

One of our boffins once asked me what was the biggest machine in the world. After several abortive answers I gave up, and he said, ‘The international telephone system. There are 450 million telephones in the world, and 250 million of them are connected by direct dialling - untouched by hand in the exchanges.’ We may grouse about the faults of local systems, but in under ninety seconds I was talking to Ogilvie.

I said, ‘We have Ashton but there’s a small problem. There’s only one of Henty, and I can’t push in too close myself.’

‘Good. Get on to the Embassy for support. We want him watched. Don’t approach him yourself.’

‘I’m at the Embassy now. No support forthcoming.’

‘What’s the name of the obstruction?’

‘Cutler - Second Secretary.’

‘Wait a moment.’ There was a clatter and I heard the rustle of papers in distant London. Presently Ogilvie said, ‘This will take about half an hour. I’ll dynamite the obstruction. For God’s sake, don’t lose Ashton now.’

‘I won’t,’ I said, and hung up. I stood up and picked my card from Cutler’s blotter. ‘I’m at the Grand. You can get me there.’

‘I can’t think of any circumstances in which I should do so,’ he said distantly.

I smiled. ‘You will.’ Suddenly I was tired of him. ‘Unless you want to spend the next ten years counting paper clips in Samoa.’

Back at the hotel there was a curt note from Henty: ‘Meet me at the Moderna Museet on Skeppsholmen.’ I grabbed a taxi and was there in five minutes. Henty was standing outside the main entrance, his hands thrust deep into his pockets and the tip of his nose blue with cold. He jerked his head at the gallery. ‘Your man is getting a bit of culture.’

This had to be handled carefully. I didn’t want to bump into Ashton face to face. ‘Benson there too?’

‘Just Ashton.’

‘Right. Nip in and locate him - then come back here.’

Henty went inside, no doubt glad to be in the warm. He was back in five minutes. ‘He’s studying blue period Picassos.’ He gave me a plan of the halls and marked the Picasso Gallery.

I went into the Museum, moving carefully. There were not many people in the halls on the cold winter’s afternoon, which was a pity because there was no crowd to get lost in. On the other hand there were long unobstructed views. I took out my handkerchief, ready to muffle my face in case of emergency, turned a corner and saw Ashton in the distance. He was contemplating a canvas with interest and, as he turned to move on to the next one, I had a good sight of his face.

To my relief this
was
Ashton. There would have been a blazing row if I had goosed Cutler to no purpose.