‘Okay.’ The Admiral had added a drop of chemical to the thin line of plastic looking material which connected with the napalm container, pushed the bookcase back into position and closed the refrigerator door. Various explosives had been built into concealed compartments inside the office itself and the place would soon be an inferno. He helped Miss Sidders downstairs and smiled as he felt the building quiver just before they left the tunnel to enter a house where they would be safe for at least a few moments. The van was always kept in the same place and the concierge was a semi-retired member of the organisation who would die before giving away even one small secret.
The man looked at them dead pan. ‘Ma’am! Sir?’
‘As fast as possible,’ said the Admiral, and paused only to lift a few bananas from the bowl as they left a living room connecting with the garage where Tom Saunders had already opened the door and was handing Miss Sidders inside. It was like a small police van and totally screened from outside.
Sirens were screaming when they passed the fire which was now raging on the top floor of a neighbouring building and Admiral Cooper again glanced at his watch. ‘Fourteen minutes since that rocket shell hit our office,’ he said. ‘Not bad timing.’
Miss Sidders paused. ‘But not good enough. These people are even more efficient than one thought and it is my own view that they may know of Plan Two.’
The Admiral spoke over the intercom. ‘Full treatment, Tom. Assume we may be followed and act accordingly.’
Miss Sidders adjusted her safety belt and smiled approvingly as the van suddenly lurched at right angles down a one way street. She knew that a shower of tin tacks would have been dropped within ten metres of the corner and that any fast moving car following would soon have a puncture. As for others! The United Nations gentleman took priority, and what was a puncture to any honest man driving at an honest speed?
A panel of one way glass was inset into each side of the van and they both relaxed when Saunders again swung at right angles into a maze of narrow streets above Trinité. Sharp metal pins again dropped automatically when the Admiral pressed a button, but they both guessed that this was a mere formality. They felt it in their bones that the get-away had been clean cut and safe. That for the moment at least the heat would be off.
The woman lifted a banana and peeled it. ‘For you, sir. Almost lunch time.’
Cooper smiled approvingly. There was no need for talk. Time enough for that after they had done some thinking! And the thinking would last till nearly Dijon where Saunders’ brother was still key man. They were twins and wholly reliable. But Bob Saunders hadn’t lived for over thirty years in Hollywood for nothing. He was the ultimate expert in make up, and with a pair of scissors a razor and comb could alter anyone beyond recognition. He had left Hollywood in the middle fifties, partly because he no longer felt at home in a film world which was so different from the one he had loved during the ’thirties, but chiefly because his sister had been murdered by Communists in Korea while doing mission work. They had killed her slowly and photographs showed what she must have suffered. From that year on the Saunders brothers had dedicated their lives to freeing the world from what they felt to be the most frightening menace to the progress of man since time began. Their hatred was obsessive. But it was real, and they had swiftly been canalised into intelligence work which had ultimately ended with promotion to A.D.S.A.D. . . . the Administrative Department controlling security relating to Attack and Defence.
A.D.S.A.D. was tied up with the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation and had become N.A.T.O.’s own supreme intelligence weapon. It was the ideal set-up for which the Saunders brothers had been waiting, and only Cooper together with a few other very top people knew what they had risked in the non stop battle of counter-espionage. But it was because of that knowledge and because of their record that they had been given postings bearing on Plan Two when ill health had forced them out of more active service abroad.
The Admiral breathed into the intercom. ‘Bob knows we’re coming?’
Reply was instantaneous. ‘I flashed him the signal when you broke the ray and entered our escape hatch from the office. Everything should be taken care of.’
‘Passports and all that?’
The voice was reassuring. ‘Bob will have everything under control.’
‘And you, yourself, notified Professor Juin as to what was happening?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The Admiral knew his man and remembered also that Saunders was operating under very precise directives. He would speak only when spoken to and answer questions only when asked. ‘Did the Professor ask you to give me any message?’
‘Yes, sir. He would like you to telephone from the first suitable place and issue instructions.’
The Admiral settled comfortably into his bucket seat. ‘Then find a suitable place and we’ll make that phone call.’ The time had now come to think. And his thinking would pause only for long enough to brief Juin when the driver decided that it was safe to stop. There was little enough to tell Juin. But it was important. To fetch Maya Koren back from Brazil and give both she and David Grant the full treatment until they had been graded one way or another. And in the event of Grant being rated normal to send him to Bluebeard’s Castle on the island of St. Thomas and await further instructions, after, of course, having been suitably disguised by Bob Saunders following his swift, supposed, cremation.
And then he again hesitated slightly. It all sounded too easy! What had happened to nine or ten office staff? The U.N.O. man was dangerous and so very top that evidence against him would have to be conclusive before any world government could even think of indicting him for the new crime of global treason. Characters seeking world dictatorship came only in books and few statesmen would accept that a trusted international leader would use his contacts to attempt that very thing.
The Admiral always brooded in a curious dissociated way, allowing his mind to range at random over the whole spectrum of any problem. South East Asia could be important! The man was known to have family contacts there. And he was able to use high office in a style which made hunting with both hounds and hares dead easy. On balance he had been pro-east and anti-west. But as an Asiatic that was understandable, though viewing his record from the latest inside information hindsight showed that he had made almost no real contribution to world peace, that he had supported policies calculated to make America both unpopular and financially impoverished.
Nor had he been that helpful even towards the Kremlin. Both the Peking-Moscow and Arab-Israel dusts-up seemed to have suited him and he had leaned backwards to get both Uncle Ho and Peking into U.N.O. itself. Cooper remembered pre-second world war predictions by various writers who had prophesied that someone or other would use a united nations organisation of some sort to establish a world dictatorship. And both had paid a high price.
He glanced through the one way glass panel as he felt the van slow down and cocked an ear towards the intercom. ‘This should be safe, sir. I’ll dial Paris and suggest you join me in two minutes. The phone in this pub is just behind the front door in a call box, and I’ll keep an eye on things from the bar inside. There are smoke, tear and nerve gas bombs in the locker as per schedule. No doubt the lady will use them if necessary. But I figure we’re okay.’
Cooper glanced at Miss Sidders who nodded agreement, but snecked open the lid of a container just behind the driving seat. ‘Then two minutes as from now, Tom. March.’
He lit his pipe and opened the door. The courtyard was deserted except for a few hens, and they were at a ramshackle nineteenth century farm converted into a bar-restaurant which, at that time of afternoon, was silent as the grave. It had been reached by a minor road more than two kilometres long and approaches were concealed by trees. The van was parked within a few steps of the phone box and he watched Tom Saunders lay down the receiver as he approached the booth.
The line was distinct and Juin’s voice flatly neutral. ‘Awaiting advice in regard to the latest
proposition, sir.’
Cooper chose his words carefully. ‘My senior representative wishes his wife brought home from abroad. They will both have to be interviewed before promotion to the board can be finally decided. You might arrange for the thing to be done as swiftly as possible.
‘Our man also appreciates that we use American methods and has no objection to the lady being given what our Washington colleagues call the full treatment.’
‘Then assuming that they are acceptable when do we notify them and what is the salary scale?’ Juin sounded tense, thought the Admiral.
‘Right away. But we can talk money later. Tell him it will be generous and that before taking over we would like him to have a decent holiday. Suggest a few weeks in the sun at a decent hotel. The company will stand them as a sort of golden handshake.’ He paused. ‘Changing the subject, and while I remember, drop a note to Leslie Charteris and ask if he’ll autograph a full set of books for my grand-daughter’s birthday. She’s a Saint fan. And let young Tommy have my gun. He wants to pot some geese when he’s on leave.’
Juin was accustomed to the Admiral’s efforts at double talk and though he sometimes felt that it lacked finesse he appreciated the old man’s efforts. ‘Where’s he going this time, sir?’
Cooper thought fast. ‘He’s gone a bit mod. Grown a beard since I last saw him, so I daresay he’ll combine sport with pleasure. Going after all sorts of birds so to speak. I imagine he’ll make for a five star hotel somewhere near deep warm blue waters. He’s still doing skin diving, so it won’t be shooting all the time.’
Juin was now far ahead of his chief. Bluebeard’s Castle on the island of St. Thomas. But only if Grant was given the all clear after sophisticated investigation. ‘I’ll make a note of that, sir.’
Cooper glanced at the window where Tom Saunders was sipping something which looked like a Martini. ‘I’m away for a spell. Probably stop off on business at our far west branch in the States. Taken my secretary since I’m combining business with pleasure.’
Juin smiled to himself as he listened from his lab outside Paris. He knew that for ‘west’ he was to interpret ‘east’ . . . which could only mean Hong Kong. ‘And then?’
‘We’re after a really big order. The biggest order, probably, which the company is ever likely to nail. But it depends on one man. If we get him then we get everything.’
For once Juin was puzzled. ‘Can I help from this end?’
Cooper paused. ‘Doubt it. Have to leave things to our executive and myself. Rather delicate. Important to have no leaks, and this industrial espionage stuff has ruined more than one of our projects. But a senior share-holder in our largest global opposition has got to be led up the garden path somehow or other while we steal this order. And that’s going to take some doing.’
Juin hesitated. Largest global opposition could mean Russia, China or even the United Nations itself, which was not always enchanted with N.A.T.O. ‘No chance of opposition from the iron curtain people, sir? Or even from Asia? Japan is trying to corner that market, and the Russians are also pretty much on the ball.’
Cooper allowed his voice to become brusque. ‘We can fix that shower. But I don’t fancy the others.’
Juin became serious. So the Admiral was after someone in U.N.O.! ‘One point, sir. Some property was damaged the other day. Shortly after you left. A few staff members were overcome by fumes from a leak but our ambulance people got them out in time. No harm done.’
Cooper rose to the word. ‘Always risks of leaks, man. I’ve told you all a score of times to tighten security about that. Our stuff is expensive so make sure that people are more careful in future.’
Juin sounded apologetic. ‘No one could ever suspect leaks from that source, sir. Checked and double checked routine.’
‘Then tell them next time to dismantle that valve at the top. You know the one I mean?’
There was a momentary pause and then Cooper almost felt the sense of understanding which tinged Juin’s voice as he replied. ‘That, sir, is one of the most tricky pieces of equipment to handle. It will require considerable skill to check such a delicate mechanism since trouble there can wreck the whole apparatus. Everything, as you yourself well know, operates on a sort of chain reaction and one would have to be extremely able before interfering with a design which has satisfied experts.’
Cooper forced a note of confidence. ‘Well, my boy, if anyone can do it, you can. So get moving. But don’t hesitate to bring in any immediately available assistance. And remember that our financial resources are big enough to award any grants we care for services rendered.’ He sensed that Saunders was becoming restless and knew that it was time to move. If anyone was monitoring Juin’s phone they mustn’t be given time to pin-point his own location on the map. ‘Off now. See you, my boy. But tie all this up fairly fastish, will you?’
He hung up and returned to the van. Miss Sidders laid down her knitting and Saunders again made contact on the intercom. ‘Any comment, sir?’
Cooper drew cautiously at his pipe. His thoughts were very far away. ‘None. Proceed according to schedule.’ One of his nightmares had always been the possibility of some elaborate device being planted somewhere on this very van—or indeed on any departmental vehicle—which would enable an opposition to get a radar bearing. Or even worse, a bug which would transmit with the efficiency of those which his own people used as routine. A journey like this was an occasion for silence . . . silence could mean safety. And safety could mean life. Not only for himself but for countless others who might be involved if the showdown which seemed inevitable wasn’t handled with infinite skill.
Chapter Three – ‘Also dividends, danger and possible death’
David Grant yawned, turned slightly in bed and relaxed.
Life was wonderful. He was in that half world which is neither darkness nor light, but in which a man half drugged by sleep allows his mind to scan deep secrets about which he may normally never even consciously think. He sensed the sunshine play on his face and with it felt an irresistible lust to count his assets.
Age forty plus, but wearing well and looking mid-thirtyish.
Appearance above average. And that in spite of the tiny scar which lifted one eyebrow in a gesture of perpetual cynicism.
Health faultless. Even after a recent computer check-up which missed nothing.
Mental stability? Maybe that one was a shade dicey! Maybe not even an asset, since the department had graded him a cyclothalamic personality with latent manic depressive tendencies which were normally kept under control only by the job he held. But since everyone fell into some damn category or other and had to be viewed as a whole, he figured that, on balance, he was emotionally within normal limits. Though whether he would be able to survive regular office hours of conventional living was another matter.
Which took him back to his job. It suited him. And although there was an age limit for his specialty they might turn a blind eye when the time came. Or at least they would let him carry on until he slipped up. Partly because his first slip-up might well be his last!
He smiled slightly. Pity he was alone at a moment like this! But Maya was on tour again. And he missed her. Perhaps they got on so well because they respected one another’s privacies and had agreed that although marriage might one day be considered, until then they each had the right to live as they pleased. Maya was still Europe’s leading Prima Ballerina, and her rating in France was now even higher than it had been in Russia. He frowned uneasily. She wanted to return, even if only for a visit, and they were waiting a memo from his chief confirming that it would be safe.
The Russians were still riddles wrapped up in enigmas . . . or something! And he doubted if they would have forgiven her for leaving with him after that Kremlin affair a few years earlier.[3] But he was equally certain that they would now hesitate to interfere with her even if her agent did arrange a season at the Bolshoi. She was now an international celebrity, and in a way even an advert for her people. Nor
had she yet given up Soviet citizenship, and so far as he knew Moscow hadn’t withdrawn it. Time would tell. Meanwhile she was back in Rio completing another South American tour and they would meet at Orly in a few days.
His hand automatically groped towards the empty place beside him. Life could sometimes be Hell without her. Maya was a part of living which meant something. The others were just a flash in the pan. But flashes which made life more interesting when he was lonely. While Maya was still his right arm.
Except perhaps for Krystelle. She too now mattered. But she was still a novelty. They had met less than a year ago[4] and the tawny girl from French Guiana had worked her way into his mind until she had become almost as necessary as Maya herself.
One was complimentary to the other.
Maya the artiste and cultured socialite. Krystelle, the daughter of a French convict and a Creole, a fifty-seven variety multi-caste who stopped at nothing. Anywhere. If she wanted it.
Maya unequalled as a ballerina. But Krystelle unique with guns or knives and her instinct for self-preservation.
Maya’s Slav technique played mistress on one key while Krystelle satisfied other needs with brutal sophistication.
Grant estimated that few twentieth-century Caucasian males had ever been shown so much genuine love and passion by two women so lovely yet so talented and so totally different in temperament. And if that meant that he ran a harem, then so what! He liked it. They both did him good, but Krystelle had one overwhelming advantage which Maya could never hope to equal. As an expert criminal who had, herself, never been caught, and who knew every worthwhile underworld contact from Beirut to Port of Spain she was invaluable to his work. While Maya could help only by giving him confidence and the sense of being ‘wanted’ by someone who loved him.
The sun was warming and he was now rather more awake. One part of him knew that in a short time he would again have to face a brutal world, while his longing for fantasy still kept him in the twilight of near dreams. He thought for a moment and again relaxed. Maya was still first. But Krystelle was catching up and her brother with his friends closed the gap almost to zero. Brother Frank was a killer, and his friend Harry one of the vice kings of western Europe with contacts spreading from Tokyo to Central America. They had met while playing on opposite sides but ended by enjoying a mutual respect which had become important.
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