Death's Foot Forward

by George B Mair

  They ranked high amongst the most wealthy and influential men in the free world, and in certain respects their host was the most important of all. Although a first world war V.C., and active Secret Service agent for the following twenty years, Lyveden had now settled into the life of a Norfolk squire, allowing it to act as a front to half a dozen other activities which had brought him into contact with everyone who mattered in the English Establishment. His good nature and shrewd business sense had given him a seat on more boards than he could comfortably handle. He had a part-time job as adviser to certain standing committees of the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation and he also attended the House as member for an awkward constituency in the Home Counties. But he was still in the Service, and could almost be described as liaison officer between the mature world of British Intelligence and the young organisation which was still struggling for experience under N.A.T.O.—and the Admiral.

  An invitation to Lyveden’s annual partridge shoot was a privilege, but Grant knew that on this year he had used the house-party to cover up the meetings of his newsworthy guests. Timing had been carefully planned. The rest of the party was out potting birds and would be occupied until dusk. Luncheon had been wholly private and Sir Jonah had leaned backwards to make things ‘go’. Even the menu had been carefully chosen, an honest country cream soup born from chicken stock, boiled trout, a bowl of home grown greenhouse peaches, and biscuits with Wensleydale cheese. ‘A light table,’ he had explained, ‘because we can’t afford to have full stomachs clogging up our brains.’

  They had had only a few words together in private when he arrived, and he still had no clue as to what was in the air, though Sir Jonah had given one brief hint of advice. ‘Chang told Alvis and me the story last night. But play hard to get. Chang wants you badly, even although he may test you out a bit before saying much.’

  It was all very mysterious, but Grant was content to let things develop slowly and relaxed into his chair, lazily admiring the room. Flames were crackling the logs below a white fire-piece, and already the shaft of sunshine was climbing one wall to burnish the satin gown of a Gainsborough. And then there was a sudden silence as Sir Jonah looked purposefully at each of his guests and cleared his throat. ‘Right, gentlemen. Let’s consider the meetin’ open. David Grant has been brought along at the request of Chang here and I’m assumin’ we’ll now take him into our confidence. You know, of course, that he’s pretty well tied, but he’s been detailed for various special missions in the past and maybe he can help us now, even if in some sort of private capacity.’

  ‘Provided, of course, that it is in my line and if the thing seems sufficiently important,’ drawled Grant.

  Chang Hung apologetically raised his eyebrows in a curious gesture of resignation. ‘Before saying any more Sir Jonah, can you again assure us that the Doctor is completely reliable. He seems irritatingly off-handed. Not quite the man of action I expected.’

  The older man nodded briefly. ‘He’s active when action is needed.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ continued Chang, ‘but no one is wholly reliable. So before finally making up my mind about your nominee I decided to have him investigated once more by my own organisation and a fully up-to-date dossier arrived only this morning.’

  Grant’s grip tightened on the stem of his goblet. ‘I hope you were satisfied.’

  A slender finger sharply tapped off the glowing ash into a bronze tray. ‘More or less. You have a few important weaknesses. Extravagant tastes and too much interest in women, an unusual characteristic for a man of your medical training and background. You also have an overdraft for over £2,000, and these things make you vulnerable.’

  ‘Surely an overdraft is normal enough in these days,’ protested Grant.

  ‘Only under certain circumstances,’ replied Chang sourly. ‘But since yours was arranged simply to live extravagantly above your income I believe you could be bought. And I’m certain that a really capable and attractive woman could manœuvre you into enough trouble to make you vulnerable. You are aged thirty-seven, why are you not married?’

  Grant looked at him sourly. If Chang’s people didn’t know the answer to that his organisation couldn’t amount to much. ‘For the sake of the record I was engaged to a young French lady who died in 1953 whilst nursing soldiers in South-East Asia. You may remember the siege in Indo-China.’

  Chang ignored the red herring. ‘Was this engagement announced?’

  ‘No,’ Grant’s manner was coldly formal. ‘She was set on doing what she could to help out east so we decided to wait until she returned before making it public.’

  ‘Very sad. But that was a good many years ago.’

  Grant had always resented any prying into his private affairs, and although it was a long time since Julie had been killed the thing still hurt. ‘My private life is my own affair, sir, and I don’t give a damn what you think of it. If you want to talk business you must take me as I am.’

  On the other side of the table John G. Alvis had begun to doodle on a scribbling pad which he always carried in his pocket, and his lazy Southern drawl helped to compose the rising tension. ‘Tact was never Chang’s strong point, Doctor, but I must admit that as a business man I also like to look over anything I may think of buying and my people largely agree with what he has said. However there’s so much to your credit that personally I have no doubt about your loyalties, and I’m certain we could make a good team.’

  Grant prickled at the note of condescension. ‘Let’s get this straight,’ he snapped. ‘You aren’t buying me. We may come to some business arrangement, but after all that has been said it might be just as well if we cleared the air on both sides and I told you where you stand with me before we go any further.’

  Chang Hung carefully stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Please do.’

  Grant looked at him slam on the bridge of the nose. ‘In your own way, sir, you are steeped in almost as much blood as any other Asiatic tyrant, and anyone who becomes involved in your affairs must be more than usually careful. When you were running a department for Chiang Kai-shek you were responsible for the destruction of at least a quarter million Chinese. All supposed to be red sympathisers. Death comes as naturally to you as breathing. Most of your former hatchet men are also dead, and you like them better that way because corpses don’t give away secrets and you’ve plenty to hide.

  ‘When mainland China became too hot for the Nationalists you salted your moneys away in Switzerland and South America, but enough aid to Nationalist China still drifted into your own pocket to keep you the wealthiest man in Free China and one of the top powers-behind-the-scenes in your exiled government.

  ‘The only good thing I can say about you is that you have done what you could to prevent your country being swallowed by the Communists, and I can’t imagine how our interests can coincide or how I could ever be willing to help you.’

  Chang Hung had sat, motionless, his arms folded and his face set like a mask. And then he smiled. ‘At least we are both candid, but our interests do coincide as you will understand in a few moments.’

  John G. Alvis slowly swirled the remains of his brandy round the deep goblet. ‘I guess you did some homework on myself?’ he interrupted.

  ‘Yes.’ Grant was annoyed to find that he was becoming tense, that the Chinaman’s imperturbable personality had begun to get under his skin, and he weighed his words with more care as he looked across at the American. ‘In a nut-shell,’ he said at last, ‘you are an idealist, and like many idealists you aren’t fussy about methods. For you the end justifies the means, but you are not really a patriot. You are a full-blooded internationalist in thought and action. In fact, if you hadn’t been an American you might well have become Secretary-General of U.N.O. and succeeded Hammarskjöld. As things are you now try to influence the world scene as one of its back-room boys and frankly I don’t think that there is a single thing you wouldn’t do if you felt it was going to help world peace and Western policy.’

  The Americ
an slowly walked round the dining-room and finally stopped beside the fire, toasting his hands behind his back whilst his heels rested on the marble kerb. ‘How about Sir Jonah?’

  Grant grinned broadly and wondered how far he could go. ‘Sir Jonah is a perfect example of a certain type of Englishman,’ he said at last. ‘He knows more than he ever chooses to admit and he takes a strong stand on principles. But he can compromise on things which don’t matter so much and he’s as tough as the next fellow when the need arises.’

  Sir Jonah’s eyes were twinkling as he watched Grant stall on the question, and gave him full marks for having said just enough and not too much.

  The American sat down and pulled out his doodling pad, quietly drawing a complicated series of squiggles. ‘Before we finally put our cards on the table, I’d like to ask another question. Do you see anything in common between us? Between the certain type of Englishman, the American internationalist and the Asiatic tyrant?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Grant seriously. ‘You all have money, influence, power and position. And you hate the Communists’ guts.’

  ‘We not only hate,’ interrupted Chang. ‘We fight Soviet Imperialism with every means in our possession.’

  ‘And you would like me to be one of the means.’

  ‘Yes.’ Chang’s expression was inscrutable. ‘You say we are ruthless, but you, yourself, in spite of your medical training, are the most merciless individual I have ever met.’

  ‘Very well. I can be tough, but only when I feel justified, and that goes for lots of other men. What else have I got that your own men haven’t?’

  ‘Your snap judgement is first class and your reaction time shorter than average. You can see further through a brick wall than most men of your age and experience and your gift for scenting trouble before it happens is almost a sort of extra-sensory perception. Then again your scientific and medical background could be invaluable to all of us.’

  ‘Provided, of course, that I play ball with you.’

  Chang carefully tapped out a pinch of dark brown snuff on to his thumb-nail and then slowly sniffed it into each nostril. ‘Naturally,’ he said quietly, ‘but in spite of all this plain speaking Sir Jonah, Alvis and myself hope that you will accept our offer and work for us until a certain task has been completed.’

  ‘What sort of task?’

  ‘We want you to go to Moscow, unravel the details of a very subtle plot against the Free World and kill the man in charge.’

  Grant almost laughed aloud. It was too much of a coincidence. As yet not even Sir Jonah knew of his Moscow adventures or of his feud with Sokolnikov. And Maya, he thought grimly. She too would be waiting. ‘Perhaps you could tell me more,’ he said at last.

  Sir Jonah took up his favourite position at the window, his rippling grey hair glinting against a brilliant autumn sky. ‘Let me give some background stuff by way of introduction and then Chang can take over. You know that one way and another I’m pretty well informed about what’s goin’ on in the world.’

  Grant nodded appreciatively at the understatement. The old fox had a knack of encouraging his cronies to pour out their hearts, and if anyone knew the real trend of world affairs it was Sir Jonah Lyveden. Subconsciously tensing himself to concentrate he sat back and listened, marking the headlines.

  The cold war had entered a new phase and present methods for countering Soviet strategy were out-dated. Once there had been hot wars. Then the long drawn-out cold war. But now another type of war had started, a war of ideas which might yet prove to be more effective than any shooting war ever waged. And the latest idea, more dangerous than rockets or light-ray guns, was either a drug or bug which could alter personality and reduce people to the level of willing slaves. ‘Which may sound dashed far fetched,’ ended Sir Jonah, ‘but Chang has persuaded me and he’ll persuade you. So over to you, sir, and let’s bring young David up-to-date.’

  Chang cautiously sipped his brandy, lit another cigarette and then turned towards Grant. ‘I suppose it all started when I sent a few hand-picked men into China. It is very easy, you know. Hong Kong and Macao are clearing houses for spies on both sides and for men who know the ropes it is easy enough to get passable papers and infiltrate into Red China as fishermen or the like. My men landed safely and disappeared. Messages reached me at intervals, and then, for some months there was silence, no radio signals, no notes.’

  Grant had withdrawn into a cocoon of concentration, his every critical faculty dispassionately weighing the argument as he listed the points which mattered in Chang’s chain of cumulative evidence.

  Two professional soldiers trained in espionage had entered Red China and returned after some months with personality changes and a story which had scared Formosa sick. All their natural qualities of leadership and aggression had been replaced by a strange brand of good humour and kindliness. Initiative and courage seemed to have been destroyed and neither of them would now lift a finger even in self-defence. They seemed unable even to think for themselves, and although they were still physically in perfect condition the will to struggle seemed to have been replaced by a passive docility which, to Chang who knew them, was frightening.

  They had been kept under observation for several weeks in a military barracks, and eventually it had been noted that several contacts had developed an influenza-like illness followed by similar personality changes developing towards the end of the second week. The general infection had been trivial, joint pains and a head cold, some mild fever and giddiness, but the psychological complications had been dramatic enough to terrify even the doctors.

  Chang’s voice hesitated, and he looked impassively at Grant. ‘Can you blame them for being frightened? Men who had been selfish husbands and careless fathers, bad workers or indisciplined soldiers seemed suddenly to have been reborn into a world of weird geniality in which they were no more or less than slaves. One of our psychologists used the word for the first time and the idea has haunted me ever since.’

  His voice hardened slightly and he struck the table violently with his fist. ‘Do you realise that if this illness became epidemic it could make slaves of the whole world? Condemn humanity to near imbecility?’

  ‘So what did you do?’ Grant’s manner was deadpan. He was still living in a withdrawn emotional retreat, content for the moment to listen and sift the clues which mattered from a mass of meticulous detail.

  The doctors had reported a new type of illness and Chang had isolated every contact, but in spite of strict quarantine over 80 per cent of these had developed the disease. All people infected, both men and women, had developed the same emotional changes and it had taken weeks to control the local epidemic.

  It seemed clear that Chang’s two agents had carried some infection back to Formosa and it became a top priority to trace their movements.

  ‘But fortunately,’ continued Chang, ‘memory is not destroyed and my men were able to report in detail. From Hong Kong they had worked their way to Changsha and thence to Peking by way of Kaifeng and Tientsin. Until then it seems that they remained fit, but in Peking one of them became involved in a fight and got a prison sentence of three months for brawling. The prison was overcrowded and he shared his cell with two other men, a Russian and a Mongol from a village near Ulan Bator. Now this may be important, because he tells me that he had never met men whom he liked so much before. The cell seemed to have become a home from home and the two prisoners went out of their way to make his life agreeable.’

  Chang raised his hands in an expressive gesture of astonishment. ‘The other man was then holding down a job and waiting for his friend to be released. But he says that when he met him the man was completely changed. He had, says my agent, become kind. Kind! I ask you! My most reliable liaison officer with a meshwork of patriots living under the red terror described his opposite number as having become kind. And then, reports my second agent, slowly he too became affected. He describes it as “falling under the influence” of his friend until he, too, had reached the s
ame peak of spiritual contentment. And this from two men who would have suffered the death of a thousand cuts for my sake. Or who would have inflicted it on anyone who crossed me. But now all they do is sit and talk about how wonderful it is not to worry, and how happy it makes them to help others by working.

  ‘And that was the position,’ he said, ‘when I met Mr. Alvis on one of the many occasions when we were discussing aid to my government in Formosa. I still call it Formosa in spite of this miserable habit people have today of changing names.’

  Alvis closed his doodling pad with a vicious snap and slipped it back into his pocket. ‘And I didn’t believe him any more than you do, sir. But when I returned to Washington I heard a few stories which somehow tied up when one remembered Chang’s experiences, because there was a rumour about a new sort of concentration camp having been established in Russia, and I gathered that our people over there thought it was the darndest sort of camp they had ever known. Some of the descriptions of inmates fitted what Chang had told me and I began to wonder if it was really a sort of quarantine centre for victims of this new illness. I even began to wonder what sort of world we might have if the thing swept through the continents and left behind it a trail of goodwill such as Chang has described. Somehow it seemed the possible answer to every human problem, until I remembered that Chang had made quite a point about something, that these people had no initiative, that they couldn’t seem to think for themselves and that they were just friendly drones content to work for a boss. What sort of world would it be, I thought, if there were no leaders, no bosses and only countless millions of good-hearted imbeciles struggling to make a living?’

  ‘But how much did these chaps of yours remember about their past?’ interrupted Sir Jonah. ‘How did they get back, home?’