Circus

by Alistair MacLean

  ‘Proof,’ Bruno said. ‘We were speaking of proof, Colonel.’

  ‘Proof. Every other known damage caused to the earth by the impact of bodies from outer space has, without explanation, been caused by meteors. There was no trace of the meteor that might have caused this Siberian holocaust and no signs of any mark upon the ground where the meteor might have crashed into it; when meteors crashed into Arizona and South Africa they left enormous craters in the ground. The now accepted and indeed inevitable conclusion is that Siberia was struck by a particle of anti-matter with a mass of something of the order of one hundredth of a millionth of a gram.’

  There was a considerable silence, then Wrinfield said: ‘Well, we have already covered this. Second time round it’s a bit clearer, but not much. So?’

  ‘Some dozen years ago there was scientific speculation as to whether the Russians had discovered the secret of anti-matter but this was dismissed out of hand because – well, because of anti-matter’s unpleasant propensity of annihilating all matter with which it comes into contact, the creation, harnessing and storage of it was impossible.

  ‘Was impossible. What if it were possible or about to become possible? The nation that held this secret could hold the world to ransom. Comparatively, nuclear weapons are inoffensive toys for the amusement of little toddlers.’

  For a long minute no one spoke, then Wrinfield said: ‘You would not be talking in this fashion unless you had reason to believe that such a weapon exists or could exist.’

  ‘I have reason so to believe. This possibility has obsessed the intelligence agencies of all the modern world for some years now.’

  ‘Obviously this secret is not in our hands, or you wouldn’t be telling us all this.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘And it wouldn’t be in the hands of a country such as Britain?’

  ‘That would give us no cause for anxiety.’

  ‘Because when the chips are down they would be allies with responsible hands?’

  ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself.’

  ‘Then this secret resides – if it does reside anywhere – in the hands of a country which, when the chips were down, would be neither friendly nor responsible?’

  ‘Precisely.’ Pilgrim, Fawcett reflected, had warned him not to underrate Wrinfield’s intelligence. Wrinfield said slowly: ‘Pilgrim and I have already made some tentative arrangements, come to preliminary agreements. You will know that. But he never told me any of this.’

  ‘The time wasn’t right.’

  ‘So now it is?’

  ‘Now or not at all.’

  ‘Of course, you want this secret or formula or whatever?’

  Fawcett began to revise his opinion of Wrinfield’s intelligence. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘What makes you think our hands are more responsible than those of a score of other nations?’

  ‘I’m a paid employee of the United States government. Mine is not to reason why.’

  ‘It will not have escaped you that that was precisely the reasoning adopted by the Gestapo and the SS in Germany during the Second World War or by Russia’s KGB since?’

  ‘It has not escaped me. But I don’t think the analogy is very exact. The United States doesn’t really want more power – we have already overkill capacity. Can you imagine what would happen if this secret fell into the hands of, say, the certifiable leaders of a couple of the new Central African republics? We simply think we have more responsible hands than most.’

  ‘We have to hope we have.’

  Fawcett tried to conceal his long slow exhalation of relief. ‘That means you’ll go along.’

  ‘I’ll go. A moment ago you said the time was now right to tell me. Why?’

  ‘I hope I was right in saying I was right.’

  Bruno stirred. ‘What do you want of me, Colonel?’

  There were times, Fawcett was aware, when there was little point in beating about the bush. He said: ‘Get it for us.’

  Bruno rose and poured himself another soda. He drank it all down then said: ‘You mean, steal it?’

  ‘Get it. Would you call taking a gun away from a maniac stealing?’

  ‘But why me?’

  ‘Because you have unique gifts. I can’t discuss what type of use we would propose making of those gifts until I have some sort of answer. All I know is that we are pretty certain that there is only one formula in existence, only one man who has the formula and is capable of reproducing it. We know where both man and formula are.’

  ‘Where?’

  Fawcett didn’t hesitate. ‘Crau.’

  Bruno didn’t react in at all the way Fawcett had expected. His voice, when he spoke, was as bereft of expression as his face. Tonelessly, he repeated the word: ‘Crau.’

  ‘Crau. Your old home country and your old home town.’

  Bruno didn’t reply immediately. He returned to his chair, sat in it for a full minute, then said: ‘If I do agree, how do I get there? Illegal frontier crossing? Parachutes?’

  Fawcett made a heroic – and successful – effort to conceal his sense of exultation. Wrinfield and Bruno – he’d got them both in a matter of minutes. He said matter-of-factly: ‘Nothing so dramatic. You just go along with the circus.’

  This time Bruno seemed to be beyond words, so Wrinfield said: ‘It’s quite true, Bruno. We – that is, I – have agreed to co-operate with the government on this issue. Not that I had any more idea, until this moment, what the precise issue involved was. We are going to make a short tour of Europe, mainly eastern Europe. Negotiations are already well advanced. It’s quite natural. They send circus acts, dancers, singers to us: we’re just reciprocating.’

  ‘The whole circus?’

  ‘No, naturally not. That would be impossible. Just the cream of the cream, shall we say.’ Wrinfield smiled faintly. ‘One would have imagined that to include you.’

  ‘And if I refuse?’

  ‘We simply cancel the tour.’

  Bruno looked at Fawcett. ‘Mr Wrinfield’s lost profits. This could cost your government a million dollars.’

  ‘Our government. We’d pay a billion to get hold of this.’

  Bruno looked from Fawcett to Wrinfield then back to Fawcett again. He said abruptly: ‘I’ll go.’

  ‘Splendid. My thanks. Your country’s thanks. The details – ’

  ‘I do not need my country’s thanks.’ The words were cryptical but without offence.

  Fawcett was slightly taken aback, sought for the meaning behind the words then decided he’d better not. He said: ‘As you will. The details, as I was about to say, can wait until later. Mr Wrinfield, did Mr Pilgrim tell you that we’d be grateful if you would take along two additional people when you go abroad?’

  ‘He did not.’ Wrinfield seemed somewhat miffed. ‘It would appear that there are quite a number of things that Mr Pilgrim did not tell me.’

  ‘Mr Pilgrim knows what he is doing.’ Now that he had them both Fawcett took off the velvet gloves but still remained urbane and polite. ‘There was no point in burdening you with unnecessary details until we had secured the co-operation of both you gentlemen. The two people in question are a Dr Harper and an equestrienne, Maria. Our people. Very important to our purpose. That, too, I’ll explain later. There are some things I must first discuss urgently with Mr Pilgrim. Tell me, Bruno, why have you agreed to do this? I must warn you that it might be extremely dangerous for you and if you’re caught we’ll have no option but to disown you. Why?’

  Bruno shrugged. ‘Who’s to say why? There can be many reasons that a man can’t explain even to himself. Could be gratitude – America took me in when my own country threw me out. There are people there to whom I would like to perform as great a disservice as they did to me. I know there are dangerous and irresponsible men in my old country who would not hesitate to employ this weapon, if it exists. And then you say I am uniquely equipped for this task. In what ways I don’t yet know, but if it is the case how could I let another go
in my place? Not only might he fail in getting what you want but he could well be killed in the process. I wouldn’t like to have either of those things on my conscience.’ He smiled faintly. ‘Just say it’s a bit of a challenge.’

  ‘And your real reason?’

  Bruno said simply: ‘Because I hate war.’

  ‘Mmm. Not the answer I expected, but fair enough.’ He stood up. ‘Thank you, gentlemen, for your time, your patience and above all your cooperation. I’ll have the cars take you back.’

  Wrinfield said: ‘And yourself? How do you get to Mr Pilgrim’s office?’

  ‘The madame here and I have an understanding of sorts. I’m sure she’ll provide me with some form of transport.’

  Fawcett had keys in his hand when he approached Pilgrim’s apartment – Pilgrim both worked and slept in the same premises – but he put them away. Pilgrim, most uncharacteristically, had not even locked his door, he hadn’t even closed it properly. Fawcett pushed the door and went inside. The first partly irrational thought that occurred to him was that he could have been just that little bit optimistic when he had assured Wrinfield that Pilgrim knew what he was doing.

  Pilgrim was lying on the carpet. Whoever had left him lying there had clearly a sufficiency of ice-picks at home, for he hadn’t even bothered to remove the one he’d left buried to the hilt in the back of Pilgrim’s neck. Death must have been instantaneous, for there wasn’t even a drop of blood to stain his Turnbull and Asser shirt. Fawcett knelt and looked at the face. It was as calmly expressionless as it had habitually been in life. Pilgrim had not only not known what hit him, he hadn’t even known he’d been hit.

  Fawcett straightened, crossed to the phone and lifted it.

  ‘Dr Harper please. Ask him to come here immediately.’

  Dr Harper wasn’t exactly a caricature or a conceptualized prototype of the kindly healer, but it would have been difficult to visualize him in any other role. There was a certain medical inevitability about him. He was tall, lean, distinguished in appearance, becomingly grey at the temples and wore a pair of horn-rimmed pebble glasses which lent his gaze a certain piercing quality which might have been illusory, intentional or just habitual. Horn-rimmed pebble glasses are a great help to doctors; the patient can never tell whether he is in robust health or has only weeks to live. His dress was as immaculate as that of the dead man he was thoughtfully examining. He had his black medical bag with him but wasn’t bothering to use it. He said: ‘So that’s all you know about tonight?’

  ‘That’s all.’

  ‘Wrinfield? After all, he was the only one who knew. Before tonight, I mean.’

  ‘He knew no details before tonight. No way. And he’d no opportunity. He was with me.’

  ‘There’s such a thing as an accomplice?’

  ‘No chance. Wait until you see him. His record’s immaculate – don’t you think Pilgrim spent days checking? His patriotism is beyond question, it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s got a “God Bless America” label sewn on to his undershirt. Besides, do you think he would have gone to the time and trouble of arranging to take his whole damn circus – well, most of it – to Europe if he had intended to do this? I know there’s such a thing as erecting a façade, laying down a smokescreen, dragging red herrings – you name it – but, well, I ask you.’

  ‘It’s not likely.’

  ‘But I think we should have him and Bruno up here. Just to let them see what they’re up against. And we’ll have to notify the admiral immediately. Will you do that while I get hold of Barker and Masters?’

  ‘That’s the scrambler there?’

  ‘That’s the scrambler.’

  Dr Harper was still on the phone when Barker and Masters arrived, Barker the driver and Masters the grey man who had confronted Bruno on the stage. Fawcett said: ‘Get Wrinfield and Bruno up here. Tell them it’s desperately urgent but don’t tell them anything about this. Bring them in by the rear tunnel. Be quick!’

  Fawcett closed but did not lock the door behind them as Dr Harper hung up. Harper said: ‘We’re to keep it under wraps. According to the admiral, who is the one man who would know, he had no close relatives so he died of a heart attack. Me and my Hippocratic oath. He’ll be right round.’

  Fawcett was gloomy. ‘I thought he might be. He’s going to be very happy about this. Pilgrim was the apple of his eye, and it’s no secret that he was next in line for the admiral’s chair. Well, let’s have a couple of the boys with their little cans of dusting powder and let them have a look around. Not, of course, that they’ll find anything.’

  ‘You’re so sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. Anyone cool enough to walk away leaving the murder weapon in situ, as it were, is pretty confident in himself. And you notice the way he’s lying, feet to the door, head pointing away?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘The fact that he’s so close to the door is almost sure proof that Pilgrim opened it himself. Would he have turned his back on a murderer? Whoever the killer was, he was a man Pilgrim not only knew but trusted.’

  Fawcett had been right. The two experts who had come up with their little box of tricks had turned up nothing. The only places where fingerprints might conceivably have been, on the ice-pick handle and door-knobs, were predictably clean. They were just leaving when a man entered without benefit of either permission or knocking.

  The admiral looked like everybody’s favourite uncle or a successful farmer or, indeed, what he was, a fleet admiral, albeit retired. Burly, red-faced, with pepper-and-salt hair and radiating an oddly kind authority, he looked about ten years younger than his acknowledged if frequently questioned fifty-five. He gazed down at the dead man on the floor, and the more kindly aspect of his character vanished. He turned to Dr Harper.

  ‘Made out the death certificate yet? Coronary, of course.’ Dr Harper shook his head. ‘Then do so at once and have Pilgrim removed to our private mortuary.’

  Fawcett said: ‘If we could leave that for a moment, sir. The mortuary bit, I mean. I have two people coming up here very shortly, the owner of the circus and our latest – ah – recruit. I’m convinced neither of them has anything to do with this – but it would be interesting to see their reactions. Also, to find out if they still want to go through with this.’

  ‘What guarantee can you offer that they won’t leave here and head for the nearest telephone? There isn’t a newspaper in the country that wouldn’t give their assistant editor for this story.’

  ‘You think that had not occurred to me, sir?’ A slightly less than cordial note had crept into Fawcett’s tone. ‘There is no guarantee. There’s only my judgement.’

  ‘There’s that,’ the admiral said pacifically. It was the nearest he could ever bring himself to an apology. ‘Very well.’ He paused and to recover his position said: ‘They are not, I trust, knocking and entering by the front door?’

  ‘Barker and Masters are bringing them. By the rear tunnel.’

  As if on cue, Barker and Masters appeared in the doorway, then stepped aside to let Wrinfield and Bruno in. The admiral and Dr Harper, Fawcett knew, were watching their faces as intently as he was. Understandably, neither Wrinfield nor Bruno was watching them: when you find a murdered man lying at your feet your ocular attention does not tend to stray. Predictably, Bruno’s reactions were minimal, the narrowing of the eyes, the tightening of the mouth could have been as much imagined as real, but Wrinfield’s reactions were all that anyone could have wished for: the colour drained from his face, leaving it a dirty grey, he put out a trembling hand against the lintel to steady himself and for a moment he looked as if he might even sway and fall.

  Three minutes later, three minutes during which Fawcett had told him what little he knew, a seated Wrinfield, brandy glass in hand, was still shaking. Bruno had declined the offer of a restorative. The admiral had taken the floor.

  He said to Wrinfield: ‘Do you have any enemies in the circus?’

  ‘Enemies? In the circus?’ Wrinfield was clearly taken aback
. ‘Good God, no. I know it must sound corny to you but we really are one big happy family.’

  ‘Any enemies anywhere?’

  ‘Every successful man has. Of a kind, that is. Well, there’s rivalry, competition, envy. But enemies?’ He looked almost fearfully at Pilgrim and shuddered. ‘But not in this way.’ He was silent for a moment, then looked at the admiral with an expression that approximated pretty closely to resentment and when he spoke again the tremor had gone from his voice. ‘And why do you ask me these questions? They didn’t kill me. They killed Mr Pilgrim.’

  ‘There’s a connection. Fawcett?’

  ‘There’s a connection. I may speak freely, sir?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Well, there are telephone boxes and sacrificial assistant editors – ’

  ‘Don’t be a fool. I’ve already apologized for that.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Fawcett briefly searched his memory and found no apology there. It seemed pointless to mention this. ‘As you say, sir, there’s a connection. There’s also been a leak and it can only have come from within our own organization. As I said, sir, and as I have explained to these gentlemen, it’s clear that Pilgrim was killed by someone well known to him. There can’t have been any specific leak – only you, Pilgrim, Dr Harper and myself really knew what the intentions were. But any of up to a dozen people or more – researchers, telephone operators, drivers – within the organization knew that we had been in regular touch with Mr Wrinfield. It would be unusual, if not unique, to find any intelligence or counter-intelligence agency in the world whose ranks have not been infiltrated by an enemy agent, one who eventually becomes so securely entrenched as to become above suspicion. It would be naïve of us to assume that we are the sole exception.

  ‘It was hardly top secret that Mr Wrinfield had been in the formative stages of planning a European tour – a primarily eastern European tour – and it would have been comparatively simple to discover that Crau was on the list of towns to be visited. As far as the gentlemen in Crau are concerned – more precisely, the gentlemen responsible for the research taking place in Crau – coincidence could be coincidence but the obvious tie-up with the CIA would be that little bit too much.’