Psychosphere

by Brian Lumley

  “My God!” Inland Revenue wheezed, also on his feet. “But I didn’t know the half of it! Not the tenth part of it!” He was trembling in every ounce of fat. He ran jelly fingers through his flaky hair. “He’s made complete fools of us—must owe us millions. He’s—”

  “Wait!” The Chairman thumped the table. “Gentlemen, please remain seated…Please!” They sat. “Obviously you have seen the light. Yes, Garrison is a potential bomb, and yes he would seem to have his finger on his own trigger. But—”

  “—But you’d be advised to stop right there!” MI6 broke in, his voice calm, controlled.

  “I beg your pardon?” The Chairman’s voice was sharp, his eyes suddenly hooded.

  “Before you say anything else,” said MI6, “there’s another little thing you should know.” He glanced at Government Observer, a very young man whose silence throughout had been generally mistaken for lack of understanding or experience, then stared directly at The Chairman. “I was given the option of telling or of holding back. Now I think you’d better know, all of you, before hysteria sets in. It’s just one more ‘anomaly,’ if you like. Simply this: Garrison is British and he is patriotic.”

  With the exception of The Chairman, MI6’s audience looked blank. The Chairman guessed what was coming and groaned inwardly. He had hoped MI6 didn’t have this information…but too late now. A pity. It had all been going so well.

  “Garrison has made out a will,” MI6 continued, pausing to wave the others down as they all began to question at once. “Please! His will is simple—within its vast scope, of course—and so worded or constructed as to be quite irrefutable, incontestable. It was received by Her Majesty’s Government just a few days ago, before Garrison went abroad on holiday. He also left instructions that he didn’t want to talk about it. The government is to be executor in the event of Garrison’s, er, sudden demise. And everything—that is everything—is to go to the country, to England!”

  There was stunned silence. The Chairman bit his lip. Someone must have leaked this to MI6, as it had been leaked to him. Perhaps Observer, on instructions from above…

  Finally MI6 went on. “So you see he doesn’t intend to pull the chairs out from under us after all. Doesn’t want to be King of the World. Isn’t bent on chaos, destruction. Which makes me wonder just what we’re all doing…here…” As he slowed and came to a halt, so his eyebrows lowered in a dark frown. He gave a last look around at the staring faces, then turned his eyes down and began to pick at his already ragged nails.

  The Chairman decided to take a chance, find out what their reactions would be. “Nothing has changed,” he said. “This…this will of his could be a blind, a ploy, a safeguard against deeper investigation. The fact remains: while he’s alive Garrison is a potential bomb. But—”

  “Gentlemen,” said the small yellow man. For the first time he was on his feet, smiling, bowing. He straightened up. “Now, if I may speak?” his voice was a whisper, extremely gentle and soothing, exemplifying everyone’s conception of an English-speaking Chinaman. Almost a caricature. “My master arrived at these same conclusions some time ago. For which reason he has taken a special interest in Mr. Garrison. Now he wishes it to be said that whatever else may be decided, Mr. Garrison is not to die. That would not be—beneficial?”

  Again the stunned silence, or maybe not so stunned. But in another moment the entire room was on its feet.

  “What?” The Chairman had watched and was guided by the immediate reactions of the rest and was the first to shout his denial, covering his tracks. “Can I believe my ears? Do you really imagine that I was suggesting…that we would ever consider…”—until even his strident denials were lost in the general hubbub. However, and for all that he continued to protest, his mind was on different things. Such as his master’s instructions that indeed Garrison was to die. The country would benefit beyond the wildest, most optimistic dreams of any economist—and so would the branch! The potential for the expansion of espionage and counter-intelligence would be enormous. The CIA would soon be small-fry by comparison.

  These were the reasons The Chairman’s boss, the head of the branch, had supplied—but The Chairman knew there was at least one more. His boss was a man of means, and greedy. He had admitted that he more than merely “played about” with stocks and shares; everything he had was tied up in the game. And he had hinted that he might easily double his holdings in certain areas but for the interference of a couple of large shareholders, namely Messrs. Garrison and Koenig. Thus Garrison’s death would be of great personal advantage to him.

  As thoughts such as these passed through The Chairman’s head, the row taking shape about the great table had increased twofold. Mineral Rights and Mining was also shouting the little Chinaman down. “Who the devil is your master anyway? Does he think the authorities in this country are cold-blooded murderers? Mr. Chairman, I demand to know…”—until his voice also became one with the uproar. But in the back of his mind he, too, was already considering the prospect of Great Britain as a major controlling influence in OPEC, and of the advantages of large slices of the South African and Australian mining pies.

  It was the same with most of them—with the notable exceptions of the Chinaman himself, MI6 and his 2IC, and Observer. The first of these had merely followed Charon Gubwa’s instructions, was not greatly interested in the furor his cautionary words had sparked. MI6 simply sat back and took stock of things; his narrowed eyes were on The Chairman, and his mind seethed with dark suspicions. He had always believed in the Service as a whole, but never in The Chairman’s somehow sinister, self-governing branch of that body. Honor among thieves indeed! As for Observer: he sat still, bland-faced, and observed.

  After a while the din died down a little. Through it all the Chinaman had remained on his feet, smiling still. Now he took the opportunity to make for the doors, which at that moment opened to admit The Chairman’s uniformed man. He went straight to his employer and handed him a note, then turned on his heel and left. He would have closed the doors behind him but the Chinaman stood there, smiling.

  For no apparent reason, suddenly everyone’s attention seemed riveted on The Chairman. He seemed to be having some difficulty reading the note, but at last he cleared his throat and looked up, the corner of his mouth twitching a little.

  “Gentlemen,” he finally said, “it seems that any actions we, er, might have considered—any further investigations, that is to say—have been pre-empted.” His voice was just a little shaky. “By that I mean,” he hurriedly went on, “it would appear that some other or others have found Mr. Garrison’s, er, talents equally troublesome—even more so.”

  He cleared his throat again. This had not been of his doing. If it had been then it wouldn’t be bungled. As it was it was an embarrassment, but on the other hand it might provide the cover of an authentic precedent in the event of a future, more successful enterprise.

  “Mr. Garrison’s plane,” he went on, glancing at the note, “has recently landed at Gatwick. The landing was—it says here—‘a miraculous escape!’ The plane was sabotaged. A bomb. No one was hurt, but Mr. Garrison has been taken to a private hospital. Severe shock, it appears…”

  His words sank in. Slowly their heads turned to stare at the little Chinaman.

  He stood at the doors, smiled back at their frowning expressions. Then he bowed and his sighing voice seemed to fill the room:

  “Gentlemen, I am sure you will now have other items for discussion. Hopefully one of them will be measures for the protection of Mr. Garrison. My time, however, is limited. I bid you good day.”

  No one objected as he silently left the room…

  Chapter 12

  The meeting had broken up shortly after receiving the news of the sabotage attempt on Garrison’s plane.

  MI6 and friend had come up by train from Waterloo, Government Observer in his car. Now, walking across The Chairman’s drive together, Observer invited the other two: “Can I give you a lift back into the city? Tha
t way I could save both of you some time, and perhaps we could have a little chat…?”

  “Thank you,” MI6 agreed at once. All three got into Observer’s old Rover and sat there, waiting for the rest of the departing delegates to move their cars. When the way was clear, Observer drove out of the grounds, down the driveway and onto the road for the city. From an upstairs window of the house, The Chairman watched them go.

  The Chairman was not happy. He was in fact angry. Angry with MI6 (though of course the man had only been doing his job); with whoever had tried to blow Garrison out of the sky, for failing; but mainly with Charon Gubwa, who for some time had been getting a little too big for his boots.

  The Chairman used Gubwa as an intelligence source, had done so for more years than he cared to think about, and in his turn Gubwa used him. Like Garrison, Gubwa was into business, did a little “financing” and etc. The Chairman had never worried too much about the etc., but it had made Gubwa rich. Very rich, The Chairman suspected, though not on Garrison’s scale. But then, who was rich on Garrison’s scale?

  Oh, Gubwa was bent, most definitely, but he was also one superb grass! The Chairman had built his early reputation on Charon Gubwa’s tipoffs. What he couldn’t understand was Gubwa’s sudden interest in Garrison—in his continued good health, that was to say.

  It could be, of course, that Gubwa worked for Garrison, but The Chairman doubted that. Gubwa didn’t really work for anyone, except himself. In many of their dealings—certainly in recent years—he had always suspected that Gubwa got far more out of their intelligence transactions than he ever did! It had dawned on him, too, that perhaps Gubwa was a double-agent, working not only for The Chairman and his branch but also for a number of foreign agencies. Yes, unfortunately that did seem a strong possibility.

  But…Gubwa’s organization did have a serious weakness: The Chairman knew the location of its headquarters. And he had long ago formulated certain courses of action. This was not a thought he let himself dwell upon too often: Gubwa had an uncanny knack of “knowing” or “predicting” things before they happened. It would not be in The Chairman’s interests to have Gubwa discover the axe that he held over him. Not until he was ready to let it fall, at any rate.

  As for Gubwa’s headquarters:

  In early 1944 when it had been rumored that Adolf Hitler might get the A-bomb first, several underground command posts had been built in and around London—subterranean shelters from which the war effort could be directed to the last. These had been kept operational until the late 60s, when costs had gone through the roof. The least viable of these shelters, in Central London, had been due for closedown: an unused, dusty, dark place deep underground, built in a natural cave halfway down a great fault in the bedrock. Charon Gubwa had bought it and turned it into his home and headquarters. The place had always been secret and Gubwa had kept it that way; but The Chairman knew of its existence and had even been down there—once.

  That had been all of ten years ago, but The Chairman remembered it well. Now, despite the fact that the house was quite warm, he shivered. The thought of that great steel coffin down there in the bowels of the earth, Gubwa’s Castle, always did that to him. He hadn’t seen all of the place, but enough. Enough to know that he could have put Gubwa out of business there and then, and that he should have. The reason he hadn’t was simple: the man had more leads than a telephone exchange! If The Chairman had wanted to know something about anybody or anything—literally anybody or anything—Gubwa could usually get that information for him. In return all The Chairman had to do was keep people off Gubwa’s back, at least until he was better established.

  Well, perhaps he’d done a little bit more than that. The Chairman soured at the thought. No, he’d done a lot more than that. When the computer age had come rolling in, he had been instrumental in extending Gubwa’s eyes and ears. That is to say, he had seen to it that Gubwa’s own computer had access to external sources and systems. He had known of course (he tried to excuse his error) that he could shut down Gubwa’s operation whenever he desired, as soon as the man outlived his usefulness. But what he had not foreseen was the massive build-up of computer technology, the extensive use of the damned machine in almost every aspect of life and facet of society. He had in effect given Gubwa an intelligence system second to none, had built a wall of technology about Gubwa’s already formidable Castle of Secrets. And that was a weapon which eventually might be turned against The Chairman himself, and against his branch. It would not be used, no—not as long as he played the game with Gubwa; but there had been times recently when he had not wanted to play the game. Like at this very moment…

  And of course if The Chairman’s chief ever discovered that old mistake of his—that old, old mistake with all its implications, including the fact that it had remained unreported, uncorrected through all of these long years—then The Chairman was finished. Then his head would well and truly (and literally) roll! But who was there to tell him? Not The Chairman, and the only other person who knew of it was Charon Gubwa himself.

  Of course, the only way to put Gubwa out of business now would be to go down there with a squad of trusted branch heavies and literally rip the place to bits—and in the process destroy any evidence linking Gubwa to himself. Yes, and it just might come to that if the man had any more tricks up his sleeve like this last one!

  The Chairman had known of course that Gubwa was sending a representative to the meeting. He himself had agreed to it. But he had certainly not foreseen the idiot demanding that Garrison’s life be spared! Not there and then, just like that! The way it had been done had only served to accentuate the fact that The Chairman’s branch had considered Garrison’s removal as a serious proposition. Indeed, only the timely arrival of that note telling that someone else had already tried to kill Garrison had averted what might have proved to be a very damaging scene.

  The Chairman’s anger began to boil over. He snatched himself away from the window, poured himself a drink, tried to control the heat he felt bubbling up inside. The last of his guests had gone now and the day had grown well into late afternoon. Pretty soon The Chairman’s chief would be on the blower demanding an explanation. Or at least asking awkward questions.

  The Chairman took his drink down to his study, locked himself in, picked up the telephone…

  GUBWA WAS MORE OR LESS EXPECTING THE CALL. He half-sensed it was coming. If he had attended the meeting—through the mind of Johnnie Fong—then he would have been sure it was coming. But he had not done so. Too frequent or prolonged use of his ESP-talents invariably tired Gubwa, so that wherever possible he used them sparingly. In any case, there had been other things to do.

  Therefore, when the telephone in his study buzzed, a precognitive tingle told Gubwa that it was The Chairman. He smiled as he picked up the telephone. “And how are you today, Sir Harry?” he inquired, his voice oily.

  “Listen, Charon, you know bloody well that I’m angry!” came the answer. “Have you any idea how much you might have embarrassed me today?”

  The “might” puzzled Gubwa; he had been sure that the other would be embarrassed. He did not yet know of Garrison’s brush with disaster. He decided to play it straight, but without being too inquisitive.

  “But it was my intention to embarrass you!” he laughed. “I knew you would be considering Garrison’s…removal—for ‘the good of the country,’ and all that—but it doesn’t suit me to have him removed. Not just yet. I simply brought it out in the open, that’s all: showed how it might serve a variety of purposes if he were eliminated. That’s my way of ensuring that nothing does happen to him. For if anything does, now—why!—they’ll all be looking to you for the answers. And that really would be embarrassing!”

  Sir Harry listened to all of this in growing dismay and anger. Gubwa had got too big for his boots. He might have to bring his plans for the man forward somewhat. “Now listen, Charon, I—”

  “No, you listen! Garrison must not be harmed! There is a lot I have to
know about him first. Things which could be of great benefit to both of us. After that—” He let the sentence hang there, incomplete.

  Gubwa could almost hear Sir Harry grinding his teeth. “Gubwa, you…who works for who around here?”

  “Oh, now, Sir Harry,” Gubwa’s voice was dangerously soft. “You know better than that. Who works for who, indeed! Why, we’re partners, you and I! And I’ve just explained that it’s to our benefit that Garrison lives—for a while longer, anyway.”

  “Charon, you’re pushing your luck. I have my orders. You can’t interfere with that. And anyway, if I don’t get him it’s likely the others will. They’ll make a better job of it next time, you can be sure of it.”

  Gubwa’s pulse quickened. The others? What others? And what next time? He did not want to ask The Chairman what he was talking about, not directly, so—

  “Wait!” he said.

  He knew where Sir Harry was. He closed his eyes, sent his mind soaring out, entered the other’s thoughts. They were guarded, as usual, but Gubwa could get in. He probed, saw, withdrew. Sir Harry didn’t even know he’d been there, wouldn’t have believed it if Gubwa himself had told him.

  “There won’t be a next time,” Gubwa said, his mind racing. Damn it, who had tried to kill Garrison? And why? It looked like he must now put everything else aside and concentrate all of his energies on this one project, on Richard Garrison. “Not until I’m ready. As for my pushing my luck: if that’s a threat, Sir Harry, forget it. I would survive. You, on the other hand, might not be so lucky.”

  “Now who’s threatening, Charon?”

  Gubwa didn’t like the sudden chill in the other’s voice. This was a man you mustn’t squeeze too tight. “Look,” he said, “why are we fighting?”

  “Damn it, you know why! That was a dirty trick of yours, Charon. I’d never have let your Chinky Chappie in the house if I’d known what you were up to. His presence at the meeting would have been difficult to explain away as it was, but now—? People are bound to start asking who and why and what. Don’t you understand? I’ve been told to deal with Garrison. Now I can’t—not without difficulty, anyway—because you’ve screwed it up!”