Lyng spread his hands. ‘Result—stalemate. The man remains balanced on the tightrope.’
‘There were a lot of others involved but they were small fry,’ said Carey. ‘The Czechs and the West Germans.’ He smiled. ‘I have reason to believe that the man who bopped you on the head at Kevo was an Israeli. The Israelis would dearly like to have a defence against the SAM III missiles that the Syrians are playing around with. But, really, only America and Russia matter. And maybe China.’ He glanced at Lyng.
‘Later, perhaps.’ Lyng stared at Denison. ‘This country has just lost an Empire but many of its inhabitants, especially the older ones, still retain the old Imperial habits of thought. These modes of thought are not compatible with the atomic era but, unfortunately, they are still with us. If it became public knowledge that we have handed over to the Russians what the newspapers would undoubtedly describe as a super-weapon then I think that one of the minor consequences would be the fall of the government.’
Denison raised his eyebrows. ‘Minor!’
Lyng smiled wintrily. ‘The political complexion of the government of the day is of little interest. You must differentiate between the government and the state; governments may come and go but the state remains, and the real power is to be found in the apparatus of state, in the offices of Whitehall, in what Lord Snow has so aptly described as the corridors of power.’
Carey snorted. ‘Any day I’m expecting a journalist to write that the winds of change are blowing through the corridors of power.’
‘That could very well happen,’ said Lyng. ‘The control of power in the state is not monolithic; there are checks and balances, tensions and resistances. Many of the people I work with still hold on to the old ideas, especially in the War Office.’ He looked sour for a moment. ‘Some of the senior officers in the Navy, for instance, were destroyer commanders during World War II.’
His hand shot forward, his finger pointing to the folder in Denison’s lap. ‘Can you imagine the attitude of such men, steeped in the old ideas, when they are expected to issue orders to young officers to sink one type of enemy submarine and not another?’ He shook his head. ‘Old habits die hard. They’re more likely to say, in the old tradition, “Full speed ahead, and damn the torpedoes.” They fight to win, forgetting that no one will win a nuclear war. They forget balance, and balance is all, Mr Denison. They forget the man on the tightrope.’
He sighed. ‘If the news of what has been done in Finland were to be disclosed not only would the present government fall, a minor matter, but there would be a drastic shift of power in the state. We, who strive to hold the balance, would lose to those who hold a narrower view of what is good for this country and, believe me, the country and the world would not be the safer for it. Do you understand what I am saying, Mr Denison?’
‘Yes,’ said Denison. He found that his voice was hoarse, and he coughed to clear it. He had not expected to be involved in matters of high policy.
Abruptly the tone of Lyng’s voice changed from that of a judge reviewing a case to something more matter-of-fact. ‘Miss Meyrick made a specific threat. She derided the efficacy of “D” notices and said that the students of twenty universities would not be bound by them. I regret to say that this is probably quite true. As you know, our student population—or some sections of it—is not noted for its coolheadedness. Any move towards implementing her threat would be potentially disastrous.’
‘Why don’t you talk to her about it?’ said Denison.
‘We will—but we believe you have some influence with her. It would be a pity if Miss Meyrick’s anger and compassion were to cause the disruption I have described.’
Denison was silent for a long time then he sighed, and said, ‘I see your point. I’ll talk to her.’
‘When will you see her?’ asked Carey.
‘I’m meeting her at the Horse Guards at twelve o’clock.’
‘That’s in ten minutes. You talk to her, and I’ll have a word with her later.’ Carey stood up and held out his hand. ‘Am I forgiven?’
‘I wanted to kill you,’ said Denison. ‘I very nearly did.’
‘No hard feelings,’ said Carey. ‘I seem to remember hitting you pretty hard.’
Denison got up and shook Carey’s hand. ‘No hard feelings.’
Lyng smiled and busied himself with the contents of a slim briefcase, trying to efface himself. Carey stood back and looked at Denison critically. ‘I wouldn’t have believed it—the change in you, I mean.’
Denison put his hand to his face. ‘Iredale unstuck the eyelid—that was easy—and took away the scar. He had a go at the nose and that’s still a bit tender. We decided to leave the rest—getting the silicone polymer out would amount to a flaying operation so we gave it a miss. But the beard covers up a lot.’ He paused. ‘Who did it, Carey?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Carey. ‘We never did find out.’ He looked at Denison quizzically. ‘Has Iredale’s handiwork made much difference with Lyn?’
‘Er…why, yes…I think…’ Denison was unaccountably shy.
Carey smiled and took out a notebook. ‘I’ll need your address.’ He looked up, ‘At the moment it’s Lippscott House, near Brackley, Buckinghamshire. Can I take it that will be your address until further notice?’
‘Until further notice,’ said Denison. ‘Yes.’
‘Invite me to the wedding,’ said Carey. He put away his notebook and glanced through the window down into Whitehall. ‘There’s Lyn,’ he said. ‘Admiring the horses. I don’t think there’s any more, Giles. I’ll keep in touch. If you ever need a job, come and see me. I mean it.’
‘Never again,’ said Denison. ‘I’ve had enough.’
Lyng came forward. ‘We all do what we think is best.’ They shook hands. ‘I’m glad to have met you, Mr Denison.’
When he had gone Lyng put his papers back into his briefcase and Carey stood at the window and lit his pipe. It took him some time to get it going to his satisfaction. Lyng waited patiently, and then said, ‘Well?’
Carey looked down into Whitehall and saw Denison crossing the street. Lyn ran towards him and they kissed, then linked arms and walked past the mounted guards and under the arch. ‘They’re sensible people; there’ll be no trouble.’
‘Good!’ said Lyng, and picked up the folder from where Denison had left it.
Carey swung around. ‘But Thornton is a different matter.’
‘I agree,’ said Lyng. ‘He’s got the Minister’s ear. We’re going to have a rough ride with this one regardless of whether Denison keeps silent.’
Carey’s voice was acid. ‘I don’t mind if Thornton plays the Whitehall warrior as long as the only weapon he shoots is a memorandum. But when it comes to a deliberate interference in operations then we have to draw a line.’
‘Only a suspicion—no proof.’
‘Meyrick’s death was bad enough—although it was accidental. But what he did to Denison was abominable and unforgivable. And if he’d got hold of Merikken’s papers his bloody secret laboratories would be working overtime.’
‘Forget it,’ said Lyng. ‘No proof.’
Carey grinned. ‘I told a lie just now—the only lie I’ve told to Denison since I’ve known him. I’ve got the proof, all right. I’ve got a direct link between Thornton and his crooked plastic surgeon—Iredale was able to put me on to that one—and it won’t be long before I find the sewer of a psychologist who diddled around with Denison’s mind. I’m going to take great pleasure in peeling the skin off Thornton in strips.’
Lyng was alert. ‘This is certain? Real proof?’
‘Cast iron.’
‘Then you won’t touch Thornton,’ said Lyng sharply. ‘Let me have your proof and I’ll deal with him. Don’t you see what this means? We can neutralize Thornton—he’s out of the game. If I can hold that over him I can keep him in line for ever.’
‘But…’ Carey held himself in. ‘And where does justice come in?’ he asked heavily.
‘Oh, justi
ce,’ said Lyng indifferently. ‘That’s something else again. No man can expect justice in this world; if he does then he’s a fool.’ He took Carey by the elbow and said gently, ‘Come; let us enjoy the sunshine while we may.’
The Enemy
To all the DASTards
especially
Iwan and Inga
Jan and Anita
Hemming and Annette
‘We have met the enemy, and he is ours.’
OLIVER HAZARD PERRY
Heroic American Commodore
‘We have met the enemy, and he is us.’
WALT KELLY
Subversive Sociological Cartoonist
ONE
I met Penelope Ashton at a party thrown by Tom Packer. That may be a bit misleading because it wasn’t the kind of party that gets thrown very far; no spiked punch or pot, and no wife-swapping or indiscriminate necking in the bedrooms at two in the morning. Just a few people who got together over a civilized dinner with a fair amount of laughter and a hell of a lot of talk. But it did tend to go on and what with Tom’s liberal hand with his after-dinner scotches I didn’t feel up to driving, so when I left I took a taxi.
Penny Ashton came with Dinah and Mike Huxham; Dinah was Tom’s sister. I still haven’t worked out whether I was invited as a makeweight for the odd girl or whether she was brought to counterbalance me. At any rate when we sat at table the sexes were even and I was sitting next to her. She was a tall, dark woman, quiet and composed in manner and not very forthcoming. She was no raving beauty, but few women are; Helen of Troy may have launched a thousand ships but no one was going to push the boat out for Penny Ashton, at least not at first sight. Not that she was ugly or anything like that. She had a reasonably good figure and a reasonably good face, and she dressed well. I think the word to describe her would be average. I put her age at about twenty-seven and I wasn’t far out. She was twenty-eight.
As was usual with Tom’s friends, the talk ranged far and wide; Tom was a rising star in the upper reaches of the medical establishment and he was eclectic in his choice of dining companions and so the talk was good. Penny joined in but she tended to listen rather than talk and her interjections were infrequent. Gradually I became aware that when she did speak her comments were acute, and there was a sardonic cast to her eye when she was listening to something she didn’t agree with. I found her spikiness of mind very agreeable.
After dinner the talk went on in the living-room over coffee and brandy. I opted for scotch because brandy doesn’t agree with me, a circumstance Tom knew very well because he poured one of his measures big enough to paralyse an elephant and left the jug of iced water convenient to my elbow.
As is common on these occasions, while the dinner-table conversation is general and involves everybody, after dinner the party tended to split into small groups, each pursuing their congenial arguments and riding their hobby-horses hard and on a loose rein. To my mild surprise I found myself opting for a group of two—myself and Penny Ashton. I suppose there were a dozen of us there, but I settled in a corner and monopolized Penny Ashton. Or did she monopolize me? It could have been six of one and half-a-dozen of the other; it usually is in cases like that.
I forget what we talked about at first but gradually our conversation became more personal. I discovered she was a research biologist specializing in genetics and that she worked with Professor Lumsden at University College, London. Genetics is the hottest and most controversial subject in science today and Lumsden was in the forefront of the battle. Anyone working with him would have to be very bright indeed and I was suitably impressed. There was a lot more to Penny Ashton than met the casual eye.
Some time during the evening she asked, ‘And what do you do?’
‘Oh, I’m someone in the City,’ I said lightly.
She got that sardonic look in her eye and said reprovingly, ‘Satire doesn’t become you.’
‘It’s true!’ I protested. ‘Someone’s got to make the wheels of commerce turn.’ She didn’t pursue the subject.
Inevitably someone checked his watch and discovered with horror the lateness of the hour, and the party began to break up. Usually the more congenial the party the later the hour, and it was pretty late. Penny said, ‘My God—my train!’
‘Which station?’
‘Victoria.’
‘I’ll drop you,’ I said and stood up, swaying slightly as I felt Tom’s scotch. ‘From a taxi.’
I borrowed the telephone and rang for a taxi, and then we stood around making party noises until it arrived. As we were driven through the brightly-lit London streets I reflected that it had been a good evening; it had been quite a while since I’d felt so good. And it wasn’t because of the quality of Tom’s booze, either.
I turned to Penny. ‘Known the Packers long?’
‘A few years. I was at Cambridge with Dinah Huxham-Dinah Packer she was then.’
‘Nice people. It’s been a good evening.’
‘I enjoyed it.’
I said, ‘How about repeating it—just the two of us? Say, the theatre and supper afterward.’
She was silent for a moment, then said, ‘All right.’ So we fixed a time for the following Wednesday and I felt even better.
She wouldn’t let me come into the station with her so I kept the taxi and redirected it to my flat. It was only then I realized I didn’t know if she was married or not, and I tried to remember the fingers of her left hand. Then I thought I was a damned fool; I hardly knew the woman so what did it matter if she was married or not? I wasn’t going to marry her myself, was I?
On the Wednesday I picked her up at University College at seven-fifteen in the evening and we had a drink in a pub near the theatre before seeing the show. I don’t like theatre crush bars; they’re too well named. ‘Do you always work as late as this?’ I asked.
She shook her head. ‘It varies. It’s not a nine-to-five job, you know. When we’re doing something big we could be there all night, but that doesn’t happen often. I laboured tonight because I was staying in town.’ She smiled. ‘It helped me catch up on some of the paperwork.’
‘Ah; the paperwork is always with us.’
‘You ought to know; your job is all paperwork, isn’t it?’
I grinned. ‘Yes; shuffling all those fivers around.’
So we saw the show and I took her to supper in Soho and then to Victoria Station. And made another date for the Saturday.
And, as they say, one thing led to another and soon I was squiring her around regularly. We took in more theatres, an opera, a couple of ballets, a special exhibition at the National Gallery, Regent’s Park Zoo, something she wanted to see at the Natural History Museum, and a trip down the river to Greenwich. We could have been a couple of Americans doing the tourist bit.
After six weeks of this I think we both thought that things were becoming pretty serious. I, at least, took it seriously enough to go to Cambridge to see my father. He smiled when I told him about Penny, and said, ‘You know, Malcolm, you’ve been worrying me. It’s about time you settled down. Do you know anything about the girl’s family?’
‘Not much,’ I admitted. ‘From what I can gather he’s some sort of minor industrialist. I haven’t met him yet.’
‘Not that it matters,’ said my father. ‘I hope we’ve gone beyond snobberies like that. Have you bedded the girl yet?’
‘No,’ I said slowly. ‘We’ve come pretty close, though.’
‘Um!’ he said obscurely, and began to fill his pipe. ‘It’s been my experience here at the college that the rising generation isn’t as swinging and uninhibited as it likes to think it is. Couples don’t jump bare-skinned into a bed at the first opportunity—not if they’re taking each other seriously and have respect for each other. Is it like that with you?’
I nodded. ‘I’ve had my moments in the past, but somehow it’s different with Penny. Anyway, I’ve known her only a few weeks.’
‘You remember Joe Patterson?’
‘Ye
s.’ Patterson was head of one of the departments of psychology.
‘He reckons the ordinary man is mixed up about the qualities he wants in a permanent partner. He once told me that the average man’s ideal wife-to-be is a virgin in the terminal stages of nymphomania. A witticism, but with truth in it.’
‘Joe is a cynic.’
‘Most wise men are. Anyway, I’d like to see Penny as soon as you can screw up your courage. Your mother would have been happy to see you married; it’s a pity about that.’
‘How are you getting on, Dad?’
‘Oh, I rub along. The chief danger is of becoming a university eccentric; I’m trying to avoid that.’
We talked of family matters for some time and then I went back to London.
It was at this time that Penny made a constructive move. We were in my flat talking over coffee and liqueurs; she had complimented me on the Chinese dinner and I had modestly replied that I had sent out for it myself. It was then that she invited me to her home for the weekend. To meet the family.
TWO
She lived with her father and sister in a country house near Marlow in Buckinghamshire, a short hour’s spin from London up the M4. George Ashton was a widower in his mid-fifties who lived with his daughters in a brick-built Queen Anne house of the type you see advertised in a fullpage spread in Country Life. It had just about everything. There were two tennis-courts and one swimming-pool; there was a stable block converted into garages filled with expensive bodies on wheels, and there was a stable block that was still a stable block and filled with expensive bodies on legs—one at each corner. It was a Let’s-have-tea-on-the-lawn sort of place; The-master-will-see-you-in-the-library sort of place. The good, rich, upper-middle-class life.
George Ashton stood six feet tall and was thatched with a strong growth of iron-grey hair. He was very fit, as I found out on the tennis-court. He played an aggressive, hard-driving game and I was hard put to cope with him even though he had a handicap of about twenty-five years. He beat me 5-7, 7-5, 6-3, which shows his stamina was better than mine. I came off the court out of puff but Ashton trotted down to the swimming-pool, dived in clothed as he was, and swam a length before going into the house to change.
The Tightrope Men / The Enemy Page 29
