by Desmond Cory
Johnny, leaving his shoe-laces to flap, set off in pursuit of Emerald and caught him up in the corridor. They travelled side by side through the open door and out into the heat of the courtyard, Johnny’s long legs taking a single stride to Emerald’s one and a half. In the corner of the yard a green-painted jeep was waiting. “Office,” said Emerald briefly to the driver, swinging himself into the passenger seat. Johnny clambered in behind; the jeep revved up arthritically and shot abruptly forward, distributing unevenly in its wake a choking veil of dust.
They left the low-lying hospital building behind them, and swung left on to a deeply rutted track where the bouncing of the jeep was such as to make conversation almost impossible. Emerald did address one remark to Johnny over his shoulder, but Johnny failed to catch it; he was too intent on preserving his smashed arm from violent contact with the bodywork of the jeep. Then they entered another sprawling group of huts and the track levelled out slightly; the driver pushed the speed up to fifty miles an hour; they went like smoke past strolling bunches of soldiers, past a flock of brightly painted signposts hammered into the hard ground, and finally skidded to a halt beside a long brown hut that seemed no different from any of the others. Security Headquarters, said the notice on the door, R.E.M.E., Azahara Area. Emerald bounced to the ground like a rubber ball and, with a beckoning gesture to Johnny, marched in.
They went through a room where a private, bent over his typewriter, acknowledged neither of their presences, and into a smaller room bearing the legend Lt.-Col. J. G. Emerald on its badly splintered door. “Get me Dykes,” said Emerald, scooping up the telephone. “… Oh, it is you. Okay. Tripoli. Tripoli, road and rail. Get cracking. Right.” He waved Johnny towards a chair, and almost with the same movement waggled the receiver rest furiously. “John? Yes. Now the Director … Well, try his office first.” He sank to rest in a chair and, producing from his pocket a large khaki handkerchief, mopped his brow exhaustedly.
“How wise you were,” he said, “to stay civilian. Others abide our question, thou art free.”
“Could I have one of those cigarettes?” asked Johnny. Emerald nodded paternally, then transferred his attention to the telephone. “Ah,” he said. “Yes, sir. Well, yes, we have a certain amount of information to act upon. So one way or another … Yes, we feel pretty confident … I don’t think so. No, I don’t think so for a moment. I mean, the reason why he went is pretty obvious …”
The voice of the Director punctuated his remarks with a harsh though scarcely audible crackling, strangely monotonous. Johnny could make out no individual words, but nevertheless derived an impression of a certain restrained fluency, of a power held in check at the other end of the line. It was like hearing the distant stutter of machine-guns, firing in well-controlled bursts. Emerald continued in conversation for perhaps a minute, his eyes focused glassily on a dilapidated Army poster pinned to the wall; then, his gaze swivelled towards Johnny … who instantly knew that he himself had become the object under discussion.
“Oh yes. He’s here all right. The same fellow I … Yes, right here in the office with me. There doesn’t seem to be much the matter with him - apart from his arm, of course.
“Of course; yes, of course, sir. My report’s being typed at this moment - you should receive it within the hour. I don’t know that it adds much …
“Frankly, I think so, too. Very disappointing. Of course, that confounded haboob … It really looks as if this fellow O’Brien’s our only chance
“No.
“No, well - naturally not. It isn’t as if he’ d eaten it.”
Rather a longer spell of crackling than usual. Then:
“Of course, sir, if you wish. Whenever you … Right away? Very well. Yes, we’ll wait for you. And if you … Oh. Good-bye.”
Emerald replaced the receiver; returned the handkerchief to his pocket. He whistled quietly under his breath, surveying the dusty surface of his desk. Finally, his glance turned again towards Johnny.
“The gentleman’s coming to see us,” he said.
“The Director?”
“Yes. Don’t call him that, though. His name is Mitchell; Mr. Mitchell.”
“And what does he direct, may I ask,”
“Things in general, you know. Or to put it in other words, you mayn’t.”
“Mayn’t what?”
“Ask.”
“Well, blow it,” said Johnny, and clicked his tongue. “I’m getting a bit fed up with this situation. Everybody tearing round like so many swivel-toed dingbats, and nobody caring to tell me what it’s about … No, it’s all right; I’m only joking. Still, I find it somewhat wearing.”
“Christ,” said Emerald, with unexpected heat. “Don’t we all.”
He reached up to adjust the slats of the dingy green-painted shutter; a bright golden ray of African light sabred a dazzling line across the room. The sun was declining fast, yet such was its intensity that the narrow beam seemed to be smoking in the obscurity of the little room. Johnny sat quietly in his chair, listening to the sounds of evening that were filtered through from outside. Soon he would be in Europe. Soon those sounds would exist only in his memory.
“And how is the great world?” he asked.
“What great world?”
“Politics, and all that.”
“Bad. Pretty bad.”
“Yes, but in what way?”
Emerald sighed. “I can’t say I’ve been studying the newspapers very closely of late. I’m rather out of touch … Still, things are getting worse this year.”
“How could they get worse?”
“I don’t know. I’m not a transcendentalist. It just seems to me that a bomb that kills fifty thousand people is worse than a bomb that kills fifty; that’s all.” Emerald’s eyes focused again, more tiredly than before, on that tatty Army poster on the wall. The Quick and the Dead, it said briefly … You be Quick. “Though from a military viewpoint, I suppose it’s rather better.”
“Surely it’s just the same,” said Johnny gently, “when neither of them are used.”
“Yes. Peace is good. War is bad. We’re all agreed on that, in theory. All the same … I’m damned sure I found it easier to win the war than fight out this bloody peace.”
Emerald closed his eyes momentarily.
“Talk about a vicious circle. We used these things to fight with. Now we’ve got to fight just to keep each other from using them. A war of nerves, you know. One has to keep reminding oneself that that’s only a cliché … It’s getting to be like a poker game. Everybody looking at each other to see who’s scared of whom. While every-bloody-body’s got a royal flush … None of us can be beaten, that’s the trouble. Yet everybody’s worried stiff that somebody’s going to invent a new card that goes even higher than the ace.”
“And has anybody?”
“No. No, I don’t think so. And even if anybody did, he couldn’t be sure that somebody else hadn’t invented it, too … The only thing we can do is keep the game going until, maybe, the pack’s used up - new cards and all. Then we can all throw our hands in and play something else.”
Johnny looked at his cigarette-end. “The important thing is that nobody calls.”
“Exactly. The trouble is that since Malenkov fell—”
“Things are worse?”
“Oh, yes. Much worse. Other people are wanting to take a hand, people who aren’t any too sure of the rules. If there are any rules.” Emerald took off his spectacles and rubbed cautiously at his eyelids. “It’s a damned silly metaphor.”
“It rather over-simplifies things, maybe.”
“Maybe. Yes, it certainly does.” Emerald unexpectedly yawned. “This thing we’ve got isn’t like a new card at all. It’s more of a …” He considered his next sentence carefully, then decided not to say it.
“What thing?” asked Johnny, prompting him.
“It’s just a thing we’re trying to build.”
“… Here?”
Emerald did not reply. He was listening to the sound
of a jeep outside, approaching, grinding to a halt by the window. “Well,” he said, replacing his spectacles, “here comes the Director.”
There was a pause. Footsteps. Then in came Mr. Mitchell.
Johnny’s first impression was of an absolute nondescript. Mr. Mitchell was neither short nor tall, and his hair was neither dark nor fair; the linen suit he wore was neither shabby nor elegant, and his handshake neither welcoming nor reserved. He wore horn-rimmed glasses, and these, being the most obvious feature about him, seemed to deprive him of personality, to reduce him to the status of a tranquil observer behind powerful twin lenses; when he smiled, it seemed a direct response to a mechanical stimulus rather than the outward expression of an emotion. He released Johnny’s hand, and the smile left his face as though switched off at the mains. He seated himself on the edge of the desk and watched Emerald curiously … unless it was merely the inflexibility of the lenses’ gaze that gave an impression of curiosity.
“Well now, Jimmy. I understand that the search is well under way.”
“We’ll have him back here in no time,” said Emerald. Not optimistically, but as one stating an evident fact.
“All right. Now where’s the brief?”
“I have it right here on the desk.”
Emerald flipped over a sheaf of papers and handed Mr. Mitchell a slim fawn-coloured folder. The Director took it; opened it; glanced through it.
“I want Mr. Fedora to see this.”
“Very well,” said Emerald.
“And then I want to hear anything he may have to say about it. I’m taking a personal interest in this, Colonel. So far as I’m concerned, tracing this man O’Brien is of absolutely paramount importance. You are to use all the authority you possess; and, if necessary, I will give you all the backing I can. You understand?”
“Perfectly,” said Emerald woodenly. “Take a look at this, will you, Johnny?”
“I want you to examine it closely, Mr. Fedora. That folder contains such information as we have about your friend Mr. O’Brien, or Cody, as he prefers to call himself. You’ll see that it does not amount to a great deal. I am hoping that you will be able to supplement this information, to some extent, from your own experience.”
Johnny watched the Director while he spoke. The Director’s voice, too, was devoid of personality, was flat and colourless; but while he was talking he no longer seemed nondescript. The very flatness of his voice seemed to give his words a certain precision and urgency, the curious urgency of a mechanical recording, and this contrasted strangely with his bodily movements. For while the movements he made were also spare and mechanical, responses to tangible stimuli from outside himself, his voice alone seemed to be the result of a completely internal mechanism, geared to a certain aim and totally ignoring everything that impinged on it from outside. It was as though the Director’s voice was divorced from his body; the latter functioning as no more than a vehicle for the other, responding like a puppet to a complicated system of strings … Johnny felt ill-at-ease in Mr. Mitchell’s presence. He had met fanatics before, many of them; but none of this particular variety.
He opened the folder and began to read.
O’BRIEN, said the heading: William Patrick.
According to passport, born 1916 in Streatham, London. British citizen. No known next of kin.
Height, six feet three and one half inches. Hair, red. Complexion, fresh. Weight, approximately fourteen and a half stone. Eyes, blue. Distinguishing features, none.
Educated Blair Grammar, Brighton Technical and London University.
Studies in electrical engineering interrupted by war, but was considered outstanding student. A distinguished career in the Royal Air Force, 1440 Squadron; emerged in 1947 with rank of Wing-Commander, D.S.O., D.F.C. and bar.
Took executive post with Donn and Bethall International Electric Corporation as manufacturing director of equipment for installation in civil aircraft. In 1948, was indicted as a party to the illegal sale of war equipment in the Middle East; failed to appear at court. Was reported as having taken up residence in Cairo.
In 1951, was reported as taking part in the political movements associated with the rise to power of Mossadeq in Iran; and was believed at this time to be working with Bunin and other Soviet agents. Confirmation of this, however, is lacking. For fuller details see Confidential File BT/73911 and the MacVey reports.
In 1952, returned to Cairo as owner-pilot of a private charter aircraft and formed a partnership with Thomas Johnston, late of the B.O.A.C. This company, the Bryanston Charter Service, comprised three aircraft - a Dakota, a Beechcraft and a converted military Hudson. Johnston, flying the Hudson with two Arabic passengers, disappeared on August 8th, 1954, while flying from Cairo to Khartoum. No relics of the aircraft have as yet been discovered.
Fedora fingered his lip thoughtfully.
In February of 1955, O’Brien was compelled to make a forced landing near Entebbe with the Beechcraft; the aircraft, when examined, was found to contain a cargo of military equipment destined for unlicensed sale. A warrant was issued for O’Brien’s arrest on this account.
Two months later, in Nairobi, the Kenya Constabulary issued a further warrant for O’Brien’s arrest as being responsible for the murder by strangulation of Kenneth Roger Malcolm Malcolmson, 31, a British settler.
All Police and Security Departments are asked to show the utmost vigilance in tracing and arresting this man.
Photograph, finger-print records attached.
May 19th, 1955.
Johnny glanced at the photograph before flipping the file shut and handing it back to Emerald. It seemed very lifelike.
“A varied,” he said, “and interesting career.”
Emerald nodded. “Like most of the people we have on file here. As a matter of fact - we’ve got you on tap, too. Like to see what we think of you,”
“No, thanks,” said Johnny.
There came a little rasping noise, like a phosphorus match being struck. The Director was clearing his throat. “… Let’s keep to the point, shall we? I may say that I’ve already seen your brief, Mr. Fedora. In many ways, a most remarkable record.”
Johnny was not sure whether this was a compliment or not. He remained diplomatically silent.
“Clearly, you have already done excellent work on behalf of the British Security Services. Yes. Clearly. Therefore, I see no reason for treating you as an ordinary … civilian. I have no hesitation in asking your assistance. And while I can’t reveal to you the exact reason why we wish to apprehend Mr. O’Brien so quickly, I can quite definitely say that it’s a matter of the greatest national importance. Of the very greatest. I feel I can rely on you in the future to treat of all things pertaining to this affair as completely confidential.”
“In other words, Johnny,” said Emerald, leaning forward, “if ever you do get out of this place, then forget you were ever here. I’m not here. Mr. Mitchell isn’t here. And O’Brien you’ve never even heard of.”
“You put it cogently,” said Mr. Mitchell.
There was a moment’s silence. The angle of the sun ray on the wall had heightened, and was now almost touching the ceiling. Dusk was fast approaching. Johnny sat in his chair with his chin resting on his chest, an attitude that might have been either one of deep thought or one of profound slumber.
“After all,” said the Director, with a sudden impatience, “you’ve been travelling with O’Brien for some considerable time; a matter of days, as I believe. Surely you have some idea of his future plans?”
“No,” said Johnny. “Very little. He was going to Tripoli, and then perhaps to Rome. But we didn’t discuss the future much, and the past hardly at all.”
“I see. But could you tell us, for instance, whether he was well supplied with money or not?”
“I think not.”
“No? Then how was he proposing to get to Italy,”
“He wasn’t very precise. He was hoping to get some money from a friend in Tripoli.”
“And who is this friend, and whereabouts does he live?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know. I don’t know his name or anything. All I can remember is that he’s a Squadron-Leader in the R.A.F.”
The Director and Emerald looked at each other. “Well,” said Emerald, “that’s something. There aren’t all that many—”
“I should say that there were any amount,” said Mr. Mitchell rather pettishly. “There must be at least forty or fifty Squadron-Leaders in the Tripoli area, considering it’s the base for … But follow it up. Follow it up, of course. Mr. Fedora … are you sure you don’t wish to be more exact?”
“It’s not a question of what I wish: I just don’t know. As a matter of fact - I believe O’Brien did mention the fellow’s Christian name. But—”
“But what?”
“If he did, I can’t remember it.”
“Oh tchah,” said the Director disconcertingly. Emerald rocked back and forth in his chair and said, “Well, it doesn’t matter much. We’ll have picked him up before he gets anywhere near Tripoli, that’s for certain.”
“I hope so,” said Mr. Mitchell. “I’m sure I hope so. I’ll be expecting results from you not later than midnight, Jimmy. We had better postpone further discussion until then. Meanwhile, please remember that we may have further need of Mr. Fedora’s services.”
“I’ll remember,” said Emerald grimly.
“Very well. And call me at my office the moment any further developments arise. Yes, and have Dr. Wray in readiness, as well. I want to be perfectly confident that there’s no mistake from the … medical point of view.”
The Director nodded tersely to Johnny and bustled out. The two men in the office sat very still, listening to the sound of the jeep motor revving up outside and finally growling away in the stillness of the dusk. Eventually, Emerald stretched out an arm and helped himself to a cigarette.
“Nice little bastard, isn’t he?”
This was not a question and Fedora did not treat is as such. “Well,” he said, “he looks like a hard worker.”
“He works,” agreed Emerald sadly. “Oh yes, he works all right.”
