by Troy Conway
My eyebrows arched quizzically. “What else could they use them for?”
“Well, one possibility is that they plan to blackmail Smythe and Whelan into doing their bidding after being returned to office. Remember, the elections are less than two months away. If the Communists have the photos, why haven’t they used them already? It can’t be just a case of waiting for the opportune moment. The sooner you break a scandal like this, the better off you are. If the Communists waited until a few days before the election, the only people who’d really be hurt would be Smythe and Whelan. If they broke the scandal now, they could insure the defeat of dozens of other anti-Communist M.P.’s who’ve been allied with Smythe and Whelan in the past—and perhaps even the fall of Prime Minister Wilson’s government.”
“But,” I objected, “are Smythe and Whelan so important in Parliament that the Communists would pass up a chance at toppling Wilson’s government just so they could blackmail Smythe and Whelan into playing the Commie game once they get back into office? It doesn’t make sense.”
“No,” he acknowledged, “it doesn’t—which is why we suspect that the Commies may be playing for bigger stakes.”
“Bigger stakes? Like what?”
“The B-bomb.” His eyes fixed to mine. “Honestly, Damon, the prospects of the Communists getting their hands on it make me shiver in trepidation.” He drained his drink, shuddered, and poured himself a fresh one.
“Just for the record,” I put in, “what in hell is the B-bomb?”
He took a sip of the new drink. “Does the phrase, ‘C.B.R. warfare,’ mean anything to you?”
“Of course. Every ex-soldier knows it. Chemical, Biological and Radiological warfare.”
“Precisely. So far—fortunately for the world—the major powers seem to have forgotten about the ‘C’ and the ‘B.’ They’ve concentrated only on the ‘R,’ or radiological, aspect. But unfortunately some minor powers have begun to investigate the ‘C’ and the ‘B’ and a year ago a certain minor power—which for security reasons we’ll refer to henceforth as Country X—developed a bomb which, in its own way, is far more fearsome than the atom bomb, the hydrogen bomb and all the other bombs in the radiological warfare arsenal. Because its action is biological, we call it the B-bomb.”
“What exactly does it do?”
“It contaminates vegetable growth. Unlike conventional bombs, it doesn’t detonate on contact with the earth. Rather, it is exploded in the atmosphere, at an altitude of between forty thousand and sixty thousand feet above sea level. Its particles then spread out over a radius of a thousand miles. Some fall directly to the earth, while others are absorbed by clouds and fall to the earth as part of a rainstorm or snowstorm. In any case, within twenty-four hours after the bomb has been released, all vegetable growth within a thousand miles of the release-point is contaminated. And since the particles are microscopic, there’s really no way of knowing that the bomb has been released until effects the target area begins to suffer the ill effects. By then, of course, it’s too late.”
I shrugged. “So people eat contaminated vegetables. Is that so bad?”
“It’s nothing less than disastrous. The contamination, you see, doesn’t merely involve the spreading of infectious viruses or bacteria. Rather, it involves the implantation of pathogens which, when consumed by humans, disrupt the D.N.A chains in the body’s cells. You know what D.N.A. chains are, I assume.”
“Vaguely. They have something to do with the transference of genetic characteristics, don’t they?”
“Yes, but they also play a key role in the cell’s synthesis of protein. If the cells fail to synthesize protein, they no longer are able to sustain themselves.”
“In other words, everyone in the contaminated area dies?”
“Yes, but it’s a slow and most horrible death. The brain cells, which are the most complex, go first, and the people in the contaminated area become walking zombies—unable to think clearly, unable to control their actions, unable to function on any rational level. There is neither law nor order; the world of the contaminated becomes literally a mad world, a world which is an insane asylum with no caretakers. Next, the cells of the stomach, the liver and other vital organs are affected. The result is general bodily decay. Like lepers, the victims begin laterally to rot away. Finally the heart cells go, and the body dies—if the victims haven’t all committed suicide or killed each other first.”
His face ashen as he contemplated the picture he had painted, he took a healthy swallow of Johnnie Walker Black. “Now, Damon, I repeat: one B-bomb can contaminate an area with a radius of one thousand miles; ten B-bombs, strategically dropped, could contaminate the entire United States and much of Canada and Central America. If our enemies had these bombs and chose to drop them on us, we’d have no way of knowing that we were under attack until we were already on our way to a mass grave.” His eyes found mine. “The prospects are disquieting, wouldn’t you say?”
I nodded. “You’re a master of understatement.”
He sipped his drink. “Fortunately, Country X, which developed the B-bomb, is a neutral nation which generally leans toward the West. Once the bomb had been developed, the President of Country X contacted the chiefs of state of the United States and England. He offered to share the bomb with us if we shared our A-bomb and H-bomb with him. We, of course, couldn’t do so without violating existing treaties with the other atomic powers. But we did persuade him to accept another arrangement. Under this arrangement, the United States and England pledged that they would place their atomic weaponry at Country X’s disposal if ever Country X was attacked by another nation. Country X, in turn, agreed to disband its biological warfare laboratory and destroy the formula for the B-bomb.”
I whistled under my breath. “Our diplomats must have really worked overtime to sell that proposition.”
He smiled. “That’s why they call diplomats diplomats. In any case, Country X went along with the deal. The United States and England then appointed a six-member committee, composed of three Americans and three Britishers, to supervise the disbanding of the biological warfare laboratory. The Americans on the commission included a high-ranking member of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, a very highly placed Undersecretary of State and a prominent governor whose parents had migrated to the United States from Country X. The Britishers included a VIP from the Home Office and two M.P.’s, one from the House of Commons, the other from the House of Lords. The M.P.’s, as chance would have it, were Smythe and Whelan.”
I put two and two together and came up with a very disconcerting four. “In other words, you think that the Communists are holding off on exposing Smythe and Whelan’s hanky-panky because they think Smythe and Whelan have the formula for the B-bomb?”
“Not quite. Actually, we’re pretty certain that Smythe and Whelan don’t have the formula. But, in supervising the disbanding of the biological warfare laboratory, they couldn’t help but learn something about the bomb and the people who developed it. Evidently Russia is interested in finding out precisely what—and whom—they know. In this sort of operation, the tiniest scrap of information can be invaluable. For example, if either Smythe or Whelan reveals the names of the scientists who were involved in developing the bomb—names which both Smythe and Whelan, along with the other four members of the inspection committee, certainly know—Russia might abduct one or more of these scientists and force them to share their findings with Russian scientists. Anything that Smythe or Whelan might reveal can put the Russians a step closer to developing a B-bomb of their own, which is why we believe the Russians are resisting the obviously-very-strong temptation to set off a scandal which might topple Prime Minister Wilson’s regime.”
“But,” I reminded him, “you don’t know for sure that the Russians are aware of Smythe and Whelan’s hanky-panky. And you don’t know for sure that the Russians are aware that Smythe and Whelan were members of the committee that supervised the disbanding of Country X’s laboratory. As a matter of fact, you don’t see
m to have a shred of evidence that Russia even knows Country X developed the B-bomb. You’re piling assumptions on top of assumptions, but there are no facts beneath the assumptions; it’s all guesswork on your part.”
He smiled. “The espionage game, Damon, is ninety-nine percent guesswork. What separates the winners from the losers is who guesses best.”
“All right, let’s say that your guesses are all on target. What can the United States do at this stage of the game to keep Smythe and Whelan from spilling whatever beans they have to spill?”
His smile broadened. “We might arrange to have them assassinated.”
I gulped. “You wouldn’t.”
He sighed. “You’re right, we wouldn’t. Even though the enemy doesn’t abide by the Marquis of Queensbury’s rules, we do. I don’t have to tell you that this makes The Coxe Foundation’s job a lot harder than it has to be.” He sipped his drink. “But the job is still there to be done, so we’ve got to figure out another way of doing it. Right now, I think, our best move is to separate Smythe and Whelan from their girlfriends. That’s where you enter the picture.”
“Me?” I gulped again. “If your diplomatic sources couldn’t persuade Smythe and Whelan to stop seeing the girls, I certainly won’t be able to.”
“No, but you might be able to persuade the girls to stop seeing Smythe and Whelan.”
“How in hell am I supposed to do that?”
“That’s your problem. But I think you can solve it. After all, Damon, your abilities as a lover are legendary. And there’s nothing that can turn a girl’s head like love.”
“You mean you want me to make Andi Gleason and Diane Dionne fall in love with me? And then you want me to talk them into breaking off with Smythe and Whelan?”
He looked at me like a schoolteacher looks at a particularly bright pupil who has just answered a very difficult question. “That’s precisely what I mean. I want you to go to London and really win these girls over. You’ll have an unlimited expense account, as usual, and you’ll get whatever other support from us that you ask for. Use what we give you, along with your own natural talents, to convince Andi and Diane that they can’t live without you. Then figure out some way to get them on a plane out of England as soon as you possibly can. I don’t want them anywhere near the British Isles until after the election is over.”
“What’s the point in that?”
“Well, as things now stand, the girls seem to be the Russians’ only link with Smythe and Whelan. If the link is broken, the Russians won’t find out anything more about the B-bomb until they forge another link. While they’re trying to forge it, our side will have more time to work on Smythe and Whelan and, hopefully, bring them back in line.”
“Maybe,” I suggested, “they won’t try to forge another link. Maybe they’ll just give up on the B-bomb and use their photos of Smythe and Whelan’s hanky-panky to set off a scandal.”
He shook his head. “In my experience, the Russians don’t operate that way. They never settle for the consolation prize when there’s still a chance at copping the grand prize. Besides, even if they did try to set off a scandal, chances are they wouldn’t suceed if Andi and Diane weren’t around to back their play.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Well, think about it for a moment. Photos, as you’ve observed earlier, can be doctored. If the Communists do have photos—which we can assume they do—they could turn them over to Smythe and Whelan’s opponents. But if the opponents level charges at Smythe and Whelan, the charges can always be denied. And, if Andi and Diane aren’t around to offer personal testimony, Smythe and Whelan just might be able to persuade their constituents that the charges are trumped up. Picture, if you will, one of these opponents claiming that Smythe or Whelan is a poor security risk because of his involvement with a girlfriend. When asked for proof of involvement, he produces the photos. But, of course, no newspaper could ever print them, and even if the photos were circulated privately, no one could be positive that they hadn’t been doctored. At this point, Smythe and Whelan challenge their opponents to produce the girls with whom the alleged affairs were carried on. The girls can’t be produced, because they simply aren’t around. Perhap a few witnesses will say that they saw Smythe and Whelan with the girls. But witnesses, as everyone knows, can be bought—and the only witnesses anyone can really come up with are friends of Andi and Diane, prostitutes and pimps whose credibility is certainly open to question. Without Andi and Diane, the charges fall, and Smythe and Whelan escape unscathed.” He looked to me for agreement.
“It works nicely in theory,” I said. “But how about in practice? If you had to bet a million dollars one way or the other, would you put your money on Smythe and Whelan?”
“The bet, I’ll admit, would be something less than a lead-pipe cinch. But the strategy I’ve outlined seems to be our only practical move at this point. The odds against us are formidable, but we’ve got to buck them, because they’re the best odds we can get.”
I leaned back in my seat and let everything he had said sink into my brain. The more I thought about the whole business, the more formidable the odds seemed.
If I did succeed in getting Andi and Diane out of England, there was no guarantee that the Communists wouldn’t find out what they wanted to know about the B-bomb anyway. They could always use two more girls to play Mata Hari with Smythe and Whelan once Andi and Diane were gone.
If the Communists did find out what they wanted to know about the B-bomb, there was no guarantee that they wouldn’t still use their information about Smythe and Whelan’s extracurricular activities to set off a scandal which might topple Prime Minister Wilson’s government. They could set off a scandal afterwards just as easily as they could before—even more easily, in fact, because they would then have proof positive that Smythe and Whelan were abominable security risks.
Meanwhile, if they didn’t find out what they wanted to know about the B-bomb, they could still set off a scandal any time they chose. If Andi and Diane weren’t around to testify against Smythe and Whelan, the new girls certainly would be. I couldn’t just keep on luring away playmates forever.
Actually there was really no guarantee that I’d even be able to get close enough to Andi and Diane to make my love-magic work on them. If they were Commie stooges, as Walrus-moustache believed, they’d be damned suspicious of any American who tried to get within a hundred yards of them.
For that matter, if the Commies ever spotted an American trying to get within a hundred yards, they might very well decide to put that American out of commission permanently—with a bullet in the head.
“How,” I asked Walrus-moustache, “do I keep the Commies from suspecting what I’m up to?”
His smile told me that he had anticipated the question. “We’ve got that all worked out for you, Damon. We’ve set you up with the perfect cover, a cover which the Commies wouldn’t suspect in a million years. Your friend at court in this caper will be none other than Lady Brice-Bennington.”
I did a double-take. “Lady-Who?”
“Lady Brice-Bennington. You’ve heard of her, I trust”
“You mean the famous bluenose?”
“Yes, the famous bluenose. Our code name for her is “The Big Prig’.”
My double-take became a triple-take. “You’re damned right I’ve heard of her. And if she’s going to be my friend at court, I’ve got a funny feeling that I’m not going to need any enemies at court.”
“Don’t be too sure. What do you know about her?”
“Well, for one thing, she thinks sex is the greatest evil in the world. She wants to do away with all erotic books, all sex scenes in movies and all government-subsidized sex research. She’s organized a group of do-gooders called the Friends of Decency, and they’re putting pressure on Parliament to pass the most stringent laws against fornication, adultery, homosexuality and other forms of nonmarital sexual indulgence since Emperor Constantine held sway in Rome.”
“What else do
you know about her?”
“Her Friends of Decency tried like hell to keep my books from being circulated in England and they almost succeeded. Eight publishers were cajoled into refusing to print my last sexual survey before a ninth finally decided to take his chances with it. And that poor bastard almost went out of business when he did. The Friends of Decency persuaded more than five hundred English bookstores not to handle any title he published.”
“Okay, what else do you know about her?”
“Not much, other than the fact that she hopes eventually to desex the whole damned British Empire.”
“Then let me fill you in on a few details. For one, she’s a staunch supporter of Smythe and Whelan’s opponents. Smythe and Whelan, you see, arc very much in favor of relaxing Britain’s censorship laws. In fact, two years ago, Smythe in the House of Commons and Whelan in the House of Lords introduced bills which would abolish completely the British Censorship Office. The bills didn’t pass, thanks mainly to lobbying by Lady Brice-Bennington’s Friends of Decency. But the Big Prig didn’t content herself with that small victory. She vowed that she would get Smythe and Whelan turned out of office, and she’s been working steadfastly ever since to make good her vow.”
“And that makes her my friend at court?”
“No. But Robbi Randall does.”
It was time for another double-take. “You’d better explain,” I said.
“I shall.” He smiled. “When The Coxe Foundation first learned that Smythe and Whelan were flirting with a Profumo-like scandal, we had no reason to suspect that the Communists were involved. So we asked ourselves who would benefit most if Smythe and Whelan were turned out of office. One of the first names that came to mind was that of The Big Prig. We subsequently assigned agents to follow Andi Gleason and Diane Dionne twenty-four hours a day, and we learned something which we found very interesting. Over the space of two weeks, one highly placed member of The Big Prig’s Friends of Decency made no fewer than three visits to the Soho strip-joint where Andi Gleason had worked before she became a full-time prostitute. During the same period of two weeks, another highly placed member of the Friends of Decency attended several pot parties at which Diane Dionne was present. While these revelations didn’t necessarily prove that the Friends were scheming to set Smythe and Whelan up for a Profunio-like scandal, we felt that we should investigate the Friends a little more thoroughly than we had in the past. Accordingly, we assigned our female Coxeman, Robbi Randall, to infiltrate the organization and tell us something about its inner workings.”
