by Hugh Franks
He pressed a button on his desk and waited tensely. His Permanent Secretary, Sir Richard Morris, was on his way to see him. There was a rapid knock on his door and a junior secretary entered. The Minister looked up at her and said, ‘Show Sir Richard straight in when he arrives.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The young girl liked her boss but didn’t like the way he looked at this moment. ‘And can I get you a drink?’ she added, concern in her voice.
‘That’s a good idea. Yes, please. The usual.’
She went over to the drinks cabinet and poured out a stiff Scotch and soda. As he took it from her he said, ‘Thank you. You’ve heard the news, of course?’
‘Yes, sir. It’s terrible. Such a super man.’
‘Yes, he was.’
‘Can I get you anything else?’
‘No, thanks, that’s fine.’
He began to pull himself together after she had gone. He wondered what effect Dorman’s death would have on the rest of the Cabinet. The PM would be devastated! A murder had taken place on a London street and that alone was bad enough, after all the efforts to contain terrorism; efforts that had begun to show positive results. But for the murdered man to be the one so closely involved with the attempt to unravel ENDS, that was the sort of disaster that could bring down the government!
Five minutes later, Sir Richard Morris was walking towards the Minister’s desk. They shook hands as the civil servant said fiercely, ‘It’s a hideous crime! You know all the facts, Minister?’
‘Yes. Come, sit down. Tell me what the Foreign Office and for that matter, the Home Office, are doing about it.’
‘The usual. All airports and seaports have been alerted, though there isn’t much to go on.’
‘Any idea what was in Dorman’s briefcase?’
‘Apparently nothing of any worth.’
‘How do you know?’
‘His secretary packed his papers herself. There was nothing private, no secret correspondence in it, according to her.’
‘Thank God for that.’ The Minister paused and went on, ‘Though who knows? He might have added to it himself.’
‘Possibly.’
‘Does anyone know what was in his mind … in terms of a new approach?’
‘No, though it’s established that one of his colleagues, Dr Mike Clifford, has been working very closely with him.’
‘Where’s he?’
‘He’s at Sussex University today. He’s been contacted and is on his way back to London. We hope he will continue Dorman’s work.’
‘Anything else?’
‘In my judgement, Minister, it has been a brilliantly coordinated assassination. Whether or not it signals a change in direction remains to be seen.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, perhaps the FO or the Home Office will come up with something. But it could be that the mystery deaths are to be replaced by more direct methods.’
‘You mean open terrorism again?’
‘Right.’
‘That’s not very likely, Sir Richard. As long as they, whoever “they” are, can create the impression of natural death, there’s not much point in using violent and unsubtle forms of murder, is there?’
‘No, I suppose not. But why violently murder someone like Dorman?’
‘Because, Sir Richard, he reckoned he’d stumbled on to something of great importance. He was on his way to tell me about it.’
‘I see. And “they” found out that Dorman was on to something?’
‘Yes.’
‘But how did “they” find that out?’
‘That’s a good question. But that’s not our department, is it?’
‘No. But meanwhile we’ve got our own briefs, haven’t we, direct from the PM. I was wondering if …’
The Minister interrupted, ‘You’re not concerned with wondering, Sir Richard. As you said, we have our own briefs and we’ll stick to them.’
The antipathy between civil servant and professional politician was surfacing, as it often does, and neither side was willing to give an inch.
‘I must object, Minister! I think the time has come to rethink the whole problem.’ The senior civil servant opened his briefcase, brought out a folder, took out a sheet of paper and handed it to the Minister, saying, ‘At long last there seems to be some kind of pattern, a sort of consistent occurrence. Your own department and the FO computers have thrown up an interesting fact.’
‘Computers,’ the Minister cut in, ‘need people to feed them, don’t they?’
‘Yes, Minister, I know what you’re getting at. We’ve been doubly careful about that; we checked on everyone and everything.’ He smiled smoothly, savouring his next remark. ‘We even checked you out.’
The Minister glared, making no comment.
‘We’ve checked with Washington, Minister, and …’
‘And?’
‘We found that every death has, in some way or other, been linked with the Orient.’
‘The Orient?’
‘Yes. The computers won’t give us anything definite, but they do come up with that area of the world consistently, too consistently to be coincidental.’
The Health Minister now showed his impatience and spoke quickly, curtly, ‘Sir Richard, this kind of information can only lead to more confusion. Dorman, our top medical man, has been murdered! What are you suggesting? A Far Eastern country is responsible?’
‘I’m not suggesting it’s necessarily a definite link with Dorman’s death, though there might be a link somewhere. I’m merely reporting what we’re finding at this moment in time.’
‘Are you saying there’s a definite link between Dorman’s murder and ENDS?’
‘I’m not saying that exactly, Minister, but there might be.’
‘You’re confusing me, Sir Richard. If there is a definite link, what is it?’
‘Well, for instance, we all know that many acupuncture centres have been set up all over the world, and more and more people are having treatment.’ Sir Richard paused. ‘Successfully.’
‘So?’
‘So, Minister, the treatment originated in China, the Far East.’
Hall frowned, his face showing disbelief. ‘Are you suggesting that something is being done in the acupuncture centres to kill VIPs?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But surely if that was happening, it would show on health profiles, on tests?’
‘True.’
‘And you seem to forget, the deaths are being registered as from natural causes.’
‘Yes, it’s very puzzling.’
‘And,’ Hall went on, ‘Dorman was murdered outright.’
The telephone rang on Hall’s desk. He grabbed at it. His face grew stern, worried. By the time he had replaced the receiver, Sir Richard guessed there was more bad news. He said, ‘What’s happened?’
‘Besides Professor Dorman,’ Hall said slowly, ‘we had that terrible shock yesterday with the death of our Consul in Marseille. Now reports are coming in of the death of the American President’s daughter. She was twenty-eight. It’s from natural causes.’
Mike Clifford turned off his car radio and concentrated on the road ahead, the beginning of the Brighton to London motorway. At first he had disbelieved the news. Then Scotland Yard contacted him direct at Sussex University. He was told to return immediately. After the initial disbelief and utter shock, he became angry, and that anger was still deep inside him.
‘Bastards!’ He shouted out the word at the top of his voice, following up with other words that helped to relieve his feelings towards the killer and anything or anyone involved with the murderer.
Mike Clifford was normally the kind of man who had iron control over his emotions. Tall, fair, good-looking, he was 38 years of age. He was the only son of a Yorkshire miner; his parents had died many years ago. He had managed to escape a life in the industrial north by studying medicine. He had been a promising student, and by the end of his degree course, that promise had been fulfille
d. Then, his research work at the University of Sussex had brought him to the notice of Professor Dorman.
Within a short time of joining him, Mike Clifford had been swept into the professor’s world. He was happy to have the opportunity of working with Dorman and of becoming directly involved with ENDS. In no way was it reaching the rapid spread made by AIDS, but ‘death by natural causes’ made ENDS uniquely alarming. As the months passed, his respect for Dorman grew. He admired and learnt a great deal from the professor, and was grateful that Dorman had chosen him as his assistant. He was anxious to help him in any way he could. He had become fully versed in the ENDS problems, and although fascinated, he was also very concerned.
Professor Dorman had no children, and he and Mike were rapidly developing a kind of father–son relationship. Mike tried to follow up on every idea of the professor’s, and even carried his ideas a stage further. Recently he had become involved in Dorman’s scrutiny of acupuncture and the complicated diagnostic pulse law of the therapy. He wanted to understand why and how the human body responded to acupuncture, although he found it difficult to regard any form of Oriental medicine as a serious science. But Dorman wanted to know more about the acupuncture points, and told Mike that they must both keep open minds about the therapy. He wanted them both to meet Eleanor Johnson, an American doctor practising acupuncture in London. Mike’s respect for Dorman made him anxious to look into anything Dorman might suggest.
But what was going to happen now? Mike had almost reached the outskirts of London. London without Dorman was unthinkable! God, how he would miss him! A deep sadness settled on the young doctor, yet he knew that the professor wouldn’t want that emotion spent on himself, especially in the present crisis. Far better to go on with his work.
He sat back in the driving seat and this time said aloud, through clenched teeth, ‘My God! I’ll work on! And I’ll help find the bastards who killed him!’
The blaring horn and flashing lights of a car behind brought Clifford promptly back to the present and only just in time. He had wandered from the centre lane into the fast lane. He glanced at his speedometer, saw it was registering 90 miles an hour, and immediately pulled his steering-wheel to the left. The car behind had been about to overtake him! As he steadied his steering-wheel, holding to the centre lane, the car behind swept past, flashing its lights, the driver angrily sounding the horn. Clifford eased up on his accelerator and cruised at 50 miles an hour. Better to concentrate on the road for a while; though he couldn’t get Dorman out of his thoughts.
He remembered that moment only a few weeks ago when the professor had said, ‘You know, Mike, if anything should happen to me you have all the top contacts you need.’
There had been a long silence during which they had eyed each other. Then Mike had replied, ‘Nothing is going to happen to you.’
‘Well,’ Dorman had said, ‘whatever, you must carry on with our work.’
Mike’s eyes moistened as he remembered. He now pressed down harder on the accelerator, concentrating, wanting to get to London and action as quickly as he could.
In the quiet of her consulting room in Harley Street, Eleanor Johnson sat at her desk, reading with disbelief the letter that had been delivered by special messenger. She was an attractive and intelligent woman in her thirties with her dark hair cut short and combed back. Her face was full of gentleness and kindness. Totally devoted to her work, she had established a well-deserved reputation in New York and London.
She had graduated from Radcliffe College summa cum laude, then entered Cornell where she got her medical degree. She worked for a while as a junior doctor at the New York Medical Center, where she met and fell in love with Chen Shousan, a Chinese doctor. They lived together for a few years, then they married, but three months later he was dead. He had been mugged and beaten to death in the City’s subway. The murderers pocketed all of $18.
For a while Eleanor drowned her shock and sorrow in work. Her husband had been born in Peking in 1950, only a few months after the founding of the People’s Republic of China in October 1949 by Mao. Chen’s father, a brilliant doctor of acupuncture, practising in Peking, had been unable to escape from the Japanese occupation. The Japanese had forced him to continue his practise, but to treat only members of the Japanese armed forces. After Hiroshima and the withdrawal of the Japanese, Chen’s father married, and by the time Chen was born, his father had built up his practise, but this time using his skills for the benefit of the Chinese. No friend of Chiang Kai Shek, for Chen’s father blamed the General for many of China’s problems, he had welcomed Mao with open arms. Later Mao had returned the compliment by giving the doctor a top appointment in Public Health. He trained Chen, who became a skilful acupuncturist like himself, and using his top position in Public Health, he made sure that Chen learned English and was sent to an American university to become a qualified doctor of Western medicine. Chen was soon practising a balanced therapy combining Western and Oriental medicine.
Under his influence and experience, Eleanor had become fascinated with the techniques and philosophy of ancient Chinese medicine. Chen taught her everything she knew, and even took her to China to meet his father, now an old man. They were with him in Beijing in June 1989 during the suppression of the democracy movement in Tiananmen Square. Eleanor was profoundly upset by the events, and had said to Chen, ‘When is the world going to stop turning to violence? Isn’t there enough physical suffering?’ Chen had agreed. He told her the deaths had been caused by the interference of foreigners in China’s affairs, and his father was convinced that the crisis had been brought about by Western agents. Chinese men and women trained as agents, operating from Hong Kong. Eleanor had wondered if the West realised the depth of the enigma that was China. She had feared for the future. Somewhere in the darkness of the East–West confusion, would the light of understanding and unity ever appear?
After they returned to New York, she helped Chen in his practise, concentrating more and more on the therapy of acupuncture. When he was killed, she went on working in acupuncture, certain he would have wanted her to do that. She became more and more successful, building up her own reputation. Chen would have been proud of her.
Now in London, the late afternoon sunshine sending rays across her desk, she brooded over and re-read the letter in her hand. Addressed to her from the Minister of Health, it was not a directive, but more of a threat – and it was not signed. It had been handed to her personally by a young man who had refused to leave it with her secretary in the reception room next door. She slowly put the letter on her desk. Its contents puzzled her and at the same time frightened her: why should she receive a warning? What had she done to become involved with threats?
She pressed the buzzer on her desk. A moment later her secretary entered.
‘Julie,’ Eleanor said, ‘the man who delivered this. Has he gone?’
‘Yes, Doctor, and your last appointment has just cancelled.’ She hesitated before she went on quickly, ‘I’m sorry about that man; he brushed past me so quickly!’
‘Don’t worry about that. As a matter of fact you can go home now, if you wish.’
‘Thank you,’ Julie said, and was about to leave when the telephone rang on Eleanor’s desk. ‘Shall I take it?’ she asked.
‘No,’ Eleanor replied as she picked up the receiver. ‘Dr Johnson speaking.’
Julie had intended to leave, but the thought rapidly vanished from her mind. As she looked at Eleanor, the doctor’s face turned pale. The caller must have rung off quickly, for Eleanor slowly replaced the receiver without speaking.
‘What’s the matter, Doctor?’
‘Nothing,’ Eleanor said hesitantly. ‘Perhaps you would like to go now … That is, if … there’s no more for you to do.’
‘Thank you,’ Julie said with concern in her voice. ‘But is everything all right, Doctor?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘You look worried.’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes.’
Eleanor tried to conceal her feelings. ‘Why shouldn’t I look worried?’ she smiled. ‘It’s been a hellish day!’ She remembered the voice on the telephone and what it had said to her. ‘I suppose I’m just that extra bit tired.’
The unconcern in her voice did not cover up for her completely, but she was hiding her inner feelings as best she could. She had always had a deep-rooted belief in freedom for the individual, and now her freedom was suddenly being threatened. Growing up in America, whatever its faults, she had always felt the individual counted for something. The extremes were of course to be avoided: the first rule of Oriental medicine, and the extremes in the USA were formidable – no less, the extremes of China had been difficult for her to accept.
Working alone in New York, she had found a growing male prejudice against her. Medical colleagues were subtle in their harassment, and in spite of her successes with her patients they implied she was no better than a quack doctor. She had been able to shrug them off, but she found them boring. She decided to close her office in New York and go to China to study acupuncture in even greater depth. New points had been discovered in China which were proving very efficacious in treatment. Chen’s father had wanted her to visit him, so it all seemed to fit in well …
She suddenly became aware of Julie still standing in front of her desk. Her mind was wandering …
‘Are you really all right, Doctor?’ Julie asked again.
‘Of course I am, Julie. Off you go,’ Eleanor said calmly. ‘See you tomorrow. Goodnight.’
When Julie had gone, Eleanor again began to think about her days in China. Many Chinese called her Doctor Eleanor Shousan, or just Eleanor, but one day in Beijing some students had called her a ‘foreign devil’. She had continued her studies unmolested, however, and as confidence in her grew, attitudes began to change. Chen’s father seldom mentioned his son, and when he did, he stressed the need for her to carry on with her work. She felt it was as though Chen was still alive in his mind. She had volunteered to share her small room in the old man’s house with three Chinese students. They had become good friends, although she never heard from them again when she left China to open her office in London.
