by Hugh Franks
She looked down at her desk and saw the letters CTTM staring up at her from the message delivered a short time ago. They were the same letters the voice had whispered to her on the telephone a few minutes earlier, CTTM. It was simple enough to understand. The letters stood for ‘Carry Tiger to Mountain’. Chen had explained the letters to her when they had first met. She smiled as she remembered the semi-magical quality of the Chinese sayings, their dragons, their tigers, and the many stories of their past. CTTM stood for medicine, like the tiger, stretching back into China’s distant past. CTTM meant that China would show the world that Chinese medicine, in particular acupuncture, could bring good health to the world. The Chinese would open colleges of Oriental medicine everywhere. They would train all nations in the therapy. The West would no longer be poised to attack and take over their beloved country, the world would look up to and emulate China. Their example would be one of non-violence, not only curing disease, but also preventing it. China would become a great force for health and sanity.
Eleanor believed that she was helping the world towards this end. CTTM was a noble and positive force, and she was part of that force. She stood up and went over to the window. The last rays of the sun had now gone. The weather was warm for November in London. The rush-hour traffic was beginning to turn Harley Street into one long stationary car park. The unseasonal warmth was helping to pollute the air, mixed as it was with exhaust fumes. She stared skywards and saw Concorde breaking through a cloud. Everyone is always in such a hurry these days, she thought, and looked down at the traffic jam below. She walked quickly back to her desk, feeling better, as though she had just come through a great mental battle.
She saw the letters once more: CTTM. The last time she had seen them was in China, and that was three years ago. She frowned. The man who had delivered the letter from the Ministry had said no reply would be necessary, she would be contacted by telephone. That had already happened. But why the Ministry? Why this sudden and devious interest in her at this moment? It seemed strange, especially when she was having so much success in her work. Could she perhaps do more?
The telephone rang again. This time she was ready. She recognized the same voice as before. ‘What is it you want?’ she demanded quickly. She listened. ‘Very well,’ she said slowly. ‘Where shall we meet?’ She repeated the words spoken to her to confirm the rendezvous. ‘Right,’ she said, ‘Les Amis du Vin in Covent Garden. How shall I know you?’
She slowly replaced the receiver. Since she had come to London she had decided to drop her late husband’s name. An American with a Chinese name might have confused perceptions. She had reverted to her maiden name of Johnson, and since that time her married name had never been mentioned to her. Yet the voice on the telephone had quickly given a description of himself: Chinese, tall, with an American accent, finishing with the words, ‘At seven-thirty, then.’ Followed by a long pause, and then, ‘Taking Tiger Mountain by Strategy, Madam Chen Shousan.’ She was puzzled. Had CTTM changed its direction? She felt the tension rising in her. She picked up the note from the Ministry and re-read it:
It is recommended that you reconsider the pattern of your life.
The Tao of heaven surely wins the victory,
Its nets are vast and its meshes wide
and from it nothing escapes –
You will receive further instructions soon. CTTM
There was no reference, no date, no signature. She smiled nervously to herself. It couldn’t possibly have come from the Ministry! It must have been written by someone Chinese. But who? Why? She wished she had opened it before the messenger had left. She could call the Ministry, but what was the point? There was no name to ask for. She collected some papers and left her consulting room without a backward glance.
* * *
Mike Clifford stared at the white wine in his glass. It was relaxing to be back in his London flat after the exhausting session at Alexander Fleming House. Dorman’s murderer had been very professional: there was no clue as to his identity. Norman Hall, the Minister of Health, a weak man at the best of times, was totally unsuited for moments of such high drama. When Mike had entered the Minister’s office, the atmosphere was tense. The Permanent Secretary, Sir Richard Morris, was in the midst of an argument with his Minister. It was soon apparent that the two men were miles apart in terms of the next moves. And within seconds Mike was told of the death of the American President’s daughter, from natural causes.
‘What?’ Mike gasped.
‘You heard, Doctor,’ the Minister repeated. ‘From natural causes!’
Mike looked thoughtful, and the expression was not lost on Sir Richard.
‘Well might you look puzzled,’ he said calmly. ‘Indeed, the medical profession in America is just as lost, might one say, useless, as your colleagues over here. Agreed?’
Mike had taken an instant dislike to the civil servant. ‘Meaning what, exactly?’ he replied sarcastically.
‘Meaning that the money the government is spending on research projects in medicine, especially yours, is not producing anything of worth, is it?’
Mike looked at the Minister for support, and got it.
‘There’s no need to talk to Dr Clifford like that!’
‘But it’s true, Minister.’
Mike immediately drilled Morris harshly. ‘Do you know the hours we put in?’
‘No more than mine.’
‘I doubt that. Are you really concerned with health?’
‘Of course.’
‘I heard you fought bitterly against pay rises for nurses.’
‘Correct.’
‘And researchers.’
‘Right.’
‘Your own salary pushes six figures a year, not including expenses.’
‘I don’t see what that has to do with …’
‘Gentlemen!’ The Minister shouted the word impatiently. ‘Please! Fighting with each other will get us nowhere!’
Mike spoke calmly, ‘I couldn’t agree more.’ He ignored the set, expressionless face of the Secretary. ‘Whatever has happened, or is happening, in terms of murders, assassinations … at this moment in time we should be working on finding Professor Dorman’s killer.’
‘Absolutely!’ the Minister concurred.
‘Why was Dorman coming to see you?’
‘He told me on the telephone that he was on to something.’
‘Were any papers found in his car?’
‘No.’
They discussed the situation a while longer. The conversation was serious but it led nowhere. Mike said he would go to Dorman’s Park Crescent office in the morning. Perhaps he could follow a lead from there.
Now, back in his flat, he held the empty wine glass in his hand. Would some revolutionary organisation claim they had killed Dorman? Certainly terrorism had come back into the news since the crisis in Hong Kong had ruptured into open strife.
Hong Kong! Former British Crown Colony, leased to Great Britain in 1898 for 99 years, occupied by Japan on Christmas Eve 1941 and restored to the British after the Second World War. The year 1997 had passed. The years that followed were difficult ones for Western democracies. They had to choose between direct confrontation with the ‘New China’ and its nuclear weapons, or with Japan, totally rearmed by the USA, but unwilling to wage war on its behalf in Asia. It was no mere academic choice. They had to choose between these two major world powers. The United States of Europe and Russia had long since made peace with each other.
Mike frowned at his thoughts and then remembered Dorman’s wife. God, how she must be suffering. He must call her. But on the way to the telephone he hesitated. Perhaps she was struggling in an effort to overcome her grief. Speaking to her at this moment would only intensify those feelings. Yet he might be able to help. He went quickly to his desk, but it took many minutes before the line to her was finally free.
‘Hello, Mary,’ he said. ‘It’s Mike.’
Mary Dorman’s voice was full of sadness but strong. ‘Thank God y
ou’ve phoned, Mike. I was going to call you any moment.’
He cut in with, ‘You know, don’t you, that no stone will be left unturned to …’ His search for words was thankfully stopped abruptly by Mary’s voice interrupting him.
‘Stuart was so fond of you, Mike,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to carry on his work, haven’t you.’
‘Of course.’
‘Did he tell you about Eleanor Johnson?’
‘Stuart mentioned her to me,’ Mike said.
‘I’m not sure who she is exactly, but he wanted you to meet her.’
‘Yes,’ Mike said, ‘but we must be careful. We can’t be certain of anyone, can we?’
Mary suddenly lost any restraint she might have had. She shouted down the line to Mike. ‘Certain! Certain! Bloody hell, Mike, what is there to be certain about! Only that they’ve now killed Stuart, my darling Stuart!’ She could no longer control her emotions. ‘I’ve been going through hell these past few weeks, Mike. He knew they were after him, the police knew, but nothing was done!’
‘Who was after him? And why?’ Mike’s mind was full of concern.
‘I don’t know,’ Mary moaned. ‘I don’t know!’
‘Mary, I’m coming over to you, right now!’ Mike said.
‘No.’ Mary spoke slowly and calmly now. ‘No, Mike. I can cope all right. Just about. I have my sister with me.’ She paused. ‘Just remember that name I gave you, Eleanor Johnson.’ She gave Mike Eleanor’s phone number.
As soon as their call had ended, Mike rang Eleanor. She agreed to come to his flat the next day.
Mike Clifford slept badly that night, but by five in the morning he had fallen into a deep sleep, so deep that he slept through the alarm clock. When he finally opened his eyes it was past nine o’clock. He washed and dressed hurriedly. He was drinking his coffee when the telephone rang. As he picked up the receiver, there was a sharp knock on the entrance door of his flat, but he ignored it.
‘Hullo, Mike Clifford here.’
‘Good morning, Dr Clifford.’ He recognised the woman’s voice immediately: it was Stuart Dorman’s secretary. ‘Isn’t it terrible!’ she said.
‘Yes! Look, hold on a moment, there’s someone at my door.’
He picked up the mail on the doormat, and opened the front door. It seemed to him that the woman standing before him was the most remarkable-looking he had ever seen. He felt a profound presence. There was no doubting her beauty. Her smooth dark hair; her face, full and fresh, like the face of a child. Yet she had an aura of calmness and gentleness that could only belong to a woman of deep perception, denying the childlike face.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her English tinged with a soft American accent, ‘but are you Dr Clifford?’
‘Yes,’ he smiled back. ‘You’re Eleanor Johnson.’
She held out her hand. He took it, gently pulling her towards him into the flat, saying, ‘It’s wonderful to meet you. Thanks for coming. Please come in and sit down. I’m on the phone.’
They went into the living room and as she sat down on the sofa he hurried back to the telephone, but he stood facing Eleanor, unable to take his eyes off her.
‘Hullo,’ he spoke into the receiver. ‘Sorry about that. You know I’m coming in to see you this morning?’
‘Yes,’ Dorman’s secretary said. ‘I was just checking. What time?’
He took his eyes off Eleanor. ‘I’ll be with you before midday.’
He put the telephone down and looked at Eleanor again. She was sitting in a composed way, with her legs crossed, her elbows on the arms of his favourite chair, looking at him. He smiled at her and at the same time felt the strong attraction of her personality.
‘Can I get you a coffee?’ he asked.
‘Thanks, but no.’
She had raised her eyes to look directly at him. It was then he noticed the dark circles under them. He wondered if perhaps she had been going through the same turmoil as himself about Dorman’s murder. But then, how much did she know and why had Dorman been so anxious to meet her? And were her eyes green or light blue?
She began talking, explaining her reason for calling on him so early. ‘I was out late last night, and I’ve got a heavy day in front of me. Early bed tonight for me,’ she smiled. ‘So here I am. Professor Dorman told you about me, no doubt?’
It suddenly occurred to him that she might not know about Dorman’s murder.
‘Yes, he did tell me,’ Mike answered, and sat down on the sofa opposite her. ‘That’s why I rang you. Of course you know what’s happened to him?’
‘Happened to him?’
‘You don’t know? He was murdered last night.’
‘He was murdered!’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t believe it!’ She spoke in a voice curiously devoid of emotion. ‘I’m terribly sorry. Tell me what happened.’
She raised her eyes to look directly at Mike. He could see her eyes were green. What the hell did that matter, he said to himself. But then he noticed that her hands were slender and long. Her face bewitched him. She wore no make-up at all.
‘Perhaps I’ll have a coffee after all,’ she said.
‘Come into the kitchen with me. I’ll tell you what happened.’
How could she possibly not have heard the news? It had been spread all over the media channels and television had made a meal of it all.
He beckoned her to the large table by the window. A man living on his own either lives like a slob or is excessively tidy. Mike was tidy, with a daily help to ease the problems of order and cleanliness in the flat, plus the advantage of labour-saving devices.
As he turned on the percolator he looked across at Eleanor. ‘Don’t you ever watch television?’
‘Rarely.’
‘It’s been splashed on every news bulletin since last night. The professor was shot to death in his car last night.’
‘I had no idea. I was out most of the night.’ She stared at him. Would he be shocked by her remark?
‘You were?’ he smiled with enough curiosity in his voice to make her smile back.
‘I spent most of the night with a patient,’ she said.
‘I see. I’m sorry. I hope your patient got better.’
‘Yes, she did.’
‘You must be very tired if you’ve been up all night.’
‘Not all night, but most of it. I came to you because I had lots of time to think last night.’
He stared back at her now, waiting for further explanations, but instead she changed the subject. She looked around the kitchen–dining-room and said appreciatively. ‘This is a very nice flat you’ve got. You obviously know how to live well.’
The banal remark irked him. He went to pour out the coffee. ‘I don’t know about that,’ he said, ‘but I would like to know why you are here so early. Is something troubling you? Please tell me.’
‘All right,’ she said. She went across to him.
For a moment there was a strange kind of tension between them. He held out a cup of coffee to her. She ignored it, and he stood still, standing like a patient waiter.
‘It’s very difficult to explain,’ she said. ‘I hardly know you. I really shouldn’t have come at all.’
‘Why not?’ He pulled a face full of surprise. ‘Look here,’ he said, ‘I’ve got one hell of a lot on my plate at the moment. Professor Dorman’s death has created an enormous gap in the field of medicine in this country, indeed in the world. He wanted us to meet. He thought perhaps you could give some clue about ENDS.’
‘Clue?’ Eleanor said. ‘You must be joking! What sort of clue? I am a doctor, I don’t play “who dun it” games.’
He looked at her angrily. ‘Dr Johnson, I have neither the time nor the inclination to play games. I presume you have heard about ENDS, and the growing number of deaths by so-called natural causes?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘And that you know who Professor Dorman is?’ he continued.
‘Yes, of course. He is the rea
son I came to see you.’
‘Did you ever speak to him?’
‘No, he left a message with my secretary. He was going to call me back.’
They both stood facing each other, silent at last. Then he broke the silence with the words, ‘I feel ridiculous standing here with an outstretched cup of coffee! Have a swig, and let’s talk.’ He smiled.
She took the coffee and they both sat down.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You must be very upset. If I had known I wouldn’t have come so early.’ She paused, looking into Mike’s eyes. ‘I suppose, meeting you, I felt I could perhaps unburden my problems.’
She took a sip of coffee, and again Mike noticed her slender delicate fingers.
‘Perhaps I can help,’ he said gently.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It’s difficult.’ She took another sip of her coffee. ‘But I do know,’ she went on, ‘that my work, and especially my work in acupuncture, can and does help so many people. But perhaps I could do so much more.’
She went on to tell him about her work in New York and the murder of Chen. There was a brief moment when she wondered if she should tell him about her time in China, but deep inside herself, she knew this was neither the place not the time. Misunderstandings might surface. Here her sense of loyalty to China, to Chen, to all she had learnt from the Chinese, took over.
Mike sympathised over Chen and told her about his work at Sussex University. All the time he was thinking to himself, when all this is over, and normality returns, I will want to go on seeing this woman.
They talked together for over half an hour, then they had to part. By that time they had a rapport.
As she left Mike’s flat she stood for a moment and looked at him with clear eyes. ‘I would like to tell you more about Oriental medicine and my work,’ she said.
‘Yes. Let’s meet again soon, shall we?’
‘Yes,’ she smiled. ‘I’d like that.’ She seemed to hesitate, wanting to say more, but suddenly she turned and hurried away.
Mike lunched in a pub close to Park Crescent. He had spent two hours in Stuart Dorman’s office at the Medical Research Council. While he was there, Scotland Yard had telephoned him. The Chief Inspector in charge of the Anti-Terrorist Squad was not optimistic. He was also concerned about Mike’s safety.
