Sunstrike_The next gripping Commander Shaw thriller

by Philip McCutchan

  “Even to the death, Doctor?”

  “Even to the death.” The words were bleakly said, and fell bleakly on my ears. The room was quiet with our unspoken thoughts and speculations about very widespread death if all Ercks had said should prove to be fact. Politically, Nodd’s crazy scheme — if such was his plan — was dynamite, to use a mild term. The world had gone far beyond mere dynamite. If Nodd could control the fate of the ozone layer, he and his masters held the key to world control, world control by stark fear of wholesale slaughter by way of high UV dosage. I pondered again on what Ercks had told me: the pollutants, the freans that destroyed the ozone, could themselves disturb the transfer of solar and terrestrial radiation. Freans were effective absorbers of infra-red radiation, and could bring about a ‘greenhouse’ effect leading to a rise in temperature on their own account. A decrease in the ozone amount, regardless of the level of maximum concentration, would increase the dosage of UV radiation at the earth’s surface, and the result could be the skin cancers and the direct burning up of crops and people. The possibilities were legion, and all of them were nasty … I was about to ask Ercks some further questions when I caught a glimpse of movement, something vaguely seen outside the window of the drawing-room, and I reacted fast even though I could not be sure of what I’d seen. I shouted to Felicity to get down behind the sofa and jumped up myself to manhandle Ercks to the ground, but I wasn’t in time. The window shattered into fragments under the impact of an automatic rifle, just one burst that sprayed the drawing-room from side to side. Felicity was all right. Ercks died almost in my arms, his head shattered like the window. I got a bullet through the fleshy part of my upper arm and what with the impact and the literally dead weight of Dr Ercks, I crashed down behind the chair. After that there was silence and before I had scrambled up dripping much blood the silence was broken by the sound of a car starting up in the road beyond the drive.

  I ran out and saw nothing. Nothing at all, no car, no gawping villagers. I was not especially surprised, really: a silencer had been used, but even if it hadn’t been … when the peace of an English village is suddenly shattered by gunfire, you pretend you haven’t noticed. That’s polite; and it could always have been the rector’s lawnmower backfiring or a retired colonel discreetly peppering trespassers … I turned and found Miss Mandrake, looking a little white but otherwise in full control, and again I was not surprised: you don’t rise far in 6D2 if you scare easily. I said, “Let’s get back inside. This is unprofitable.”

  “So’s that arm,” she said. We went back to the cottage and first of all I searched around for bullets and found one in some woodwork; I prised it out. It looked to me as though it could have come from a 9mm Sterling L2A3, the sort that can be fitted with a silencer for such clandestine operations as had just taken place. The Sterling was a British sub machine-gun with a cyclic rate of fire of 550 rpm: quite a weapon in the wrong hands. My arm was throbbing from its effects: Miss Mandrake got out the firstaid and I was washed and bandaged. Then she asked, “Now what, Commander Shaw?”

  I gave her a look. “You’re the admin side.”

  “Bodies are not admin, Commander Shaw, they’re field.”

  “Not when found within four walls.”

  “Please,” she said, “don’t split hairs.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake.” I thought, from the cleanliness of the bathroom, of Ercks’ corpse, spreadeagled on the expensive carpet and slowly ruining it. Local police, the nearest doctor, a mortuary and a coroner’s court: all public, all time consuming. 6D2 did things much better. “What’s the set-up here?” I asked, and the efficient Miss Mandrake understood.

  She said, “6D2 property, for use as required — like now. And yes, there’s a closed line to Focal House.” She showed me where and I rang, not liking what I had to confess. I got Max in person and when I made my report the line nearly exploded: Ercks had been highly valuable, irreplaceable in fact in the current context, and I was a bum. However, he said collection would be made soonest possible and the proper authorities would be informed thereafter.

  “And me?”

  “Obey orders, stay where you are and don’t show.”

  “But —”

  “You heard.”

  “All right, so I heard. Will you please send down a watch, urgently?”

  “A what?”

  “A watch,” I repeated. “Mine’s bust —”

  Max rang off. I almost strangled the innocent receiver, not liking being hung up on. Besides, I’d wanted to point out to Max that whoever had killed Ercks would know I was at the cottage so what was the point of putting me in storage? I found Miss Mandrake making a pot of tea in the kitchen and asked, sourly, where the whisky was. She told me where to find it and suggested I made it a small one and I told her to get stuffed. As I poured I reflected on many aspects. It seemed to me logical to assume that the killer was the man in the blue Volvo and that Miss Mandrake hadn’t been as hot on tail-shaking as she’d thought. On the other hand, it hadn’t got to be him — the cottage could have been watched, though I knew Max would have ensured total anonymity as to ownership and use; 6D2 didn’t slip up on the obvious. I reflected also on the fact that the killer could be thinking he’d got me along with Dr Ercks, which in a sense he had, since there I was oozing blood through Miss Mandrake’s bandage. And if that was the case, then maybe there was sense in Max’s orders. If I was dead to the villains, I became a kind of secret weapon if handled right. But, since there were always two sides to every coin, I had to consider the obverse: no one in WUSWIPP had come down with the last shower and no assumptions would be made without proper proof. WUSWIPP, as I well knew, was as efficient as 6D2.

  I carried my whisky into the kitchen. The electric kettle was coming to the boil. I said to Miss Mandrake’s back, “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s gone lunch time and we haven’t had lunch.”

  She turned round and looked up at the clock, frowning. I believe she’d been rather more shaken than I’d thought. She said, “Oh, dear, I hadn’t noticed the time. Hungry?”

  “No.”

  “Nor me.” I knew she was thinking of what lay on the drawing-room carpet; it didn’t check with thoughts of food.

  “Swing it,” I said, suddenly finding her more attractive than ever. “When we’re all cleared up, that’ll be time enough. FH will have the meat wagon here within a couple of hours. Before they get here, I’ll have to check through the body, but it can wait a bit. Tell me about yourself.”

  She smiled slightly. “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “They all say that.”

  “Do they?” She poured tea, passing me a cup. “They’re probably all just like me, then. I like riding, I like dancing, swimming … all very ordinary.”

  “Travel?”

  “Yes. Which is just as well.”

  I raised an eyebrow, quizzically. “You get around a lot on the job?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ever been East?”

  She nodded. “India, Japan, Hong Kong, Singapore.”

  “You’ll be out that way again any time now.” I paused, studying her face. There was a pixie look, something impish, something wistful, a funny mixture. A rather lop-sided mouth that gave added character and attraction … I asked suddenly, “Have you been in contact with WUSWIPP before?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “They’re bastards,” I said. “Ruthless. Look what they did to Ercks, and I don’t mean his death.”

  “That was awful.”

  “You understate it. They made a monster of him, something to terrify children.”

  “What did you make of him?”

  I said, “I liked him. I liked his voice. Voice speaks for itself and is a fair guide. You?”

  “He struck me as being a good man. I wonder if he had any more to tell us?”

  “It’s possible, Felicity. There may have been a reason for WUSWIPP to silence him — not just another warning. I’ll know more when I’ve checked his p
ockets, perhaps.” I finished the tea, likewise what was left of the whisky, not a bad mixture. I’d been putting off the checking, but the job had to be done. I don’t like corpses; though I’ve seen plenty I’ve never really got used to handling them. The contrast, the sudden shift from life and movement to inertness, is horrible. I don’t know how doctors and nurses live with it. I went back to the drawing-room and started, trying not to shift the body. The trouser pockets contained a keyring with five keys, and loose cash, all British. The coat yielded a white handkerchief, a silver ballpoint of German make, a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, also German, and a wallet. In the wallet was the usual collection: notes, again all British, amounting to sixty-five pounds; a driving licence issued in Germany; an American Express card and the credit card of a German bank; some photographs, snaps of a woman and three children — Ercks’ family, no doubt; a document testifying to the fact that Ercks had had anti-tetanus shots recently. Nothing else, nothing that helped at all. I put it all back meticulously: Ercks might be dead, but his property remained his property and should be left in place for as long as possible. When I had done I went back to the kitchen: Felicity was still sitting there and had poured another cup of tea. We sat and talked, going over the possibilities and likelihoods, discussing what might be Nodd’s plan of destruction, until we heard the crunch of wheels in the drive and I went through to the front of the cottage and looked out. Max hadn’t sent an ambulance-no doubt it could have caused questions in the village. Outside was a big estate car and three men getting out of it. I recognised one of them: a doctor from the medical section. I let them in. The other two men carried a big canvas tarpaulin and an equally big plastic bag, plus photographic equipment. Everything was very expeditiously done. The doctor briefly examined the body, then turned his attention to my arm, telling me what I knew already — that the bullet had passed clean through. He gave me a jab of something and re-bandaged the wound after cleaning it thoroughly and said he would be back in a day or so to make sure it was healing and I needn’t worry. While this was going on the two men flashed lamps all around and made their photographic record for the civil power, then parcelled Ercks in plastic and canvas and shoved him in the back of the estate car, under a concealing but gaudy rug. Before they drove off one of them handed me a parcel, on the large side for a watch.

  “From Mr Love, sir.”

  “Ah,” I said, knowing that Mr Love was the strangely named head of the weapons section, “that makes me feel better right away.”

  “Care to check it for suitability, sir?”

  “I’ll do that,” I said, and unwrapped the parcel. There was a chronometer watch, and an automatic — a beauty, a Colt .45 with an external hammer and the kind of grips I like, a pistol with plenty of stopping power. There was also a lightweight shoulder holster, which I slipped on for the feel and did a couple of fast draws. I said, “Fine. My thanks to Mr Love.”

  “Very good, sir.” They got aboard and drove off. I was alone with Miss Mandrake and I was very glad of that Colt .45, since I had a feeling we wouldn’t be alone all that much longer, The dog, they say, returns to its vomit. I reckoned Ercks’ killer would be back for a look-see; as I’d thought to myself earlier, he wouldn’t take it for granted he’d killed me and Miss Mandrake too.

  *

  She prepared supper early since we had missed out on lunch, after we had had an evening drink in the kitchen — we were avoiding the drawing-room and its bloody carpet, and the dining-room seemed too formal. The kitchen was nice and bright, all light-coloured formica tops and a gleaming stainless steel sink unit and sparkling white fridges, deep freezes and washing-up machines and whatnot. There was a door into the garden, which consisted of a long patch of lawn with fringing borders, and trees at the far end trees that I kept a close watch on with my gun to hand or anyway to shoulder. Felicity was a good cook and knew how best to use the deep freezer’s contents. With a minimum of fuss, while we chatted, she produced prawns with cream, brandy sauce and rice, seasoned with pepper, lemon juice, nutmeg and parsley and garnished with more unshelled prawns heated by themselves in wine and then strained. This was followed by a casserole of kidney and mushrooms and we ended on peaches in red wine followed by coffee and Drambuie. Focal House paid; they were always generous. There had been a bottle of wine as well, a beautiful Château Haut-Brion from Pessac.

  It was a wonderful meal, a sparkling evening in spite of all.

  And no interruptions.

  Peaceful surroundings, the song of the evening birds, the scent of flowers, good food and wine … they give people ideas. They do me, anyway. Proximity, togetherness and isolation — these help. As the shadows lengthened and we put on no lights to spoil the intimacy or to show us up as targets, I began to grow restless, feeling desire stir. I said tentatively, “As to the night arrangements …”

  “Everything’s laid on,” Miss Mandrake said. “You’ll find pyjamas, tooth brush, shaving things, the lot.”

  “Not quite what I had in mind, to be truthful.”

  “Oh.”

  I fidgeted. I’m not usually slow off the mark, but somehow Miss Mandrake — Felicity — was different. Sometimes she was indeed Miss Mandrake, at other times Felicity. There was something virginal, something not. And of course I kept on remembering Derek Redward and his end in that bloody Czechoslovakian concrete-mixer. She’d been about to marry the man, after all, was maybe still mourning the loss for all I knew. But anyone can die suddenly, if not horribly. In our line, it’s always on the cards. You don’t get used to it, but you do tend to live up to it, live life the fullest way you can while you can. And I believed she approved of me as much as I approved of her …

  She was almost in darkness now but I could see the small smile and the look in her eyes. I cleared my throat and said, “A matter of prudence. Duty, really. We’re somewhat vulnerable.”

  “Well?”

  “We should stick together at all times.”

  There was a low gurgle of laughter that tailed away into solemnity. She said quietly, “I did love Derek, you know … but that can’t hold for ever. It’s not disloyalty.”

  “No,” I said, “it’s not disloyalty, it’s getting on with life, which is a passing thing. Right?”

  “Right,” she said softly, and held out her arms appealingly, and I went over and kissed the top of her head, then her eyes, then her nose, and then we went up to bed.

  4

  The night was not for us: not, that was, beyond a few minutes after midnight, at which time the security line, as I thought, from Focal House burred at an inopportune moment and I swore.

  “Sorry,” I said to Felicity. “Business, I suppose, before and after pleasure.” I switched on the light, reached out and yanked the handset on to the bed. Nothing happened when I lifted the receiver, and the burr continued.

  “Wrong one,” Felicity said sleepily.

  “What?” I ticked over: it hadn’t been the security line but the ordinary Post Office thing. Angrily I started to change instruments, but Miss Mandrake, resuming her more formal identity as it were, took over.

  She said, “Better let me. You’re not here, remember?” She lifted and listened. “I’ve never heard of the man,” she said primly, and gave me a wink. “Who’s calling?” She listened again, and I heard the rattle of a voice, then there was a click and she put the receiver back on its rest and stared at me.

  “Well?” I asked.

  She said, “Male, foreign — Oriental, I’d swear, English not brilliant. No name given. He knows you’re here. I was left in absolutely no doubt about that.”

  “And knows I’m alive, positively?”

  She nodded, her face anxious in the soft light from the pink-shaded bulb on the bedhead. “Seems so.”

  I said, “In that case, it’s doubtful if it’s chummy from this morning’s affray. If he’d known for certain he’d missed, he’d have tried again before scarpering … or maybe not, at that. Maybe Ercks was the sole target … I don’t know.�
� I ran a hand through my hair. “Anyway, what does he want?”

  “To talk to you.”

  “He does, does he? And does he think I’m willing?”

  “You heard what I didn’t say — I didn’t commit you, nor even admit you were here, did I?”

  “You mean he made a demand and left it at that?”

  “Right. Not here. West Kennet Long Barrow in one hour’s time?”

  “West Kennet Long what?”

  “Barrow,” she answered. “An Ancient Briton burial ground. About three miles south of here, the other side of the A4. You cross some fields — there’s a footpath, a public right of way.”

  “And I go alone,” I said sardonically.

  She smiled. “Good guess! He made that point.”

  I ran a hand over my jaw, thinking hard: I was very aware of Felicity beside me and was curiously annoyed that she seemed to be taking a lonely night trip to this burial ground as a duty I should accept. I thought she might have been a shade more concerned, considering … but of course she was right: I had to go. If this Oriental bloke knew I was around and alive, and on that I was prepared to take Miss Mandrake’s word, then nothing would be lost except maybe my currently living state, and that is a risk all field men are expected to accept without question. You don’t get results by sitting on your backside in safety. So this was just one more of those fifty-fifty things: you died, or you learned something. Yet there was a third likelihood, one that I mentioned to Miss Mandrake as she lay naked by my side.

  “Could be a trap, nothing but. A hijack.”

  Once more she smiled and once more she said, “Good guess. What else?”

  I raised my eyebrows towards her nipples. “So what would you suggest, Felicity darling?”

  “Don’t go.”

  “You surprise me,” I said, and, being somewhat contrary-minded, mentally re-affirmed my decision that this was something that couldn’t just be passed up. There, three miles away, was someone from the other side, or at least someone who could be assumed to be in contact with the other side. A grass, someone with knowledge to sell, or an enemy to shop? It was possible. Whoever it was, he was taking a pretty big risk. All I had to do, and in point of fact I was going to do it, was to call Focal House on the security line and tell them where I was going and pretty soon after that hour was up, they would have men moving in, with guns. That, to my mind, supported the ‘grass’ theory because the caller would know what I was going to do, and a grass wouldn’t necessarily be too turned-off by the prospect. Not so the genuine villains. It was slim enough, but it turned the scales of my decision. I said, “I’m going in, Felicity,” and I told her why and told her to contact FH while I dressed.