by Stan Mason
I thought about the assignment very deeply over an early evening meal, forgetting I had promised to collect Miss Grayson for dinner. I couldn’t help it. When faced with a tough problem which seemed impossible to resolve, I had to grasp opportunities as they emerged. What wasn’t excusable was my omission to ring her about it.
***
The People’s Palace was once an old-time music hall... used mainly for burlesque and amateur dramatic performances. In recent years, it had become vacant, available to anyone wishing to rent it, for meetings or for some other purpose. It soon fell into decay and this was likely to be the last meeting as the property had been sold to an agency which intended to build a university annex on the site. As I approached the building, I noticed a crowd of people queuing for admission. I sauntered past, glancing at the posters pasted on the wall which advertised a meeting for peace, progress and prosperity. It seemed to me there were an awful lot of people willing to attend this tentatively innocuous event which would normally attract little interest in the East End of London. The depressed areas usually spawned a ready market of television ‘soap’ addicts rather than pseudo-political observers. To my astonishment, the queue appeared to lengthen as time progressed, causing me to consider the matter more deeply and to ask myself a number of questions. Why were all these people so interested? How did they become aware that the meeting was going to take place? What was going to happen inside? And where were the police? There was a lot which didn’t add up!
I went to the back of the queue noticing with trepidation each person was being screened before being allowed to enter the building. At first, I presumed the minders, bouncers, or the management were checking to determine if anyone was carrying weapons or explosive devices. But then I realised there was something more. As I near the entrance, I could hear each entrant mention a figure and a letter. The minder would mutter the word ‘Region’ and the next person in the queue responded. We shuffled along a little further and the person in front of me answered ‘4B’. I retorted ‘4C’ and my heart beat faster before I found myself projected forward by the man behind me into the hall. It seemed that very individual attending had been invited to the meeting... each one representing an area identified by a code number. It was my good fortune that no one held a clip-board checking off each location, otherwise I would have been in deep trouble. One could only presume an uninvited guest would be sent packing. The minders appeared to be men of substantial brawn. As a devout coward, I had no interest in falling foul of any of them and only the bravest or most stupid person would insist on the right of attendance against the wishes of such sentinels.
The large auditorium was only partly filled and I decided to take a seat about one-third of the distance from the stage. More people filtered in and a young woman took the seat next to me, placing a small suitcase under her seat. I stared at her with concern, considering she might be harbouring an explosive device in the case. Hosting a great deal of discomfort, as well as feeling a total stranger among people who were true members, I sat back in my seat and waited for the curtains to open, wondering why Calvin had suggested my attendance here. In a short while, the sound of an old scratched record, playing a march, crackled over the loudspeaker system, then the curtains opened to show a committee of four men and a woman sitting behind a wooden trestle table on the stage. Behind them, some large coloured placards had been erected as a backcloth bearing key words relating to Peace, Integration, Progress, Unified Prosperity, and the like. The Chairman rose and welcomed the audience, explaining he would introduce a special international celebrity later on, and he proceeded to run through the agenda. The peripheral speakers talked generally about the unification of people and countries in Europe, international peace, and world accord. I listened with a modicum of interest, trying not to yawn, and kept an eye on the young woman beside me lest she made a sudden move to open her suitcase. Eventually, after an hour of tiresome deliveries, the Chairman got to his feet and proudly announced the celebrity... Igor Strogoff!
As soon as the name was mentioned, I sat upright in my seat wondering what had been in Calvin’s mind when he gave me the lead. The newspaper files identified him as a Russian criminal who had escaped from a labour camp in Siberia. It was a claim to fame in its own right because only a very small number of prisoners fleeing from those vile, remote camps in the snowy wastes had ever survived. Once through the barbed-wire of the compound, an in-mate had to face of journey of several hundred miles, battling against the fiercest elements of nature... ice, snow and blizzards! It was necessary to avoid death from exposure where no shelter existed, food was unavailable, and wolves and bears prowled for prey. One of the serious perils was snow-blindness, and the only protection from the cold was the clothing worn at the time of escape. Despite that, having avoided recapture by the guards, who made an exhaustive search over a wide area, Strogoff managed to survive. However, it had been at great personal physical cost.
The large gathering waited patiently to see the honoured speaker and they remained unusually quiet for a while until the slender figure appeared on the stage and limped slowly towards the table. There was a crescendo of applause and then the hall fell silent. The audience observed the tense sombreness of his dress, for he was clothed in a black suit, a dark shirt and black tie, all of which contrasted sharply with his thin white face. They stared at him silently, compulsively, aware of the aura of the man whose very presence seemed to induce a sensation of fear... as though Count Dracula were alive on the stage! His predecessor, a fat arrogant man, had rampaged at the table, thumping and banging his fist regularly on the wooden panels. Strogoff, however, merely strode quietly to the centre of the stage in ominous silence, causing all petty murmuring to stop as he arrested complete attention. He became a magnet, forcing his audience to stare at him with awe, and they shuddered inwardly at the solemnity and the ability with which he held them... as if control occurred by means of mass hypnosis. Confronting them, his face was set like a death-mask... gaunt, with deep dark eyes, an exceptionally short straight nose resembling the face of a skeleton, and his fingers were black through frostbite. It was all so vivid that one woman emitted a muffled gasp into her handkerchief, shuddering spasmodically as though someone had stepped over her grave. Strogoff stood immobile without blinking at the bright floodlights, and still he remained silent. Yet so keenly did he hold their interest by his appearance alone that no one’s head turned away and no mouth moved to utter a word. Finally, when the pregnant pause had lasted so long that people could hear their hearts beating loudly in their eardrums, he gripped the lapels of his black jacket and moved the thin line of his lips to speak.
‘Comrades, I welcome you to this meeting to impress upon you some of the problems of your conventional way of life, and how it affects each one of you.’ His voice was piping and rather unpleasant to the ear. ‘Admittedly, equality is a rare state, and perfection cannot be established overnight. It needs much time, much effort and a great deal of concentration to create the economic and environmental atmosphere needed to improve the fate of mankind in a hostile world. We have the annals of history to remind us that separate governments ineptly pursue pernicious policies counter to the public interest. They mismanage countries, encourage wars, seek personal power, create chaos, and waste both the working efforts and the taxes extracted from the people they pretend to govern. How long can we sit back and accept the actions of well-meaning fools who are spearheaded into power through the actions of convention? Under the guise of democracy, any idiot can be projected into politics in one of the political parties. They become puppets of the political machine and represent a region of the country. To what ends? Have any of you met your Member of Parliament? I met mine yesterday and I can tell you he doesn’t have a clue what’s important to you. In the name of democracy, you may not have even voted for him. Is this the kind of government for the people? Is this the kind of system we need? And how does such waste and abuse of authority relate to all
the separate governments in Europe... all of which are just the same?
I stared at the speaker sullenly, admiring the gall of this man to preach dissidence in a foreign land. It was obvious he was being supported financially by some organisation, agency or political body... which I assumed to be International Three Thousand. I wondered how quickly he would change his views if someone else paid him more. The paradox was strange. Strogoff would be arrested as a criminal if he returned to his native land, yet as a speaker for a splinter group in a foreign country his authority reigned supreme. He droned on for another twenty minutes but I lost interest and fell deep into thought. I sensed an ugly feeling in the pit of my stomach which was a very accurate weather-vane for bad situations. There was something terribly wrong about this meeting but, for the moment, I couldn’t put my finger on it.
‘Believe me,’ continued Strogoff, ‘this country has been shored-up with a false economy operated by self-interested politicians from money borrowed internationally to hide the weakness of the currency. Practically all European governments are involved in this charade and the common man has no idea of the crimes currently perpetrated at high levels of business and government. I assure you, if there was not so much good work to complete here, I would have no hesitation but to return to my own country to enjoy the spirit of equality existing there.’
‘Liar!’ The word cut through the hall like a hot knife through butter as the young woman next to me burst into life. She rose from her seat and waved a clenched fist at the speaker. It confirmed my intuition she would do something irrational or dangerous. A buzz of comment could be heard floating across the hall but Strogoff ignored the heckling and continued speaking.
‘There is a view that imperialism offers success in its policy towards freedom...’
‘Liar! Liar!’
The interruption could not be ignored this time and the speaker’s nostrils flared as he halted in annoyance. ‘Do you wish to make a point, comrade?’ he invited unwisely.
‘You’re a liar, Igor Strogoff!’ accused the woman at the top of her voice. ‘They would be delighted to have you back in your own country to arrest you as a criminal!’ There was a stunned silence in the hall. ‘I know all about you. You’re a criminal who escaped from Schemlaya labour camp in Siberia. How they would welcome you back to face a firing squad! Perestroika or glasnost... it makes no difference!’
Strogoff motioned to some men at the back of the hall. ‘Get her out of here!’ he shouted. ‘I will not have people trying to use subversive tactics to destroy the essence of this meeting!’ He turned to the audience. ‘Do you see how the authorities use their agents to control the freedom they insist you enjoy? They have fifth-columnists everywhere!’
‘He’s bluffing!’ countered the woman. ‘He can’t go back because he’s a criminal! You can check it out for yourselves if you don’t believe me!’
By this time, a number of men were converging in on her from all sides. They were being well paid to keep order and now was the time to account for their value. I expected her to reach under her seat for the suitcase and blow the auditorium into smithereens but that was either the fear or fantasy flooding my imaginative mind. Within seconds, the men reached the spot and hauled her roughly into the aisle against her will. She struggled and lashed out feebly as they inflicted blows to her face and body. I cared little for her political beliefs but I couldn’t stand by to watch her being beaten by two morons who enjoyed brutally savaging a helpless woman. I uttered some words of protest loudly which had no effect whatsoever and, before realising what I was doing, I had leapt from my seat to protect her. My only means of attack or defence was an element of Kung Fu previously taught to me by a master of martial arts during an assignment in the Far East some time ago. I was extremely rusty but my actions took the men by surprise. For a few seconds they were held at bay as the woman climbed painfully to her feet. However, there were too many of them to fight off and I recall being forced to the floor to suffer spasms of agony which shot through my body. Before I could find my feet again, I was dragged down the aisle towards one of the exits and propelled violently on to the pavement outside. On gathering my senses, I picked myself up and brushed down my clothes. The woman had been thrown out with me. She got to her feet and began to hammer on the door with her fists. It was opened by an enormous man with a flat nose and a cauliflower ear who told her, in no mean terms, how he would react if she didn’t leave immediately. She kept demanding the return of her suitcase only to suffer the fate of having the door slammed in her face again. In the end, she turned to me disconsolately. ‘Thanks for your help anyway,’ she said gratefully and started to walk away. ‘I hope they didn’t hurt you.’
‘Hey!’ I shouted, limping painfully as I moved in her direction. ‘You can’t just leave me here like that!’
‘Are you hurt?’
‘Well... no... not really.’
‘Then what do you want... a certificate of merit from the Women’ Institute for services over and above the call of duty?’
‘I want to know what was in the suitcase, that’s all.’
‘Nothing much,’ she responded sadly. ‘Just everything I own in the world. Now I’ve only the clothes I stand up in.’ Her cynicism did nothing to mask her anger.
I decided she must have information of one kind or another to help me in my quest. ‘You sound as though you’re broke with nowhere to stay. If that’s the case, you’d better come back to my place.’
She turned on me savagely like a tiger ready to pounce. ‘What the hell do you take me for?’
‘Look,’ I explained placidly, trying to calm her down. ‘I’m a newspaper reporter. I had a tip to come here this evening to listen to Strogoff. I’m doing my job, that’s all.’
The tone of my voice seemed to establish reason and she bit her lower lip for a few seconds. Then she nodded. ‘All right, we’ll talk, but if you lay a finger on me you’ll be sorry you were ever born!’
I tried to keep a serious face. She was a delightful person; the toughness was only a facade. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Carrie Fisher.’
‘Well fear naught, Carrie. I’m Jimmy Savage. You’re in good hands.’ I hailed a taxi cruising along the Mile End Road which took us back to my apartment. After ushering her inside, I showed her the kitchen, inviting her to make some coffee and sandwiches. It was my intention to keep her occupied until she settled down. In the meantime, I would telephone Miss Grayson. The thought struck me in the taxi that I was with the wrong woman at the right time. It was necessary for me to apologise. By the time I had completed the call, arranging to see Miss Grayson at another time, Carrie emerged from the kitchen with a tray which she placed on the coffee-table. She sat in a large armchair while I lounged on the settee. I noticed that she had a nasty bruise on her cheek. I knew how she felt because the right-hand side of my jaw felt extremely tender.
‘Where do you fit into the Strogoff scene?’ I asked casually, hoping she might explain the reason for attending the meeting.
‘With Strogoff? Nowhere really. I was once engaged to a man who spent his whole life pursuing political criminals. He was too young to get involved after World War Two ended but it didn’t stop him from making it his life’s work. He went to Israel to learn the tricks of the trade from the masters. Now he operates in this country with the undying aim of finding war criminals.’
‘What’s his name... this ex-fiance of yours?’ The assignment was beginning to grow in stature and I wasn’t sure I liked it. It was becoming apparent that many individuals and groups lived within a grey area of life, controlling the thoughts and actions of others... completely beyond the knowledge or control of anyone else. Most people had heard of the CIA, MI5, the KGB, Majestic, and certain other foreign agencies which interfered deeply with world affairs in one way or another... but small groups and private individuals... well, it really wasn’t on!
‘They call him The Rooter. It’s because he has a classic record or rooting out certain undesirable elements who he turns over to those governments who seek them.’
‘What sort of undesirable elements?’
‘In particular, he has a hatred of Nazi and neo-Nazi organisations because his parents were killed at Dachau concentration camp. They managed to send him to their family in Britain just before the war broke out. He’d only just been born. They intended to follow him but events overtook them. He’ll hunt down anyone who intends to suppress the people of any nation, and he’s totally against extremism of any kind.’
‘What’s his real name... and how do I get in touch with him?’
‘Not so fast, Mr. Savage,’ she returned cautiously. ‘I know nothing about you. Not yet anyway.’ She was wearing blue denim jeans and reached down to her left ankle. When she stood up again, I was staring into the muzzle of a small automatic pistol. Suddenly, her presence in my apartment took on a sinister role. However much I loved writing and being a journalist, I didn’t want to yield my life for it. Nor did I wish to miss out on a scoop because of some remote cause of which I knew nothing. If only Barnaby hadn’t broken his leg I might be on my way to reporting something less hazardous. ‘Please lay face down on the settee!’ she ordered politely, which gave me a tiny ray of hope, for dangerous bandits were never courteous. I complied quickly and she removed my tie to secure my hands behind my back. Then she moved the standard lamp from the corner of the room to fetter my feet with the cord.
‘Is this really necessary,’ I grunted, knowing that I was wasting my breath. There was no response but I could hear her opening drawers in the bedroom dressing-table and also those of the desk in my study as I waited in discomfort. She returned shortly and, to my surprise, untied my hands and feet.
