The Depths

by John Creasey

  “You really don’t understand, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Yet you would, if Palfrey knew.”

  She answered a little too quickly: “Palfrey keeps a great deal to himself.”

  “Not as much as that,” he said. “All our reports are the same – that no one up above even suspects the existence of The Deep.”

  She did not really know what it was, and she felt sure that Palfrey had no idea. He had sent her here to find out everything that she could, and had told her that a single glimpse, a word, a tone of voice, could help him – help the world – to find out what was happening. The more she learned, the more effectively she would be doing her job. At the back of her mind lurked the fear that she might never see Palfrey again, might never be able to tell him what she knew, but that fear stayed in the background.

  And Palfrey had said: “Don’t do anything which makes the danger greater. Play along with them if you get half a chance.” His voice almost seemed to echo about this room.

  A girl brought a tray on which were two covered dishes, much as they might be ‘up above’. She smiled, as she took off one lid, and placed the dish in front of Julia. A delicate aroma arose from what looked like a thin steak. The colour was different from a steak at home; much more red. There was a pale-coloured sauce, something which looked like chipped potatoes – not big and solid, but quite small.

  Boris said: “Try it.”

  He had the same dish in front of him.

  “You will like it,” the waitress assured her. “It is a deep water fish, so delicate and superbly flavoured.”

  The aroma seemed to be stealing into Julia’s nostrils. Quite suddenly she felt ravenous. She cut off a small piece of the ‘steak’ and put it into her mouth. The flavour was exquisite.

  “Good?” asked Boris.

  “Wonderful!”

  “I thought you would think so. We have the best chefs known to man here, and all the secrets of the gourmets from all over the world.”

  “I can believe it,” Julia said.

  “In fact,” Boris went on, “we have the best of everything.”

  “Have you?”

  “The absolute best.”

  “I see,” said Julia.

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “No.”

  “You will learn to.”

  “I am open to conviction,” Julia assured him.

  “Yes, I believe you are.”

  Boris went on eating and did not speak for some time. Julia found each mouthful so delicious that all she wanted to do, for the time being, was to savour the food.

  Was it all like this?

  What did Boris mean by saying that they had the “best of everything”? He sounded as if he believed it.

  “Julia,” he said, when she had finished, “I want you to answer me some questions. Upon your answers may depend not only your own future but the future of a great many other people, including Dr Palfrey. Please do not lie, or be evasive. We have perfected ways of compelling reluctant witnesses to talk, and—nothing is allowed to prevent that. Do you understand?”

  “Play along with them,” Palfrey had urged.

  “I understand,” she said.

  “It is absolutely essential that you should answer. Some of the answers we already know, and if you lie—”

  “I may have to refuse to answer,” Julia interrupted. “I will not lie nor be evasive.”

  The little smile played about his lips.

  Before he spoke again, the waitress brought a pot of coffee; or what looked like coffee. Boris poured out. Julia tasted it – and had exactly the same experience as before: it was like nectar. Coffee was the base, but it was made in a way she had never tasted before, and the aroma was enticing – as the food’s had been.

  “Good?” Boris was naively eager that she should be impressed.

  “Wonderful,” she said again.

  “You see?” He laughed. “Now – the questions.” He plunged straight into them. “Did Palfrey know anything about The Deep before today?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Can’t you be sure?”

  “Not absolutely. He keeps so much to himself.”

  “Has he ever said anything to suggest that he knows?”

  “No.”

  “Why did he take such great care with Professor Corvell?”

  “Because the Professor is one of the best British physicists.”

  “British?”

  “Yes.”

  “Julia,” Boris said very softly, “I warned you. I shall not warn you again.”

  He frightened her, not only by what he said, but how he said it. Even the tone of his voice changed, and seemed to take on menace; yet it was not simply menace. He conveyed to her a sense of the absolute inevitability of punishment by physical pain, and frightened her the more because she did not know what she had said to cause it.

  “Do you understand what I mean?”

  “I—I don’t understand at all.”

  “You lied.”

  “I did not.”

  “You said that Corvell was protected – so far as protection is possible – because he was the best British physicist.”

  “And he is.”

  “Does Palfrey really think in such narrow national terms?”

  At once, understanding dawned on her. Palfrey was international in his activities. Z5 was an international organisation. She herself had never been able completely to free herself from national values.

  “Palfrey would have taken the same precautions had the professor been American or Russian,” Julia answered. “Or of any nationality that subscribes to Z5.”

  “That is better.”

  “Is it part of your job to trick me into lying?”

  “To trick …” he began, as if genuinely puzzled. Then for the first time he frowned. It was quite different from the way he had looked when he had accused her of lying – it was as if he were suddenly confronted with a difficult problem. “Trick?” he repeated, and then his voice rose. “You mean deceive?”

  “I mean deceive.”

  “Julia,” said Boris with great deliberation, “when we are up above it is sometimes necessary to use the methods of diplomacy and chicanery; to deal in half-truths and to foster misconceptions. That is never necessary in any part of The Deep. Have no doubt about that.”

  It did not occur to her that this was not true; she accepted it completely.

  “I see,” she said, almost humbly.

  “Why did Palfrey concern himself so much about Corvell?” asked Boris.

  “Because he has been worried by the disappearances of other men like him, or men as important to civilisation.”

  “Worried?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he tell you which men?”

  “No.”

  “Did he give you any indication of their identity?”

  “No,” Julia answered with great deliberation.

  “Did he expect trouble at sea?”

  “He did not say so.”

  “Why were you and Simon Alting sent to watch over him?”

  “He had been ill, and was advised to have a cruise. Wherever the professor went he had to be protected.”

  “Only that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Julia,” Boris asked next, in a different tone of voice which suggested increasing tension, “how much did you see? How much were you able to tell Palfrey?”

  On that instant, Julia sensed that of all the questions, this was the most important, the one he was desperately anxious for her to answer. What she had to decide, quickly, was whether she dare lie to him; whether she had any hope of getting away with deception.

&nb
sp; Chapter Fourteen

  THE PATRIARCH

  What would Palfrey tell her to do? Julia asked herself desperately.

  If she lied, and this man realised it, what would follow? How seriously need she take his threats? Even as the question posed itself, she knew the answer, for she recalled his expression, the way he had looked at her with a menace which had frightened. The same look appeared in his eyes, now – not so pronounced and therefore not so frightening, but unmistakable.

  “Play along when you can,” Palfrey had said.

  “Julia,” Boris said softly, “must I repeat the question?”

  When he lowered his voice like that, it was as if he were shouting – as if this were his way of raising his voice.

  “I shouldn’t tell you,” she said at last.

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “Don’t you understand loyalty?”

  “There is only one loyalty – to the Patriarch.”

  “I have a different one,” Julia said.

  Inwardly, she began to tremble.

  After a long pause, when the trembling became almost uncontrollable, and she felt her fingers begin to shake, Boris said:

  “Wait, please.”

  He got up, bowed slightly from the waist, and walked off.

  It was strange to sit here, alone – so utterly alone because the others in the restaurant appeared to be oblivious of her. No one even glanced her way. The waitress moved to newcomers at other tables, but did not approach her. Trying to take her mind off the immediate fears, she looked more closely at the walls. The drawing as well as the painting was of such subtle technique that the pictures seemed as if they were changing all the time. Now and again, as she turned her head to see a different wall, she had an illusion of movement; it was like looking at the walls through deep water.

  That reminded her of the big window; the sharks; the Peeping Tom octopus.

  In turn that reminded her of Boris and the cold menace in his expression. She began to tremble and could not stop herself. Her right arm began to shake as far as the elbow. Why had he left her so abruptly? Where had he gone? He had told her what to expect if she lied. Did he consider her refusal to tell him what she had told Palfrey a lie?

  She must get rid of the shakes.

  She forced herself to concentrate on the murals again. In a way they reminded her of a map of the world. But it was the kind of outline, not the shape, which did that.

  Then she saw a place which looked like the British Isles in reverse. She stared at it. At last she rose slowly to her feet and went closer. No one attempted to stop her, no one appeared to notice her.

  Now she had recognised one thing, other shapes fell into perspective. The Brittany Coast, the Cherbourg Peninsula – yes, there was the north of Europe, and the Russian coastline. She had no doubt about this, now, but was still conscious of a difference she could not name.

  The familiar places were flat, painted in a kind of browny-grey, although the subtle changes of shades and colouring were continually strengthening the illusion that she was looking through deep water. She thrust that thought aside. What was the difference?

  Suddenly, another fact fell into place.

  The British Isles, the coastline of Europe and Europe itself, were all flat. She turned to look at other walls, and realised that the land masses were all flat, whereas the oceans of the world were in contours, and like a skilfully drawn relief map.

  It was like looking at a projection of the world in reverse, with the continents shown as seas, and the oceans shown as land masses, with ranges of mountains, deep valleys, desert stretches.

  Slowly, frighteningly, the truth dawned on her. This was a huge projection of the ocean and sea beds of the world, showing the mountain ranges beneath the waters.

  She stared about her, fearful in case her stupefaction should be noticed, and went slowly back to her table. She felt like shouting, screaming, doing anything to make the others take notice of her. She felt that she hated them, they were so cold, aloof, alien. She sat down. Her arm was no longer quivering – this new realisation had stilled it by making her mind work, of course, taking her mind off personal fears.

  This place was under the water; everything here seemed to tone in with the sea. Ah!

  That was another thing; the different shades and colours were like the changing, differing colours of the sea.

  When it was bright or with sunshine it was a pale blue.

  Blue: the colour of some of the women’s dresses.

  When it was stormy and cloudy, it became dark and grey – like the shades of the colouring of the walls of the passages. Everything here was a reflection of or an aspect of the sea.

  The Deep.

  She found herself clenching her hands.

  Then Boris came in, approached her table, and held out his right hand.

  “Come, please,” he said.

  She could not move, she was so frightened.

  “Come!” he ordered.

  Her legs nearly doubled under her when she did get to her feet. Boris’s grip was firm, but not tight, but after the first movement she did not want to look into his eyes for fear of what she would see. He led the way through the doorway from which they had come earlier, but instead of going past the rooms with books and the television set, they turned along a narrow passage which she had not noticed before. At a doorway, he raised his hand, and the door slid open. There was nothing miraculous about it in these days of electronics but there was something uncanny, perhaps because of the casualness with which he did it.

  Julia stepped through.

  Instead of an empty passage, there were two men. They were dressed exactly as the other men down here, and were about the same height. They stood opposite each other; staring. As Boris approached, one of them said:

  “He is waiting.”

  “We are ready,” Boris said.

  He? Who was he? Imagination tore at Julia’s mind. That moment she saw ‘him’ as a man to be terrified of; a kind of Grand Inquisitor, ready with all manner of torture to make her talk. Boris was so close to her that it was almost as if he expected her to turn and run away.

  A door opened.

  It was the same kind as the others, perhaps a little larger and wider. Certainly the passage beyond was wider. There was a greater variety of colours here, and the walls were painted in an under-water scene. Myriads of tiny tropical fish seemed to move about, as if they really were swimming. The brilliant hues seemed to shimmer and scintillate as if they were precious stones, not simply the jewels of the sea.

  Then Julia saw a recess on the right hand side. Sitting at a desk behind it was a man. The first thing she noticed about him was his age; he was probably in the middle fifties. His close cut hair was iron grey. He wore a grey beard, too, trimmed very close. She was vaguely reminded of Ernest Hemingway in his later years.

  It was when he looked up at her that Julia realised that all the other people she had seen here were about the same age, in the middle twenties. By comparison, this man seemed old.

  Before she had time to think about that, he stood up.

  “Patriarch,” Boris said. “This is Julia.”

  There was nothing ludicrous or pompous about the use of the word ‘Patriarch’. It was uttered as naturally as if a man were saying ‘Father’, or ‘Master’. There was respect, even veneration in it, and absolute acceptance of this man’s right to allegiance.

  The Patriarch looked at her for a long time. His eyes, green as the sea, had an almost hypnotic effect; it was as if he was willing her to the same allegiance as Boris.

  “So this is Julia,” the older man said at last. He had a deeper voice than Boris, and there was an ironic twist to his lips. “I understand that you have divided loyalties.”

  “I don’t think so,” Ju
lia said. Her voice was weak, her heart was thumping. “Different, but—but not divided.”

  “I think they are.”

  Julia did not respond.

  She felt weak from fear and tensions, frightened of the man in front of her, and of the circumstances. The world she knew seemed so remote and far away. This was so different, so unreal – and yet there was nothing unreal about Boris and the man he called the Patriarch. Boris was no longer touching her, but she could almost feel the grip of his fingers.

  “You have a loyalty to yourself, and a loyalty to Palfrey and all he stands for,” the Patriarch said. “They now come into conflict.”

  “I see them as one,” she made herself say.

  “Whatever the cost?” There was a hint of menace in the way he said that, creating a fear of unnameable horrors. She had to steel herself to answer:

  “Yes.”

  After a pause the Patriarch spoke more briskly. She had the feeling that he had finished the preliminaries, and had made up his mind what to do. As she stared back at him, the image of Palfrey seemed to hover at his shoulders; Palfrey, pondering, twisting those strands of hair at his forehead, so human.

  Human.

  These people lacked a quality which Palfrey had in such abundance: the warmth of humanity.

  “It is as well to be frank,” the Patriarch said. “I can make you talk, of course. I dislike using such pressure, but do not shrink from it. Now, answer my questions as I put them, please.”

  Julia said: “I will try.”

  “Did you see anything when you stood on the deck of the Seafarer at the time of the great wave?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you see?”

  “A—a bright silvery-coloured object which looked like a small boat.”

  “Where did it come from?”

  That was the first time she had asked herself that question – and Palfrey hadn’t asked it, either. Where had it come from? She felt a moment of panic, and her breathing became shallow.

  She said: “I didn’t see, but—”

  “Go on.”

  “I assumed it came out of the sea.”

  Out of the sea.