ETERNITY’S SUNRISE
A Novel by Richard Creasey
Inspired by John Creasey’s The League of Light, a Dr Palfrey adventure
© Richard Creasey 2012
Richard Creasey has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published 2012 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
For Vera, my wife, and all those involved in the Ford London New York Overland Challenge, which crossed Siberia’s deepfreeze in the dead of winter of 1994.
About the author:
Richard is a lucky dyslexic. Luck No. 1 was growing up surrounded by words — his father, John Creasey, was the world’s most prolific author. Luck No. 2 was looking for a job when television was up-and-coming — for fourteen years Richard was the documentaries’ boss at Central TV. Luck No 3 was co-founding The Digital Village with leading thinkers and doers — including Douglas Adams cult writer of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.
Napoleon: Luck is half in everything.
Table of Contents
INTRODUCTION: BRINGING BACK DR PALFREY BY BARRY FORSHAW
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY- FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHARACTERS
EXTRACT FROM THE ASSET BY JUVAL AVIV
Bringing Back Dr Palfrey
Barry Forshaw
Is Richard Creasey a lucky man? Or an ambitious one? Or a foolhardy one? Or – perhaps – all three? I'll explain. Richard is surely lucky in being the son of John Creasey, one of the most esteemed names in crime fiction (as well as being one of the most prolific), and the man without whom the prestigious Crime Writers’ Association would not exist today – Creasey Sr. is routinely toasted at any official events organised the society. And if there is anything in genetics, Richard is quite likely to have inherited the storytelling skills of his bestselling father (the reader can test this thesis by reading the following book). Or is Richard an ambitious man, attempting to write a new adventure for his father's doughty hero? Or is he foolhardy? John Creasey would always be a tough act to follow – even for his son. In fact, the answers to those three questions are: 1. Yes (He’s lucky); 2. Yes (He’s ambitious); 3 No (He’s not foolhardy). The risky exercise of pumping new blood into the veins of the long-silent Dr Palfrey has been a more than worthwhile exercise, as the reader will find.
The actual volume of John Creasey's output is still subject to debate, and aficionados like to argue just how many novels he actually produced. But the writer (who was born in Surrey in 1908) shrugged off nearly 1,000 rejection letters before striking gold with a debut novel, Seven Times Seven. That book has many of the fingerprints of his later work with its fast-moving and lively storyline, elements that would appear again and again in his work. The other series in Creasey’s hyperactive career included the Department Z books and the popular sequence featuring his durable protagonist, the Honourable Richard Rollison, a.k.a. The Toff (who first appeared in 1938's Introducing the Toff). The success of various films finessed the already healthy book sales, and the ever-productive writer came up with another character, Inspector Roger West of Scotland Yard, who made his debut in Inspector West Takes Charge in 1942. The above would have been enough for most writers, but John Creasey still had other fish to fry, not least Inspector George Gideon, who appeared in books written in a more realistic style (starting with Gideon's Day in 1955).
However, one of John Creasey’s best-loved series characters (neglected of late by readers) – and the one that inspired the present re-jig -- was the civilised spy Dr Palfrey, who worked for an organisation called Z5. The series was inaugurated with Traitor’s Doom in 1942, and thirty-odd colourful and larger-than-life adventures followed. The books are the polar opposite of the sober spy thriller written by later practitioners such as John Le Carré, but for all their more fanciful elements, they remain shamelessly enjoyable, however much they are products of their time.
One of the most canny moves by Richard Creasey in creating a new exploit for Dr Palfrey is the skilful balancing act he has brought off here. Clearly aware that the style of his father's books needs to be regarded in an indulgent light in the 21st century, he has cleverly created a simulacrum of the style (in which adjectives are generously used to create instant, poster-colour pen portraits of the variety of characters in this enjoyably convoluted tale). But more than that, there is a pleasing sense of the celebration of his father’s of-its-period style (rather than a parody of it -- which is an impression that a cursory reading might give). But for those prepared to indulge in the pleasures of a bygone age, they are likely to find that bringing back Dr Palfrey was a very good idea.
Barry Forshaw's books include British Crime Film, The Rough Guide to Crime Fiction and Death in a Cold Climate: A Guide to Scandinavian Crime Fiction.
CHAPTER ONE
The storm grey Bentley Mulliner purred up the gravel drive towards Brett Hall’s portico entrance. As it came to a halt Dame Marion Palfrey, an elegant, head-turning widow in her fifties, stared through the grand library windows of her imposing stately home.
A rush of mild irritation swept over her. Mild irritation seemed a chronic condition for Dame Marion, whose rapier-like mind took no prisoners, a plus for the Head of Z5.
The source of the current disgruntlement was the sight of her son, Tom to her, but elsewhere known universally as Doctor Palfrey, or just ‘Doc’. Tom was working at her king-size Victorian desk.
“How many times do I have to tell him not to use my desk?” A rhetorical question, but Andy Barlow, a former sergeant major with the Queen’s Guard, now Brett Hall’s Manager and Marion’s chauffeur, responded anyway.
“He’ll have cleared out by the time you get there, I’m sure, Ma’am.”
Barlow hurried out of the Bentley, round to the passenger side to help her ladyship out.
“He’d better.”
Barlow closed the car door sharply in a feeble attempt to alert Doc.
“You’re wasting your time, Barlow. He can’t hear us through those damned windows.” Marion’s glare was scolding.
The bulletproof windows were another source of irritation. She remembered well the light refracting as it shone through the original, hand-blown glass panes, shimmering with ripple-like patterns. The new glass was optically perfect and perfectly boring, like so much in the modern world. And while they might stop a bullet, they w
ouldn’t necessarily deter an intruder.
“Will you be needing the car again today Ma’am?”
“No.” A moment later she mumbled “Thank you,” too quietly for Barlow to hear.
The oak door clicked open as Marion passed under the looming archway. Long gone were the days when a British Army batman opened the grand front door for the Marquis of Brett, Z5’s first leader. Yet more grounds for a mild fit of pique.
The Marquis had conceived Z5, here in his ancestral home, as a unique organisation that was sponsored by all but a handful of the world’s governments.
Beijing approved and contributed towards the substantial running costs, as did Washington. The Kremlin provided funding, as did Whitehall; Israel and Saudi Arabia also gave their support.
Each of these and nearly every other nation believed three things about Z5.
Firstly, that The Marquis of Brett, followed by Dr Stanislaus Alexander Palfrey and now his daughter, Dame Marion Palfrey, were the only people living who could make Z5 fully effective, for they had won the trust of every government.
Secondly, that Z5 was vitally necessary to a world so often assailed by groups of monopolists and megalomaniacs whom science had made almost as powerful as nations.
Thirdly, that its security was of paramount importance — like its freedom of action.
Z5 had become what idealists had long dreamed the United Nations should be, and the single-mindedness of the Marquis of Brett, Dr Palfrey, and now Dame Marion strengthened its authority.
Would the new Dr Palfrey, Tom, her twenty-nine year old son, succeed her? Marion doubted it — he was too impulsive, took too many gambles, especially when perched on that thin dividing line between fearless courage and unguarded impetuosity. Crossing that line had nearly killed him.
Marion’s mind slipped back a year to when Tom, by then both a PhD in marine biology and a captain in 16 Air Assault Brigade, had been medevaced out of Afghanistan. His face pitted with shrapnel, both arms limp, his left leg shattered. Blood and flesh everywhere, some of it Doc’s, most of it the suicide bomber’s.
Picturing the scene held Marion back from her standard, petty ‘my desk’ confrontation.
Tom cradled by surviving comrades as the Chinook army helicopter took off from a dusty desert.
Drips attached.
Field Hospital sighted.
Stretcher-bearers racing.
Surgeons scrubbed.
Tom’s question urgent. “My leg?”
The soothing reply. “You’ll be all right.” Tom’s left leg was summarily amputated.
He had been brought straight home from the field hospital to Brett Hall where a formidable array of doctors and nurses had brought him back to life. It had been a long journey, entailing mountains to climb both mentally and physically.
Mentally, everyone except Tom himself was convinced he would emerge immensely strengthened by his shattering experience. He knew his left leg would have been a lot more use to him than his Military Cross.
In his mother’s study, formerly the Marquis of Brett’s elegant library, Doc’s stare concentrated on the 30-inch touch-screen monitor, which provided access to the outside world. Access permitted only to Z5 agents.
Maps from any corner of the globe, dotted with real time GPS signals, news, video, audio, from the remote areas: Punta Arenas — Chile, Pevek — Siberia, Ulaanbaatar — Mongolia, the Banjul — Gambia.
On this screen Dame Marion tracked every Z5 agent via their mobile, dug into ‘wanted’ lists of all kinds, caught up on local news, especially where her agents were, peered into company accounts, observed the machinations of governments, NGOs, UN agencies. All the time looking for anomalies that were just fractionally out of line.
Everything, and more, that was accessible to any security force in the world, was available here. Available and very secure. Layer upon layer of Z5’s work was now planted, harvested and buried in this and other screens in Z5’s offices.
But it was out in the real world that Doc wanted to be. In the middle of the action where split second decisions made the difference between life and death. Where his grandfather, Dr Stanislaus Alexander Palfrey, had lived throughout his extraordinary life.
The clicking sound of the study door opening broke Doc’s concentration. He glanced up from the screen, intuitively aware of the need for a quick apology.
“Sorry. I just thought that, as you were out...”
“Well, I’m back now.”
“My Fish Tank has a glitch...”
“Then get rid of it. The glitch.”
Mother-boss and rookie-son swapped positions under the watchful eye of the Marquis of Brett.
His portrait had for years stared down from its central position over the Adam fireplace, watching the occupants of the aging leather armchairs and massive sofa, nodding appreciation at the files and books that were read in them, noting the grandfather clock that governed a crowded schedule and oversaw the passage of time.
Brett Hall was where Doc was born, the library where he learned the art of speaking only when he had something important to say.
Words were knowledge and knowledge provided the pulsating heart of this formidable space.
Marion recognized it too, and had taken over the mahogany pedestal Victorian desk, closeted in the bay window space that had belonged first to the Marquis, then to her father.
The Marquis’s writing box, quills, inkwells, blotters and huge magnifying glass had been redistributed to nooks and crannies around the library. Alas her father’s light green Hermes Ambassador typewriter had been side-lined soon after it was replaced by a series of IBM computers with their oversized monitors, which had led inexorably to the 30 inch high-tech touch-screen attached to a constantly updated PC, her equivalent of a pilot’s fly-by-wire cockpit.
Marion sat down at her desk and, over the top of the screen, threw out a parting shot at her son. “PC stands for personal computer. Personal. Try and remember that.” Seconds later she was buried in e-reports from state departments, police forces, defence ministries, security firms, oil companies, airlines, banks, and hundreds more organizations that worked with risk and employed a Babel’s Tower of double agents and whistle blowers.
Doc quietly clicked shut his mother’s study door. He glanced at the walnut-framed mirror on the wall opposite, used by generations of visitors to check their appearance before coming in to meet the Marquis of Brett, or going out to meet the world.
Doc’s eyes scanned his scarred face, which momentarily winced at the fleeting memory of the brainwashed suicide bomber who had wiped out six lives, including his own. Doc had been lucky.
A fiery pain shot through his leg, the leg that was no longer there.
A creased smile appeared on his face as he moved from this small hall through to the grand hall, towards the Fish Tank, walking with a slight limp.
Stop limping. For Doc talking to himself had become an essential part of his rehabilitation. As had a constant smile for the outside world. Carefree or hysterical, both successfully shut down the cringing commiseration of well wishers.
The east-facing Fish Tank was Brett Hall’s third hall, similar in size to the small area by the front door off which was his mother’s study. It had been designed as the entrance from the grand park but had been sectioned off with a temporary wall and turned into young Tom’s nursery, then later his playroom, and later still his sports room with a half-billiard table in the centre, which doubled as a ping-pong table. And all round it had been his sports kit, including his skis, snow board, roller blades — tennis racquets, squash racquets, badminton racquets — and, for those lazy summer afternoons, a Hurlingham croquet set.
That evolutionary process through the ages of a child moved up a step when the twenty first century gained its first major foothold on Brett Hall. The old wall was torn down and replaced by an opaque, armoured, glass screen. When the glass was toggled clear the sweeping vista onto Capability Brown’s magnificent eighteenth century park returned
to the front hall.
Hence the Fish Tank nickname.
Doc goggled the biometric iris scanner and entered. He quickly sorted the software glitch that had provided him with the excuse to use his mother’s study.
Still standing Doc scratched is prosthetic leg — Idiot — fired up a wall-sized screen to find his eagle-eyed mother had already pinged him a message.
You should have told me about Gee Gee the moment I walked through the door.
Gee Gee, known to air traffic as N9742, was a US registered twin turbo propeller CAN 235 transport plane, based in Tucson. Bags of space, and often used by parachutists.
Doc stabbed at the message on the screen, stabbed again at the graphic of an eye.
Marion’s face appeared top centre just below the tiny camera. “Yes?”
“Max Federov took her from San Francisco — flight plan Fairbanks.”
So he’d noticed, thought Marion with a hidden nod of appreciation. But had he noticed enough? “And that’s all you’ve managed to work out?”
Her rapid-fire riposte didn’t ruffle Doc who saw Max Federov, a Russian giant and one of Z5’s top agents, as a role model for Doc’s ambitions in Z5. Max invariably took the initiative.
“He used up a lot more fuel than needed for a return flight from SF to Fairbanks?” Doc left a question mark in the air knowing his answer begged more.
“And?” Question to question.
“Max didn’t get off in Fairbanks, and he didn’t return to San Francisco.” Doc paused, waiting for his mother to provide him with an explanation. She didn’t. “Which suggests he jumped.”
Right. Marion was grudgingly impressed.
“Now, are you going to tell me what’s going on?” said Doc.
“None of your business.”
CHAPTER TWO
The pilot whipped through his take-off preamble to the Fairbanks Airport Tower. “... two on board. Pilot and one passenger, a Miss Lucille Schobinger.”
Eternity's Sunrise (A New Doc Palfrey Thriller) Page 1
