During the confusion, Professor Gorshkov slips away and makes his way to Tottenham to hide out at his late mother’s house until the dust settles and he can put into effect the next part of his plan, namely the kidnap and simulated death of Dr Fedya Dolfin.
The counterfeit Professor’s body is falsely identified by Mrs Gorshkov before being autopsied and buried. In the eyes of the world, Professor Trofim Gorshkov lives no more.
*
“If this all took place before the Gorshkovs had the omnicellular subterceiver, then they must have used a Bluetooth connection to transmit the signal.”
“I had no idea what they were doing,” insisted Dr Dolfin. “I hope the police can track them down before they hurt anybody else.”
I considered raising the Gorshkovs’ likely fate at the hands of the FSB, but thought better of it.
Urban-Smith seemingly had more pressing matters on his mind. “Rupert?”
“Yes, Fairfax?”
“What is pink and wrinkly and hangs out one’s trousers?”
“Mrs Denford.”
*
At Wandsworth Police Station, Urban-Smith and I were syphoned off into the incident room while Inspector Gadget took Dr Dolfin away to be questioned. Urban-Smith glanced around to ensure that we were not being observed and surreptitiously produced his mobile telephone and a pair of stereo earphones (the in-the-ear type). We each inserted one of the earphones, and Urban-Smith fiddled with his telephone until there came to our ears the dulcet tones of Inspector Gadget.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Dr Dolfin, but aren’t you supposed to be dead?”
“Good grief,” I exclaimed.
Urban-Smith shushed me, rather harshly I felt. “Pipe down, Rupert!” His eyes darted this way and that. “I slipped a microphone into Dr Dolfin’s pocket on the journey here.”
From the conversation between Inspector Gadget and Dr Dolfin, we were able to piece together the sequence of events.
*
At five o’clock on Friday the 26th of October, Dr Fedya Dolfin locks up his office at the Department of Electronics and Electrical Engineering at the London Metrosexual University and wends his way home through the rush-hour traffic, managing the three-mile journey in just under an hour.
Entering number forty-five, Frampton Street, Putney, he removes his shoes and hat, proceeds to the living room and is shocked to find that his wife is being held at gunpoint by an attractive, middle-aged woman. As he steps forward, he feels an arm across his chest and a sharp pain in his side.
“Hello, Fedya,” Professor Gorshkov murmurs into his ear. “Please don’t struggle, or I will shoot you.”
The Gorshkovs require Dr Dolfin’s assistance to amplify a signal that can be transmitted via a telephone or portable amplifier. Failure to comply will result in Mrs Dolfin’s execution.
While Professor Gorshkov remains with Mrs Dolfin, Mrs Gorshkov accompanies Dr Dolfin to his place of work to retrieve the omnicellular subterceiver. Mrs Dolfin is instructed to leave the city for a few days. On her return, she will find a stranger dead in her bed and contact the police, falsely claiming that the man is her husband, Fedya.
Dr Dolfin is taken to Professor Gorshkov’s late mother’s house in Tottenham, where he is persuaded to work on a design to boost the LOL curse signal. Here he remains for more than two weeks until he is hurriedly dragged from the house, managing to escape when the Gorshkovs are confronted by Urban-Smith and Dr Harker.
*
Inspector Gadget’s voice was loud and clear through the headphones.
DI GADGET: Do you know what else they’re planning?
DR F DOLFIN: No, Inspector. I was just given the specifications for what they wanted and told that if I failed to deliver, they would kill me and my family.
DI GADGET: Where were they going to take you?
DR F DOLFIN: I don’t know, Inspector, but I suspect it would have been the last place I ever saw. Thank heavens for the timely intervention of Mr Urban-Smith and Dr Harker.
DI GADGET: [with great diplomacy] Bollocks!
*
With the conversation thus terminated, Urban-Smith secreted his mobile telephone safely away while we awaited our turn to be interviewed.
Gadget chose to conduct the interview in the incident room and at top volume. He was not best pleased at our decision to take matters into our own hands, less so considering that both of the Gorshkovs had made good their escapes. He ranted and raved for some time and threatened to charge the pair of us with obstructing the course of justice until it was pointed out that we had, in fact, intercepted and rescued Dr Dolfin and uncovered the true perpetrators of the crime, even though their current whereabouts were unknown.
Begrudgingly, Inspector Gadget released us, but it was already midnight, and I had to be at court in eight hours.
Urban-Smith and I hailed a taxi outside the station and were greeted by a dark haired, eastern European gentleman with a cigarette between his lips and one behind each ear. I was a little disappointed that he did not also sport one up each nostril.
We climbed into the back of the taxicab.
“Chuffnell Mews please, my good man, and don’t spare the horses.”
“Podnieście kolana, Matkę Brązową (knees up, Mother Brown),” the driver assured us as he slammed the car into gear and planted his foot to the floor.
“Do you have plans for tonight, Rupert?” asked Urban-Smith as we hurtled through the quiet London streets.
“Indeed I do,” I replied, thinking of Nell and her warm embrace.
“Cancel them.”
◆◆◆
21. PAPAMORSUPHOBIA
Wednesday 15th November
I had a few hours’ sleep, enjoyed a hearty breakfast, and then spent the morning at Crown Court, waiting to be called to the witness box, where I passed a pleasant hour or so saying, “it is my considered opinion,” and, “based on the available evidence,” and other such nonsense.
I had taken the day off work (for one never knows how much time these court appearances will occupy) and was back at number sixteen, Chuffnell Mews by mid-afternoon. I found Urban-Smith in the living room, the telephone handset pressed to his ear. There was a small suitcase in the corner.
“Planning a trip?” I asked.
He opened his mouth to answer but was instead drawn into conversation, having evidently been on hold for some time.
“No,” he said, “it is of the utmost importance that I speak to him immediately. Tell him it is Fairfax Urban-Smith. He is expecting my call and he knows what it is with regard to.”
He sighed deeply, indicating that he was again on hold. “How did you fare in court?” he asked me. I shrugged and threw myself onto the sofa.
Urban-Smith suddenly sat bolt upright. “Colonel?”
I leaned forward eagerly to pay closer attention. For my benefit, Urban-Smith switched on the telephone’s loud-speaker and placed the handset on the coffee table.
“What can I do for you Mr Urban-Smith?” Colonel Smirnitsky’s voice was unmistakable.
“I desire an audience with the Gorshkovs.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“Look here, Colonel,” said Urban-Smith sternly, “you requested my help in this matter. The Gorshkovs have information that I require, information without which I have not a snowflake’s chance of tracking down Dr Saxon Schwarzkröte.”
There was a long silence.
“We do not have the woman, and the man will not speak.”
“He will speak to me, Colonel. Have your men collect me from my house at seven this evening.”
“I will send a motorcycle for you.”
“Send a car, please. Dr Harker will be accompanying me.”
“As you wish.” The line went dead.
“I am sorry to conscript you, Rupert, but extracting the information is a two-man endeavour.”
“I see. A good cop/bad cop kind of thing.”
“Of a sort. I need you to ask the questions wh
ile I concentrate on incentivizing the Professor. I must warn you that they may have roughed him up somewhat. It is imperative that you remain impartial. Do not offer him sympathy or chastisement. Leave that side of things to me.”
*
After supper, Urban-Smith and I watched the six o’clock news on the BBC. The main story was a joint announcement from software company, Phash-1st, and mobile-telephone network, Biffle Plus. The morrow heralded the release of a free mobile-telephone app which would screen out all harmful signals from incoming calls. Similar software had been installed in telephone exchanges to afford the same protection to those using landlines.
The scheme had been endorsed by TISAC, and the spokesperson from Biffle Plus expressed the hope that these measures would restore public confidence and reverse the ninety percent drop in telephone usage that had followed the death of Dayzee.
“There it is, Rupert.”
“There is what?”
“There,” said Urban-Smith, pointing at the television screen, “is the reason for this whole charade. How many people do you think will download this free app?”
“Everyone probably.”
“Imagine what The Fervent Fist could do with spyware installed on every mobile telephone and in every telephone exchange across the country.”
Urban-Smith was right, of course; it was prima facie problem-reaction-solution.
“What do you think this app does,” I asked, “apart from what it is purported to do?”
“I couldn’t say. We need somebody who is able to crack the software and deduce its function.”
“Do you know anyone who can oblige?”
“Indeed I do, Rupert, although his services do not come cheaply.”
At seven o’clock, there was a banging at the front door, and Mrs Denford admitted our sullen Russian friends from the previous week. Urban-Smith collected his suitcase, and we filed out to the waiting sedan.
Our journey was more comfortable this time around. Last week’s driver apparently had the evening off, and Urban-Smith and I had the back seat to ourselves, with the two govyadiny-torty (beefcakes) in front. Urban-Smith withdrew his telephone from his pocket and began fiddling with it absent-mindedly.
“New phone, Fairfax?” I asked.
“Uh-huh,” he mumbled.
“Is it the same number?”
“No, a new one.”
“May I have it?”
“Yes you may, but under no circumstances are you to ring it. Never. Our lives depend on it.”
“Are you serious?”
“Deadly serious, Rupert.”
Urban-Smith would be drawn no further and spent the remainder of the journey teaching me some elementary yandric hand positions. By the time we reached Tilbury Docks, my hands and wrists ached to the extent that I could barely have tied my shoelaces.
As before, we were led to The Iron Lung and escorted below decks, where we were greeted, somewhat coldly, by Colonel Smirnitsky. “You are wasting your time, Sirs. He will not talk.”
“Please find me a vacant cabin,” said Urban-Smith. “I need to prepare myself. Dr Harker is to commence the interrogation, and I shall be through in a few minutes.”
The Colonel nodded to his minions, one of whom led Urban-Smith away down the corridor while the Colonel and the remaining gentleman took me to Professor Gorshkov.
“He is in here.” The Colonel unlocked the cabin door and pushed it wide for me to enter. “We will remain out here,” he said. “Scream like a girl if you require assistance.”
The door was pulled to, but not closed behind me. Professor Trofim Gorshkov was securely bound to a wooden chair in the centre of the cabin, stripped to the waist, and with his face and body bloodied and bruised. Clearly, he had been thoroughly beaten with fist and belt but remained defiant, grinning at me as I entered. His features were stark in the harsh light from the overhead bulb.
“Doctor Harker, I presume.”
I gazed around at the bare room. There was a stack of chairs in the corner, and I brought one over so that we could sit face to face. I was appalled by his actions, but more so by his treatment at the hands of his captors; however, I had been counselled by Urban-Smith to show no sympathy.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “How could you do these things?”
“Money,” was the curt reply.
“Money?”
“Yes, money.”
“What of your work? What about all those victims of cancer or mental illness that you could have helped? How could you abandon them?”
“Ha!” he snorted. “It is nothing but a pipe dream. I have spent a quarter of a century studying low-frequency resonation and I am no closer to helping cancer victims than I am to perfecting alchemy. The only positive thing I can say for the whole charade is that it has secured me a comfortable income for relatively little effort.” He shrugged as well as a man can when he is lashed to a chair. “A paper here, a seminar there; just enough to keep the funding coming through.”
“But murder?”
“As they say, Doctor, it is one man’s meat.”
“Does your wife, Ulyana, feel the same?”
“She knows nothing of it. She is innocent in all this.”
“Yes, I’m sure she is,” I muttered. “How did you contact Schwarzkröte?”
Professor Gorshkov sneered. “Schwarz-who? I have never heard of him.”
“I can help you,” I implored, “take you to the police. If I leave you here, they will kill you.”
“Go home, Doctor. I don’t need your….”
Professor Gorshkov became deathly pale, staring past me with his mouth open and nostrils flaring. I turned to find Urban-Smith standing in the cabin’s doorway, clad in a full-length white cassock with a red shoulder cape, red shoes, and a large golden cross around his neck, all topped off with a white skullcap. He flashed a broad grin, revealing a fine pair of pointed canines.
The costume was very convincing, and had it not been for Urban-Smith’s omnipresent Eton school tie, I might not have recognised him.
“Venite ad compararim crepant (let’s get ready to rumble),” he murmured softly, slowly running his tongue over the tip of one shiny fang.
The effect on Professor Gorshkov was immediate. He issued a low groan and thrashed to and fro on the chair, straining at his bonds. The sweat stood out upon his brow, his eyes bulged, and I could see from the pulse in his neck that his heart was playing a fast bossa nova in his chest.
I must confess surprise, not at Urban-Smith’s ridiculous behaviour (to which I was becoming accustomed), but at the stricken look upon Professor Gorshkov’s face. I could make no sense of it; the man was gawping like a startled halibut, trembling and gibbering as Urban-Smith walked slowly over and placed a hand on his head.
“Complebuntur os meum sanguine tuo et gigeria (my mouth shall be filled with your blood and giblets).”
And then it struck me like a billiard ball in a sock; papamorsuphobia. For his entire life, Gorshkov had harboured an irrational fear of being bitten by the Pope, and now here he was, trussed and helpless, being menaced by Pope Dracula the First.
Urban-Smith was relishing his role, swooping and drooling in such a disconcerting fashion that Professor Gorshkov was on the brink of becoming insensible. It was time to intervene.
“Thank you, Your Excellency,” I said. “I think that is enough for now.”
“Pontifex esurit!” demanded Urban-Smith. “Pasce Papa! (The Pope is hungry! Feed the Pope!)”
I held up my hands to placate him. “Calm down, Your Holiness. I need him intact. He has information.” I turned to Professor Gorshkov. “Tell me what I want to know, or I will lock you in here with him.
“No,” he begged. “I can’t.”
“You must.”
“No!” His eyes were wide. “I can’t. Please.”
I shrugged and turned away. “He is all yours, Holy Father.”
Urban-Smith spread his arms, bared his fangs and began to say Grace.
And with a quiet, “amen,” Urban-Smith leant over and sank his fangs into the Professor’s left shoulder.
Professor Gorshkov screamed and begged for mercy. “Please, please. Make him stop, make him stop.”
“All right, Your Eminence,” I said, drawing Urban-Smith away by the arm. “Leave him be.”
“Pontifex esurit!” roared Urban-Smith. He skulked over to the corner of the room and lurked there, snarling and gnashing his fangs.
I sat and faced Professor Gorshkov once more.
“I’m warning you,” I counselled. “Any more procrastination, and you will feel the wrath of the Pope. Understand?”
“Yes, yes. I understand.”
“Excellent. Now tell me all.”
Professor Gorshkov closed his eyes for a few moments to gather his thoughts. “For the last two years, my goal has been to find a cure for phobic anxiety. I hoped that I might be able to mitigate the debilitating effects of my own phobia and finally go in search of my cufflink, which I dropped outside the Vatican whilst holidaying in Rome during the summer of 2004.” He shook his head sadly. “It was a poor choice of destination. I spent most of my time hiding beneath tables or sprinting from doorway to doorway.”
“But what of your work?” said I, hoping to bring the conversation back on track.
“I began my research on rats. Using PET scanning, I confirmed that certain nuclei in the hypothalamus are suppressed when a rat experiences intense fear. It was my hypothesis that these particular nuclei act as barriers between the nervous system and the glandular system, and it is their suppression that opens the floodgates, stimulating the release of adrenaline and cortisol. These hormones, of course, are largely responsible for producing the physical manifestations of phobia, namely palpitations, sweating, nausea etcetera. I was hopeful that stimulation of these nuclei would cause the barriers to remain closed, blocking the release of these hormones.”
Laugh Out Dead Page 16
