by John Creasey
He went along to the main offices, as busy by night as by day; all the lamps here gave off a kind of imitation daylight. Howard, the man in charge of the Department was the Information and Records Officer, with a system of keeping records of agents, of suspects – men or women believed to be hostile to Z5 or the world at large. Howard was a short but broad-shouldered man with a large head, nearly bald, except at the sides where his hair was nut brown. Palfrey had warned him he was coming, and Howard was in his private office which led off a huge room stacked with filing cabinets in which documents as well as tapes were stored.
“Hallo, Sap. That was quite a job you did tonight.” Howard had a lively smile.
“Thanks. What kind of a job have you done?” countered Palfrey.
“I haven’t had any luck at all,” Howard answered. “We haven’t a single line on any agent of The Project except the prisoners we took yesterday, I mean.” The smile only half-flashed. “And—” he paused.
“Go on.”
“We thought we had tabs on several after they started the search for Philip Carr, and they’ve vanished. Simply gone. What we had was little enough but it was pure gold compared with what we have now.”
Palfrey said: “Keep trying.”
Next, he went down to the third floor: the floor he disliked almost to a point of hatred. The man in charge here had the ironic name of Merribell, and he had been in charge only for six months. Also warned of Palfrey’s coming, he was in the same kind of office as Howard, but beyond the office were small laboratories and small cells – cells which had been soundproofed. The men who had been captured after they had waited for Philip Carr were here. Palfrey did not need to ask what processes had been used on them, what agony each man had suffered. This was the aspect of his job which so often kept him sleepless at night.
Merribell was one of the most cold-blooded men he had ever known. He was no sadist, but had no compunction at all about causing pain and terror if it was the only way to get vital information. In his youth he had suffered his own agonies in a Chinese prison, suspected of spying, and to this day he bore the scars, on his back and in his mind. He had one other proven quality: absolute belief in the political freedom of man and full acceptance of the rights of men, whatever their race or wealth or creed or colour, to that freedom. To look at, he was a rather dull person with little expression in his small, deep-set and hooded eyes. He had a snub nose with wide nostrils and thin lips above a rounded chin. He looked weak rather than cruel.
“Good evening, Dr Palfrey.”
“Good evening, Professor.”
“I am afraid I have bad news for you,” Merribell stated.
“None of them have talked?”
“Oh, they have talked,” the other answered. “But they know nothing. Whenever they have driven or piloted these VIPs they have simply carried them to certain airfields or ports, and returned. They have no knowledge of the destination of their masters. If you have doubts—” he led the way to one of the cells, the door of which had a one-way window. Palfrey tightened his lips as he looked in.
One man was inside.
He was huddled on a small bed, in a state of absolute exhaustion, and when Merribell pressed a bell push he began to shiver and shrink close to the wall, his face working and his lips trembling. Saliva frothed at his lips. Palfrey nodded and turned away.
“I have records of their statements—”
“Let me see transcriptions, please,” Palfrey interrupted. He read these in the office and had no doubt at all that the prisoners had been driven to the absolute limits of their endurance. Merribell watched him with obvious satisfaction, and as he finished said: “I do assure you there is no point in trying again.”
“I’m quite sure there isn’t,” Palfrey said.
Now he went to the second, or main operational floor, and walked along first to the Operations Room. Stefan and Philip were talking to one of the operators, who sat in front of a section of the big control panel, taking messages from European agents. There was something close to excitement in Stefan’s eyes as he spun round.
“Sap – I think we have traced one!”
“Where?” Palfrey asked, sharply.
“In the Urals,” Stefan answered.
“Russia!”
“Yes, indeed, Russia.”
“Have you told the Kremlin?”
“Not yet,” Stefan answered. “I want first to be sure, and also to discuss the situation with you.” Palfrey’s hand was tight and almost painful on Stefan’s shoulder. “We have an agent at a workers’ camp near Belusha in the foothills of the Urals, and he was on duty when the aircraft virtually fell out of the skies and disappeared into a valley. Two other guards saw it but assumed that this was an experimental aircraft – there are many such. Zuka, our man, is quite sure that the aircraft fitted the description we sent out. He can pick up our wavelength without difficulty, and was able to call us back only ten minutes ago.”
“If it is true, that’s our first break,” Palfrey said, his excitement as great as Stefan’s. “The quicker we’re there—”
There was a moment of silence before Philip Carr raised his hands and dropped them heavily to his sides, looked for a moment very directly at Stefan, and then as directly at Palfrey.
“With all respect to Stefan,” he said, “can we trust Moscow? Doesn’t it strike you as peculiar that there’s no trace of any of the others but there is of this one? Are you absolutely sure this isn’t a trick, Sap? That this whole thing isn’t Soviet inspired?”
14: Doubting Philip
Philip’s words came out slowly and deliberately; there was nothing spontaneous about them, obviously they were deeply considered. There was something in his sharp-cut face which held stubbornness, as if he knew that no one who heard him would disagree but he wasn’t going to shift easily from this position. To Palfrey, the shock was greater because he had never before heard an agent express such doubts. Every man who joined was thoroughly screened; every man had a history of belief in a world authority; of belief that in some issues the world – and so Z5 – must come before one’s own country. It was so much part of the creed of Z5 that it was hard to believe that a man such as Stefan, the deputy leader, could be doubted. But this was doubt, cast quite deliberately, on his loyalty and integrity. The agent at the controls was listening to a message coming through on the high-frequency radio, but he looked at Philip as if shocked.
“Philip,” Stefan said, in his mild voice with its precise English, “if all the planes but one had disappeared and the one had been traced to the United States, say, or to France, would you express the same doubts?”
Quietly, Philip answered: “Not unless you were an American or a Frenchman.”
“And what makes you so question my integrity?”
“I think all of us have a soft spot for our own country,” Philip replied. “And Russians have a softer spot than most. As we’re talking about this, perhaps I should finish. I simply can’t believe that a Russian who lives most of the time in Moscow under the shadow of the Kremlin, the Politbureau and the Presidium, can ever put world interests above his country’s.”
“You mean you think I am a spy working for Russia within Z5?” asked Stefan.
“I think you may be,” said Philip. “I think you probably are.”
Palfrey felt a burning sense of anger as he heard Philip, so young in Z5’s service, talking to the man who had been in from the beginning, who had proved himself time and time again. It would be easy to rasp angrily at Philip, to take away his privileges, to say that such doubts cancelled out all his qualification for being an agent of Z5. Then Palfrey saw a frown of bewilderment pass over the doubter’s face, glanced up at Stefan, and saw that he was smiling. There was something so radiant in his expression that it was almost the face of a giant cherub, truly and highly amused.
“So,” he said. “You have much to learn, Philip!”
“Philip—” began Palfrey.
“Let me finish,” plead
ed Stefan, and his smile at Palfrey was just as radiant. “Philip thinks as millions think – scratch a Russian and you find a militant Communist who will live, work and die for his cause. Well, loyalty as an abstract quality is as commendable in a Russian Communist or a fascist or a democrat. And I love Russia – Philip is quite right, each of us has a special soft spot for our own country. Haven’t you for England, Sap?”
“Of course.”
“What Philip hasn’t had is a long time in the Organisation to see how it gets hold of a man,” went on Stefan. “When do you want to start for Moscow?”
“As soon as we can,” Palfrey said.
“Should we? All of us are near exhaustion point, you in particular need sleep. If we start in six hours, say, we shall gain more in our own vigour than we shall lose in time. But—” he smiled down at Philip – “Philip has rested. Philip has time to read through the official histories of our various cases, and when he has read of my conflicts with the Soviets, and their doubts of me, I think he will be able to understand and accept me more freely. Will you study the histories, Philip?”
Carr hesitated. His lips began to curve into a smile; he raised his hands in another resigned or helpless gesture, and said: “Yes. I should have known the establishment would win.”
“This establishment has to win,” rejoined Stefan. “The world loss would be too heavy if it didn’t.”
As he finished a green light glowed and a moment later a voice sounded clearly. All three men stood absorbed as they listened.
“The aircraft which was traced to Washington and seen to have some damage on one wing has now been observed flying over Alaska, and is heading for Russia . . . The aircraft which was traced to Cape Town, South Africa, was seen by patrolling aircraft to be struck by lightning and fell into the Indian Ocean off Madagascar . . . Two of the aircraft which flew to Australia were forced down by storm conditions and Australian fighter aircraft caught their pilots. The pilots state that fourteen of the aircraft which left England had instructions to act as decoys and if they could not reach a place named Belusha in the Urals they should destroy themselves . . . Three more of the aircraft are now known to have reached the Urals and vanished near there.”
In the space of ten minutes Palfrey and the others learned what it was most vital to learn: that the centre of activity had undoubtedly shifted to Russia.
Palfrey’s apartment at Z5 Headquarters could simulate broad daylight, or night’s darkness, winter or summer skies, autumn or spring’s. When he pulled the blinds in his office-cum-living-room or his bedroom, he looked out on whatever season it was above, even though he was two hundred feet below ground, surrounded by the wet gravel on which most of London was built. Now, as he came out of a modern bathroom buttoning up his pyjama jacket, he went to the window and looked out on starlit bushes and the sky so full of stars. There were a few clouds, drifting very sluggishly.
He went to bed.
On the bedside table was a glass of milk and a tablet; he swallowed the one and washed it down with the other. One had to sleep. The stresses of the task itself were too great to try to manage without, and the tablet would not only give him natural sleep but he would have no kind of hangover in the morning. He slid into bed, and drew a sheet and a lightweight blanket over him; the air conditioning kept the temperature in this room to sixty-nine. For a few moments he browsed, partly over Gloria Adamson, partly over Philip Carr’s accusation against Stefan and Stefan’s reaction; but mostly about the fact that several of the vertical take-off jets had landed in Russia. It did not occur to him for a moment that Z5 was being wilfully misled, but it was possible that there had been a mistake.
It was equally possible that Russia – not Stefan, not any Z5 agent, but Russia – would attempt to turn the situation to its own advantage. For by now Russia, in fact all the powers great and small, would begin to comprehend the almost unimaginable power now vested in the leaders of The Project.
They could insulate themselves, or anyone, or anyplace against radioactive air.
They could create silence by insulating themselves and some if not all machines against noise. Either weapon could give to the side which owned it near mastery if not absolute mastery in time of war. Any power would lust for the secret. With it, Russia or China could deride and challenge any other country in the world. So in one way there was a form of validity in Philip’s suspicion of Russia.
How should he, Palfrey, respond?
Before he dropped off to sleep, he knew; in fact he had never had any serious doubt. He must negotiate with Russia as if he could rely absolutely on the Kremlin’s attitude towards Z5.
At last, he went to sleep.
And Stefan slept, much more lightly.
Philip read four of the reports, each of one about a case in which Stefan Andromovitch had had to choose between loyalty to his country and loyalty to Z5; unarguably, he had always chosen Z5. Twice, this had led him to disaster, trial and nearly to execution by Russia, but the Presidium had always come round to honouring its pledge to Z5.
“It looks good,” Philip said aloud. “There could be a catch in it, but it looks good.” He dozed in turn, and was actually asleep, dreaming of Janey, when he was called by an elderly woman, one of Z5’s earliest agents who still preferred to serve the organisation.
“Dr Palfrey is leaving in half an hour,” she reported. “He would like to see you in his office before he goes.” She put a tea tray by his side, and went out. Philip sat up, yawning, but almost at once a picture of Janey passed in front of his mind’s eye, and tension replaced the slothfulness. He had shaved and had some toast and marmalade by the time he reached Palfrey’s office. Joyce Morgan was there, freshly made-up, youthful-looking and attractive, she reminded him vividly of Janey. Palfrey was sitting in an easy chair, toast and marmalade and coffee on a tray beside him.
“Well,” he said. “Are you convinced of Stefan’s integrity?”
Philip quietened any reservations he had, and answered: “Yes.”
“Good! He’s gone ahead of me to Moscow, but I am to catch a plane one hour from now. We are going to ask the Russian authorities to do what the British did: throw a cordon around the Belusha Valley where it seems there may be a Project plant, and make sure no one can go in and out. Warned by our experience they will have high altitude bombers and fighter flights to attack any vertical take-off aircraft which might attempt to escape. Is that all clear?”
“Yes,” Philip answered.
“Good,” Palfrey said again, and sipped coffee while looking at the other man intently. “There is one thing we lack.”
“What’s that?” asked Philip.
“Anyone who can identify such leaders as Ashley and Parsons and Ramon. If we find The Project in the valley but those three aren’t there, then we can be pretty sure they’re hiding out at yet another Project plant.”
Philip caught his breath. “I can recognise them,” he said.
“That’s why I want you with me.” Palfrey went on. “Stefan and I want to go to the valley and try to get inside the plant. Will you come with us?” When Philip didn’t answer, he continued drily: “Of course, we may all be blasted off the face of the earth. Or we might be taken prisoners. We might be tortured. But I am quite sure that we must find a way of talking to leaders of The Project, and I can see no other possible way.”
Quietly, Philip answered: “Yes, I’ll come.” He gave a snort of a laugh and went on: “If it were only to find out what happened to Janey, I would come.”
“I shall be ready in ten minutes,” Palfrey said. “I’ll meet you at the main lift. Clothes and a case can be sent on.”
“I’m always packed,” Philip assured him.
Palfrey nodded, and Philip turned and went out. There was a positiveness about his manner, an aggressive kind of ‘take me as I am’. Joyce waited until the door had closed on him, then crossed to Palfrey’s chair and sat on the arm. Suddenly, they seemed different people, not simply high officials in Z5, but man and wo
man. And Joyce, here and there a streak of grey in her dark hair, tiny crow’s feet at her eyes and lines at her full lips, seemed almost to relax, as if this were their time together.
For years she had been deeply in love with him. Now the love had turned into affection, and she was in love with her husband; but at this moment they were very close.
He was, as he had been for many years, in love with the dream of his dead wife, fond as always of Joyce, touched by her devotion. He had often been tempted to share much more of his life with her than he did: tempted to live with her. There were moments of stress and strain when he marvelled that he had not. There had been other women, and brief affaires, but there was never, with him, any pretence of love.
Now, perhaps, they were more like brother and sister.
“Sap,” she said earnestly, “be more careful than you’ve ever been in your life.”
“As careful as I can be,” he promised.
“Do you think you should take Carr?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To watch him closely.”
“Why?”
“A man in love can do unpredictable things,” Palfrey said. “In any case he’s the only one we have who’s seen any of these VIPs.” He put a hand on her wrist and shifted his position. “I must get a move on.”
She stood up, so that he could move, but she kept a firm hold on his arm.
“Sap?”
“You can worry too much, you know,” Palfrey said.
“Yes. But – you haven’t really told me about The Project, what you think, what you feel that you should do.”
“There hasn’t been much time,” Palfrey observed ruefully. “And there still isn’t time to tell you all I’d like to. As for what I think – I really don’t know that I’ve any clearly defined opinions. Did you hear the tapes of the talks I had with Philip when I first saw him in Chelsea?”
“Yes,” Joyce answered. “Among the things he said was that people could do good in their own way, that they have made great discoveries of enormous value to mankind.”
